The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “It won’t be difficult to come up with irrefutable proof. If we do, we’ll let you know, sir, a little later today. I am very sorry all this has happened.”

  “Nothing ever happens in Amsterdam,” de Gier said as he yanked the door of the Volkswagen open, “and when it does, it all fits together immediately.”

  But Grijpstra didn’t agree.

  “We would never have solved the case, or rather I wouldn’t have, if you hadn’t thought of the rabbit as an ornament.”

  “No, Grijpstra, we would have found Marchant’s name in Moozen’s files.”

  The adjutant shook his heavy, grizzled head. “No, we wouldn’t have checked the files. If he had kept on saying that he wasn’t working on any bad cases, I wouldn’t have pursued that line of thought. I’d have reverted to trying to find an enemy of his wife. We might have worked for weeks and called in all sorts of help and wasted everybody’s time. You are clever, Ser­geant.”

  De Gier was studying a redheaded girl waiting for a street­car.

  “Am I?”

  “Yes. But not as clever as I am,” Grijpstra said, and grinned. “You work for me. I personally selected you as my assistant. You are a tool in my expert hands.”

  De Gier winked at the redheaded girl and the girl smiled back. The traffic had jammed up ahead and the car was blocked. De Gier opened his door.

  “Hey! Where are you going?”

  “It’s a holiday, Adjutant, and you can drive this wreck for a change. I am going home. That girl is waiting for a streetcar that goes to my side of the city. Maybe she hasn’t had lunch yet. I am going to invite her to go to a Chinese restaurant.”

  “But we have reports to make, and we’ve got to check out Marchant’s shop. It’ll be locked; we have to find the key in his room, and we have to telephone the engineer to let him off the hook.”

  “I am taking the streetcar,” de Gier said. “You do all that. You ate my roll.”

  * * *

  1 The ranks of the Amsterdam Municipal Police are, in descending order, chief-constable, commissaris, chief-inspector, adjutant, sergeant, constable-first-class, constables.

  Six This, Six That

  Quite a pleasant summer morning, Adjutant Grijpstra thought, with nothing amiss, except that wasp. The outsize bug hums in an irritating manner and is armed with a poisonous sting. What do I know about wasps? Do they attack without warning? Maybe not; maybe they only go for you when you bother them. How do I not bother the opponent? By sitting quietly. While observing, I will see the connection of cause and effect. How the wasp got here in the first place, and how he will leave again, maybe, because the window is open.

  In the same room, on the third floor of Police Headquarters in Amsterdam, opposite the adjutant, sat Sergeant de Gier, feet on his desk, head against the wall. He also observed the wasp. The sergeant’s hands were out and ready. De Gier waited. The wasp dove, straight at the sergeant.

  Whap.

  “There you are,” de Gier said. “One enemy removed.” He flicked the striped corpse into the wastepaper basket. “At your service. You’re welcome.”

  “Is that the way we’re going now?” Grijpstra asked. “Vi­olence in the early morning? Would that be the solution? Does the opponent have to be flattened? Without the slightest con­sideration?”

  “Indeed,” de Gier said. “I analyzed the situation and acted at once. Ever been stung by a wasp? This morning that didn’t happen. No painful swelling, no throbbing. On the contrary, you’re now experiencing a continuing feeling of peace of body. Be happy and thankful.”

  There was a knock on the door. A well-dressed middle-aged man entered. The detectives got up and shook the man’s hand. De Gier found a chair for the client. Grijpstra found paper and ballpoint. “Yes, sir, what can we do for you?”

  The man dried his skull with a silk handkerchief. An ex­pensive watch glittered on his hairy wrist. “My name is Vries; I have a complaint.”

  “Go ahead,” Grijpstra said.

  The man talked with authority and confusion, in a civilized but nervous manner. Grijpstra wrote; de Gier listened. “That’s it?” Grijpstra asked five minutes later. The man nodded. Grijps­tra cleared his throat. “Allow me to tell you what I think I’ve understood. You work for the supermarket chain Zwart Incor­porated. You’re the chief accountant. Your company has prof­itable outlets all over the country. Your number one store is right here in Amsterdam, in New South, our fanciest suburb, where the well-heeled live on choice and rare foods only. Before your last checkup the store did well, but now it doesn’t. Money seems to have disappeared.”

