The Rattle-Rat (9 page)

"And Lieutenant Sudema thinks so too?"

"There are rumors, sir, to support the theory. I'll visit some suspects."

The commissaris nodded thoughtfully.

"You and I," Grijpstra said, "are both Frisians. We know how stubborn our compatriots can be. They'll accept their losses, but there'll be a certain line that should not be crossed. One or more of the impoverished fellow sheep dealers will have thought of a plan to stop Scherjoen's malpractice for good. Scherjoen liked to visit the Amsterdam Red Quarter. The other or others waited for Scherjoen. You and I know how patient Frisians can be."

"I don't know anything at all,** de Gier said. "A pity I'm so ignorant of Frisian ways. If I knew just a little more, I might be able to help."

"Just a moment, Sergeant. So..." Grijpstra paused for dramatic effect. "So...a shot in the night and a burning dory."

"Have you listed possible suspects?"

"Lieutenant Sudema is making discreet inquiries, sir. I'll have some names later tonight."

"And Mrs. Scherjoen? As his wife, she inherits all of Douwe's possessions."

Grijpstra rubbed the bulging blue wool of his fisherman's jersey. "Mem Scherjoen was once a freedom fighter. During the war she was fairly heroic. She wasn't violent, however. Passed messages, transported arms, took care of fugitives that the Germans were after, and helped instructors dropped by the British. You and I know we shouldn't underestimate Frisian women. Lieutenant Sudema seems convinced, however, that she's too loving a soul..."

"That Mauser," the commissaris said. "I had a look at the weapon found in Scherjoen's car. Wicked looking, it seemed to me. Quite antique now, but in shape rather similar to our present automatic arms. Amazing construction, all the parts fit like a Chinese puzzle."

"But it hadn't been fired, sir, I hear."

"Loaded," the commissaris said. "Nine-millimeter, ten cartridges. Deadly. Yes."

"Tins has nothing to do with me," de Gier said, "but Mem Scherjoen? Such a dear elderly lady? Her own husband?
And burn the fellow afterward?"

"Where was she that night?" the commissaris asked.

"Haven't asked her yet, sir. The lieutenant said he would find out."

"I once arrested a dear old lady," the commissaris said.
"She had lived fifty years with a most miserable scoundrel.
The miser lived in splendor, and the missus scrubbed the marble floors of his mansion. If she spent too much time under the shower, he would turn off the water. She throttled him one evening. They were both in their eighties."

"You dumped the old lady in a cell?" de Gier asked.

"I stretched the investigation a little," the commissaris said, "while she stayed at home. In the end she was diagnosed as irresponsibly senile. With her husband's money we were able to place her in a most comfortable home. Every Christmas she sent me choice chocolate pie and I would take it back to her so that we could eat it together."

The telephone rang. Grijpstra answered, listened solemnly,
and replaced the receiver.

"Bad news, Adjutant?"

"Lieutenant Sudema, sir. Mrs. Scherjoen did spend that night in Amsterdam. She was staying with her sister, a Miss Terpstra. Returned the night after the murder."

"Lieutenant Sudema interrogated Mrs. Scherjoen?"

"His wife did, sir. Gyske Sudema. She's friendly with
Mem Scherjoen. Mrs. Scherjoen was never allowed to leave her house, as Scherjoen wanted her to be waiting for him whenever he happened to come home, but she did manage to get away from time to time."

"Do I smell pea soup?" the commissaris asked.

De Gier filled a bowl. The commissaris ate, kept company
by Eddy, whose snout lay flat on the kitchen table, between his pink paws. He rattled fondly.

"Asthmatic?" the commissaris asked.

De Gier picked up the rat and listened to the mysterious sounds. "I would think it's in his belly."

The commissaris listened too. "No, I think it's from his chest."

The doorbell rang. De Gier opened the door. "Hylkje, how nice to see you. Come in and join us."

"No time now, I'm only here to deliver the lieutenant's list of suspects." The corporal stamped her booted foot.
"Bah, I'm running late. Two collisions here in the city. I'm State Police, but the civilians can't see the difference in uniform. And the Municipal Police are nowhere to be found again. I had to write the reports. Stupid civilians!"

A small girl ran toward the corporal. "Officer?"

"Yes?" Hylkje asked grimly.

