Blond Baboon (10 page)
“Really? I thought Madame Carnet wasn’t very interested in her business anymore, that she was retired.”
“Retired?”
“Yes, not work anymore?”
“I know word. Me, I know many words but I forget when I speak, I know when I hear. Madame Carnet, she not retired. She work, she chooses furniture, new models, she says to Franco Bergen ‘not buy now, yes buy now.’ She sometimes cut order in half. Me, I always get shits when Madame come in. First big order than … pfff!” He blew something off his hand. “Then nothing. I go back Milano and tell Papa ‘no order,’ then maybe order comes later but price is wrong. Low price. Madame Carnet, she clever.”
“I believe Carnet and Company owes you some money, Mr. Pullini. Do you think you will get it before you go home?”
A slight tremor moved from the eyes and disappeared into Francesco’s beard. “Money? You know, yes? Franco Bergen he tell you, yes?”
“We saw Mr. Bergen this moming. We have to ask questions, Mr. Pullini. A cigar?”
The commissaris got up and presented his flat tin. Francesco’s hand moved to the tin but he pulled it back. “No, thank you, bad for cough. I bought cigarettes this morning, low tar, no taste, but something.”
He lit a cigarette and puffed. “So you know about money. Yes. Franco Bergen, he no pay. He promise, but he no pay. This time Franco, he cat, me mouse. Little mouse, jump this way jump that way. Still no money.”
“How much is involved, Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco held his hands about a meter apart. “In Italian so much.” He brought his hands closer together “In Dutch so much.”
“How much exactly?”
“Eighty thousand guilders. Sixteen million lire.”
The sergeant whistled and Francesco imitated the whistle. He looked into de Gier’s eyes but this time he didn’t laugh.
“You were going to be given the money in cash?”
“Yes. Secret money. Goes into suitcase. But honest money, nothing to do with police. Pullini, he sells furniture; Franco Bergen, he pays cash. Bergen, he has invoices. All very nice.”
“But you didn’t get it.”
“No. Franco Bergen he says he maybe buy from other firm in Milano, not from Pullini no more. When I say ‘What about eighty thousand?’ Bergen, he has dirty ears. So maybe I get lawyer, but that later. First I talk to Franco Bergen again. He old friend, he come to Milano, to Sesto San Giovanni where Pullini business is, he stays many weeks, he goes to mountains where Papa Pullini give him beautiful little house for month. Bergen, he bring family. Bergen, he eat in Pullini restaurant, no bill. Bergen, he remember. We talk some more.”
“So you think Mr. Bergen will pay you?”
“Sure. Now he screw me but…”
“Good. I am glad to hear it, Mr. Pullini. Do you know where Madame and Gabrielle Carnet live?”
“Yes, before, I pick up Gabrielle. I remember street, Mierisstraat, nice street, big trees, maybe I can find street
“And you didn’t find it last night?”
“No.” Francesco coughed. The cough tore through his chest and he doubled up, holding his mouth into a handkerchief.
The commissaris waited for the attack to finish. They shook hands.
De Gier turned around in the corridor and caught die expression on Francesco’s face as he closed the door.
“Well?” the commissaris asked in the elevator.
“A sad little man, sir, sad and worried, but he has a sense of humor.”
“The sort of man who will push a lady down her own garden stairs?”
“No.” De Gier was watching the little red-orange light of the elevator, jumping down, humming every time it hit file next glass button. “But a push doesn’t take long. He is an excitable man and he wants his money. We may safely assume that the eighty thousand guilders are to be his, cash that he is lifting from his father’s till. So he may be a little nervous about it.”
“Sufficiently nervous to have pushed Mrs. Camet last night?”
The commissaris shook his head, answering his own question. “No, I wouldn’t think so. The amount may seem vast to us but to a businessman of Pullini’s caliber it isn’t all that much. Businessmen are usually very concerned about the continuation of their trade. Francesco will get his eighty thousand, now or later, but he won’t get anything if he pushes his client into her death. No I can’t see it. Still…”
“Sir?”
The elevator’s sliding door opened and they stepped into the hall and into a crowd of American tourists who had just been delivered by a bus and who were jockeying for position at the hotel’s counter.
“You were saying, sir?” de Gier asked again as they found each other under the striped awning of the hotel’s entrance.