  “Millions, Adjutant.”

  “How much exactly?”

  “Two-point-eight million, Adjutant.”

  “How did you arrive at that figure?”

  “Look here,” Vries said. “We know what we’re buying, right? We know what overall profit percentage we’re making, right? So we know what our sales should be, right? Sixteen-point-eight million.”

  “And the actual sales were?”

  “Fourteen million.”

  “A small mistake perhaps?” de Gier asked. “Accountancy involves bookkeeping, does it not? Did you check the books properly this time? Did you look at the right side of the page? Administration is always off. Have you been reading the paper lately? Take the government’s budget, for instance—billions come and billions go. A billion is a thousand million and you’re talking about a mere two-point-eight.”

  “Do me a favor, Constable,” Vries said. “Spare me your amateurish gibberish. Every figure has been chewed and di­gested. Don’t tell me how to look at figures. My computers don’t make mistakes and my deduction is correct. Theft is a crime, and you work for the police.”

  “Theft means a hand reaching in from outside,” de Gier said, “and the hand is connected to a masked face under a cap. What we have here is something else—embezzlement, I would say. An employee makes off with money that has been entrusted to him. Embezzlement is worse than theft, for it’s nasty and sneaky. It therefore ranks higher on our list.”

  “I didn’t know,” Vries said.

  “But you do know that your complaint is not related to violence,” Grijpstra said. “Who sent you to us? We’re Murder and Manslaughter. You’re in the wrong room.”

  “Never mind,” Vries said. “I was in the right room before and waited an hour. I demand prompt action. Zwart Incorpo­rated is a pillar of our society. We provide work and feed the people. You’re just sitting here. Do something, Adjutant.”

  “One moment.” Grijpstra lifted his phone and dialed a number. “Is that you, Inspector?”

  “Yes?” shouted the inspector. “Yes? Yes? Yes?”

  “Your client strayed into our room, sir. Some lost millions. Do you have a minute? Can I bring him in?”

  “A minute?” shouted the inspector. “Minute what? Minute where? Nothing but fraudulence in the land and we’re short-staffed. The tax department has lost its safes, the rent-a-cars their cars, the building companies their building materials, and the pension funds their pensions. Railways just phoned; they’ve lost ten miles of track. My files are stacked to the ceiling. Yesyes. Yesyes.”

  “A bit busy, sir?”

  The telephone cackled and coughed.

  “Put the phone down,” de Gier said. “I saw the inspector in the canteen just now. He was pouring coffee on his trousers, for he had dropped and broken his cup. He’ll be taken away soon and will have leave for the duration.”

  Vries got up and looked out of the window. “Are you going to do something or not? If not, I’ll be going, but not through the door.” He looked down. “It’s high enough.” He lifted his leg and rested it on the windowsill. “Please give me a push.”

  “Are you all right, sir?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Isn’t suicide within your duties, Adjutant? Will my death instigat
e your investigation?”

  “Sit down,” Grijpstra said. “Tell me what you have done about this case so far.”

  Vries ticked off his fingers. “Checked programs. Compared results with other stores. Completed stocktaking. Followed flow of incoming goods. Checked cash registers. Screened all mem­bers of staff. Worked in the store myself.”

  “You found nothing?” de Gier asked.

  “I found something, a difference of two-point-eight mil­lion guilders.” Vries produced a calculator from his pocket and placed it on Grijpstra’s desk. He pressed its keys. “See how much two-point-eight million is? Lost in a year. You know how much that is in a day? Divided by three hundred? Sundays and holidays discounted?”

  De Gier read the result. “Nine three three three three point three three three three.”

  “A hundred thousand a day,” Vries said. “Bit of a leak, I would say.”

  “Illegal,” Grijpstra said, “but rather abstract, don’t you think?”

