The Rattle-Rat (23 page)

\\\\\ 19 /////

"M
iss TERPSTRA," THE COMMISSARIS SAID, "I'M TRULY sorry to disturb you, but it's sometimes necessary to inconvenience people when we're facing a horrid crime. I hear your sister stayed with you during that ghastly night. Was I informed correctly?"

Miss Terpstra did look a little like Mem Scherjoen, but she had to be less intelligent, the commissaris thought.
The
cause would be in the arrangement of the Terpstra genes, in the way the microscopic seeds of father and mother had embraced each other a long time ago. He thought of his brother, who looked rather like him, and had grown from the same genes as his own, but in quite a different combination. My brother is very intelligent too, the commissaris thought, but he makes a different use of his brilliant mind and merely became rich so that he could retire in Austria, buy himself a chalet, and pour rare wines for his friends. In my case the genes mixed in a more useful manner, for I serve humanity and pay no attention to personal comfort. Intelligence can be applied stupidly too. It's all so tricky, and no one, perhaps, can be blamed. Human development is probably terminally determined at the moment of conception. But my brother and I share the same arrogance, the com-
missaris thought, for we both assume that we really matter, a basic mistake that's not simplifying our lives.

Miss Terpstra's face was sharper than her sister's, and
her attitude decidedly stiffen Her apartment in the dignified eastern suburb of Amsterdam was furnished with a straight simplicity at odds with two pairs of porcelain dogs that faced each other on the windowsills. The dogs mirrored each other.
"Lovely little dogs," the commissaris said, for Miss Terpstra said nothing.

"You think so?" Miss Terpstra asked coldly.

"In excellent taste," the commissaris said. "You collect
porcelain dogs?"

"I brought them from Ameland," Miss Terpstra said. "My great-grandfather started the collection, the whoremonger."

The commissaris let that go for the moment. He meant no
harm, as his servile attitude showed. His wife had dressed him extra carefully that morning, because she was sorry. She knew that her worrying did not ease his life. "I do have to work," the commissaris had said that night, in his sleep.
"What else can I do?" he had asked while asleep. She had kissed him, for of course there
was
enough else for him to do. Couldn't he play with his turtle in the garden? Or pick up garbage in the park? Or go on a journey with her? Did he have to protect society against itself? Miss Terpstra was softening too, for she hadn't had a male visitor in several months, and this one looked exceptionally neat, in his tasteful light gray summer suit, with the antique watch chain spanning the slight bulge of his stomach, and die well-arranged hair, the neat, sensitive hands folded in his narrow lap, and the cultured way in which he expressed himself. Could she possibly like this man? Miss Terpstra asked herself.

"Tea?" Miss Terpstra asked the commissaris.

He was given a cup. "What is the connection," the com-missaris asked, "between porcelain dogs and whores?"

"They were captains in the whaling fleet," Miss Terpstra said, "those grandfathers and great-grandfathers of mine, and they had the best houses on the island, with specially designed gables made of imported bricks, so that everybody could see how important and wealthy they were."

"On Ameland," the commissaris said.

Miss Terpstra nodded. "And they all abused their wives.
Women accepted that in those days. They don't now, as you must know."

"Yes," the commissaris said softly.

Miss Terpstra slapped the TV next to her. "I see it in there. Last night again. Did you watch the program? The lesbian communist and her forward ideas?"

"What?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes," Miss Terpstra said happily. "We women are taking over. They can't bed us anymore, those men, they've lost our greatest gift." She spoke faster. "You know what my forefathers used to do?"

"They visited whores in those long-gone days?"

Miss Terpstra's face hardened. "The habit still goes on."

"No," the commissaris said. "Maybe a long time ago. I never planned it, but it was made so easy."

"Bah," Miss Terpstra said. "To make use of the weakness of a humble minority."

"And the dogs?" the commissaris asked.

"A despicable minor habit of the time," Miss Terpstra
said. "The whalers used to visit London, before returning to our island. And afterwards the whores would give them those dogs."

"Ha," the commissaris said. He slapped his hand over his mouth. "I beg your pardon, Miss Terpstra; as a sentimental reminder, you mean?"

"Yes, so that they would come again and fetch the dog's twin. You had that type"—she pointed at the larger variety, with a golden neckband—"and there was one size smaller, the one over*there, and the tiny little ones, in case my forefathers insisted on discounts. And then they would bring the miserable little beasts home and give them as presents to their wives. Well? What do you think of that?"

