The Sergeant's Cat

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  “Violence,” de Gier whispered, “is lawfully permitted un­der special circumstances. Didn’t they teach you that at police school?”

  “The subject is somewhat big,” the constable whispered.

  The subject was in the lobby, well over six feet, barrel-chested, and waving large fists. He was dressed neatly and swayed slowly. He smiled. “You’re a cop, too?” he asked the sergeant.

  “Sergeant de Gier, at your service entirely.”

  “Serve me,” the subject said. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you. I’ve already killed tonight—an innocent bystander. I deserve to suffer suitable punishment. I wish to wither away in a dank cell.”

  Grijpstra moved forward and addressed the other constable.

  “Tell your side of it,” Grijpstra said.

  The constable backed out of the drunk’s earshot. “He didn’t kill anyone, Adjutant, he just happens to have been in­dulging. He says he knocked someone down with his car in Brewer’s Square, but we have our radio here and no accident has been reported in that area.”

  “When would the mishap have occurred?”

  “An hour ago, and he has been here ever since, yelling at us. How can we guard the building with the subject distracting us?”

  Grijpstra breathed deeply. He reshaped his smile. “Consta­ble, we’re of the Criminal Investigation Department. We are highly trained. We learned how to count, for instance. Am I mistaken if I count two of you?”

  “I’m not familiar with the ways of the supercops, Adju­tant,” the constable said pleasantly, “but we regular officers work in couples. My mate and I form just one couple—and couples, we were taught at police school, may never be split. The subject is big. It will need a complete couple to arrest him. If we arrest him, we cannot guard the building.”

  Grijpstra faced the drunk. “Sir.”

  The subject continued to sway and to smile.

  “You’re under arrest. Follow me.”

  The subject balled his hands into fists.

  “Let’s go,” Grijpstra bellowed.

  The subject hit Grijpstra. Grijpstra fell down. De Gier jumped forward. The subject’s arm flew up and turned behind his back, yanked expertly by de Gier’s arms. Handcuffs clicked.

  “The subject is now a suspect,” de Gier told the constables. “I suspect him of harassing the police. Watch him.” He squatted next to Grijpstra. “How are you doing?”

  Grijpstra groaned.

  “Ambulance,” de Gier said. A constable picked up a phone.

  The suspect kicked. De Gier, still squatting, bent sideways and clutched the suspect’s leg. The suspect fell over backward and hit the floor with the full impact of his own strength and weight.

  “Take him to a cell,” de Gier said. The constables dragged the suspect away.

  A siren howled in the street. De Gier opened the door.

  “Evening,” the ambulance driver said. “You guys damaged a subject again?”

  “A colleague is hurt,” de Gier said. “Be careful with him; he’s my friend.”

  “We’re always careful.” The driver turned to his assistant. “Ready? Let’s pick him up.”

  Grijpstra opened his eyes.

  “Don’t relax too much,” the driver said. “Otherwise we can’t get you on the stretcher. You’re a bit heavy, you know.”

  “I’m not heavy,” Grijpstra said, “and I have no intention of cooperating. I was out for a moment, but I’m back again. Where’s the suspect, Sergeant?”

  “He’s in his cell and you’re on your way to the doctor.”

  “No.” Grijpstra started to his feet.

  “Grab him,” de Gier said to the driver.

  The driver shook his head. “Not if the patient refuses.”

  De Gier held his fist under the driver’s nose. “Take him along.”

  He held his fist under Grijpstra’s nose. “Be taken along. Your skull hit the stone floor, and I want to know whether it’s cracked or not. You can come back if the doctor releases you.”

  “Who outranks whom?” the driver asked.

  “I’m outranked,” de Gier said, “but I happen to be more aggressive than he is and I’m good at judo.”

  “Let’s pick him up and get out of here,” the driver’s assis­tant said.

  “I’ll be on my way, too,” de Gier said to the constables. “Have a good night now, the two of you.”