  “A mere falsification,” de Gier said. “Not our field, Mr. Vries. We’ll pass on your complaint if you can’t find the time to wait, and I can promise you that a colleague will take your case. A specialist, I’m sure. We’re all specialists here. How can we be of use to you if your complaint isn’t our specialization? I assure you, sir, we know nothing about groceries.”

  Vries pushed the sergeant aside and replaced his leg on the windowsill.

  “Please,” Grijpstra said, “give this another thought. Per­haps it’s unnecessary to inflict violence on yourself. Are you sure there is no violence in this complaint?”

  “Yes,” de Gier said. “Any fights in your office? Someone disappeared perhaps? A secretary maybe? Left an incomprehen­sible note and never showed her pretty face again?”

  Vries thought. “Gennep never showed again.”

  “Murdered?” Grijpstra asked. “The name means nothing to me and I do have a memory for the lost and unfound.”

  “Accident,” Vries said. “May this year, on Mallorca. We didn’t even know he was vacationing out there. A bachelor, in charge of buying machines for the administration. Slipped off a cliff.”

  “Were we informed?” Grijpstra asked. “I assume we weren’t. Did the Spanish police issue some statement?”

  “Accidente, Adjutant, that’s what we were told.”

  “Tell us about this Gennep,” de Gier said.

  “These things shouldn’t be said,” Vries said, “but I can do without Gennep. He was a maker of messes. He also bought too much. I picked up after him, as far as I could. Gennep didn’t know the alphabet. His files were a disaster.”

  “Purchasing invoices referring to computers and such?”

  Vries nodded.

  Grijpstra studied his notes. He tore a fresh sheet from his notebook and wrote down in an artistic hand the figures 16.8 – 14 = 2.8. He held up the sheet. “Like this or not like this?”

  “Like that,” Vries said.

  “I suggest you leave us now,” Grijpstra said. “You may hear from us soon. We’ll take on your case.”

  “Catch the embezzler,” Vries said, and walked toward the door. “Please. My boss is a devil who haunts all my moves. He breathes on me during the day and telephones at night. I can’t go on like this. I’m going crazy.”

  De Gier closed the door. “He’s crazy now, don’t you think? Even so, accountants seem to have a way with figures. My brother-in-law is an accountant, and he can add a page of tele­phone numbers, in his head, straight from the book. What do we make of this tale? A mistake after all? The electrons got stuck in the conduits so that the profit evaporated in a loose condenser in an odd nook of a computer? How can a deli-supermarket in New South not make a profit?” The telephone rang. The ser­geant listened and spoke. He put the phone back and put on his jacket. “Something to do. A drowned bum in the inner harbor. The man is known to us and to most of the local bars. Coming to have a look?”

  “No,” Grijpstra said. He glanced at his watch. “Ten in the morning—there’s still some working day left. I’m going to sniff about and will meet you at the supermarket’s office at three in the afternoon.”

  De Gier left. Grijpstra contemplated. Meanwhile, he looked at his equation: 16.8 – 14 = 2.8. Figures. Who would know about figures? What do figures show? Aren’t they math­ematical symbols? Symbols that can be rubbed off a piece of paper? Who rubbed out two-point-eight million guilders? Who blew away a sum of money sufficient, if conservatively invested, to last a luxurious lifetime? And who was still blowing, rubbing, hiding, embezzling?

  Who knows about figures? He opened the telephone book and found the Free University’s number. “The chief of the Mathematics Department, please.” A female voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “This is the police, ma’am. Are you a professor?”

  “I am.”

  “Adjutant Grijpstra, Murder Brigade. I would like to speak to you. What would be a good time?”

  “Two o’clock,” the lady said. “Elize Schoor is the name, the room is 212.”

  “Professor Schoor,” Grijpstra said. “Here is a store with a yearly turnover of fourteen million, but it should be sixteen-point-eight million, as the total purchases and the profit margin are known. What does that mean to you?”

  She’s attractive, Grijpstra thought. She has a lovely face. A professor in her early thirties. Step right up, step right up. And while you get closer, listen to her voice. Isn’t it pleasantly low, warm, and sympathetic?

