Hard Rain (12 page)

The commissaris tapped his desk blotter with a letter opener, a small model of a bayonet. "Don't underestimate your opponent, Willem. My brigade still works."

"Does it now?" Fernandus leaned back in his chair. "Key officers retire ahead of time, or get transferred to quiet pastures, and are replaced by nincompoops. You're the last of the Mohicans, Jan. Your tribe is dying out."

"Wimpy, Wimpy . . ." The commissaris shook his head.

Fernandus bounced up. "If your brigade functions, how come all that evidence got lost?"

"You're referring to the gun?"

"Of course I'm referring to the gun."

"Now," the commissaris said, "which gun might you be referring to? The Walther PPK pistol that fired a blank in Martin IJsbreker's face, or the automatic rifle you had set up across the road? By the way, Willem'1—the commissaris smiled—"you should instruct your marksman to read his instrument's instructions. Those rifles can be set for single shots."

Fernandus looked about the room, grinning at the oil portrait of a seventeenth-century constabulary officer, dressed in a black velvet jacket with a high lace collar, holding an ancient pistol. Fernandus pointed. "That dignitary looks like you—twice your size, of course, but your arrogance matches his shortsighted stupidity quite well." Fernandus dropped his hand. "I tell you, Jan, maybe that captain wielded more power with that muzzle-loading handpiece of his than you do now, I don't care how much modern might you may be able to command. It won't take much to bring you down."

"I didn't," the commissaris said, "invite you to come here to listen to your bragging. I'm warning you. If you give in now, you'll save yourself considerable trouble."

Fernandus puffed on his cigar. "And how should I give in?"

The commissaris balanced his letter opener on his finger. "Close your bank, dismantle your phony tax-free Society, and admit to having committed at least one crime that's serious enough to have you locked up for three years. We're both old men now. Three years will do."

Fernandus nodded. "As I suspected. This is a personal matter." He imitated the commissaris's high voice. "We're both old men."

The commissaris shook his head. "I don't follow."

Fernandus blew a perfect smoke ring.

"Are you saying I'm personally interested in bringing about your downfall?" the commissaris asked. "I assure you I'm not."

"You are," Fernandus said. "Let that go for the moment. How do you propose to attack? Before I give in, I should see how serious my situation is. You did say fair warning earlier on, I believe."

The commissaris put his letter opener down. "Hold it, Willem. Why should I be personally interested? Because of Martin IJsbreker's death? Admittedly I knew Martin, but I never liked the boy that much. Besides, he was on your side. Martin had shares in your pernicious bank. He directed the damned thing. He must have been active in the Society too. Crooks kill crooks, what is that to me? Maybe I'm interested in the junkies. Three young people who could have amounted to something. You abused them first, squashed them later."

"How's that, Jan?" Fernandus studied his cigar.

The commissaris straightened up. "Very well. I visualize a three-pronged attack on your dungeon of filth. The Tax Inspection Office will raid your bank, and my colleagues will rip your Society apart while I concentrate on the murders. That IJsbreker didn't commit suicide is proved by a vase."

"Ah," Fernandus said. "A vase. Interesting. What vase?"

"A Peruvian vase," the commissaris said. "A valuable piece of Inca art. I saw that vase used as a paperweight to hold IJsbreker's so-called suicide note down. Allow me to digress for a moment. You will remember that Martin showed some artistic talent as a youth. He won prizes at school. We all liked to think that he would be famous one day."

"He wasn't that good. Jan."

"But Martin IJsbreker was artistically inclined."

Fernandus nodded. "Maybe so."

"So he became a collector of art," the commissaris said. "Through you, Martin got himself into the money business. He combined money and art. Martin privately owned at least ten valuable paintings that you had removed."

"I did?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, "and there were also quite a few vases stolen from IJsbreker's house. I saw their imprints in the dust, on a number of shelves all over the house. But one was left, used as a paperweight. What does that prove?"

"Prove?" Fernandus said. "It proves nothing."

"Oh, yes," the commissaris said, "it proves that the thieves you employed were sloppy. Unprofessional. Hired to do a one-shot deal. Expendables. You had them paid in heroin, strong heroin that killed them off the very same night."

"That's your attack?" Fernandus asked. "Really, Jan. Based on a vague supposition?"