"Disgusting," the commissaris said.

"Men," Miss Terpstra snarled. "Douwe was no exception— poor Mem—but now we're nicely rid of him."

"And Mem spent the evening with you? The night as well?"

Miss Terpstra understood. Her voice cut through the small room. "You're thinking...?"

The commissaris retreated into an expressive silence.

"You're really thinking...?"

The commissaris smiled.

"Do you think"—Miss Terpstra's sharp icy voice became
a dagger that penetrated between the commissaris's eyes— "that I—I—would tell on my own dear sister, even if she had happened to leave my apartment for a single second?
That I, the doormat on which uncouth types like you have been rubbing their soiled boots for generations—that I, the abandoned, uncared-for, ignored, insulted..."

She rose slowly. One of her hands held on to her Adam's
apple, the other stretched toward the door. "Leave!" Miss Terpstra shouted.

"Good-bye, Miss Terpstra," the commissaris said.

\\\\\ 20 /////

"
H
ow DID IT GO WITH MY SISTER?" MEM SCHERIOEN ASKED.

The commissaris mentioned the porcelain dogs. "Yes,"
Mem said, "I inherited half of those mongrels, but I didn't like them much." She giggled. "Poor Jenny. Do you know that she's always cutting
Playgirl
pictures?"

"What does she cut?" Cardozo asked.

'There are photographs of gentlemen," Mem said. "Jenny likes to remove their equipment."

Cardozo's eyes grew, and his mouth shrank.

"She doesn't mean badly," Mem said. "She only thinks
she does. Jenny hasn't developed much in her relationships with men. Men are just a little different—the same in a way, but turned around, I think." She led her visitors to the sitting room downstairs. "Are we going to have our search now, at last? I'm so glad you want to help me. I kept planning to look around myself, but it seemed like such an effort."

Cardozo apologized for not having returned Douwe's corduroy suit yet, but he told her he had dirtied it a bit and it was now at the cleaner's. Never mind, Mem said, he could keep it if he liked—although maybe not, for later, when the retarded men would appear, one of them might need it "Some small-sized fellow," Mem said kindly.

Cardozo wandered about the large room. Above a window filled with flowering vines, leatherbound books were arranged on a shelf.

"Antiques," Mem said. "Religious works. My forefathers used to read from them on Sundays. Douwe wanted to sell them. He didn't like God, because God kept loving him, but I said the books were increasing in value, so he let me keep them."

Mem fetched a small stepladder from a cupboard, and Cardozo climbed it. He picked up a book and read the title.
Divine Quarterly, Part III.
He turned leaves and read,
Release
us, dear Lord, from the slavery of adoring images ofheathen.
Save us from the foreign tyranny, let peace and unity amongst
us last forever.

Cardozo put the book back and took another. "Aha."

"Aha," the commissaris said.

"Aha?" asked Mem.

"We're always finding things in books," the commissaris
said. "They're fashionable hiding places today. Widely advertised so that all burglars may know. They're hollowed out and made to contain jewelry, money, small firearms, dirty pictures."

"And slabs of gold," Cardozo said.

"Pass me all the heavier books," the commissaris said.
Mem opened the books. "Really," Mem said. "That Douwe.
Cut holes in the pages. And these books were supposed to be mine."

"But you knew, didn't you?" the commissaris said, watching
Mem take the gold out and stack it neatly.

"In a way," Mem said. "I heard him doing things here at night, when he thought I was asleep. He'd take out the stepladder and hit chairs with it. I get dizzy when I stand on heights."

"So you asked us to climb the stepladder."

"I thought you wanted to do that," Mem said.

"Here," Cardozo said. "The administration of his money-lending business, on loose sheets stuck between the pages
of this picture Bible. All the amounts are ticked off, so they must have been paid."

"Yes," Mem said, "I put a stop to that. I couldn't stand it, bothering poor people like that."

"And Douwe obeyed you?" the commissaris asked.

"I would have left him," Mem said firmly. "It was the only time I said I would. Douwe would have had to hire
a
housekeeper, and they're expensive these days."

The commissaris read the title page of a picture Bible
aloud.
"
'The wicked will be carried off by death, but he who
loves his neighbor continues to live, even in death.'"

"Douwe never read," Mem said. She sighed. "It's so clear, why didn't he ever understand?"