  The blue Volkswagen was parked on Brewer’s Square again, opposite the Concert Building, pointed at Museum Square. De Gier was at the wheel. He picked up the micro­phone. “Car fourteen-six.”

  “Darling.”

  “I’m back doing what I was doing,” de Gier said, “and I have a request.”

  “Yes?”

  “Please ask one of the constables guarding your building to speak to me on the radio.”

  “Sergeant?” one of the constables asked a few moments later.

  “Listen,” de Gier said. “The situation was somewhat be­wildering just now. What exactly was bothering your suspect when he first approached you?”

  “An excess of alcohol,” the constable said.

  “Anything else?”

  “He said he had run someone down on Brewer’s Square.”

  “Details?”

  The constable grinned noisily. “He ran down a blue one.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Sergeant.”

  “Thanks.” De Gier pushed the microphone back into its clip.

  Over there, de Gier observes, the blue lady is still crying. Patiently. Into her handkerchief. Seeing that no one is restrain­ing me now, he thinks, I’ll go and find out what causes her lengthy grief. He got out and walked over.

  “Good evening.”

  “Please leave me alone.”

  “I only wanted to ask you something,” de Gier said. “I am a—”

  A patrol car stopped next to the conversing couple. Two constables got out. They had left their caps in the car. “What’s going on here?” one of them asked.

  “This man is annoying me,” the lady said.

  The constables turned to de Gier. “We’ve been watching you for a while, sir. You were ogling the lady and now you’re actually waylaying her. Move along—and be glad that we don’t intend, for the moment, to pursue the misdemeanor.”

  De Gier showed his police card.

  The constables edged him along the sidewalk. “Look here,” the older of the two said, “even we aren’t allowed to bother crying females. It’s tempting to do it anyway, I will admit, for when they’re in tears, they’re easy to push over, but we shouldn’t, don’t you agree?”

  De Gier showed them his digital watch. “You see the sec­onds change numbers?”

  “Yes?”

  “Five more numbers and the two of you are back in your car and driving away. I have to talk to the lady. Make yourselves scarce. All right?”

  “I don’t know whether you recognize the sergeant,” the younger constable advised his partner, “but Rinus de Gier has just been declared judo and karate champion of Amsterdam. Let’s go. Good evening, Sergeant Champion.”

  The patrol car drove off. De Gier walked back to the lady. He showed her his police card. “Miss,” he said in a low and pleasant voice, “you seem to be unhappy. Did a car run into you a while ago?”

  The lady sobbed.

  “Let’s have nothing but the truth,” de Gier said. “Crying only makes your eyes bulge. You have been run into by a car and you had a bad fright. Share your misery.”

  “No,” the lady said. “Do my eyes really bulge?”

  “Not really. Would you like a cigarette?”

  “I never smoke in the street.”

  “Smoke in my car.”

  The lady adjusted her skirt and drew on her cigarette.
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  “Well?” de Gier asked.

  “I’ll tell you. I’m having an affair with a certain Mr. Dams and he promised to marry me.”

  “He did?” de Gier said.

  “So he would have to divorce his wife.”

  “He would.”

  “But he didn’t. And I had enough of waiting. Tonight I decided to go to his house.”

  De Gier waited.

  “His wife opened the door. I said, ‘I’m your husband’s girlfriend and I want to know about the divorce.’ She let me in and he switched off the TV and looked at both of us. His wife said, ‘What’s this about a divorce?’ He got up and went to the kitchen and came back with a bottle of gin and drank it all.”

  De Gier waited.

  “And then he left the house and his wife said it was all my fault. I ran out of the house and followed his car, in my own.”

  De Gier waited.

  “He could hardly drive, but he managed to get as far as here and to park it. He walked off before I could park.”

  “Mr. Darns is a big man?”

  “Oh, yes.” She blew her nose.

  “Three-piece suit? Wide-shouldered?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where’s his car?”

  “The big Chevrolet over there.”

  “You saw him park. Did he hit anyone?”

  “He drove over the island, where the pedestrians wait for the streetcar.”