“Well, he might be lying. Or giving his version of the truth, which would also be lying. The truth is hard to catch. He has no alibi. He visited some bars. He walked around. So he says.”
De Gier mumbled agreeably.
“Next!” The commissaris rubbed his hands. “The baboon’s turn. This Mr. Vleuten may be a more interesting suspect. Had an affair with the lady and stepped out of it. Also stepped out of his job. He doesn’t have to worry about any continuations for he broke his connection. He isn’t expecting us, is he?”
“No, sir. I have his address, that’s all. We can jump him the way we jumped Francesco just now.”
They got into the car. “Jump him,” the commissaris said. “I never know which attack is most effective. Sometimes it may be better to set up an appointment and let them work themselves into a cold sweat. But when we jump them they can’t lie so easily.” He picked up the microphone.
“CID here, headquarters?”
“Headquarters, sir.”
“Any messages for me?”
“Yes, sir. Would you phone your secretary, please?”
The commissaris pushed the microphone back into its clip and got out again. De Gier waited behind the wheel.
“Yes, dear?”
“There was a call just now from Carnet and Company, sir, Miss Gabrielle Carnet, she left two messages. Mr. Bergen has become ill and went to see his doctor. It seems he has some facial paralysis that may be serious and he has gone to a hospital to see a specialist.”
“That’s bad, dear, but it was very nice of Miss Carnet to let us know. What else?”
“She said that her mother took out eighty thousand guilders in cash from the company’s bank account yesterday, sir. Mr. Bergen found out this morning, after you and the sergeant left the Carnet office. He was very upset. Apparently it wasn’t customary for Mrs. Carnet to deal with the bank directly. If she wanted anything Mr. Bergen would do the necessary. And Mr. Bergen remembered your saying that you had only found a few hundred guilders in Mrs. Camet’s safe last night.”
“Thank you, dear. How did Gabrielle Carnet sound?”
“Cool, sir. A businesslike sort of voice.”
“Well, well, well. How are Cardozo and Grijpstra doing? Weren’t they supposed to visit Gabrielle? That won’t be necessary now for Miss Carnet is at her office, they’ll have to wait until this evening.”
“They are both out, sir. Cardozo has found witnesses to the dog poisoning and is now on street patrol, and Grijpstra is checking whether Mrs. Camet’s ring fits her finger tightly or not. He’ll be in the morgue but he should be back shortly.”
“Ha.” The commissaris rubbed his nose. “Ha. I think I’ll be coming back to headquarters. Grijpstra can take over from me.” As he walked back to the car he put out his left hand and said “Eighty thousand,” then he put out his right hand and repeated the amount.
“Very simple,” he added as he told his findings to de Gier. “Too simple, of course. But murder cases are simple sometimes. So suppose that Francesco went to see Elaine last night after all, and suppose he pushed her down the stairs and took her key from her purse and opened her safe. He did leave the household money, that was very decent of him.”
“Yes.”
“You don’t sound very convinced, sergeant?”
“No, sir. We know now that Mrs. Camet took out an amount identical to what her firm owed Francesco. Perhaps she took it out to give it to him. She may have taken it for a reason altogether detached from the case. The amount is big enough to buy a house, for instance, and I believe solicitors transacting real estate always demand payment in cash. According to Mr. Bergen, Mrs. Camet wasn’t interested in the day-to-day management of her company, maybe she didn’t even know what her firm owed Francesco. But if she did know she must have taken the money to pay him, and if she meant to pay him there was no reason to kill and rob her.”
'True.”
“But why would Mr. Bergen be suddenly suffering a facial paralysis, sir? Is he going to pieces because the police are questioning him?”
The commissaris grinned. “I knew you would say mat, sergeant, and the conclusion isn’t so far-fetched, but I think I know what is wrong with Mr. Bergen. I suffered from the same affliction some years ago. It is called Bell’s palsy. I thought I had had a stroke and fussed and ran to a specialist, but it wasn’t serious at all. An infection of the facial nerve: if the nerve doesn’t work half the face becomes paralyzed, the eyelid won’t close anymore, it becomes difficult to chew, and half the mouth droops, the way it does when you’ve been to the dentist. The paralysis wears off by itself, however, and the face becomes normal within a matter of weeks.”
“And what causes this palsy, sir? A nervous shock?”