"I'm not religious, Mem," the commissaris said. "I can never follow spiritual literature. What do you think the text means?"

"Look at the illustration," Mem said. "Here. See? This is death in life."

"Those little fellows must be devils," the commissaris said, adjusting his spectacles. "My, what are they doing to
that
unfortunate fellow? They're pumping him full of some fluid, through the navel, oh, the poor man."

"They're pouring something into his anus too," Cardozo
said.

"Using a runnel. Boiling oil, I suppose. And here, look
at
this, Cardozo, worms with sharp scales that are crawling into the unlucky chap's ears."

"Douwe had all that in life," Mem said. "Eczema in his ears, it itched and made them swell up inside, and he always complained about food thumping his stomach and his hemorrhoids. Terrible. They'd get infected and he'd bleed through his pants."

The doorbell rang loudly. Cardozo peeked through the vines. "The enemy, sir, ready to pounce."

Mem peeked too. "Mr. Verhulst. He telephoned earlier. I'd forgotten all about it."

"Keep him talking outside," the commissaris said. "Car-dozo, replace those books."

Verhulst lumbered into the room. The commissaris reclined in an easy chair. He held up a limp hand. "Glad to see you, I'm sure," Verhulst said. "Are you getting somewhere?"

The commissaris pursed his lips.

"Restored to your previous form, I see," Verhulst said to Cardozo. "Boy, did you look a mess. Those herons are a plague. Feathered varmints, what do we need them for?"

Cardozo pursed his lips.

"Mrs. Scherjoen," Verhulst said, "I'll be brief and to the point. Your husband embezzled a fortune from the State, which is a sin and prohibited by law."

Mrs. Scherjoen put up her hands in consternation.

"Some laws need changing," the commissaris said.

"I need your professional help here," Verhulst said. "This is no time for moralizing." He turned back to Mrs. Scherjoen. "That fortune needs to be returned. To me." He tapped his case. "I'll give you a receipt and you may hear from us. There should be fines, but if you cooperate now, I'll see what I can do."

"We're working on a murder here," the commissaris said, "and you're in my way. Why don't you leave? You'll hear from me once my inquiry has ended."

"Sir," Verhulst said.

"Sir," the commissaris said.

Cardozo held up his police identification. "Mr. Verhulst, I order you to leave this house at once. If you stay, you're trespassing, and I'll reluctantly arrest you."

Gravel flew from the tires of Verhulst's car. The commissaris peeked through the vines. "Now," Cardozo said.

"What happened to the gold?" Mem Scherjoen asked. The commissaris pointed at his chair. He rubbed his bottom. "I'm glad he left. Good work, Cardozo."

"Will you confiscate it now?" Mem Scherjoen asked.

"No. I think you should remove it. Although..." The commissaris thought. "Maybe you should wait a day or two.
Let's say the day after tomorrow, once we've closed this stage of our investigation. Yes, that'll be best."

"I'll have to wait for Gyske, to help me change the gold
into money in Switzerland," Mem Scherjoen said. "She can't leave just now, for the lieutenant is still wrecking their house, and his mind isn't clear. Alcohol and Valium, and he has a need to talk."

"What do you think about their problem?" the commissaris asked.

"It isn't serious," Mem said. "Everybody knows it and the lieutenant will find out in time."

"So it'll be all right again?" the commissaris asked.

"Better than ever before," Mem said. "I'm doing what I
can. Gyske isn't too patient, and she works half-days, and the kids and all. She's too busy to put up with his rambling.
I don't mind listening to Sjurd at all. He keeps holding forth about the shelf in the cupboard." Mem tittered. "Wouldn't it have been nicer if Gyske had used a bed? There's too much guilt here; I think sometimes it prevents us from enjoying ourselves."

"Well?" Cardozo asked in the car.

"No," the commissaris said. "Or yes, maybe. I wish I were a woman at times. It's about time we hired some female detectives. What do you think, Cardozo?"

"What do you think of my mother?" Cardozo asked. "Tell me the truth. I can take it, I think."

"I think she is a dear, caring soul."

"And a good cook," Cardozo said. "Very patient with Dad and us. We had rats in a cupboard. Dad was going to kill them, but he didn't in the end. Samuel volunteered. He spent some time in the cupboard. Everything was very quiet and then he came out. I went in too. The rats were looking at me. Then my mother grabbed a poker, and wham, wham, wham."