"Not so vague, Willem, and certainly not when I follow up further. Once I connect the junkies to the middleman employed by you, and once I work on that middleman a bit. . . The artworks are still around, and can therefore be traced. You intend to sell them off at auctions so that the cash IJsbreker pilfered from your bank comes back to you. There are links, and Til find them one by one. Meanwhile, you'll be arrested on tax-evasion charges. You won't be able to interfere while some spineless lackey, presently employed by your organization, squeals."

"No?" Fernandus asked.

"No," the commissaris said. "You'll gradually waft away. It won't even take long. Very soon you'll have nothing to fade into except—happily for you—death. Give in now and you'll suffer less. That's why I said that we're both old men now. Why go in for an all-out fight? It just means unnecessary fatigue."

"Can I say something now?" Fernandus asked, happily waving his cigar.

"Go ahead."

"If you feel old, Jan, it's because you want to feel old. I can see your self-inflicted age. Now look at me. I've gotten stronger with age. Do you have any idea how much money I control these days? Any idea what that money can buy?"

The commissaris picked up his letter opener again. "Egotism is supposed to decrease with age." He felt his leg. "Ouch. We're getting rain again. I can feel it. Willem, at our age we should be mostly concerned about the welfare of others, rather than our own. What do you care about your personal wealth now?"

Fernandus puffed up his cheeks before exhaling with force. "Your altruism tires me. Besides, it isn't true, you don't give a fly's fart about others either. Are you in pain?"

The commissaris kept rubbing his legs.

"Get yourself pensioned off, Jan. If you don't, I'll have you kicked out of office." Fernandus moved his shiny boot. "And I do mean
kicked.
Katrien won't like your shameful defeat spread all over the
Courier's
front page. How is Katrien?"

"We're doing well together," the commissaris said. "How's Fleur?"

Fernandus pulled back his foot. "Don't rightly know. Haven't seen her for a while. When I do, she whines."

"You're not taking care of Fleur?"

"Fleur has always been a dead loss. I got sick of dragging her about."

"I see." The commissaris made the letter opener reflect a ray of sunlight. "So you got rid of her, like you got rid of Martin. Strip them of their belongings first, eh?"

"Of course," Fernandus said. "Property always ends up in the hands of those who can handle wealth. Fleur cost me more than her shares in the bank were worth. I got them out of her when we divorced. IJsbreker's shares I bought from his wife."

"IJsbreker wasn't divorced?"

Fernandus laughed. "You didn't know? Here I'm giving you free information. Do you see now that you're bluffing? No, Martin and his wife, Trudy, still had hopes of getting together one day. She's in Rotterdam now, staying at her parents' house. My accountant figured out the worth of Martin's shares, and she was pleased to sell them to me."

"Not at their real worth."

"What's real worth?" Fernandus asked. "With present taxation, no business shows the profits it makes. Most gains are paid out in benefits. Martin had benefits because he was an officer of the bank. Why should I pass those along to truant Trudy?"

"But Martin's wife has kids, they need education."

"Bah," Fernandus said. "One dropped out of college and the other should have graduated from high school years ago. Two more helpless brats that socialism can take care of. Martin's boys are as useless as the junkies you're crying about. Be realistic, Jan. Drugs are part of the present, as slavery was a hundred years ago."

"Disgusting," the commissaris said softly.

"I agree," Fernandus said. "You started this meeting off by calling me evil. I've always been the bad guy in your eyes, from the moment I pushed you off Miss Bakker's lap, but all I have ever done is see things as they are. You think I enjoy looking at filthy young people wandering about, breaking into my Daimler at night? Human garbage that stinks up the streets of this fair city? Our forefathers didn't enjoy the smell of slave ships, either, but a lot of the money that went into the splendid architecture that makes up our town today was made from the slave trade. The helpless will be exploited. Look at the extremes today, Russia and America—do you see any essential difference? Only the elite lives well. I'm part of the elite. So are you, in a small way. If you hadn't been so wishy-washy, you would have stayed with me and done a lot better."

"You wouldn't, by any chance," the commissaris asked, "have helped to finance the manufacture of poison gas used in the death camps, would you now?"

