Hard Rain (6 page)

"Can't get there," Grijpstra said, "and if I could, it would be serious too. Self-centered beings breaking reasonable rules. I don't care whether they're small and green. It'll be the same horror, endlessly repeated, with types like me running about forever, hopelessly trying to restore order."

"What's hopeless?" de Gier asked. He pointed down. "See that? A fish. Big fish."

Grijpstra peered. "You're putting me on. That water is polluted."

"Carp or something," de Gier shouted. "I saw him whopping his tail. Look! Another one."

"My fishing rod broke," Grijpstra said. "I won't get another one. They're too expensive now."

"And yesterday," de Gier said triumphantly, "there was a great crested grebe in front of the Hotel l'Europe. There used to be only garbage there. A grebe, I tell you."

"Bird?" Grijpstra asked.

"With a tuft on his head."

Grijpstra pushed his bulk off the bridge's railing and moved on slowly. "It's still shit, Sergeant. The whole thing is shit. We're losing."

"To lose," de Gier said cheerfully, striding along. "Not a bad idea either. Anarchy would be fun. With my back to the wall." De Gier stopped and gestured. "The enemy everywhere, in relentless pursuit of good guys like you and me. Superbly armed, they hunt us down, but you and I melt into the shadows. We live furtively on catfood."

"Why catfood?" Grijpstra asked.

"That's all we could find in the deserted supermarket," de Gier whispered.

"You've been going to the movies again."

"Okay," de Gier said. "The catfood came from a movie. Or was it dogfood? I forget now. But the lone warrior seemed to enjoy it, licking his fingers and all, and he had this great car, and some nice-looking woman got raped, they showed that quite well. I think he saved some others from the bad guys and then raced off again." De Gier prodded Grijpstra's belly. "You know, maybe you're right, you shouldn't be in on this. You're too slow and sad. We'll have you killed in the adventure's beginning. You're just dead weight, but I'm sorry to be rid of you. You can see it on my face." De Gier stared sadly, looking down at Grijpstra's corpse. He sat down on his haunches. His hands felt through the air.

"What're you doing?" Grijpstra asked. "Leave my body alone."

"You may have something of value," de Gier said. "Some shells for my shotgun. I'm alone now and could use your knife."

"You wouldn't last a minute on your own," Grijpstra said.

De Gier straightened up. "You sure you want to be in on this? I've a feeling the present situation doesn't agree with you. My fantasies aren't as far out as you think. The present may prove me right."

"Tell me the negative about the pathologists," Grijpstra said.

"Weird tale, Adjutant. There's no autopsy report at all, nor will there ever be. The doctor who did the job won't talk, and the other can't substantiate what he claims to have seen. There were two bullets in IJsbreker's head, against one cartridge found on the floor."

Grijpstra thought. He raised a hand and declaimed,

"The dead banker struggled to his feet and shot himself again."

"Two bullets," de Gier said. "But only one hole. The hole was in the middle of IJsbreker's forehead."

"That's against statistics," Grijpstra said. "People shoot themselves through the temple or the mouth or, once in a while, between the eyes. Not through the forehead as a rule."

"Two .22-caliber bullets."

"The missing gun was a .22," Grijpstra said. "The fellow at Ballistics remembered. The empty cartridge ejected by the pistol was .22, too. But if two bullets penetrated the same hole, an automatic weapon was used, capable of producing extremely rapid fire. A Walther PPK is only semiautomatic. Admittedly, the trigger is set finely so that shots can be fired at minimal intervals, but even so, the second bullet would cause a second hole. I say an assault rifle was used, either American or Russian, and IJsbreker was shot from there somewhere." He pointed at the north quay.

"From across the water, Adjutant?"

"Sure," Grijpstra said. "Remember the report? IJsbreker was found in front of an open window on the third floor. From where we were standing just now, opposite from here, on the south quay, we had to tilt our heads back even to
see
the third floor. A shot from that position would have been too tricky. If two bullets made one hole, the weapon must have been extraordinarily steady. The rifle was set on a tripod, I say. You're sure there were two bullets?"

