Hard Rain (17 page)

"Shit," de Gier said. "Look at this, Adjutant." Grijpstra ambled over. "Shit," Grijpstra agreed. Carl had outdone himself. The other figures all had a surrealistic touch—they were funny in a way, even the leering spider and beetle faces, even the bird of prey —but the sitting man, reading a newspaper, was horribly plain and ordinary, wearing a real suit, shirt, and tie. The meticulously sculptured wooden body implied, in its attitude, a complete self-centeredness, accentuated by the arrogantly tilted head that peered at columns of figures from deeply recessed eyes. The paper was the
Financial Times
and there was a satisfied sneer on the man's thin mouth; evidently the shares he owned had done well that day. The suit, tailor-made out of superior tweed material, fitted the figure perfectly. "I tohook the suhuit," Carl said. "Dahad had thrown it out. Shoehoes too. Everything."

De Gier felt the gold wristwatch. "Did he throw out his watch too?"

Carl smiled. "I stohole it, he's gohot soho many."

"What does your dad do?" Grijpstra asked.

"Sehells oil to Sohouth Africa."

"You've got friends, Carl?"

Carl turned toward de Gier, twisting his mouth. "Fuhuck friends."

"But you were friendly with Jimmy, and the black dude, and the lady."

Carl shrugged.

"So why did you hang out with them?"

Carl wandered away, his arms swinging awkwardly, his feet pointed toward each other. "You loved the lady?" Grijpstra asked gently.

Carl stopped and turned slowly, and his arms, the hands twisted inward, jerked up. "Sohome. Jimmy was okay. The black duhude muhmugged me, that's hohow we met. I foho . . . foh . . . "

"Followed him?"

"Right. Becauhause of the papers in my wallet. Wahanted them back."

"And so you met the lady?"

"Right."

"But your friends are all dead now," Grijpstra said. "Didn't you get some junk too? In pay for the robbery? Whoever gave that to you meant to kill. That's why we're here."

"To ahaharrest me?"

De Gier was rolling another cigarette. "No, Carl, you have to believe us. You're not under arrest. If you don't want to cooperate, we'll leave you be, but we found you easily enough and so can they. I mean Heul and young Fernandus, the guys who were trying to pester Mrs. Jongs out of her house. There are probably others. IJsbreker was shot—he never committed suicide, we know that now. I think you know it too. You're not charged with any crime, but we think you can lead us tp the killer."

Carl was looking through his magnifying glass at the dead fly.

"We'll take you to a private home," Grijpstra said. "Mrs. Jongs is there already. We believe her to be in danger too."

Carl looked around. "Mayhaybe you're the kihillers."

De Gier put his police card on the table. Carl read it. "Mayhaybe you're poholice killers."

"Police killers," Grijpstra said, still looking at Carl's father scrutinizing the
Financial Times.
"You think a cop shot the banker?"

"Dohon't know fohor shuhure."

"Weren't you in IJsbreker's house?"

"Wohon't say."

"So you were," de Gier said. "We thought you weren't. Did you want to help the lady? Where did the paintings and vases go?"

"Dohon't know."

Grijpstra studied a wolf's head about to chomp down on a fluffy toy bunny that was peering innocently from between its captor's ferocious fangs. "This is fantastic. We should get you an exhibition somewhere. The Museum of Modern Art would be interested, I think. Doesn't the commissaris know the director there?" He looked at Carl. "The commissaris likes your work. He's seen the rhino's head and Mouse. Those pieces are safe."

"The comm . . . comm . . ."

Grijpstra mentioned the commissaris's name.

"Hah," Carl said.

"You've heard of our chief? You'll be staying at his house, in Queen's Lane, not far from here. That's where Mrs. Jongs is now."

"The commissaris has a nice wife," de Gier said, "but she doesn't care for art. The adjutant here paints. She hangs his painting in dark corners. They're sort of gruesome."

"You payhaint?" Carl asked Grijpstra. "What?"

"I'm not very good," Grijpstra said. "A Sunday dabbler. I'm always mixing up the wrong colors. Like now, I'm doing this waterscape, it needs canal greens. The ducks are all right, I've got the ducks drawn in."

"The ducks haven't got any flesh on their faces," de Gier said.

"I got the ducks right," Grijpstra said, "but I need this pale green for the water and I can't mix it."

