The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  De Gier nodded solemnly. “You could be right, Adjutant. She knew the professor intimately, traveled with him all of the time, hotel rooms, you know what it’s like.”

  “You do?” Truus asked. She put out her tongue. “Yuck.” She tried to stare de Gier down, but her eyes kept slipping away. “I always had my own room and Hans always knocked on my door and I never opened. Ha.”

  Grijpstra pursed his lips. “Yeah.”

  “Yeah what?” Truus shouted. “More mussels?”

  “Jealousy?” Grijpstra said. “The great motivation of most human mistakes. We keep running into jealousy, eh, Sergeant?” He held up the photograph. “Hans doesn’t look too good here, but we can still see that he was handsome. And intelligent—must have been intelligent, a professor . . . And this older woman wanted him, and that young thing in the way, that ex­otic young thing. What a beauty—Bakini, right?”

  “What?” Truus shouted. “Me? In love? With a man?”

  “A woman scorned,” de Gier said sadly.

  “More mussels?” Truus yelled.

  “No thank you, ma’am,” Grijpstra said. “Really. They’re delicious, but I’m quite full. What about you, Sergeant?”

  “Not right now,” de Gier said.

  “Jealousy,” Truus said. “What nonsense. Moral outrage, you mean. It’s hard to tolerate a swindler like Hans, but we’re still downtrodden—it doesn’t do us any good to rebel.” She brightened up. “Come on. A little glass? Such a nice evening. So good of you to come. Shall we . . .”

  She thought.

  “Tell you what,” Grijpstra told de Gier. “This probably isn’t even murder. She went to see her beloved. She was, once again, refused. She doesn’t know the terrific strength of her own sexual longing. She had a gun. It went off.”

  “Yes?” de Gier asked. “Got him right between the eyes? Wow. Some urge.”

  “. . . celebrate,” Truus said. “Couldn’t think of the word. Want to celebrate, boys? Okay, now you have some motivation. I’ve been reading this book on detection. What comes next again? The weapon?”

  “Fingerprints,” Grijpstra said. “You must have left some.”

  Truus laughed. “Of course. I often work there.”

  “Maybe we should go home,” de Gier said. “Got to play this fair. A drunk suspect?”

  “I’m fine,” Truus said. “Don’t pity me.” She grinned. “You really think I’d get drunk if I was guilty?”

  “Good.” De Gier folded his hands. “The weapon comes next. You’re right. Where is it? Where is the horrible tool used in la crime passionnelle?”

  “Crime is masculine,” Truus said. “Le crime.”

  “The gun?” Grijpstra said. “It’s here. She could have thrown it away, but there’s only one short stretch of canal be­tween the professor’s house and here. Our divers could find it. No, it’s here, don’t you think?”

  “A Walther PPK is expensive,” de Gier said. “She would also want it for self-defense. Better watch her, Adjutant. Drunk. Violent. A loaded semiautomatic high-quality murder machine may pop up any moment.”

  Grijpstra looked around. “Oh, dear.”

  “Mussels?” Truus asked, looking into the pot. “There’s plenty left. Don’t you like my herbs? Don’t they bring out the flavor?”

  “Remember how you lost the tip of your toe?” de Gier asked. “Let’s see now. Suspect hides his gun in your coat. We look everywhere. We don’t look in your coat. Then suspect helps you into your coat and takes the gun out. I saw that. I hit his wrist. The gun dropped to the floor and went off.”

  “I’m not wearing an overcoat today,” Grijpstra said. “Nei­ther are you.”

  “I don’t understand you two,” Truus said. “You know what the street stalls are asking for fried mussels these days? Four-fifty a scoop. Mine are free.” She leaned her head on her hand. Her elbow slipped. Her head dropped, then jerked up again.

  “Watch it,” de Gier said. “I’m sorry. You kept telling us and I wouldn’t hear you.” He took the spoon from her hand and dug about in the pot. There was a clank of metal.

  “Go easy,” Grijpstra said. “We don’t want the shells to explode in that hot brew. Easy now.”

  De Gier turned the pot over. Grijpstra wiped the pistol clean with a dishcloth. He shook his head. “Really, a scientist who doesn’t respect a tool. Look at this. Fully loaded, cartridge in the chamber, safety off. There. That’s better.” He had re­moved the clip and ejected the chambered cartridge. “She must have dropped it in when she heard me ring the bell.”

