Hard Rain (14 page)

"I want to see your warrant," Heul squeaked. "We've got rights. My father is on the City Council."

Grijpstra unfolded a paper and held it in front of Heul's eyes. "Okay. Where's the dope?"

"There's the phone," de Gier said. "Go ahead." He picked up the receiver. "Here."

Young Fernandus dialed slowly.

"Busy," Huip Fernandus said. "Let me try again."

"Phone my dad," Heul squeaked.

Huip dialed again. De Gier held the phone to Huip's ear. "No answer."

"They're out," Heul said. "I forgot."

De Gier put the phone back. "Pity."

Grijpstra picked up the guitar and smashed it against the wall. "No dope in the guitar?"

"Willful damage," Huip Fernandus yelled.

"Accidents will happen," de Gier said. "I'm sorry."

"Now," Grijpstra said, "what next? The drums? I don't really like to destroy drums. Shall I try the amplifiers first?"

"Wait," de Gier said. "Over there, that floorboard is loose. Stamp on this side. Over here. Go on."

Grijpstra stamped on the floor. The opposite end of the board flew up.

"Well packed," de Gier said, squatting down, lifting plastic bags from the hole under the board. "Hashish. That's nice. Pound bags?"

"Five bags," Grijpstra said. "We'll have that."

De Gier picked up two pairs of ear protectors. "You bastards. Got these on while you made your racket, eh?" He yelled into Heul's ear. "You hear me?"

Grijpstra shook his head. "He's crying." He yelled into Fernandus's ear. "What's he crying for?"

Fernandus held up his cuffed hands. "Hold it."

"Let's get the van," Grijpstra said. "We'll have you strip-searched at Headquarters. Find a little coke, maybe. Let's see your arms now. You boys inject too?"

"Hold it," Fernandus said. "You're overexcited. Good music does that to lower minds. We've seen it before. Drives the audience wild. Okay, calm down. We don't want trouble. Take the dope. Keep it. There's some money there. Money is good stuff. We'll lose this time. Sometimes a man has to take a loss. Right, Heul?"

Heul nodded, swallowing sobs.

"We'll take the speakers down," Fernandus said. "We'll practice nicely from now on. Got to practice. We're musicians. We play for the Society for Help Abroad. We help feed the foreign poor."

"You don't want trouble with the Society," Heul whimpered bravely. "That's big shit. You want your ass kicked, cop?"

The bell rang.

De Gier opened the front door. "Why, hello," a young man in a leather jacket said, standing next to what appeared to be his twin brother. "Just as we thought. A little trouble? Got it all fixed?"

"All fixed," de Gier said. "Your Camaro's double-parked. Better get the clunker out."

"We thought we might be able to help," the twin said. "Supply some assistance to colleagues?"

"We've got it all tied up."

"What did you get, Sergeant?"

"Two and a half ki's of hash, valuable musical instruments, partly damaged now, two suspects, harassment."

"That's good. Busy night. We saw Cardozo calling on his clerkish friend. In Mad Nun's Alley. He's there now. Number 13, a boarded-up shack." The leather-jacketed young man kept his voice low. "Do you think
he
needs any help?"

"No," de Gier said. "Not now."

"You may not be able to hold the suspects," the twin whispered. "Better beat them up. You're fighting rough now. This is our district, we'll back you up."

"Thanks," de Gier said. " 'Bye. Your car is double-parked."

"It's all right," de Gier said when he got back into the room. "I'll get the van. Be right back."

"Hold it." Fernandus waved his chained hands. "We'll find you some cash."

De Gier softly thumped Fernandus's head while he looked at Heul. "I'll phone your dad myself tonight and raise a reporter. A councilman's son in big trouble looks nice in print. What else can we put in? Been making any kiddie movies lately?"

"Good stuff," Fernandus said. "Care to see our specialties for celibate priests? We'll throw in some videos for voyeurs. Quit kidding, asshole. Let's make a deal."

"Good." Grijpstra grinned. "We'll put in bribery too."

De Gier backed up the van and opened the side door. Grijpstra pushed the suspects into the car. Fernandus stumbled over the toolbox and fell, dragging Heul down too.

"Oops," Grijpstra said from behind the wheel.

Heul whined and Fernandus cursed when de Gier lifted the electronic equipment into the van.

"Could we have some quiet back there?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier threw in the remains of the guitar and the set of drums. The skin of the big drum broke.

