The Rattle-Rat (18 page)

"Got to talk to the subject," de Gier said. He ran back to the station. The officer couldn't immediately find the key to the motorcycle. De Gier jogged around the yard. "Here," the officer said. "In the tray for pencils and ballpoints. We're too disorganized. It's driving me bonkers."

De Gier kicked the starter and manipulated the gears with his foot. The bike climbed a dune with ease, jumped, bounced down, and was off again. De Gier increased speed on the beach. The wheels hissed across the moist sand left by the ebbing tide. De Gier switched the engine off and applied the brake. He listened.

A growl, far away, ahead.

He kicked the engine back to life. The speedometer heeled over. An island, de Gier thought, has an end.

The dot ahead had reached the end and would have to come back. De Gier maneuvered. The motorcycles turned around each other, in decreasing circles.

Cat and mouse.

If you like, Mouse, de Gier thought. Tell you what. I'll give you a break. Go on, escape.

The mouse sped away, but the cat cut him off, speeding through a mean short curve. The mouse fell over and no longer moved.

"Hurt yourself?" de Gier asked.

"Pulled a muscle," the deserter said. He jumped to his feet. The deserter was a slender boy with whitish-blond hair, muscled legs, and long, mobile arms. He hopped up and down, waving his fists. "Are you ready?"

De Gier brushed sand from his mustache. "Not really. I'd rather have a cool drink. Hot day today. You know the way around here, don't you? A good cafe" with a view?"

"You a military cop?"

"De Gier, Municipal Police, Amsterdam. I'm not after
you. I only have a few questions."

"The officer who rang the bell was a military cop."

"I won't tell him," de Gier said, and smiled.

The young man kept hopping up and down. "Can't trust policemen."

De Gier raised a hand. He pressed it to his chest. "You can trust me. I'm a tourist, a foreigner, visiting your lovely land."

"You're putting me on," the deserter said.

"May I never eat fried sole again," de Gier said, "if my word can't be trusted."

The young man righted his motorcycle. "Follow me."

On the cafe's terrace, peacefully staring at the barely moving sea, across sand castles built by German tourists, disturbed only by children grabbing french fries from each other's paper bags, distracted only by a fairly young mother and her almost-full grown daughter who had taken off their blouses to rub suntan oil on their breasts, the deserter complained. Life in the Air Force did not agree with him. He explained the routine: getting up before sunrise to start another day, during which there would be little to do except pull an airplane to a specified spot. Once there, it had to be taken elsewhere. Back again, maybe a couple of times. The airplane never flew; it was parked. Malfunctioning, perhaps? Could be, nobody knew. Maybe the airplane didn't work.
Let's pull it back. The plane is in the way. You, would you mind placing it over there? Who put this plane here? Please, private, take it away. This is the wrong plane. It should take off from the other strip. The pilot is waiting. There's no pilot waiting? Let's find a pilot. No, not you, you're the one who pulls the plane.

"Please," de Gier said.

"That's the way it goes," the deserter said. "I've got a lot to do, but they drafted me anyway. I have to finish my new boat so that I can rent it out and make some cash to fix up my other boat. I've got to go to Fiji."

"Why Fiji?"

The deserter had read about Fiji. His father had been away too, but not that far away. 'They got bones through their noses out there, and when the ladies want you to love them, they take off their blouses. Got to be careful, though. Sometimes they take off their blouses because they want to dive for crayfish. But they take off their blouses in a different way then. You got to study their ways and then you'll be all right."

"They take off their blouses here too," de Gier said.

The deserter looked at the fairly young mother and her almost-full-grown daughter. Mother and daughter smiled at him.

"They don't have bones through their noses," the deserter said. "And they don't do any diving. I really have to go to Fiji."

The deserter put his glass down. De Gier ordered refills. "Your solution is simple."

"Not now. I'm about to be arrested. So far I've outrun them, but they keep coming back."

"Quite," de Gier said. "Don't get caught. That's the easy way and also the least pleasant. Why don't you go the clever way? Take your boat and sail for the mainland. Go to the airbase. Climb the fence. Go straight to the commander's office, knock on the door, and present yourself."