  “I won’t come with you,” Truus said. “You’ll have to drag me.”

  De Gier telephoned.

  Two policewomen climbed the stairs. “Where’s the pa­tient?”

  “Inside,” de Gier said.

  “Couldn’t bring her in yourself?” the older constable asked. “Shame on you.”

  “Didn’t dare,” de Gier said.

  “Charge?”

  “Manslaughter. She shot her boyfriend. Murder maybe.”

  “She’s drunk,” Grijpstra said as the constables marched in.

  Truus looked at them sleepily, then pushed over the table.

  She ran into the kitchen and came back with a long knife. The constables pulled their guns.

  “No, no,” de Gier said. “Truus?”

  She swung the knife at him in a wide arc, and he blocked it, turned to the side, wrapped his arm around her arm, clamped his hand on her wrist. A sharp twist and she yelled. The knife clattered onto the floor. De Gier stepped behind the suspect and handcuffed her smartly. “There you go.”

  The mostly-dachshund had been waiting outside. Grijpstra stumbled. De Gier caught him. “Dumb doggie,” Grijpstra said, “are you teaching me awareness?”

  De Gier picked up the little dog, turned it around, checked, put it down on its legs. “The female mind,” de Gier said, “is both devious and relentless. She’s offering herself and I would advise you to accept.”

  “Yes?” Grijpstra asked the mostly-dachshund. The dog held her head to the side, waved her long tail once, barked inside her long snout.

  “Poor Truus,” de Gier said.

  “Poor Bakini,” Grijpstra said.

  “Why Bakini?”

  “Won’t you be after her?” Grijpstra asked. “To comfort her?”

  “She might comfort me,” de Gier said. “She has access to heaven.”

  “She might,” Grijpstra said. He began to sigh and grumble.

  “Don’t be jealous,” de Gier said. “See who’ll be comforting you.” He pointed down. The mostly-dachshund was sitting up, offering both paws. Grijpstra squatted and shook them. The dog wore no tag and looked like she had been living an irregular and needy existence.

  “A stray?” Grijpstra asked.

  “Yours for the taking,” de Gier said. “Sleep well, you two.” He turned and strode off.

  The dog woofed invitingly and made a believable attempt to frolic.

  “You sure?” Grijpstra asked. “I’m not an easy man.”

  The little dog’s ears waved, her tail wagged.

  “You’re not into mussels? You won’t get fat? You won’t watch TV?”

  They each waited.

  “Be my guest,” Grijpstra said. They walked off.

  Holiday Patrol

  “I thought the Inner City rape/murder was being taken care of,” the police dispatcher said on the radio. “Constables Ketchup and Karate were going out there in their bus, but they haven’t reported back and now I can’t raise them. Anyone else available to take over?”

  De Gier grabbed his microphone. “Detective Patrol fourteen-six here. Our position is Emperor’s Canal, corner Deer Alley. What’s up, Dispatcher?”

  “Tourist female,” Dispatcher said, “speaking some kind of German, charges a tourist male with abusin
g her. Tourist female escaped from tourist male’s rented holiday apartment. She is in the street now. Female tourist claims male tourist has a gun.”

  The radio voice was female, too—a warm voice, melodi­ous, with lilting tones slipping into affectionate innuendos.

  Detective-Sergeant de Gier, of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, on surveillance duty, behind the wheel of an unmarked vehicle commanded by Detective-Adjutant Grijpstra, groaned his appreciation. While the dispatcher’s vocal femininity filled the small car, he even closed his eyes for a moment.

  “Hey!” Grijpstra shouted.

  De Gier woke from his trance. Their white unmarked Fiat Panda narrowly missed driving into Emperor’s Canal.

  “I knew that dispatcher’s voice would cause trouble.” Grijpstra took the microphone from the sergeant as the Fiat veered back from the canal’s edge.

  Earlier on that evening, Grijpstra had commented on the dispatcher’s voice.

  “All that lovey-doveyness gets in the way. I bet you there’s nothing to back it up either.” Grijpstra cleared his throat furi­ously. “Just like in that late-night nude show on AIR, your favorite station, Sergeant.”

