Hard Rain (10 page)

The commissaris rang the doorbell, then knocked and shouted. Guldemeester appeared at the side of the house, holding a beer can in a dangling hand. His shoes weren't laced. Bloodshot eyes gleamed above his unshaven cheeks. "Morning."

"How are you doing, Adjutant?"

"Just taking the day off," Guldemeester said, trying to push up his slipping eyeglasses but pressing his nose instead. "I had a hard night."

"Got a minute?" the commissaris asked. "Can we sit down somewhere?"

"In the back." Guldemeester turned and walked unsteadily ahead. Behind the house, a hammock had been strung between two thin poplars rising from clusters of dying rhododendrons. Empty cans were strewn about in the tall grass. The remains of two bicycles leaned against the house.

"A beer?" Guldemeester asked.

The commissaris looked around for somewhere to sit. "No, thank you."

"I'll get a chair from the house," Guldemeester said. The commissaris followed his host into the kitchen, where a stack of dirty plates, most of them still holding remnants of food, tottered in the sink. Guldemeester dropped his can on the floor and yanked a fresh one from a carton. "Sure you don't want a beer?"

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Why don't you go back to your hammock? I'll find a chair."

He walked into a room where furniture had fallen over, newspapers and empty cigarette packs littered the floor, and the TV set was partly covered by dirty clothes. Guldemeester came in too. "Why didn't you phone? I could have tidied up."

"Your line was busy."

"Right," Guldemeester said. He stepped aside as the commissaris carried out a chair.

Back in the garden, Guldemeester raised a leg and aimed it at the hammock. His heel caught in the hammock's ropes and he toppled over backward into a bush. "Are you all right now?" the commissaris asked, untangling the adjutant's leg. "Maybe you'd better sit on the ground. Here, lean against the tree."

Guldemeester groped about for his spectacles in the grass. He poked them at his face. "Drunk, you know."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "I do get the impression that you're a bit under the weather."

Guldemeester sat up. "You ever get drunk?"

"Not so much these days," the commissaris said. "Your wife isn't with you?"

"Celine is a whore!" Guldemeester yelled. He dropped his voice after he had smiled forgivingly. "That's okay. It's her vocation. Other women become nuns. More money in prostitution." He pointed at the house. "Helped with the payment. Freelansh work, but she's professional now. Livesh with her shishter in Amshterdam."

"I see," the commissaris said.

Guldemeester shook his head. "It didn't work out."

"No?"

The adjutant's head kept shaking. "No. She'll get her money back. I'm selling the place. Don't want the money. Maybe she needs it. Yesh?" He flailed both arms about and the beer can shot off into the bushes, trailing foam.

The commissaris retrieved the can. Guldemeester peered into its little hole. "Empty." The can fell and rolled down his leg.

"You'll be leaving this pleasant place, then?" the commissaris asked.

"Leaving the country," Guldemeester said, slumping against the poplar's trunk. "Haven't told you yet. Damn the job. Never liked it."

The commissaris nodded helpfully. "I understand."

"Going to Spain. Better out there. Nice job." The adjutant smiled craftily. "You came about the dead banker, eh?"

"Yes, Adjutant."

Guldemeester wagged a finger. "Naughty, naughty. The case ish closed."

He swept his hand edgewise through the air, cutting the top off all possible explanations.

"You didn't have too much to do with the case?" the commissaris asked.

"No." Guldemeester closed one eye. His head dropped and he raised it with some trouble, trying to focus the other eye on his visitor's face. "I'm sorry, but I'd razzer not discush the matter."

"Is that what the chief inspector told you to say?"

Guldemeester nodded solemnly. "Yesh." His head dropped on his chest. "I'd razzer not discush the chief inshpector eizzer."

"Did Halba get you the job?"

Guldemeester's eyes crossed.

"Did Halba get you that nice job in Spain?"

"I'd razzer not discush . . ."

"You should be in bed." The commissaris stepped foward. "On your feet, friend. I'll help you into the house."

"Not in the bed." Guldemeester said in a suddenly clear voice. "I sleep on the couch downstairs. The bed reminds me of Celine." He attempted to push aside dead leaves dangling in front of his face.

"Give me your hands, Adjutant." Guldemeester wasn't heavy, and the commissaris dragged him up without too much trouble.

"See that shed?" Guldemeester asked as he staggered to the house. "Built it myshelf. For the goatsh. My little friendsh. I'd let them out when I came home and they'd gambol about."