"You think I'm retarded?"

"Not at all," de Gier said. "You're tough and you're intelligent. Explain to the commander that you don't want to be in the Air Force anymore."

"They'll put handcuffs on me."

"Never," de Gier said. "You'll be sent home."

"Why?"

"Because you don't want to join them. They don't like that. Most military people are group-oriented. The individual frightens them."

"They think I'm crazy."

"You are," de Gier said. "One of the happy few.
Tm
crazy, but I'm very discreet. You should be discreet too. Tell them their life doesn't suit you, that you can't figure out why. Say you're sorry. Then go back to your island, finish your boat, and sail for Fiji."

The deserter thought. "You sure you're crazy too?"

"Ssh. Don't tell."

"You want to go to Fiji too?"

"I'm bound for Papua New Guinea," de Gier said. "That's about as far as you're going. I've been taking my time. My urge grew slowly. You're lucky. It's better to go when you're young."

The deserter grinned.

"Now tell me," de Gier said, "about the copper."

"You're after me for that?"

"I'm not after you at all," de Gier said. "Please put that out of your head. An intelligent man shouldn't have to repeat himself. Go on, what about this copper? Is that why you were in Dingjum? That time you escaped again?"

"Yes," the deserter said. "But I didn't sell it to the fence.
I'll bring it all back if you like. It seemed like a good thing, in the middle of the night, three shacks filled with expensive copper, gathered by those silly soldiers, but once I had it the fun was gone."

"You planned to sell it to Douwe Scherjoen?"

"Nasty little man," the deserter said. "He thought he had
me. The copper was just the beginning. He had other plans and I didn't like them at all."

De Gier sipped his soda.

"You know what he was up to?" the deserter asked.

De Gier rolled a cigarette.

"I don't go for that sort of thing," the deserter said.

"But you don't mind stealing copper?"

"That was fun." The deserter laughed. "And part of Scher- joen's plan was fitn too. Meet some rusty tramp under the eyes of all the patrol boats and pick up some cargo. You've no idea what snoops around here. Water Police, Military Police, Navy, Water Inspection..."

"I've been told."

"But I didn't like the cargo."

"You refused?"

"Of course," the deserter said. "They give that stuff to schoolkids for free, and once they're hooked, they make them wallow in the filth of Amsterdam. Why should I have anything to do with that? Not me, never."

"What did Scherjoen say the cargo would be?"

"He didn't."

"What sort of vessel will bring it in?"

The deserter shrugged.

"When is the tramp due?"

"Soon, but I refused straight off. Wouldn't have anything more to do with Scherjoen. I never gave him the copper. I'll take it back to the shacks if you like."

"That's a good idea," de Gier said.

They rode off together. De Gier returned the dirt bike to the police station. "You'd never catch him," the officer in charge said. "He knows the island inside out. Did you get to see him?"

"I heard him," de Gier said. "Never got close. Well, I tried."

The skipper telephoned. It wasn't that he was in a hurry, but it was getting late and he thought he might be going back to the mainland.

"Been catching any eels lately?" Private Sudema asked.

The subordinate officer brought two fat eels and wrapped them separately. "We smoked them for you, too."

Sudema and de Gier thanked their hosts.

The Military Police vessel was ready to leave to make
space for the State Police patrol boat. The Navy ship was expected any moment too. Two helicopters roared across the jetty.

"CIA," the harbormaster said, "cooperating with our Security Service. There's an East German fishing boat offshore, loaded with electronics, to snoop on the NATO exercises that are going on again. The helicopters will be Army, I guess, but they could be Navy too. Air Force pilots, probably."

"And what will they do to the spy ship?"

"Maybe fly around it?" the harbormaster asked.

"Should be our job," Private Sudema said, "but we haven't got the right ship. The Kraut will be in shallow water, outside the channel."

Jet fighters drew cloudy lines in the sky.

"And what would they be doing?" de Gier asked.