  “Amsterdam Illegal Radio?” de Gier asked. “That won­derful silver voice talking about what she does in Art Deco bed­rooms, in the elegant Old South district?”

  Adjutant Grijpstra’s forefinger prodded Sergeant de Gier’s biceps. “You know I checked that radio show out? That I lo­cated a bunch of derelicts using secondhand equipment in a drafty loft in Mad Nun Alley? That I threatened to shut their operation down? That I didn’t because the outfit is pathetic? You want to know why? Are you ready to accept the fact that the voice of your nude show’s star performer, she with the naughty little-girlie/Lorelei tones, belongs to a lumpy fifty-year old with fogged-up glasses?”

  “Mature and sexy,” de Gier said. “So?”

  Grijpstra grunted furiously. “The voice may be sexy, the reality is pure dog.”

  “I like pure dog.” De Gier smiled happily. “And I am adult enough to appreciate older women.”

  They drove in silence for two blocks.

  “You should read Police Weekly.” The sergeant kneaded

  Grijpstra’s shoulder. “Last week’s issue had an article on What the Adult Male looks for in his Search for a Partner.”

  “Bah,” Grijpstra said.

  “Bah what?” De Gier smiled. “You’re still stuck on firm flesh? The prime sexual desire, Adjutant, in the mature male, isn’t for physical penetration of a junior madonnaesque body. In the older male, interest in spiritual aspects appears. It’s love and affection men like you and me are after. It’s the safe feeling we cherish, it’s mutual caring we are in want of . . .” De Gier’s smile widened. “It’s the ability to caress the beloved’s feet with our own before falling asleep that we crave. The arm around her shoulder. Leaning our tired head against her bosom afterward.”

  The idea seemed to surprise Grijpstra. “You mean cud­dling, Sergeant?”

  “Hello?” the cuddly radio voice now asked while it filled the Fiat with loving-care vibrations. “Are you there, fourteen-six? I know you’re Special Assignments only, but the uniform patrol has let me down here.”

  “Location of alleged victim?” Grijpstra asked, while nudg­ing de Gier, who, listening to the dispatcher, was about to swoon again.

  Grijpstra switched off the microphone. “Try to keep the car away from open sewers.” He switched the microphone on again. “Location of incident? Dispatcher? Hello?”

  “Just a minute,” the dispatcher said. “It’s in my data bank, but the computer is malfunctioning.”

  “Open sewers?” de Gier asked while waiting. “You heard about the eighteen-centimeter-long minnow caught in Straight Tree Ditch? Did you see the photo of boys diving into the Amstel?”

  “Prince Canal,” the radio voice said. “Corner of Brewer’s Canal. Please let me know what happens. New po­lice policy wants us dispatchers not merely to direct but to support all colleagues on patrol. I can’t help you with finding cell space but I can connect you with NASSAD.” There was the ticking of a keyboard. “Just a moment, let me check this . . . I don’t think NASSAD is open on weekends. It is Satur­day, am I right?”

  “That’s affirmative,” Grijpstra said. “What’s NASSAD again?”

  “New Age Shamanic Society Against Denial. It employs psy­chologists to diffuse ego assertion.”

  “Right,” Grijpstra said gruffly. “Sergeant! Let’s go. Corner of Prince and Brewer’s.”

  De Gier had the Fiat Panda going already. Rape and at­tempted murder are defined as serious crimes and warrant the use of flashing blue light and siren. Police rules prescribe that excessive speeds may be used and traffic signals may be ignored with caution.

  The sergeant’s long arm reached through the window and stuck a magnetized blue light on the car’s roof. The light flashed. The Fiat’s hidden two-toned horn was on. De Gier sang along with the TEEH-TOOH TEE-TAH TEEH-TOOH of the si­ren. He held a black belt in Assorted Unarmed Combat and habitually won contests in the police shooting gallery. Perhaps this would be an occasion for testing his skills.

  Grijpstra clicked on his safety belt. The pistol’s butt caress­ing his armpit heightened the adjutant’s increased awareness. He restrained the grin that he could feel twisting his cheeks as he tried not to enjoy de Gier’s reckless driving. Did he really want to wrestle a murderous rapist on Brewer’s Bridge? Was he look­ing forward to shoving a shackled psychopath into a dank cell?