"Don't think so." Fernandus flicked some ash off his leg. "Might have, of course. The bank invested in German chemical shares before war broke out. In the first war, the Banque du Credit financed the Fokker airplanes that did so well in the Luftwaffe. Your grandfather owned part of the bank then. There must have been profits, and some of them have paid for that nice house you live in on Queen's Lane."

"Dad sold his shares, Willem."

"To my dad," Fernandus grinned. "Proves my theory that idealism weakens your position. It's the curse of your family. If you held those shares now, you'd have a grip on me." He got up and walked about the room. "Can I go, or am I officially detained? I've got things to do."

"If you go now," the commissaris said, "I'll put more force into my attack. You'll topple within two weeks."

"You'll be back on Miss Bakker's lap?" Fernandus asked on his way to the door. "Is that what you're after?" He put his hand on the knob. "You won't be, Jan. I'm not joking, either." He turned as he opened the door. "I'll put you in the corner of the classroom again, with a pointed hat on your head. Back off now, and maybe I'll let you be. Give you a rest so that you can still totter about a bit. What do you say? Deal?"

The commissaris's small head was illuminated by late-afternoon sunlight that made the entire room shine. The flowering plants on the windowsills added a profusion of bright color. Fernandus retreated into the shadow of the corridor.

*
A Dutch guilder equals about thirty-eight cents in U.S. currency. picked up those biblical ideas. Your parents weren't Christian."

\\\\\ 11 /////

W
HEN ADJUTANT GRIJPSTRA MARCHED INTO THE Headquarters courtyard at 7:00 P.M. sharp, a mustachioed athletic plumber, dressed in sky-blue overalls, started up a cream-colored van proclaiming on both side panels that the sturdy vehicle belonged to Jansma & Son, plumbers since 1949. The van rumbled up and stopped.

"Get in, Dad," the younger Jansma shouted. "You can change in the back."

Adjutant Grijpstra clambered into the vehicle. "Switch your engine off—I don't want to bang about in here. Where are my overalls?"

"On top of the toolbox, Dad."

There were muffled remarks. "Too large . . . can't get my gun in . . . too tight. . . what is this thing . .. zipper? . . . zipper got stuck . . . stupid . . . must be an easier way."

The younger Jansma waited peacefully. "All done?"

The older Jansma fell into the passenger's seat. "Drive easy, now. Stay away from the tram rails."

Young Jansma eased the van into traffic. "Yes, Dad."

"I'm not your father," Old Jansma said.

"Just for now," Young Jansma said. "How's the painting? Were the bones I found you of any use at all?"

"Got them all in." Old Jansma bounced uncomfortably on his hard seat. "The ducks' skeletons are acceptable now. Floating nicely in the slosh, but the background's still wrong. Whoa. You passed the house."

"Yes, Dad." Young Jansma backed up the van, turning the unwieldy vehicle cleverly until it almost touched the curb. He grabbed the toolbox and bounded down to the sidewalk.

A fat, pimply young man opened a window on the first floor. "You better get to it."

"To what?" Old Jansma asked, lowering himself ponderously from the van'icabin.

"To the filthy fluids," the fat young man shouted. "Dripping through our ceilings. The old woman upstairs leaks."

"Would you be paying our bill?" Old Jansma asked. "No? Then shut your mouth, young sir."

Young Jansma, lugging tools and assorted tubes, joined his elder. He studied the young man's face. "Would that be venereal?"

"What?" the fat young man shouted.

"Your facial moonscape," Young Jansma said. "Maybe you should cover it with ointment. Or wear a mask."

"You see," Old Jansma said, "you don't see yourself. Others do. You might save us having to look at you."

The window banged shut. Young Jansma rang the doorbell. The door creaked open and the Jansmas looked up a narrow bare staircase. A little old lady peered down from the landing on the third floor.

"Mrs. Jongs?"

"You the plumbers? Come up quickly. The sink. . ."

The Jansmas climbed the stairs. "You're the cops?" the old woman whispered loudly, holding bony fingers behind her ear to catch the answer.

"At your service, ma'am." Old Jansma briefly held a gnarled little claw protruding from the woman's well-worn shawl.

Mrs. Jongs led the way to her kitchen. "I empties out the bucket six times." She cackled. "Ain't they complaining downstairs? They're banging on my door just now, but I don't open for nobody but the fuzz. Heehee."