"Making hours," Sudema said. "The Air Force is always
making hours. They have a different system from ours."

The soldiers brought folding chairs, and de Gier and
Sudema settled on the after deck. Sudema lit a pipe. The soldiers brought tea and a dish of fresh-baked cookies on a tray. Seals frolicked in the vessel's wake.

"Seals have the good life," Sudema said. "Nothing to do
but enjoy themselves. Makes a man envy dumb animals.
Just look at them."

De Gier thought he saw the biggest seal wink.

"You're too right," de Gier said. "All we ever do is work."

\\\\\ 15 /////

"How old were you when you left Joure?" Cardozo asked.

"I remember subconsciously," the commissaris said, "but
I do remember. The landscape, the atmosphere, the way in which the locals think, even the language sounds familiar."

"I went to Israel last year," Cardozo said.

"Did you remember, too?"

"No," Cardozo said. He rang the bell. "Only the street market in Jerusalem, perhaps, but that was Arabic. I'm not an Arab. Even so, the stall owners reminded me of my Uncle Ezra."

They waited.

"Like in a dream," the commissaris said. "Last night I had a significant dream. I was a little boy and running after my mother. The house was enormous. Corridors everywhere, and doors, lots of doors. She kept closing them in my face, and I could hardly reach the handle."

"I really don't see much difference here in Friesland,"
Cardozo said. "Looks like the rest of the country. The language is funny, maybe. Samuel and I used to play 'funny language' when we were small. We would change all the words a bit and then pretend we understood each other. I think they do the same here. I don't think there's anybody home."

They walked around the stately mansion, admired the large bunches of grapes growing under the eaves, and sidestepped the attack of a multicolored rooster. Blue herons looked down from their nests in the poplars. The commis-saris found an herb garden dominated by rocks overgrown with silver thyme. They heard tires grinding the gravel of the driveway. Cardozo ran off and came back with a bald fat man. The man's cheeks trembled while he bowed to the commissaris. His gaze, through thick glasses rimmed by tortoiseshell, looked forbidding.

"This gentleman works for the Tax Department," Cardozo said.

"Verhulst," the man boomed. "I'm after the same suspect.
Are you the chief of detectives?"

The commissaris showed his card. "Shall we sit down?"
Verhulst asked. There were some garden chairs. Verhulst cleaned them by flapping his handkerchief over them. Car-dozo walked under the poplars.

"You'll be after money, mostly," the commissaris said.

"A hard task, sir." Verhulst folded his red hands on his waistcoat. "We're not as powerful as the police. The public detests us. You hunt, we patiently fish, but I do think I have a bite."

"You do?" the commissaris asked politely.

Verhulst pointed at the mansion. "Behold. Where did the money come from that bought this costly property?"

"Surely Scherjoen disclosed his income?"

Verhulst laughed loudly.

"He didn't?" the commissaris said. "It seems your job is easy. Confiscate the house and lands. Scherjoen's new car is at present parked in our lot. You can take his vehicle too."

Verhulst admired his well-polished boots. "Mortgage on the property and the car is leased."

The commissaris smiled.

"You're amused?" Verhulst asked. "The State is embezzled, sir. Scherjoen earned a daily fortune, by illegal means, in cash transactions. He collected exorbitant interest on unregistered loans. He fenced stolen goods. But on his tax forms, income was balanced by write-offs. Here"—Verhulst waved his hands—"at least two million was embezzled.
Where did it go?"

"He hid it?" the commissaris asked.

"I count on your cooperation," Verhulst said heavily. "I suggest that you order a search of the house. I can do that too, but the locals are reputedly fierce, and I don't want to be attacked with pitchforks and scythes. Mrs. Scherjoen is a widow, always a delicate situation. If you step in, the Frisian attitude will be more accepting."

"You know," the commissaris said, "I detest being overtaxed."

"Who doesn't, sir?"