'See that man there, he's watering against my father's car."

"Shouldn't he be?"

"He does that every evening, he makes me mad."

"Dear little girl," the corporal said sweetly. "Leave that
poor man be."

The little girl pummeled the corporal's thigh. "Please, officer, please?"

"I'm tired," Hylkje said.

"One moment," de Gier said and ran off. He came back with the man, who was buttoning up bis fly. The man was explaining his misdemeanor as the result of a small bladder.

"And you always pick that particular car?" de Gier asked.
"Tell you what, sir. The corporal will take care of you for a moment. I'll be right back."

The commissaris came to the door and was introduced
by Grijpstra. He shook Hylkje's hand. He also shook the suspect's hand.

De Gier joined them. "They're on their way."

A squad car drove into the street. "It's you?" the policemen asked the commissaris. "Would you like us to take you somewhere again, or was it you who was pissing?"

"Small bladder," the suspect explained.

"You can take me to your headquarters," the commissaris said, "but perhaps you should take care of this gentleman first."

"I'll take you," de Gier said, pointing at the Volkswagen.

"Is that your vehicle?" a policeman asked.

"Belongs to the Detective Department," Grijpstra said.
"Amsterdam, used exclusively by the Murder Brigade."

"You sure it's not dead?" the policeman in charge of the squad car asked. "We saw it just now and phoned it through to our wrecker. It should be here any moment."

"Alive," Grijpstra said.

The police wrecker drove into the street.

"Hey!" Hylkje shouted. The suspect had run off. De Gier ran after him.

"I'll take you now, sir," Grijpstra said. "I don't like the
way these colleagues are looking at my car."

De Gier brought the suspect back. One policeman pushed him into the squad car while the other spoke to the wrecker's driver, apologizing for the mistake.

"Take the lieutenant's list," Hylkje said, "before anything else happens. I need a shower and some sleep. I'll be back at eleven."

"Right," de Gier said.

"A rat!" Hylkje yelled, pointing at the threshold.

De Gier picked Eddy up and held him against his cheek.
Eddy waved his paws at Hylkje. The corporal staggered back. She replaced her helmet, slid into the Guzzi's saddle, and pressed the starter. The motorcycle reared up briefly, came down, and shot off.

De Gier put Eddy down and pushed the rat gently across the threshold. He went inside, cleared the dining room and kitchen tables, and washed and dried the dishes.

Eddy was back on the couch, curled up on a cushion.

"Move up, please," de Gier said. "I want to read for a
while."

The rat squirmed around.

"If I read aloud, will you stop rattling?"

Eddy, soothed by de Gier's voice, became quiet. De Gier read in Frisian, guessing at the meaning of the foreign words, which resembled English here and there, but the verbs were conjugated according to German grammar. The story he had selected was called "Optimal Functioning."

"He weighs heavily on my stomach," de Gier read. He closed the book. Eddy was asleep. De Gier slid his finger under the rat's tail, flicking it up. "Did you follow the general trend of the tale?"

Eddy rearranged his tail.

"She has just eaten her husband," de Gier said. "This
author who calls herself Martha when she writes." Because Eddy wouldn't wake up, de Gier addressed the plants as he watered them, being careful not to slosh the water. While he poured and talked, he read Mrs. Oppenhuyzen's instructions. "Ten cc, primula, twelve cc, fuchsia." He poured from a measured watering can.

"The Frisian character," de Gier said. "Consciously pure, so the impurities are repressed. In order to function optimally, Martha has to eat her husband. A literary joke? Not at all. A revelation, rather. This is serious stuff, true art, well written. The author is telling me, the intelligent reader, that here in Friesland, where true goodness reigns, evil is active under pressure. So how is it released?"

De Gier returned the sleeping Eddy to the terrarium upstairs.

He went back to the couch and immersed his mind further
in the Frisian female aspect. Woman eats her man. De Gier penetrated into the next short story, where Martha beats her man to death. In the next tale she drowns him in a bath of black paint that, once he's quite dead, takes on a brilliant green color.

The book dropped away. De Gier dropped away with it.
He changed into a spider. So did Martha, but she was three times his size. She rang a bell at him while she ate him slowly.
He woke up with a shriek and was no longer being eaten,
but the ringing persisted. De Gier rolled off the couch
and
reached for the telephone.