  Not that there were any cells, dank or dry, available these days.

  In spite of a marked increase in crime and street warfare, official Amsterdam police policy was unchanged. The capital’s chief constable kept urging his subordinates to maintain a low profile. All personnel were requested to make as few arrests as possible. Even so, since drug abuse was affecting unstable citi­zens’ behavior, Amsterdam’s limited jail space was in much de­mand.

  Saturday, two a.m.—the speeding Fiat careered through empty alleys and quaysides. A flock of starlings twittered, lifted themselves from a tree, panicked, fluttered down in front of their windshield. When de Gier could see again a lone drunk loomed into view. The drunk was pushing a bicycle, stolen a minute ago. He released his loot. The bicycle carried on alone until it splashed into the canal. The bereaved thief watched his sinking loot being replaced by growing circles reaching out toward the canal’s far shore.

  Rats, disturbed by the siren’s wailing, squeaked angrily while scurrying for cover between elm roots.

  Another drunk, a man with a white beard, climbed a lamp post as the Fiat approached. The man’s fear changed to cheer. He fell off the post when he lifted his hat to wave.

  A few late prostitutes and drug dealers faded into their re­spective doorways.

  The car turned east at Brewer’s Canal. A woman in a shim­mering low-cut black gown, silhouetted against the white wall of a houseboat, performed exaggerated dance steps on Brewer’s Bridge. Grijpstra noticed the dancer’s hat, shaped like a silken butterfly, with large drooping orange wings.

  The Fiat skidded.

  “Hey!” Grijpstra shouted.

  Tires complained as the car turned around briskly. “We just passed our destination,” de Gier said. “The corner of Prince and Brewer’s Canals. I see no other female complainants about. That must be her, Adjutant.”

  The detectives wished the dancing lady a good evening, then stood back.

  “I dance,” the woman said in accented German, “because I am nervous.”

  The month was July, holiday season, and most Amsterdammers had vacated the city. After inquiring ahead for the latest news on civil wars, contagious disease, raging bushfires, lethal mudslides, currency-value changes, availability of wildlife, and discounts on amenities, the citizens had gone. Quite a few had managed to rent their apartments to tourists. The city ha
d filled up with foreign guests, served by Turkish waiters, Moroccan maids, Russian topless dancers, Filipino prostitutes.

  Most of Amsterdam’s police personnel were on holiday too, except for the multilingual ones who were kept back to protect the tourists. Multilinguals would enjoy extra holiday time later. Grijpstra spoke some English. De Gier, who liked reading, could make his way in German, Spanish, and French. The sergeant’s English was acceptably fluent.

  “Pay attention,” the woman said, gently gyrating her body to prepare for her next impressive stance. “My rapist has a gun.” She pointed at a gabled house on Brewer’s Canal. “Up there, he sleeps, he drinks, he wants to shoot me with a big cannon. I escape dancing.”

  Grijpstra bent down. His twitching nostrils noticed no fra­grance of cannabis products. He checked the woman’s pupils but did not notice dilation. Her long stylish dress was clean. The high-heeled shoes looked new. The butterfly hat was pinned down neatly to long, thick, cared-for hair.

  “Are you a sniffer?” the woman asked.

  Grijpstra looked abashed.

  His discomfort pleased the woman. “Good. You nice cop. Yes?” She breathed into his face. “Me not drunk. Herr Engländer yes drunk. Dutch alcohol-shit. From fridge.” She extended a leg, danced away, turned, danced back.

  Complainant was possibly a little crazed, Grijpstra con­cluded. Perhaps nothing serious. Her lover got drunk. There was an argument. Now Lover was asleep in the slender silver-grey gabled house she had indicated. Maybe his charming ser­geant could talk this nice lady into rejoining her Herr Engländer, and he and de Gier could tiptoe out of this case.

  “What do you think?” Grijpstra asked his sergeant. Maybe it was time to go eat something. Colleagues had told him about a new all-night deli in Vijzel Street. Veal-ragout croquettes, shrimp rolls, and the house brand of Gouda cheese were rec­ommended. Now, if de Gier could take care of this complaint in a tactful and speedy manner . . .

  To bolster his optimism, Grijpstra remembered the previ­ous night’s case, which had also involved foreigners.