"I've got a turtle," the commissaris said.

"Good." Guldemeester patted the commissaris's arm. "Good."

"To the couch?" the commissaris asked.

They passed the staircase. Guldemeester pointed at empty bottles lying on the steps. "AH ashleep, the little fellers."

"The bottles are your friends?"

"Yes," Guldemeester said clearly again. "The goats are dead."

The adjutant, steered along by the commissaris, flopped down on the couch. The commissaris picked up Guldemeester1 s legs and lifted them onto the couch too. "Comfortable? Maybe you can have goats again in Spain."

"Don't know," Guldemeester said. "Should have asked him."

"Who?" the commissaris asked.

"Fernandush," Guldemeester said sleepily, turning on his side.

The chief constable was waiting at the elevator when the commissaris walked through the lobby. "Morning," the commissaris said. He looked at his watch. "Afternoon, rather." He turned away. "Maybe I should get something to eat."

"Why don't you come up to my office for a minute?" the chief constable asked. "I missed you at the meeting."

The door slid open and they both got in. Two constables stepped into the elevator too, pointing at their caps, pushed to the backs of their heads. "Good day, gentlemen." The chief constable smiled. The commissaris mentioned the unusually good weather lately. He mentioned it again when they walked through the long corridor to the chief constable's office. "Very pleasant spring, good time of the year to be about."

The chief constable indicated a chair. "You were out all morning, I couldn't reach you on the phone. Working on something?"

"The IJsbreker case," the commissaris said, shaking immaculate white cuffs from his shantung sleeves. "I think I'm getting somewhere."

"That case has been taken care of." The chief constable pushed a box of cigars across the top of his desk.

"No, thank you," the commissaris said. "Closed?"

The chief constable nodded. "We discussed the matter again this morning. There's sufficient evidence to believe that Martin IJsbreker shot himself in a despondent mood. All conditions point to a conclusive supposition."

"Maybe I will have a cigar," the commissaris said.

The chief constable waited until the commissaris's cigar burned properly. "I think the missing gun and that nonsense about a second bullet can be ignored. Powder burns on the corpse's face, the letter, testimony by employees of the Banque du Credit—we have more than enough to stop wasting time and turn to something else."

"To what, sir?" the commissaris asked.

"To the terrorists. There may be others about."

"Halba can work on the terrorists," the commissaris said airily. "He already had one shot. You approved of his method, I hear."

The chief constable's fingers drummed on his desk. "I'm serious. The IJsbreker case is closed."

The commissaris got up. "Well, that's that, then. I'll be off to lunch." He walked to the door.

"Commissaris?"

"Sir?" The commissaris looked over his shoulder.

"What will you work on now?"

The commissaris stopped and turned. "Oh, there's always something. The old lady, I think."

"Which old lady would that be?"

"The old lady who is being drummed out of her cozy apartment, sir."

"I'm not familiar with that complaint," the chief constable said, waving cigar smoke away.

"It's in the daily file, sir, several times in fact." "I thought you were in charge of Homicide?" "A drumstick," the commissaris said, "could be a dangerous weapon."

The chief constable nodded. "I didn't know." He smiled. "But then I've never been a member of the Murder Brigade. By the way, my name is Henri, I should have mentioned that before."

"I know, sir," the commissaris said. "Chief Inspector Halba told me so the other day." He hesitated. "Am I excused?" The chief constable looked away. "Yes."

\\\\\ 9 /////

"Y
ES, MRS. JONGS," DE GIER SAID INTO HIS PHONE, "this is the police . . . about your complaint. . . No, dear, this is Headquarters, not your local station."

He listened. "No, dear, I'm not kidding."

He listened for quite a while. "Terrible. Absolutely, Mrs. Jongs. Tell me . . . just a minute now . . . yes . . . Would you perhaps keep a bucket around the kitchen?"

"Couldn't this be arranged a little more simply?" Grijpstra asked when de Gier finally hung up.

"No," de Gier said. "You didn't want to phone, so we'll do it my way. She wouldn't believe me at first. Listen carefully now, this is the plan. We meet in the garage here tonight at seven sharp. I'll come earlier to make sure that the van, overalls, tools, and whatnot are ready. You arrange the availability of a couple of cells."

"There are never any cells available," Grijpstra said. "The new jails we keep hearing about will be ready within five years. Can't we put this off till then?"