"One got lost," de Gier said. "That's why the chief pathologist is so upset. They gave him IJsbreker's corpse late in the day, and he rushed the job. Apparently everything went wrong. The other pathologist was bitching at him. The electric saw he uses for opening up skulls broke down. Our doctor threw up his hands in despair and went home, halfway through the job, leaving the two bullets he found in IJsbreker's head near the edge of the table. One of the illegal alien charwomen came in early the next day and cleaned the floor, perhaps inadvertently sweeping away one bullet that must have rolled off the table."

"The chief won't sign a report that states one bullet was lost."

"He won't even talk to me," de Gier said. "The other guy, the one who isn't paid as well and isn't responsible for the department, talked, but that's only because he likes to make trouble for his chief. He won't make a statement under oath either."

"Anarchy," Grijpstra said.

De Gier lifted a leg and skipped halfway around the adjutant. "See, lawlessness on both sides is already with us. Isn't this fun? We can perhaps imagine a solution, but we can never make it stick."

"So we give up," Grijpstra said, "because of foul play. I think both gun and bullet were lost on purpose."

De Gier skipped back. "If you give up, I'll go alone. I'll fight foul too. Now that the whole organization is in a shambles, new possibilities arise. There should be a good fight in here somewhere. It'll be a change. I've been trained too nicely. I'm tired of bowing and scraping on the judo mat. Let me kick them in the balls for once."

"No," Grijpstra said, "I'll keep you straight. Where are we so far?"

"You," de Gier said, "had just placed a crack shot behind a tripod bearing an assault rifle of American or Russian make. Why? Because of the caliber of the bullets?"

"Yes." Grijpstra looked around. "Modern rifles are small caliber. American rifles are stolen from army barracks, and Russian rifles are handed out free to terrorists. Where did our killer position himself? On the roof of that houseboat?"

"That's the houseboat where the dead junkies were found," de Gier said. "Anyone standing on the boat's roof is in full view. It was bad weather that night. Raining cats and dogs. It's hard to make a good shot when you're being pelted with pets."

"So the killer was indoors, maybe?" Grijpstra asked. "In the house behind the boat? At number 20, where the old lady is being drummed out by musicians? Hey!"

Grijpstra scratched his short, stubby hair with both hands. "This is confusing. I don't want an old lady in my theory as yet. Didn't you say that you had read her complaint several times in the general file? I never saw the earlier versions."

"That's because you always look for big stuff," de Gier said. "Little bits of information are interesting too. Here is this old lady who keeps dragging herself to the local police station because ruffians want her to vacate her home—"

"The report didn't say that," Grijpstra said.

"Reports don't present conclusions, Adjutant. They try to feed us facts. Why would musicians drum an old lady out of her upstairs apartment?"

"They want the whole house?"

"Of course," de Gier said patiently. "They live downstairs and want the upstairs too. This area still has a bit of controlled rents. That old lady will never move unless you drag her out by the hair. Anarchy is not yet complete. The citizens keep up appearances. They would object to old ladies being publicly abused."

"So the ruffians drum." Grijpstra was still scratching his head. "Aren't we making this too complicated? We still have three dead junkies to fit into the theory. Forget the old lady."

"You brought her up, remember? Her location is of interest because the killer may have placed his weapon in her building."

"Hold it," Grijpstra said. "Some order here. Drumming goes all ways. Noise spreads sideways, too. Why didn't the other neighbors complain?"

De Gier pushed Grijpstra ahead of him, and they walked off the bridge and along the northern quay. "Behold."

"Yes," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. "Empty house on the left, empty house on the right. No one there to complain on either side. Now I see. This area is close to the growing red-light district. Aha."

"Simple, right?" de Gier asked. "Happens all the time. This will be some new sex club or gambling joint, or a hotel for hanky-panky. The old lady is in the way. If she moves out, there will be three houses available, nicely arranged. Knock the inside walls out, call the interior decorators, install strobe lights and sunken whirlpool baths, bring in the band."

"The band is already there." De Gier stepped up on the sidewalk and looked into the windows of the downstairs apartment. "Look at those drums."

"Better than ours," Grijpstra said. "There's a good-quality guitar, too. See the staircase? The musicians have the second floor, too, which leaves the third and fourth floors for the old lady. There are two front doors, so each apartment has its own entrance."