"Ferocious, eh?" the commissaris asked.

"Ferocious," Cardozo said. "Mem is a mother, but she has no children of her own. All people are her children. And now this big filthy rat turns up and harms her kids."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Listen here, Cardozo, that rat was Mem's own husband. She took snapshots of dear Douwe and pasted them in her secret album. Douwe was her child."

"You asked what I was thinking," Cardozo said. "So there is this big nasty kid and he harms all the other kids."

"When she told him to stop lending money at thirty percent, he stopped."

'The sly bastard," Cardozo said. "He thought of something worse and was about to try it out. Mem found out.
Wham."

"Possibly," the commissaris said. "But there are other explanations that might fit the facts. Let's start by frightening Mem. If she's playing a part, she'll have to drop her mask.
You know, Cardozo..."

Cardozo looked over his shoulder. "Do you know that a Land Rover is following us? Blinking his lights?"

The commissaris checked his mirror. "So he is."

"His flashing lights are on too," Cardozo said. "I think he's ordering us to pull over."

"Not now," the commissaris said. "Hold on, Cardozo."
The Citroen suddenly lurched forward.

"They only want to help us," Cardozo said. "We've lost
our way again. We're going west instead of north."

The Citroen screamed through a curve, then unexpectedly swerved off the highway, followed a dirt track, swerved again, and went through some shrubs. The Land Rover sped on, swishing its lights stupidly, crying sadly with its siren.

"You know, Cardozo," the commissaris said, "it's all a
matter of conscience. The law that we have been inventing tries to standardize our conscience, but it hasn't been doing too well. There are all sorts of consciences. Some rise above the average measure."

The Citroen drove back to the highway. The Land Rover, hidden behind a hedge, suddenly reappeared.

"Aren't they clever?" the commissaris asked. The Citroen changed into a hazy silver line streaking past dark green meadows.

"Suppose," the commissaris said, "that I have a higher conscience. If I had one I might, from my dizzy level, decide to leave Mem alone. Practically, it would be easy. I could withdraw, claiming lack of proof, or I could write an ambiguous report that the public prosecutor would lose at once.
But"—the commissaris thumped the steering wheel—"I first have to know what has been going on."

"Irrational female goodness," Cardozo said. "You should have seen my mother exterminate those rats. Complete, utter destruction, and only because she assumed that rats spread disease and that we might get sick."

"Not that
she
might get sick?" the commissaris asked.

"My mother never gets sick," Cardozo said.

The Citroen found the speedway leading to Leeuwarden.
The commissaris blew his horn at road hogs who got in his way. The speedometer needle hung right over. "A dilemma,"
the commissaris said. "Not uninteresting. Look, there's the capital of this fair land."

"Now what?" Cardozo asked, for the Citroen had pulled up on the shoulder.

"I always lose my way in the city."

"That Land Rover gave up on us, sir."

"We're Frisians," the commissaris said. "Don't tell me
what we will or won't do. I was born in Joure."

They waited for a while.

"Cardozo," the commissaris said. "Have you considered
Mem's guilt, whether she killed Douwe or not?"

"I don't think I'm following you now," Cardozo said.

"Am I expecting too much again?" the commissaris asked.
"Are you too young to comprehend? Maybe you're unaware that men live by the power granted them by women. Now suppose that power is deliberately withheld. Say that one particular woman tells her man that he's gone too far, that she'll have no more, that he'll have to live without her love.
What happens then? Wouldn't the man stumble and no longer be capable of defending himself against normal hostilities aimed at him by his environment? Mem told Douwe to go it alone, and he immediately fell down? Oh, hello, Sergeant."

"At your service," the state policeman said, bending down
to the commissaris's window. "Just for the record—or off the record, rather—you shouldn't park here."

"I'm sorry," the commissaris said, "but I wonder if you'd mind directing us to the headquarters of the Municipal Police?"

The sergeant got back into the Land Rover and drove off slowly.

"I'm tired," the corporal next to the sergeant said. "You've no idea how these Amsterdam colleagues are tiring me. I do hope they crack their case, for I can't put up with them much longer."

The sergeant drove the Land Rover.

"Don't you speak Frisian anymore?" the corporal asked.

"You're disturbing my thoughts," the sergeant said. "I am
thinking in Dutch. Just like they're doing. To try to follow them. Maybe, if I think with them, I can figure out what they're doing and why."