  “Your friend, Mr. Dams,” de Gier said, “has been arrested. He hit an officer. He won’t be released until tomorrow morning. I would advise you to go home and sleep well.”

  De Gier unclipped the microphone. “Headquarters? Four­teen-six here.”

  “Darling?”

  “Could I speak to that constable again?”

  “Sergeant?” the constable asked.

  “Go to the suspect’s cell and ask him about his accident. Then come back and tell me exactly what he answers.”

  Heroin, de Gier thought, brought me here, and I haven’t seen any trace of it yet and never will, I’m sure, for soon the Concert Building will empty and there will be thousands of people on the square and they can give each other parcels forever without my seeing any of it. Let’s solve puzzles that can be solved. Like what’s with the blue lady and her Mr. Dams?

  “Car fourteen-six?” the radio asked.

  “Right here.”

  “Sergeant,” the constable said. “Sure, blue, and dead, too.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what the suspect said just now.”

  “That’s all?”

  “All.”

  If there’s anything, de Gier thought, that really annoys me, it’s a simple situation I can’t comprehend. Blue. What blue? Blue what? The lady was blue, but the suspect didn’t hit the lady. The sergeant looked out of the car. The cart loaded with rags was still parked under the no-parking sign. The rags were mov­ing. De Gier got out.

  “Is this where you sleep?” de Gier asked.

  “I have a bed at home,” Blue Pete said, “but my wife is in it and she’s watching TV. I’d rather be here. Resting. Drinking a little.” He held up a bottle. “Care for a sip?”

  “Methylated spirits?” de Gier asked.

  “The best Dutch gin,” Blue Pete said. “What with welfare on the rise again, methyl alcohol has become too cheap for me. Pity in a way. I really prefer methylated spirits—the taste is a bit sharper.”

  “But you’re still blue,” de Gier said.

  “That’ll never wear off. Sure you don’t want a nip?”

  De Gier pushed the bottle away. “Tell me, Pete, did any­one happen to run into you tonight with his car?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes!” shouted Blue Pete. “Do you think I need to lie to anyone? With my welfare money going up and up and up?”

  “Pete,” de Gier said. “Relax, it’s a beautiful night. But someone drove into ‘a blue one’ tonight, and you are blue.”

  “If I’d been involved in an accident,” Blue Pete said, “I would have made a fuss. Maybe I’m just a simple textile dealer, but nobody drives over me, not even if the millionaire drives a brand-new Chevrolet!”

  “Aha,” said de Gier. “A Chevrolet, eh? The one over there, perhaps?”

  “But it never drove into me,” Blue Pete said. “It drove across the traffic island over there. It was stopped by the little pillar with the blue light in it.” He laughed raucously. “And it had just been fixed. I watched a uniformed chap fussing with it with a screwdriver and pliers. Fixed it finally and bang, there comes the millionaire with the Chevrolet and bends it all out of shape again. Ho-ho.”

  De Gier walked back to his car. He thought as he walked. He changed his direction and investigated the pillar. It was bent over a few degrees and scratched, but the light still burned. He walked over to the Chevrolet. Its bumper was dented a little and some of the paint from the pillar adhered to the dent. The sergeant slid back into the Volkswagen, sighing contentedly. Facts once again. Here was Mr. Dams, an upright citizen trapped by a woman. Temporarily insane, Mr. Dams got himself drunk and hit a pillar. How easy everything was once seen from the correct angle.

  He released the microphone. “Car fourteen-six.”

  “Darling?”

  “Hello, Marie,” de Gier said. “Please don’t call me darling. The channel is open—any police car can listen in.”

  “Yes, my beloved.”

  “Any news about the adjutant’s condition?”

  “A sore chin. He’s on his way to you.”

  Grijpstra tapped on the window. De Gier opened the door for him.

  “Nothing the matter with me,” the adjutant said. “You forced me to make a spectacle of myself.”

  “I’m sorry,” de Gier said. “I’ll never do it again. Next time you’re out cold on the floor, I will stand on your head.”