"The system your department is using these days," the commissaris said, "is no good. It provokes unrest. Take this Douwe Scherjoen, for instance. Would he ever have become quite that mean and irresponsible if he had been allowed to keep a reasonable share of his profits? And could he have practiced usury if you fellows hadn't squeezed the citizens to the point where they had to borrow at such ridiculous rates?"

"Well now," Verhulst said, "if you take that angle..."

"We're filling in time here anyway," the commissaris said.
"We might have a little discussion. Do you ever think about your work, or do you merely do as you're told?"

"You wouldn't be Frisian?" Verhulst asked. "I've heard
talk like this in these out-of-the-way regions before."

"I was born in Joure," the commissaris said.

"And you left," Verhulst said. "Very clever of you. The colonial life didn't suit you?"

"You're joking, aren't you?"

"Do you see any difference? We used to have our colonies in the Far East and exploit our plantations. Now we still have Friesland, same thing again. Reclaimed wastelands that supply us with crops. The backward tribes supply us with labor. I'm from The Hague, myself."

"Have you been suffering from mental troubles for a while
now?" the commissaris asked.

Cardozo charged out of the poplar grove. "Now what?"
the commissaris asked. "What's that mess on your head?
Don't rub it, it's dripping into your eyes already."

Cardozo stamped his foot. "Heron shit."

"I did have a problem," Verhulst said. "Aboriginal-related.
It comes back to me when the government sends me here.
I've always served the State. I majored in colonial law, but when I was given my papers, our only foreign colony was New Guinea, populated by wild men. I became a district officer out there, and as soon as I arrived the villagers wanted to hunt some heads. Their grinning top pieces flew all around me. My pith helmet got smudged by their blood. I needed intensive treatment for some years, but eventually I was cured."

Fluid heron droppings had reached Cardozo's delicately
shaped nose.

Verhulst jumped up and covered his mouth with his handkerchief.
He ran away. His car was heard to start up. "Good,"
the commissaris said. "That was one way to get rid of the boorish lout. Nice job, Cardozo."

Cardozo was tearing at his hair. "Help. This shit burns."

The commissaris dragged him to a pump and energetically worked the handle. Cardozo kept his head in the spouting water. Mem Scherjoen put her bicycle against a fence. "What happened to the poor lad?" She came closer. "Oh, I see.
Douwe once had that trouble too. He immediately wanted to shoot the herons, but I wouldn't let him. Come along, dear, there's a shower inside."

Cardozo disappeared into the bathroom. The commissaris was given tea in the kitchen. Mem Scherjoen fetched a suit that had belonged to her husband. Cardozo showed up again, in a black corduroy outfit with silver buttons and a collarless striped shirt. The commissaris applauded. "A living portrait by Rembrandt, Cardozo. Very striking. "The Jewish Poet.'
It's in the Rijksmuseum. He's pictured standing on red tiles, with the light coming in from behind, just like you now. Oh, perfect."

"You look great," Mem Scherjoen said. "And don't you have nice hair!"

"I used all your shampoo," Cardozo said.

"Splendid." Mrs. Scherjoen buttered slices of spiced cake.
She poured more tea. Cardozo sat on a stool.

"About your husband," the commissaris said. "We're
police officers. We're very sorry about what happened, but please excuse us, we do have to ask questions."

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said, "was not a good man."

Hie commissaris waited.

"But I will miss him," she said.

"You married early?"

"Oh, yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "We were together for ever and ever. When I dream about Douwe now, he's my child or my friend, and I'm his, and not always his girlfriend either. Such strange dreams, but they're all real, and Douwe always makes trouble. I take the good side and he tries to keep us down, but we're always connected, that part does not change."

"Do your dreams end well?" the commissaris asked.

"Not what I saw last night," Mem Scherjoen said. "I was
his mother again, but I got sick and died and he tried to crawl after me, but I couldn't take him with me."

"And in the other dreams?"

"We're walking somewhere, holding hands, or we're yelling at each other in some kitchen."

"Not this kitchen?"

"No, in a log cabin it seemed, on a hilltop. We were poor
at that time."

"Who started the trouble?"

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said. "He broke my last plate."

"You were yelling too?"