"Get cells, Adjutant." De Gier pounded his desk. "I don't care how you do it. Grant a rapist an all-night walk through the park. It's Thursday, so the stores will be open until ten. Let a few shoplifters off so that they can keep in practice."

Grijpstra had cleaned his pistol and was trying to insert the clip.

"Other way around?" de Gier asked.

"Right." Grijpstra frowned as the clip clicked into place. "Thank you. I'll never get used to the new model."

"Please remember that the Walther P5 has no safety device."

"Really?" Grijpstra slid the clip out again and pushed cartridges into its open end.

"You'll kill someone," de Gier said. "Nontechnical types like you shouldn't be issued guns."

Grijpstra slipped the pistol into his shoulder holster.

"You'll shoot me" de Gier said, "But it doesn't matter. Death is the final and greatest adventure of them all. May it come swiftly, by the hand of a friend."

"I'm not really your friend," Grijpstra said gently. "Fate has pushed us together. I've never cared for your company much. You're everything I detest. Your slightest action irritates me intensely. Even if you don't do anything at all, I can't stand having you around." He sighed. "I'll be much better off without you."

De Gier sat at the edge of his desk, smiling down on Grijpstra. "So why did you pick me up just now? I could still be on my bed, enjoying the final vapors of the forbidden weed, twirling my toes, listening to the meaningful purr of Tabriz, upside down in my arm, rowing her legs, assuring me of her love by a tickle of her tail."

"Sergeant?" Grijpstra asked pleasantly.

"Yes?" De Gier crossed his long legs and turned his head a little so that he could see his profile in the mirror across the room. He adjusted his silk scarf.

"Why don't you smoke dope all the time?" Grijpstra asked. "You never buy it. You never take any home when it comes your way. You like dope, don't you?"

"Hmmm?" de Gier asked, still looking into the mirror.

"Won't you please tell me?" Grypstra asked kindly.

"No," de Gier said pleasantly. "No, I most definitely won't. Why should I explain my inconsistencies to you? You would never understand. You don't see the beauty of deliberate, exceptional behavior. You're programmed to blindly follow whatever common sense prescribes. You're common, Adjutant. You're the average personified. You obediently trot along your predestined path. I detest you too, you and everything you stand for . . ."He looked at the door.

Cardozo came running in and froze in his tracks. "I'm sorry."

"For what?" Grijpstra asked.

"For interrupting," Cardozo said. "I'll go. I hate it when the two of you go into this lovey-smiley act. It makes me feel left out. I know I'm the odd man out here, and that you only tolerate me because I'm handy for running errands, but usually I can put up with being abused. Not when you're like this."

"You're too sensitive," de Gier said. "What makes you think we were being harmonious just now?"

"My sensitivity." Cardozo brought out his dogeared notebook. "I'll be quick and leave. I checked with the Registry of Deeds. The house IJsbreker died in belongs to the Society for Help Abroad. I checked with the Registry's computer and got a list of all Society property. Binnenkant numbers 18, 20, and 22 belong to the Society too. Number 20, the middle building, was only purchased last month. That side of the street is still rent-controlled, so Mrs. Jongs can only be thrown out if she doesn't send in her monthly check; even then the process might take a year."

"So she has to go voluntarily," Grijpstra said.

"And she won't," Cardozo said. "The Society might offer her money, of course, but drumming is cheaper."

"Good," de Gier said, "but that isn't all you did today. What else can you tell us?"

"I met Miss Antoinette in the corridor just now," Cardozo said. "She's all worried. The commissaris had her look up the registration number of a Corvette. It belongs to State Detection."

"Driven by men in leather jackets?" de Gier asked.

"I don't know."

"Driven by men in leather jackets," Grijpstra said. "Does that surprise us?"

"What else, Constable?" De Gier asked. "Come out with it. You were having coffee with a clerk. Why?"

"This is what else," Cardozo said, emptying the contents of a small paper bag on his table. Two plastic beetles, each two inches long, sprawled on their backs. He picked them up and wound their mechanisms by turning tiny plastic knobs on their bellies. He placed the beetles facing each other and watched their slow approach. The beetles whirred as they walked; as soon as their front legs touched, they stood up and began to maul each other with toothed jaws. Cardozo pulled his toys apart and made them repeat the performance. "So the investigation has started up," Cardozo said pensively, "and the State is concentrating on the commissaris first. What does that mean?"