Hard Rain (11 page)

"More misery," Grijpstra said.

"Joy," de Gier said. "Pure joy. Ultimate liberty. I always suspected that evil would one day try to catch us from all sides. We're the only good guys left and no longer restricted by what others may think of us. Any decent cop we ever knew has either left the force or gotten himself transferred well away from Amsterdam. Even the old chief constable bowed bis patriarchal head when the bad guys started shoving. Only the commissaris ..."

"And Chief Inspector Rood," Grijpstra said. "Don't exaggerate."

"And Constable-Detectives Ketchup and Karate, maybe," de Gier said.

"Ketchup and Karate mean well?" Cardozo asked. "I've been wondering lately. I saw them just now driving a punky Camaro, with eyeshadow up to their ears."

"They're crazy," Grijpstra said. "Which makes them useful. They don't think very constructively, either, which is an asset again."

"Muddled," de Gier said. "They haven't developed enough yet to be crazy. The commissaris is truly crazy." He made his swivel chair go through a full turn. "Do you know that that is my main fear? That the commissaris isn't really crazy, but merely another good guy? A multiplied Grijpstra?"

"I don't think so," Grijpstra said. "I think he's truly crazy. I've never liked the commissaris either. He isn't serious, he has that funny way of darting around, you can't grab hold of his motives."

"So the leather jackets are trailing the chief?" Cardozo asked. "Would they go after me too? They'd have to do it on roller skates. I'm riding a bicycle again. The garage took my car back, some restriction in the budget."

"So who is the clerk?" Grijpstra asked.

"I won't tell." Cardozo rewound his beetles. "I haven't worked this out yet. All in due time."

De Gier walked to the door. Grijpstra got up heavily and approached Cardozo by sidling along the wall. "Hey," Cardozo said.

"I've been rightfully accused of being an emergency ," de Gier said. "Whoever said that saw deep into my soul. That I've restrained myself a little so far was because normality still threatened me somewhat."

"Cardozo," growled Grijpstra. "Who is that clerk?"

De Gier moved closer to Cardozo too. "But the situation has changed. Even the State is against us now. I can forget my last scruples. I can finally have a good time. I could, for instance"—he quickly grabbed Cardozo by the throat—"kill someone."

"Cardozo," growled Grijpstra, pulling back his fist.

"Okay," Cardozo said.

"There's a good chap," de Gier said, stepping back. "Tell you what, I'll get the coffee, even if it is your turn again. Don't say anything until I'm back."

Grijpstra dialed. "Miss Antoinette? Did the commissaris see who was driving the Corvette that bothered him?"

"Thugs?" Grjjpstra asked. "A description, please?"

He nodded. "That's what I wanted to hear. Leather jackets. Could I speak to the commissaris himself now?"

"A visitor? . . . Who? . . . thank you." Grijpstra hung up.

"Who?" Cardozo asked.

De Gier came back with the coffee on a tray.

"Willem Fernandus," Grijpstra said, "the infamous attorney, the evil genius behind the society that fouls up the city, is in the commissaris's office right now."

"Great," de Gier said. "I hope he's there at our invitation. We have the enemy on a string." De Gier dangled an invisible string from his free hand. He suddenly jerked it, forcing a diminutive Fernandus to face him at eye level. "Hop. There you are. Hello."

"The commissaris has no enemies," Grijpstra said. "I like to think that he's too essentially polite ever to become angry with anyone."

"He doesn't care enough to be concerned," de Gier said. He smiled at Cardozo. "Enough sugar? Not too much milk? I stirred twice. To your liking, I hope?"

"A little too sweet," Cardozo said. "Could do with more milk. Otherwise it's just right."

"Too strong." Grijpstra put down his cup. "You'll never learn. Didn't the commissaris tell us that he and Fernandus go back a long way?"

"And that they don't talk to each other anymore," de Gier said. "Surprising. Very. Do we have a hint of humanity here? I'm not sure I like that."

"My brother Samuel got me a free ticket to this play the other day," Cardozo said. "Being eternally unemployed, Samuel finds things to do. It's amateur theatrics now. The play was about Tibetan holy men, calling themselves 'mountain lions,' who have been chased off their mountaintops by Chinese economists. It was called
The Mangy Dog.
The point seemed to be that when a mountain lion comes down to the village, the common people take him to be some other kind of stray dog."