"Hello?"

"We dropped down a dike," Grrjpstra said. "Save us, Sergeant."

"Where are you?"

"Between the towns of Tzum," Grgpstra said, "and Tzummarum. In a village, but it's closed. In a phone booth without a phone book. Do something, Sergeant."

"You'll be all right," de Gier said, "but do tell me how you got there."

\\\\\ 8 /////

D
O YOU TWO REALLY HAVE TO CONTENT YOURSELVES with this little rustbucket?" the commissaris had asked, while bouncing about in his seat. "I'm against total equality, but maybe some distances between ranks are a tittle stretched.
Now look at me, with my super Citroen. Can't you two wangle a new car out of die administration? If you'd only try, you'd have a brand-new vehicle within a month. 1*11 countersign the application with pleasure. It'll make me feel less guilty."

"Yes sir," Grijpstra said. "I'll take up your request with
de Gier. I myself don't care much one way or another, but you know how willful the sergeant can be. Old love. De Gier can be persistent." The Volkswagen jangled into a long street lined with factories, and wheezed past a railway station.
"Didn't you say we would have to find a circular road?" Grypstra asked. "Yesterday I kept finding it, but now I seem to be missing it altogether."

"Some sort of dike?" the commissaris asked. "Built around the city? All roads leading out of town are supposed to connect to this circular road. That's what the local officers were saying. If we kept following the Ringway, we would see the headquarters of the Municipal Police, the State Police, and the Fire Brigade, three sizable six-story cubes. Very clever, all services within each other's reach."

"The signs are pointing to Germany now," Grijpstra said.
"Pity I can't use our radio. It's still on the Amsterdam channel. Wouldn't work here anyway, the provinces have changed to more modern equipment."

"Keep driving," the commissaris said. "There'll be other signs that should guide us back to Leeuwarden."

The signs kept pointing east. Grijpstra made the Volkswagen cross the center division. "That's illegal, sir," the adjutant said. "I hope we were seen so that they can switch on their sirens and chase us and then we can listen to what they have to say and ask for directions when they're out of breath."

"Quite," the commissaris said.

"Now we're headed for Amsterdam," Grijpstra said, pointing at a sign. "That's much better. We're going south.
In Germany we would be lost."

"Keep following these rural lanes," the commissaris said.
"They may twist and turn a bit, but they should take us back to Leeuwarden."

Together they enjoyed the changing vistas of meadows lined by woods.

"Dingjum?" Grijpstra asked, half an hour later. "I've been here before. This is where Mem Scherjoen lives, and over there's the State Police station where Lieutenant Sudema is the chief."

"Why don't you stop?" the commissaris asked. "It's time
for coffee. The lieutenant can give us directions on how to get back to Leeuwarden."

The lieutenant had gone home, but the corporal who had replaced him poured coffee. "Are you in charge of this murder case, sir?"

"I am.

"Maybe," the corporal said, "you should take a few minutes to visit the lieutenant. I'm sure he would like to keep informed of your progress. He lives close by. Your adjutant knows where."

"Nice walk," Grypstra said.

The commissaris phoned his wife.

"Where are you?" she asked. "I was expecting you.
Couldn't you let me know you were planning to work late?
You shouldn't be working, your leg is in bad shape. I could run you a hot bath."

"I do love you," the commissaris said, "and I would like to get back to you, but you've no idea how vast this country is. We keep driving forever. I wish you were here, you have a feeling for shortcuts."

"And a feeling for you."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "And don't worry, dear."

"Don't overstrain yourself."

"Grypstra is taking care of me," the commissaris said.
"De Gier is around too. As he isn't Frisian, he won't be of much use to us here; he can't identify with the locals. Grypstra and I fit within the mental climate. You know I was bora here, in Joure. I thought I had forgotten, but my origins have bubbled up again. We always forget how important first impressions are. They shape our characters, inspire us all our lives."

"Dear Jan," his wife said. "Do what you have to do and then come back quickly."