"Ooooh," Huip Fernandus moaned. "Ooooh."

"What was that now?" De Gier asked.

"Oooooh," Fernandus said, "we'll get you for this, cop.

De Gier slid the side door forward and jumped on the passenger seat. Huip Fernandus climbed across what was left of the drums. He spoke into de Gier's ear. "We'll get old rattlehead too, plug up her leak."

\\\\\ 12 /////

T
HE RAIN STRUCK AGAIN. THE COMMISSARIS, DRIVing to Headquarters, felt as though he were in a one-man submarine, looking out on an aquatic world. Streetcars glided past his car like gleaming whales, and hundreds of cyclists in their shining plastic coats darting about everywhere could be a shoal of herring. The Citroen's windshield wipers, set at double speed, swooshed helplessly as the rain drove against the windshield. Traffic lights flashed ahead, the eyes of some luminous water beast; telephone wires broken by the storm dangled like the tentacles of a giant jellyfish. The commissaris persisted, guessing at directions, and finally managed to slither through the gates of the police courtyard. He left the.car and splashed through puddles, in galoshes his wife had thoughtfully provided, and thankfully made his way through the building's revolving doors. A uniformed guard saluted inside. "Sir?"

"And a merry morning to you too," the commissaris said kindly, trying to ignore the cold drops leaking into his collar.

"Chief constable wants to see you, sir."

"I think I'll have coffee first," the commissaris said, pressing the elevator's button.

"And there's some other geezer too. Your rank, sir. State Detection."

"Two geezers, meeting head on."

"Didn't mean that, sir." The guard grinned. "If you need assistance, sir . . ."

"What would you do?" the commissaris inquired.

The guard considered possibilities, holding his hand against the elevator's electric eye. "Trip him up on the stairs? An accident?"

The commissaris smiled. "We'll try diplomacy first."

The guard stepped back. "Good luck, sir, enjoy your coffee. Take your time. I haven't seen you yet."

Miss Antoinette served the coffee. "Well, what did you think of my old friend Fernandus, yesterday?" the commissaris asked. "Did his generous offer lead you into temptation?"

Miss Antoinette blushed.

"Ten times the pay?" the commissaris asked. "High-priced leisure supplied at irregular hours? A variety of interesting men?"

"I'd like to see the Society's club," Miss Antoinette said. "It was designed by Flaubert, the famous interior architect. He's going to do the mayor's room too, in the new City Hall building."

"You like Flaubert's work?"

"Oh, yes," Miss Antoinette said. "I went to his exhibition in the Municipal Museum, they had all the photographs and some maquettes."

"Of the Society's whorehouse too?" The commissaris studied, holding his head a little to the side, Miss Antoinette's figure. "You would look irresistible in a split skirt."

"More coffee, sir?"

The commissaris held out his cup. Miss Antoinette poured from the silver thermos flask. Their heads came close. "You mean up to the hairline, sir?"

The commissaris dropped his cup. "Miss Antoinette!"

She brought a sponge and cleaned up his desk.

"Really, Miss Antoinette, what a disgusting thing to say."

"I shocked you," Miss Antoinette said triumphantly. "Weren't you trying to shock me?"

The commissaris cleared his throat.

"You were," Miss Antoinette said, "but we have equality now. Women can be disgusting too. I've been practicing. I've thought of the most horrid things to say. You want to hear some?"

"No." The commissaris carefully checked his cup for cracks.

Miss Antoinette put her hands on her hips. "Maybe I'd like to be a whore sometimes. Whores have a lot of fun. Just a few evenings a week. Beats watching boring television."

"But, Miss Antoinette . . ."

"Yes? Here you are, sir, please don't drop your cup again."

"But you're beautiful," the commissaris said. "We all hunger after you, you don't have to watch TV by yourself."

"You too, sir?"

The commissaris raised a protesting hand. "I don't watch TV."

"No, hunger after me?"

"Ah, well . . ."

"So?"

"Well ..." the commissaris said. "A figure of speech. I'm an old man, dear."

"And unavailable. I would love to watch TV with you." Miss Antoinette noisily blew her nose.

"Dear?" the commissaris asked softly.

"Yes," she said through her handkerchief, "I know I'm blushing. So you don't watch TV and you have a lovely wife."

"Sergeant de Gier hungers too," the commissaris said.