"Is that so?" Grijpstra asked. "I'm glad you told us."

"I get it," de Gier said, "but nobody ever chased the commissaris into our lowly spheres. If he is here, he'll be here by his own choice."

"Would you care to light the incense, Cardozo?" Grijpstra asked. "And dust the floor, perhaps? It's time for us to prostrate ourselves."

"Go ahead," de Gier said. "Ridicule what you can't understand as yet. See if you can drag us mountain lions through the mud."

"Us," Grijpstra said.

"Got to go now," Cardozo said, tiptoeing away from his desk. "I'm busy. 'Bye."

De Gier jumped up and rushed to the door. Grijpstra drank his coffee. De Gier came back. "Couldn't catch him, eh?" Grijpstra asked. "You're getting old. Go home and take another nap. I'll see you in the courtyard at seven sharp."

\\\\\ 10 /////

"B
UT I'M NOT," FERNANDUS SAID, WAVING HIS small fat hands excitedly. "No, I'm not at all what you imply. What has gotten into you? Look at me. I'm Willem. Wimpy, to you. We went to kindergarten together. We looked at goddamn mice. We were pals."

"No," the commissaris said.

Fernandus, dressed in a well-made but inconspicuous suit that was, to the trained observer of status symbols, easily discernible as very high-priced, flashed a golden smile, highlighted by his perfectly repaired canines. His recently permanented silver curls waved as his hands gestured more eloquently. "Jan. Why keep carrying all this old anger? I came here with pleasure. I was looking forward to meeting you after all these years."

"You came here," the commissaris said, "because you were told to come by a uniformed constable. If you hadn't come, I would have signed a warrant. You're a material witness in a murder case."

Fernandus held on to his smile. "You look neat, you look like the very symbol of authority. Do you know you would make an impressive judge?"

The commissaris smiled noncommitally.

"Yes," Fernandus said, "I can see it now. You developed well. As was to be expected, of course. Just look at you." He sketched the commissaris's outline in the air. "A neat little old aristocrat, framed by flowering begonias, looking innocent enough behind that impressively sculptured desk. But don't"—Fernandus raised a hand—"let anyone underestimate your ferocious power when you suspect injustice in the land. Now what murder might you be referring to, Jan?"

The commissaris took his time, lighting a cigar. "You're here to receive fair warning."

Fernandus's hand shot out. "I'll have a cigar too."

"Fair warning," the commissaris said. "You chose the evil path, Willem. How do you find it? Easy?"

Fernandus slumped back. "There we go again. Our last discussion was over thirty years ago. I didn't agree with you then and I disagree with you now. I chose the convenient, realistic path."

The commissaris, with a delicate old-mannish gesture, tipped ash off his cigar. "I chose the good path. I don't find it easy, that's why I ask."

"I stopped smoking a year ago." Fernandus said. "I've just decided I will break my habit of nonindulgence. You did that to me. You're the tempter. How can you be good?"

The commissaris bent forward. "No, really, tell me, are you having an easy time at being bad?"

"Cigar," Fernandus said.

The commissaris shook his head. "No friendliness. I became your enemy when you were killing Jacqueline by putting poison in her porridge. You can buy cigars in our canteen. One floor down."

"Fuck you," Willem said quietly.

"You suggested that before," the commissaris said quietly.

Fernandus grinned. "That's forty-five years ago. We will delve into the past. To answer your question, no, I don't find it easy to pursue my path. Sure, later on it gets easier. We get sly with age, and once you get the thing going, it gains momentum by itself; you must have experienced that in your career, too."

The commissaris nodded. "But you did have troubles."

"I still have troubles," Fernandus said, "but I take care of them better."

"As in Martin IJsbreker's case?"

Fernandus sighed. "I saw that coming."

"Of course you saw that coming," the commissaris said. "You saw it coming when the constable knocked on the impressive sculptured door of your million-guilder
*
mansion."

Willem waved the figure away. "Multiply that by two."

The commissaris showed his yellowish teeth. "Martin ran your bank. Did he acquire too much power? Or did he merely have his hand in the till? Did he help run the Society too? More pilfering there?"