  “It means,” Elize Schoor said, “something. You may call me Elize. I’m rather fond of dignified, heavyset, old-fashioned-looking gents. Are you married?”

  “Yes, Elize.”

  “Happily?”

  “No, Elize.”

  “I wasn’t either, but I’m bored with celebrating celibacy now.” She wrote. “Look here. Do you see the equation? There is an unfavorable difference, of two-point-eight million.”

  “Elize,” Grijpstra said heavily, “I had reached that point myself. Please move on a little.”

  “You see the factor?”

  “Factor, Elize?”

  “Agent,” Elize said. “There’s a fixed agent at work here, who’s unmasked by the equation. Isn’t logic wonderful? Sixteen-point-eight divided by two-point-eight is six. Six times the difference equals the original amount. The factor is now known—six. Are you following me?”

  “Six times this?” Grijpstra asked slowly. “Six times that?”

  She frowned and wrinkled her dainty nose. “The layman’s vagueness, the amateur’s vagary. Logic is hard, since Newton, although since Einstein it has softened a great deal.” She bent toward him. Grijpstra inhaled her perfume. “Do you know, Adjutant, that the connection between cause and effect may no longer be valid?”

  “So where does that take us?” the adjutant asked.

  “Where we were in the beginning.” She smiled. “No­where, Adjutant.”

  “Can you calculate nowhere?”

  “Hardly.” She smiled. “But isn’t it better not to pinpoint the illusion? Didn’t logic limit us too much?”

  Grijpstra flapped his hands gently.

  “You don’t believe me, Adjutant?”

  “But Elize? Common sense?”

  She laughed softly. “Do you know how Einstein defined common sense? The conglomeration of prejudice formed before the student’s eighteenth year.”

  Grijpstra got up.

  “Must you leave so soon?”

  “I move on a flat surface,” Grijpstra said. “Within limited time. When the agent is caught, I would be honored to have dinner with you. Would that be possible?”

  “Time,” Elize said, “in a flat space. That’s how hurry is created. From the Past through Now to Later. While Nowhere is timeless.” She raised her voice a little. “I cannot stop you. I have no better advice
. Six, Adjutant; the key is the figure six. Maybe you shouldn’t multiply, you might also divide.”

  “Six,” Grijpstra said. “Right. I thank you, Elize.”

  She walked him to the door. “And when you have your answer, we’ll share dinner; that’s fine. My place will do?”

  “I’ll phone,” Grijpstra said. He hesitated at the door.

  “Six,” the professor said. “That’s one plus two plus three. Or one times two times three. A holy figure in the kabbala. The Star of David has six points. Kepler thought that six was the essential figure. Ever heard of Johannes Kepler?”

  “No, Elize.”

  “Sixteenth century. An astronomer. We thought then that there were only six planets, and Kepler thought that the relation of their various distances from the sun would hide the key to the universe. He kept calculating with six, and not quite in vain, although his supposition was false.”

  “Is that right?” Grijpstra asked.

  “You know nothing about mathematics?”

  “Two parallel lines,” Grijpstra said heavily, “intersect in the infinite.”

  “Your line and mine,” Elize said, “and all the others, too. You do have something there. Many a mathematician started with less.”

  “Bye,” Grijpstra said, kneading the door handle.

  He walked along a long corridor. “The incalculable,” Grijpstra said to the emptiness that surrounded him, “is the en­emy that I despise. There has to be clarity, especially at the end.

  “And there is,” Grijpstra said as he drove to the supermar­ket, “even before the end. We can rely on facts; if we couldn’t, our very existence would be at stake.”

  Grijpstra parked. “It’s three o’clock. De Gier is here, the splendid fellow. When de Gier says he’ll be somewhere at three, he’ll be somewhere at three.”

  De Gier wasn’t there.

  “Twice three is six,” Grijpstra said, entered the supermar­ket, and asked a clerk to take him to the manager’s office.

  “Jansen,” the manager said. “At your service. I was ex­pecting you. The administration telephoned this morning. The police will arrive to take a look. You came alone?”