"Not so much," Mem Scherjoen said. "I always loved
him and he always wanted to make sure I did."

"He made you sad?"

"Yes."

"Did you want to punish him?"

"No," Mem Scherjoen said. "I only wanted to make up for the misery he caused others, but he was too active. I didn't want him to drag us down so much."

The commissaris waited.

Mem Scherjoen's silver-gray hair changed into a halo, speckled with the glowing light that poured through the kitchen windows. Are we really being taken back, the com-missaris thought, to the images of the Golden Age? He rubbed his hands with pleasure, but then a cloud interfered and Mem Scherjoen was just another old lady and Cardozo was an actor, getting used to a costume that didn't quite suit him.

"Now that I have Douwe's gold..." Mem Scherjoen said.
She was interrupted by the commissaris's cough. "Gold?"
the commissaris asked in a strange, high voice.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "It must be in the house here.
Douwe always waited until I had gone to bed, and then he rummaged about. He was always bringing in gold."

"Gold?" the commissaris asked again, in the same surprised
voice.

"Little slices," Mem Scherjoen said, extending her index and little fingers to indicate the size of little gold bars.

"Are you a good shot?" Cardozo asked.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said proudly. "I learned to shoot during the war. The British dropped an instructor who lived in our loft, on my parents' farm. He put up a range for us.
With a rifle you had to pull the bolt, but the pistol was easier.
You just cocked it once. We were close to a sawmill, and the howling of the saw blocked all the noise."

"The Mauser was yours?"

"The Germans left it," Mem Scherjoen said. "Some German troops later camped in our field. They got away just before the liberation. I found the Mauser in one of their tents."

"Shouldn't you have handed it in?"

Mem Scherjoen smiled and shrugged.

"Did Douwe fight the Germans too?"
the
commissaris asked.

"Not at first," Mem Scherjoen said. "He was selling them supplies, but they beat him up because of some rotten potatoes, and talcum powder mixed with gravel to put into their shoes."

"Did he revenge himself?"

"He was never too courageous."

"That night," Cardozo said, "the night your husband was murdered, you were in Amsterdam."

Mem Scherjoen was still smiling. "Yes, I stayed with my sister, but I didn't shoot him. How could I have done that? I never shot anyone. During the war I transported contraband. All the killing was for the men."

"Times have changed," the commissaris said. "Women are active now, they're motorcycle cops and jet pilots and submarine captains."

"I'd rather take care of retarded men," Mem Scherjoen said. "Douwe was a little backward too. He never wanted to learn. I thought of taking them into the house here. Wouldn't that be nicer than some cold institution? They could play in the garden and I'd cook for them. Douwe was quite fond of my cooking."

"Would you have a photograph of your husband?" Car-dozo asked.

Mem brought out an album. "Snapshots. I took them
when
he wasn't looking."

Cardozo and the commissaris saw Scherjoen wandering
about the rocks in the herb garden, feeding ducks in the pond, digging in the vegetable garden. Mem Scherjoen looked over their shoulders. "He did have his moments."

"May I borrow this?" Cardozo asked. 'Til return the album soon."

"Certainly." She cut more cake. The commissaris and Cardozo chewed slowly. Mem said that an inspector from the Tax Department had been around, but that she hadn't looked for the gold yet and wouldn't hand it over once she found it. "I was thinking of taking it to Switzerland. Change it for money. Then maybe bring the money back? Surely I could get around this Mr. Verhulst?"

"Did you tell him there was gold here?" the commissaris asked.

"No, I didn't."

"If you bring it in as cash and keep it out of your bank account," the commissaris said, "the tax hounds will never know. You might have a meeting with your accountant. Was Douwe's life insured?"

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "Amazing, I never thought
he would have bothered. The check will be enormous."

"Will it cover the mortgage?"

"There'll be a good bit left over."

"Your accountant will advise you to invest the difference and live off the income. If you do that, the gold will be extra."

"Isn't that nice?" Mem Scherjoen asked. "I can take care
of a lot of retarded men."