A little later, strolling between majestic beeches towering
above fields of corn where songbirds chanted divine compositions, the commissaris and Grijpstra discussed their shared roots. A most beneficial beginning, they agreed, that had influenced both their lives. Corruption that occurs later can do little to spoil a truly blissful start. While Grijpstra searched for proper expressions that would illustrate his happy feelings, the commissaris talked about rural peace, forgotten by city slickers, so that they become irritated by their own and each other's spiritual filth, but here—his arm followed a leaping jackrabbit between neat rows of cabbage and waved at a low little cloud, glowing in late light—"here in the natural harmony of untrammeled nature..."

"Evil will have a hard time here," Grijpstra said.

"Exactly, Adjutant. No wonder a spoiled soul like Scherjoen had to commit his misdeeds on the low side of the dike, and that he had to come to a horrible end in our parts, where the blessings of his homeland could no longer defend his miserable existence."

The commissaris shook his head, to rid himself of Amsterdam
associations.
"Ach, how hearlik is here ut libben."

"You're speaking Frisian, sir?"

"De Gier found that expression. It means 'life is wonderful.' "

"Bah... de Gier," Grypstra shook his head too. "What does de Gier know? He's got a gift for languages, but it's all on the surface. How can he feel what truly goes on in our land? There's Lieutenant Sudema's house. Under the chestnut trees. A most pleasant little dwelling."

Gyske Sudema stood in her front garden, under waving branches that held clusters of white flowers. The commissaris enjoyed the sight. Gyske impressed him as a very attractive woman, tall and slender, her long blond hair lifted by the breeze, her body tight in gleaming leather trousers and a clinging white blouse. Coming closer, the commissaris regretted to see that she was wearing a man's jacket across her shoulders, of too large a size, and hanging down on one side.

"Evening, Mrs. Sudema."

Grijpstra introduced him. Gyske's supple hand felt moist. Her long eyelashes twitched. "Not a good time for a visit," Gyske said. "I'm sorry, yes. Problems tonight. No, this is hardly the moment."

"Your husband isn't home?"

"Visiting," Gyske said. "Sjurd is making a friendly call. He swallowed all my tranquilizers and drank some jenever. He's crying on the neighbor lady's shoulder now. She's alone too, for her man is a sailor. It's all right with me, they can do what they like."

"Marriage problems?" Grijpstra asked. "How could that
be? Yesterday you and the lieutenant seemed so happy."

"Happened just now," Gyske said. "Bit of a problem. The whole thing blew up."

Grijpstra gasped. "But he just sent me some information
via Corporal Hilarius."

"He had to look for comfort," Gyske said. "An hour ago, first time. Never visited the neighbor on his own before, my Sjurd, such a clumsy oaf." Gyske's laugh was shrill. She patted the side pocket of her jacket. "I took his pistol. He can't shoot himself now. He wanted to, but that's all crazy."

"Could I have the weapon?" The commissaris extended
a small hand. Gyske passed him the pistol. The commissaris handed it to Grijpstra. Grijpstra pulled the clip, ejected the chambered cartridge into his hand, and dropped the various parts into his pocket.

"Why don't you tell me what happened?" the commissaris
said. "Once a problem is shared, it can be solved. Let's hear about the mishap, dear lady."

"All right," Gyske said. "I started it, I know that very well, but I'm damned if I'll feel guilty. It wasn't sinful at all.
Sjurd is from the past. I'm not. I read magazine articles and the psychological column in the paper. I live with the times. I know what things are like today. When I do it, I do it."

"With whom, dear lady?"

Gyske lifted one shoulder. "With a man, of course."

"Let's go in," the commissaris said. "Or are your children in the house?"

"Gone out," Gyske said, "to play with friends. So that
they don't have to work in Sjurd's greenhouse tonight. They don't want to do that, they're too little anyway. Sjurd's idea of duty is too heavy. Slave away, day after day, that's a bad example."

"I like your furniture," the commissaris said when they
had gone inside. "Real antiques, I'm sure."

"From the past," Gyske said. "Like my husband. Passed down through the generations. Clammy, moldy, sealed off from fresh air. I'm a modern woman. Would you like a beer?"

"I still have to drive," Grypstra said, "and the commissaris has to see the Leeuwarden chief constable. We'd better stay sober."

Gyske plucked at her jacket. "It's Sjurd's, it doesn't fit.
I'll take it off now. I only put it on to have something to carry the pistol in. Sjurd wanted to shoot Anne."

"The neighbor lady?"