“No, sergeant. A draft. I had been driving with an open window. Did you think the man was having a stroke?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe you were hoping that, eh, sergeant? Because you wanted to think that we had found our man.”
De Gier smiled apologetically.
They met Grijpstra in one of headquarters’ corridors. The adjutant held up the wedding ring. “Not a very tight fit, sir, but not a very loose one, either. The corpse was almost frozen, so maybe the experiment was without value. When I left her, her arms were sticking straight up as if she couldn’t bear my walking away. Brr. That morgue is a nasty place, sir. I saw at least ten bodies of young people dead of drug overdoses or malnutrition caused by drugs, and they were bringing in more as I left. The attendant said that they are mostly foreigners and all of them nameless and unclaimed.”
“Quite,” the commissaris said gently. “Let’s go to my office.” Cardozo’s report with the statements of the two old ladies was on his desk and he read it to the detectives.
“That sounds good enough, sir.”
“Yes. Tell you what, sergeant, why don’t you and the adjutant go and visit this baboon man now. I’ll raise Cardozo on the radio and visit Mr. de Bree with him. Cardozo has done good work so far and a visit may lead to the fruition of his efforts.”
They left the commissaris’s office together and the detectives watched their chief march to the radio room, a dapper little figure in a long empty corridor.
“There he goes.”
“There he goes. He seems a little fiercer than usual. What’s bothering him, do you think?”
Grijpstra shrugged. “Let’s catch that baboon.”
They got into the old-fashioned elevator.
“Now where would this ape fit in?”
“Baboons are randy animals. The ones I have seen in me zoo were always either actually busy with or seemed to be thinking about it. He could represent the sexual aspect of this disorder.”
“So could Francesco,” de Gier said as they entered the garage. “A beautiful little Italian, they are very popular with our womenfolk.”
Grijpstra wasn’t listening.
“Baboons are dangerous too, he may rush us. Are you armed?’
“Of course. I’ll drop him the minute I see his tail twitch.”
They were both grinning when they got into the Volkswagen, but they were discussing lunch by then, and mean-while, back in the morgue, Elaine Garnet’s arms still reached for the ceiling while a grumbling attendant was trying to push her box back into the refrigerator.
G
RUPSTRAS MOUTH OPENED FOOLISHLY AS HE WATCHED
the sergeant’s body float elegantly through the fresh wind-swept air above the Amstel River, and it snapped shut as de Gier hit the river’s greenish, garbage-littered surface and broke through it and disappeared. A disorganized swirl of bobbing objects remained. Grijpstra saw the bottletops, condoms, beer cans, and torn stems of waterweeds taking position in a more or less defined circle that moved to the quayside, and he cursed. Then he jumped. But he jumped away from the river and when he landed he ran. The Volkswagen wasn’t too far off. The radio came on as he poked its button and the microphone’s cord nearly broke as he yanked it free.
“Headquarters, Three-fourteen.”
“Headquarters,” the imperturbable female voice said.
“An emergency. We are on the Amsteldijk and a suspect has just got away in a motor launch. Could you locate the nearest water police vessel and connect me directly?”
“Understood. Wait.”
Grijpstra counted. Eleven seconds. A very long time.
He looked back at the river and saw the sergeant’s head and one of his feet appear above the quayside. The head was crowned with a garland of waterweeds, the foot trailed an unidentified object attached, apparently, to some wire.
“Water police, what can we do for you?”
“Where are you?”
“Amstel River, about to go under the Thin Bridge, heading north.”
'Turn around and go as far as the Berlaghe Bridge, stop on the northwest side, and we’ll come aboard. Adjutant Grijpstra and Sergeant de Gier. Our suspect has got away in a white launch, going south.”
“We can be at the Berlaghe Bridge in about five minutes.”
“See you there. Out.”
Five minutes, Grijpstra thought, an eternity. Anything can happen in five minutes. But a more cheerful thought interfered with his despair. The white launch had a fairly long stretch of river ahead, a stretch without any side escapes. They might just cut him off, the police boat would be faster than the old-fashioned launch. He slid into the Volkswagen and started its engine, which spluttered to life obediently. His stubby index finger pressed the siren into its first wail of terror. The Volkswagen’s front tires squealed through a short U-turn and brought the car on a collision course with de Gier, who came running, leaving a trail of dripping slime.