"Greeheens?" Carl asked. "I got some." He led Grijpstra to a shelf holding an array of jam jars, each filled with dried shredded plants. "Seehee the frog there?" The frog, assembled from scrap wood, had been sprinkled with green dust.

"That stays on?" Grijpstra asked. "Do you glue it?"

"Yehes."

Grijpstra picked up the frog gingerly.

"Why not?" de Gier asked. "You can fish up some water weeds, dry them, and glue them on. You can do anything you like."

"Perhaps," Grijpstra said slowly. "Yes, that might be an idea."

Carl smiled. "You're welcohome."

"Yes." Grijpstra touched Carl's shoulder. "Thanks."

"We'll be going, then," de Gier said. "Please come along. If you don't like it at the commissaris's house, we'll bring you back. Okay?"

"Yehes," Carl said.

\\\\\ 15 /////

"S
O FAR, SO GOOD," GRIJPSTRA SAID WHILE DE GlER turned the Volkswagen into a lane leading to the Amstel River. "Carl liked the commissaris's wife, don't you think?"

"I thought Mrs. Jongs and he did a great hug," de Gier said. "I like unlikely hugs. I find them inspiring. The half-burned horse he had up in his loft was inspiring too. That's the horse the knight rides into heaven, when he has smashed the other knight on the field at dawn, after a long and exhausting duel. I'm looking forward to that final feat."

"We did that right," Grijpstra said. "You think we're getting better, Sergeant? Dealing with a genius who uses a body that's almost completely out of whack? I noticed that I kept wanting to talk to Carl as if he were retarded, even though the fellow is more intelligent than the two of us put together."

De Gier glanced at his rearview mirror. "Would you mind leaving me out of your equation? Did you notice we're being followed? No? Who did notice?"

"You," Grijpstra said. "My heartfelt congratulations. Very clever of you, especially as you're the only one who can look at the rearview mirror."

The car reached the dike. De Gier checked the mirror again. "Two bearded types in comic hats, driving a Daimler. Are we being honored with a State Detection escort too? Don't they have regular vehicles in The Hague? Did you see that Corvette parked in front of the commissaris's house?"

The Daimler flashed past them, low and sleek, the smooth hum of its powerful engine controlled by a chrome-plated angel stretching its wings on the radiator cap.

"Classy car," Grijpstra said. "Why do they pass us if they're following us? Nobody follows us. You're getting nervous again."

De Gier laughed carelessly. "Me, nervous? I wouldn't know the meaning of the word. White knights have no nerves. They did follow us, because I didn't take the regular route from the city to the river, but a scenic roundabout, deliberately chosen while continually aware of anything going on around us. And the Daimler kept following."

"What are we doing on this road?" Grijpstra asked. "Get off it. I want to drive on the dike, contemplating river water."

"I chose this road too," de Gier said. "I feel adventure here. It may lead to an ancient castle. A noble lady waits for us on the ramparts. She is dressed only in a veil. She waits for me, but she won't take off the veil until I have slain the black knight."

"Do turn around," Grijpstra said. "I have bad nerves, and your knightly talk jangles them. This road is a dead end, and I want to watch ducks."

The Volkswagen bounced as it hit a pothole. "Hold it," Grijpstra said. "Stop." He reached for the microphone under the dashboard. "Headquarters? This is . . ." He held the microphone in front of de Gier's face.

"Two-sixteen," de Gier said.

"I'm listening," a young female voice said.

"Amstel Dike, maybe three kilometers south of the city line, an abandoned truck with a cargo of what looks like sheets of tarpaper, stuck in the soft shoulder. I'll read you the license number. Looks like the truck is ready to slide into the moat. Nobody around the vehicle. Please alert the local police."

"Can we go again?" de Gier asked when the message had been repeated and acknowledged.

Grijpstra nodded. "Find some ducks."

The Volkswagen was still on the country road and had begun to turn onto the dike when the Daimler, parked just behind a curve, started and approached the Volkswagen at speed, coming from the left. De Gier, knowing he had the right-of-way, accelerated. The Daimler accelerated too. Grijpstra shouted. The Volkswagen hit the Daimler broadside and began to crumple. Grijpstra's head shot forward and broke the windshield. The steering wheel pressed hard into de Gier's chest. The heavy Daimler, carried by the Volkswagen's momentum, steered to the left but managed to shake the little car off. The Volkswagen hobbled on, crossed the dike, nosed into the opposite shoulder, and was held by a poplar. Grijpstra's head snapped back. The skin of his forehead was sliced in three places and began to fold over.