"So the rifle was fired from the second floor?" de Gier asked. "Drummer and guitar player are suspects. We're doing well, Adjutant. We've got this thing almost licked."

"You sure?"

"You don't think so?"

"I'm not too bright," Grijpstra said. "What we've come up with is pure conjecture. I still have the missing pistol, and the bullet that maybe got swept away, and Halba's and Guldemeester's verdict of suicide, and Guldemeester refusing to hand over the key, and this small detail of the three dead junkies, and then one of them seeing Cardozo a while ago and babbling about murder before fading away."

"It'll all fit in," de Gier said. "Care to check out the boat? We might need a warrant, but the door is probably open."

Together they contemplated the houseboat's state of disrepair. Once a sturdy steel vessel used for transport of the city's waste, it had been topped by a superstructure built of discarded boards painted in a garish variety of colors. Broken furniture had been pushed up front, perhaps in an attempt to arrange a sun deck. Ripped plastic bags containing indefinable mush were heaped in the stern. A stovepipe, stained with soot, hung at an angle across the cabin's roof. The gangway consisted of overlapping strips hacked out of soggy particle board.

"Palace of pipe dreams," Grijpstra said.

De Gier read the boat's name.
Rhinoceros of Doubt.

"Don't get it," Grijpstra said. "Do you?"

De Gier read the name again, stenciled fairly neatly on the vessel's side. "Not yet. Check the gangway. If it carries your weight, it may support mine, too."

The boat's interior was damp and dark. "There you are," the commissaris said. "I thought you'd show up here." His old-fashioned shantung suit made a patch of light in the long narrow cabin. The commissaris sat on a rocking chair that creaked slightly as he moved.

"Hello, sir." Grijpstra dropped his hand, which had gone halfway toward the gun in his armpit. De Gier, legs slightly apart, hands dangling, relaxed.

"Just me," the commissaris said. "I've been here awhile, wondering a bit. Rather an unpleasant atmosphere here, don't you think? Can you feel it?"

Grijpstra sniffed, and de Gier moved about slowly. "Yes," de Gier said. "Death. Decay. Fear, too, I imagine."

Grijpstra cursed. His foot had kicked a doll's head that rolled about, staring in all directions with one curious eye, winking slyly with the other.

"Evil?" the commissaris said. "The inhabitants sold their souls to the drug's genie?" He pointed at a low bed in the middle of the cabin, covered with rags. "That's where they must have been found—three promising young people who became shadows of themselves. Notice any inconsistencies? Not everything here is bad. There's still some live thought about, showing up as the remnants of a different activity, perhaps."

"These?" de Gier asked, studying framed examples of Chinese calligraphy hanging on a wall, each representing a single character drawn in strong brushstrokes.

Grijpstra mumbled, "Well done."

"One black junkie, one female, and Mr. Jimmy Floyd, student of Chinese," de Gier said. "These must have belonged to him."

"What's this?" Grijpstra asked. De Gier looked round. Grijpstra pointed out his find, a head of a rhinoceros, hung like a trophy above the commissaris's chair, an expressive shape assembled from odd bits of wood, fitted craftily together. De Gier went over to study the object close up.

"Fascinating visualization," the commissaris said, still comfortable in his rocking chair. "A completed puzzle assembled from random parts. The artist had a good eye, don't you think?"

De Gier's eyes had become more accustomed to the dim light filtering through the cabin's single small window. "The colors are good too, sir." He admired the long sharp horn, slightly curved upward, of a light orange color that contrasted strikingly with the various grays of the head's gnarled cheeks and forehead. "A rather strong image."

"Of doubt?" the commissaris asked. He got up, holding on to the sergeant's arm. "Strange. A well-made piece of what I would classify as modern primitive art, dominating a miserable floating shack. Artful creativity suspended in terminal negativity. We'll have to figure out the contrast sometime soon. Shall we leave? All this moisture in the air makes me feel my legs."

De Gier held his arm around the commissaris's shoulders while he steered the frail old man along the ramshackle gangway. "This boat is a danger to the city's health," the commissaris said. "You can alert the Water Police when you're near a phone. They should drag it away forthwith. Adjutant, would you mind bringing the rhino's head along? We'll hold on to the sculpture for the time being; maybe it'll turn out to be a clue. Lock it in the trunk of your car."