The phone rang. Miss Antoinette picked it up. "Yes?" She handed it over. "The chief constable, sir."

"Right," the commissaris said into the phone. "I'll be over in a minute."

"You're in trouble," Miss Antoinette said when the commissaris broke the connection. "He phoned before. There are rumors all over the building. I didn't want to tell you before you had your coffee."

The commissaris rubbed his hands.

"You like trouble, don't you?" Miss Antoinette asked.

"This sort of trouble I can deal with," the commissaris said.

"You can't deal with mine?"

He was about to walk past her, but turned and gently held her arm. "No, dear. I'm sorry. I've never understood women very well. You wouldn't really like to work in Fernandus's palace? Did you say that to annoy me?"

"Yes." She was ready to dive behind her handkerchief again.

The commissaris hesitated, then wandered off to the door. She walked ahead and held it open for him. "Good luck, sir."

He shook his head. "No. Maybe I want bad luck. Things have to turn against me now, dear. Maybe it'll be the only way I can work this."

Her hand touched his. "Well, then, I wish you bad luck, sir."

"Yes . . . yes. Thank you, dear." He tried to forget the uncomfortable interlude with Miss Antoinette as he painfully climbed the steps, choosing discomfort rather than the elevator's speed. He needed a little time to reflect. Did he know now what he was up to, or was he allowing subconscious urges to decide his course of action? He was shaking his head as he entered the chief constable's room.

"There you are," the chief constable said. "Good. I was just beginning to worry. Please meet a colleague, Commissaris Voort of Central Detection's head office in The Hague, who has been looking forward to meeting you." The commissaris shook hands with a wide-chested man who bent over him. Voort wore a blue blazer and light gray slacks. A golden clip fastened his necktie to a spotless white shirt. The commissaris noted that the clip was shaped like an anchor. "How-dedo," Voort rumbled. The commissaris mumbled his response, "Vrawah," meaning, possibly, "very well."

"Now then," the chief constable said. "How about some coffee first? No? In that case, let's come straight to the point."

"Corruption," rumbled Voort. "Rumors. Unpleasant. Start straight at the top, called in by the mayor. You've heard, I'm sure."

"Flattered," the commissaris said. "Very. I'm the top now? You've already dealt with the chief constable here?"

"No," the chief constable said. "I'm of no interest to Paul Voort."

Voort nodded invitingly at the commissaris. "Paul."

"Aha," the commissaris said. He looked at the chief constable. "No interest in your doings, or non-doings, perhaps?"

The chief constable shook his head, trying to hold on to his welcoming smile. "No, you see, I've only been recently transferred to Amsterdam, but you've served here all your life. A formality, of course. We all have to play the game, isn't that right, Paul?"

"Absolutely, Henri," Commissaris Voort rumbled.

"I see." The commissaris nodded helpfully. He began to get up. "Well, we met. Good luck with your investigation. I have some work to do."

"No." Voort put both his hands up, palms toward the commissaris. "No. Sorry, old chap. Got to do this properly, you know? Full reports and whatnot." He thought. "And so forth. The whole caboodle. You're off duty for a while. Bit of a holiday." He closed his eyes and chuckled.

"Is something funny?" the commissaris asked.

"In a way," the chief constable said. "We all have to play the game. In your case, it shouldn't take more than a week or so. The first part of the investigation" —he looked at Voort—"is financial, am I right?"

Voort nodded briskly. "Absolutely, that's the proper procedure, I always like to work this way. I have some pointed questions here." He brought out a notebook and poised his ballpoint. "Income?"

The commissaris mentioned a figure.

Voort wrote it down, then crossed it out. "Impossible, you should earn at least double that."

"Twelve times my monthly check," the commissaris said.

Voort nodded and wrote. "All right, you were deducting taxation."

"Half my income is taxed away?" The commissaris shook his head. "Incredible, doesn't leave much, does it now?"

"You do have a free car," Voort said accusingly. "What's it worth?"

The commissaris shook his head. "The car is mine. The car the police bought had to be repaired after my recent investigations up north. I had some criticism from the administration about costs, so I replaced it at my own expense."

"Hah," Voort said, noting the fact down. "A new Citroen, I believe. You paid cash? Where did you get the cash?"

"I wrote a check," the commissaris said.

"You can prove that?" Voort raised an eyebrow. "The car wasn't a present?"