"No," Gyske said. "Anne is a man. You're from Holland,
are you? Our names are different here. Anne is the man I had been doing it with. He lives close by too. Everybody lives close by." She began to cry. Grypstra supplied a handkerchief, the commissaris gentle words. "Now, now, Mrs.
Sudema."

Gyske stopped crying. "Anne's the Christian therapist
here, qualified, with proper papers. He does social work for the municipality and the church. He's Dutch Reformed, too, same denomination as Sjurd and I. He was supposed to help me. I wasn't sleeping well at all, and cramps down below, and crying all the time. Sjurd got the parson to pray with me, but that made it worse, and then the pastor sent his therapeutical man."

"Who went to bed with you?" the commissaris asked.

Gyske shook her wealth of golden hair. "I went to bed with Anne. It was
my
decision. And we didn't use the bed; the bed is Sjurd's, from his grandparents, I won't use that bed for that. I did it over there."

Surprised, Grijpstra looked at the cupboard door.

"Yes," Gyske said. "On a shelf. Wide enough. It's okay for sitting on and leaning back. Sjurd got upset too, when he heard."

"You went into details when you talked to your husband?"
the commissaris asked.

"Isn't that what Sjurd wanted? Didn't I have to make a
complete confession? And what did it all amount to, any- way? Hadn't it come to an end a long time ago? I knew it wouldn't last. I wasn't doing it anymore. But Sjurd had to know everything, that's what he kept saying. I had to tell all, and then it would be all right forever. Anne no longer came to visit because I no longer cared for treatment. He was in love with me, Anne said, but later he changed his tale. He let me do it because bis wife was a lesbian. Some reason, right? What sort of reason could that be? I told him never to come again. That's a month ago now."

"And Sjurd suspected?" the commissaris asked.

"He sensed it. He kept nosing about. It made me so nervous. If I came clean it would be good between us again, Sjurd told me ten times a day. We could make a fresh start."

Grypstra covered his eyes with his hand.

"Right," Gyske said. "I'm a silly goose. But you men never give in, do you now? So I told him this evening that Anne and I... in the cupboard and all... and Sjurd ran off, beside himself with fury. To Anne's house. He broke Anne's glasses. Anne's wife stood next to the poor man. Me too, I had run after Sjurd, and then Sjurd hit Anne in the mouth, Anne's lips were bleeding, and he hit him once more, and again. Good thing I was there, I didn't trust it at all, Sjurd pretending he was taking it all so calmly and then suddenly running off. 'I'll take care of this.' Ha, I know Sjurd. And Anne's wife, the lesbian—she isn't one, you know—she thought she was, so she spent a weekend on the island with that other woman, but she wasn't after all. The other woman was, yes, sure, but not Anne's wife. So when Sjurd kept trying to smash Anne's face, Anne got away, in his car, at full speed, through his own fence, not the gate, he couldn't find the gate, and Sjurd rushed home to swallow all my pills, and then to the pub." Gyske bit a fingernail. "He was back again, to fetch his pistol, but I had it and wouldn't give it to him, and then he went to see the neighbor lady. She isn't happy either, her husband is first mate on a supertanker.
He's never home."

"Good evening/' Lieutenant Sudema said, wobbling through the door, trying to stay upright.

"My chief from Amsterdam," Grypstra said. "Lieutenant Sudema of the State Police."

"How do you do?" the commissaris asked.

"Not so well, sir. I've been a little stupid, I think, for some time now, and it hasn't gotten any better. I was born stupid, that's always a bad start. Hello, Gyske. Evening, Adjutant."

"Are you drunk, Sjurd?"

"Yes," the lieutenant said, "and stupid too. And I was wrong, I think." He staggered to a chair. "But Anne was wrong too. He can't come back to Dingjum. Won't have it, you know. That randy bugger will have to find himself another country. Let him settle down in the Netherlands somewhere.
He'll have to remove himself completely. We can't have that here, something like that will have to go. And the money I paid him for his professional services. Gyske, I want that money back."

'To the Netherlands?" the commissaris asked. "Isn't Friesland part of the country?"

"No," Lieutenant Sudema said. "He can go to Amsterdam for all I care. Anywhere in the hell below the dike. Not here.
The smudge has to be rubbed off."