  “Thanks,” Grijpstra said. “How’s our heroin deal?”

  “What heroin?”

  “Our original assignment.”

  “Ah, that.” De Gier cursed. “I thought I had it all figured out—and now this.” He pointed.

  “Are you pointing at the man in the blue uniform opening the little door in the pillar with the blue light in it?”

  “I am.”

  “What could be wrong with that? The man is employed by the electric company and he’s checking the pillar.”

  “I just found out,” the sergeant said, “that the light was checked a little while ago. Besides, it’s burning. What’s he fid­dling with the insides of the pillar for?”

  “Replacing a fuse?” Grijpstra asked lazily. “Dusting con­nections? Scraping the socket? Should we care?”

  “I think so,” de Gier said. “Because he’s doing none of that. He’s removing some small cellophane packages. You go right; I’ll take the left. Pull your gun.”

  The man in the uniform also pulled a gun. There were two shots. De Gier dropped when the shots went off and kicked the suspect’s legs from under him. Grijpstra caught the falling sus­pect. Handcuffs clicked.

  “He didn’t hit you, did he?” de Gier asked.

  “No,” Grijpstra said. “But I hit him. He’s bleeding from the chest. I don’t think the cuffs were necessary.”

  •

  “Come right in,” the commissaris said. “The chief is wait­ing for you. Good work—but it’s a pity the suspect didn’t sur­vive his arrest.”

  The chief got up from behind his desk and smiled at his visitors. “Adjutant. Sergeant. My congratulations. The suspect has been identified and important clues have been found in his home that will lead to further arrests. What brilliant reasoning led you to believe that the man masquerading as an electric com­pany worker was your man?”

  Grijpstra didn’t say anyt
hing. De Gier was quiet.

  “Well?”

  “No brilliant reasoning, sir,” de Gier said. “A melody per­haps—one blue note leading to another.”

  The chief smiled patiently. “Tell me about it.”

  Grijpstra reported.

  “I see,” the chief said. “Who put the heroin into the pillar?”

  Grijpstra shrugged. “We didn’t see that. The big dealer presumably.”

  “And the small dealer took it out?”

  “So it seems.”

  “The pillar merely served as a third party? The dealers didn’t want to meet?”

  Grijpstra nodded. “The less they know, the less they can tell.”

  “And the lady in blue?”

  “No connection, sir. Neither was Blue Pete.”

  “Yet the events connected,” the chief said. “A typical ex­ample of proper police work. What do you think, Commissaris? These men are from your department. Don’t you agree that they did well?”

  The commissaris was standing near the door. He came for­ward and studied his assistants. His eyes rested on de Gier’s brow. “You’re pale, Sergeant.”

  “Blue,” de Gier mumbled. “It’s such a beautiful shade. It has pursued us all night, leading to death.”

  The commissaris led the sergeant to the door. Grijpstra fol­lowed.

  “What was that?” the chief asked when the commissaris returned.

  “An erratic statement,” the commissaris said. “It’s a while since you and I were assigned to street duty. After a violent death a colleague may tend toward erratic behavior.” He looked out the window. The sky curved like a tight metallic blue sheet above the city of Amsterdam, iridescent in its entirety, intensi­fied by the first pulsating stars. “It’s the blue hour again,” he said to the chief. “Let’s go across the street. You may allow me to buy you a drink.”

  Hup Three

  Handsome, successful Frank Nullish and his brand-new super-automatic Volvo had a choice that fateful day. They could take a left turn after leaving the clinic, where Frank’s wife, Betty-Baby, wasn’t being cured, and go home. Home was Frank’s spacious top-floor apartment in a four-story condo in the luxury suburb of Amstelveen. The apartment overlooked a well-kept park lined by ramrod-straight poplars and ever-mown lawns surrounding a clear pool with shiny white Peking ducks on top. A left turn would be nice—the Volvo would sit in its underground garage and Frank, teeth clenched on the old meerschaum, would watch ducks from the balcony, Cat hanging bonelessly across his arms.