"Questions, questions." Fernandus got up and walked over to the commissaris's desk. The commissaris quickly pocketed his cigar case. Fernandus sat down again. "I won't put up with your arrogant prying. I don't have to answer. I'm not a material witness. I was nowhere near Martin's house when he died."

"You ordered the killing," the commissaris said. "Look at you. You appear to me as the archetype of organized crime. You could be cast as the boss in any of a dozen gangster movies. You've got a slimy, self-satisfied expression that somehow mixes well with the false father image that attracts your misguided assistants' loyalty. Does a true father chop down his erring son?"

Fernandus giggled. "I never understood where you

"The collective unconscious," the commissaris said. "We all draw from its symbols. It happens to be Christian on this side of the world. If we were living in the East, you'd accuse me of quoting the Diamond Sutra."

"I'm glad you've kept up on your reading." Fernandus got up. "I'll be right back." He paused at the door. "Provided you admit that I'm here of my own free will. For old times' sake. Yes?"

The commissaris considered. Fernandus waited.

"You're here of your own free will," the commissaris said.

Fernandus came back. "Your canteen only sells cheap brands. I asked your charming secretary to go out and get me some good ones."

"Sit down," the commissaris said. "You think you're here for old times' sake? You're really here to be warned: you'd better face that, Willem. I'm going to get you. I'm trying to fight fair, so I thought you ought to know."

Fernandus laughed. "I always got you before. Remember Miss Bakker's sexy lap?"

"You were talking about watching mice together just now," the commissaris said. "Those mice dethroned me. That was the only purpose you ever saw in those mice. Remember how you sailed through school by copying my homework?"

"Of course I do," Fernandus said. "But you broke off the fight. I thought you'd given in. You were the weaker of us, Jannie. I really thought you saw that when we split up."

"You know," the commissaris said softly, "I never saw it that way. I still think we are of equal strength, but when the same quantities of energy are applied to the good and the bad, the good will eventually win."

Miss Antoinette came in. "Thank you," Fernandus said, "you're wonderful." He turned around. "You're beautiful, too. My good friend here should be very happy that he secured your cooperation. Are you happy here?"

Miss Antoinette blushed. "Yes, sir, I am."

Fernandus gave her his card. "Maybe you'd be happier elsewhere. If you ever, for whatever reason, would consider a change, I'd advise you to come and see me at once. The pay would be, eh, let's see now, I don't want to make rash promises . . ." He looked at the floor, then continued, "The pay would be at least ten times what you earn here."

Miss Antoinette stared.

"Yes," Fernandus said, turning back to the commissaris. "Where were we, Jan?"

"Thank you, dear," the commissaris said to Miss Antoinette.

Fernandus felt his pockets. "I'll need a light."

Miss Antoinette brought him a side table with an ashtray and a box of matches. "Thank you, dear," Fernandus said.

"You're welcome."

Miss Antoinette left the room.

"Hah," Fernandus said as he lit his cigar. "That's better. I should never have given it up. All this talk of lung cancer and having your legs amputated . . . why live in fear? We'll all die of something. How's your health?"

"Rheumatism in the legs," the commissaris said. "I got that when you were partying with the SS."

Fernandus waved his cigar about. "Collecting information that I passed on at the right time. I would have been knighted for it if the newspapers hadn't made that stink a while ago. Were you in on that?"

The commissaris shook his head. Fernandus looked at the door. "A very attractive woman, Jan. I hope you didn't think I was trying to steal her away from you."

"Me?" The commissaris looked surprised.

Fernandus shrugged. "You'll lose her anyway."

"Howso?"

"Because I will get you." Fernandus addressed the tip of his cigar. "That's why I'm really here. To warn you not to warn me. You have no idea what forces I can call into the field. You'll be smashed before you get started."

"I've already gotten started," the commissaris said. "Surely you've learned by now that weariness is a warrior's best weapon. Aren't you just a trifle cocky, Willem?"

Fernandus hit his knee. "Turn that around. Who's bluffing whom? You are the one who's in a weak position." Fernandus snorted. "Look at you, even physically you're in bad health. I hear about you from time to time; you're always off on some sort of sick leave. Whatever energy you may think you can apply, you'll have to draw from the State. The State is out of energy these days. The police, like any other corrective office that represents the ailing government now, malfunctions."