I'm looking into Grijpstra's head, de Gier thought. How revealing to be able to look into another man's head. He reached into his pocket to find a handkerchief that might serve as a bandage. He leaned over, trying his other pocket.

The door on the sergeant's side opened and he fell out of the car. He fell through the grass growing at the side of the road, into a steep tunnel with living walls. The walls consisted of lizards, embracing each other. As he kept falling, or floating, he saw the lizards let go of each other and wave cheerfully at him. They stuttered amusing bits of wisdom that he instantaneously and fully understood and immediately forgot. The diminutive reptiles sang, with sirenlike voices. Blue lights revolved in their bright eyes. They suddenly grew much larger but only two were left, dressed in white coats, like grocers' assistants; they picked him up and carried him into a large biscuit tin. One sat next to de Gier, a kindly lizard hiding behind a black beard that, after the biscuit tin had begun to move and finally stopped again, must have been lost somehow, but the black color remained, although the lizard now seemed to be female. Her voice was remarkable, and she used it in a jazz song that de Gier defined as mathematically correct. The biscuit tin was lifted off his prostrate body but he kept moving, through a corridor. De Gier wanted to tell the lizards to please stop changing all the time; he appreciated the way in which they tried to keep him amused, but he had never cared much for nurses.

So the lizard was a real nurse. De Gier accepted reality again, with some misgivings, and inquired where Grijpstra might be.

"In the other bed," the black nurse said. "Don't sit up now. Your ribs are broken."

"Grijpstra?" de Gier asked.

"Now remember this good," Grijpstra said. "There was a woman at the side of the river, with a hairbun on her fat face. I'll be forgetting that hairbun in a minute. The bun called the ambulance. And there were two state cops, don't forget the cops either. Their uniforms are different, but they're still cops. And there was only one hairy type in the Daimler, the
green
Daimler, you got that?"

"What about the lizards?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra didn't react.

"Lizards," de Gier said.

"I think they were more like cops," Grijpstra said. "Lizards have no hairbuns on their fat faces either. I don't think lizards have hair at all. Where are you? On the field at dawn again? There weren't any knights, either."

"Right," de Gier said. "The black knight. How could I forget? He came in early, dealing the first Wow. That's what they do, black knights. Sneaky assholes."

"You didn't have the right-of-way," Grijpstra said.

"No?" de Gier asked. "
No?
Any vehicle coming from the right has the right-of-way. I passed my sergeant's exam. That was one of the lead questions. I was leading, Adjutant."

Two State Police officers came into the room, talking softly, for the nurse held a long, slender black finger in front of her sensuous pink lips. "You didn't have the right-of-way," the officers told de Gier. "That side road was marked, on the tarmac. A white line. White letters. Stop. That's what the letters said."

"Never saw that," de Gier said. "And neither did you. You were in the tunnel, pretending to be lizards. I did see what you were doing there. Embracing on work time. Okay. I won't report that."

"No," the officers said. "But we
will
report that you crossed lines and letters and caused a bad accident."

"Okay," de Gier said. "Crawl into some pimp's mouth so that he can't beat up that nice old lady anymore. What is it to me? This is naptime anyway."

The nurse brought breakfast.

"That was quick," de Gier said. "I was just sliding off into my nap. Would you mind switching off the sun?"

"You were talking and snoring all night," Grijpstra said. "No wonder Constable Jane doesn't want a steady relationship with the likes of you."

"Let her marry the likes," de Gier said. "I got some knighting to do."

The nurse closed the curtains.

"Is your head closed up again?" de Gier asked. "I looked into it yesterday. You got a porterhouse steak in your head."

"They pushed it back," Grijpstra said. "Are you in pain?"

"Only when I breathe," de Gier said.

The nurse fed him his breakfast. She was still black. She also still had a mathematical jazz voice. She was humming a breakfast song. De Gier liked the melody but the words were kind of silly, as they often are in music. The lizards shuffled through his chest, in tunnels, but they didn't seem to like the tunnels, for they kept digging new ones.

"Ouch," de Gier said.

"I'll inject some painkiller," the nurse sang. "Won't hurt at all. Here. Hah."