Blond Baboon (2 page)

“Home,” de Gier said as he twisted his tall body into the Volkswagen’s driving seat. “The wind will be hitting my balcony full on. It’ll be tearing up my plants and Tabriz will be nervous. She’ll be at the marmalade jar again.”

“Marmalade jar?” Grijpstra asked. “What does a cat want with a marmalade jar?”

“Throw it on the floor and break it, what else? So that I can cut my feet and then slither about in the jelly—it has happened twice already. The last time I fell on the table and tried to steady myself on a shelf and I broke just about everything in the kitchen and cut an artery in my ankle.”

“I know.” The adjutant tried to stretch but gave up the attempt. His shoulder hurt; he had probably bumped it during the chase. “You took a week off, remember? But I still want to know why a cat gets at a marmalade jar.”

There were more trees down, and de Gier was maneuvering around their fallen twisted forms. One of the windows of the car didn’t close and the wind cried through it, a high-pitched evil wheeze. “They used to have that sound on radio plays. Horrible sound. I would always switch off the program. To accompany young girls raped in attics, as if the crying and sobbing weren’t enough.”

“Cat,” Grijpstra said. “Marmalade jar.”

“I don’t know why she does it, a way to show her displeasure, I suppose. Cats have their ways. Your household will be a mess too, with your wife and kids rattling all through the place.”

Grijpstra frowned. “My wife won’t rattle. She’ll ooze. She got fatter again, you know, I didn’t think she would do it but she did. She’s sleeping on the floor now, bed won’t hold her weight.” He took the microphone out of its clasp.

“Headquarters, Three-fourteen.”

“Come in, Three-fourteen.”

“We caught your thief and gave him to the constables and we are on our way to the garage.”

There was a strange breaking noise and Grijpstra stared at the microphone, which looked small and innocent in his large hand.

“Window got blown in,” the female constable said. “That’s the second window tonight. It’s a mess here. My notebook has blown away. Did you say you are coming back?”

“Yes, we were supposed to go off duty at eleven. It’s close to midnight now.”

“I
am
sorry, but I have another assignment for you. We’re short of staff again—everybody is out helping people who got trapped, there are crushed cars all over the city, and we’re having panic calls from people who got their walls blown in or roofs torn off. And people have been blown into the canals and, oh, all sorts of things.”

“Is that the sort of job you have for us?” Grijpstra asked, dangling the microphone as if it were a dead mouse.

She tried to laugh. “No, adjutant, the uniformed police and the fire department are around too. I have a proper job for you, a dead lady. A health officer called just now. He was supposed to pick up a corpse, but the doctor hasn’t come and the death isn’t natural anyway. An accident, according to the lady’s daughter. Lady fell down the garden stairs and broke her neck. The ambulance can’t take the corpse until they have clearance from us. Mierisstraat Fifty-three. Just a routine call, probably.”

Grijpstra showed his teeth. The microphone was still dangling.

“Three fourteen?’

De Gier stopped the car and tugged the microphone from Grijpstra’s hand.

“We’ll go, dear. Do you have any additional information? The Mierisstraat is a nice quiet little street. Nobody throws anybody down the stairs of a house in the Mierisstraat.”

That’s all I know, sergeant. Dead lady, fell down the garden stairs and presumably broke her neck. The health officer says she is dead.”

“Okay.”

“Out.”

De Gier pulled a knob on the dashboard and a small pale red light came on as the siren began to howl from its hiding place under the hood. Grijpstra lifted the blue sparkle light from the glove compartment and rolled his window down. The magnet clicked the light onto the car’s thin roof and its reflection lit up the wet street surface around them, sweeping a ghostly wide beam on die reflecting road. The Volkswagen shot away as de Gier’s foot came down. The gale grabbed the car at the next corner and pushed it to the middle of the glimmering tar. It was raining hard suddenly and the wipers had trouble keeping the windshield clear. A streetcar approached from die opposite direction and de Gier twisted die wheel viciously. The streetcar’s bell was clanging as its long yellow shape flashed past. Grijpstra closed his eyes and groaned. The driving rain became a solid white spray in the headlights, then it stopped. Another streetcar threw up a sheet of gray liquid dirt that hit the Volkswagen head on. De Gier cursed and braked. The windshield wipers cut through the mud and he could see again. The car skidded around a tree, a huge poplar that had fallen parallel to the sidewalk. A branch got into the right front wheel and wrapped itself around the tire. De Gier drove on and they could hear twigs snap. Grijpstra opened his eyes.

De Gier was laughing. “Look! We’re driving through a forest.”

The poplar’s leaves were brushing Grijpstra’s windows.

That lady was probably blown down her stairs,” he said morosely, “and that fool health officer shouldn’t have phoned. Doesn’t he know we’re busy tonight?” He closed his eyes again. The wind was pushing the car toward a canal and the Volkswagen was skidding. The sergeant pumped the brake and steered with the skid. They stopped a few feet from the rail, a thin rail, about a foot high, meant to stop parked cars from sliding into the water.

“We’re all right,” de Gier said and reversed. The wind was whipping at the car’s rear and they were gathering speed.

The adjutant kept his eyes closed. It’ll happen again, he thought, remembering how he had been in a small car mat slipped into a canal and sunk slowly and nearly drowned him; he had been saved in the nick of time by a fire brigade’s crane. He badly wanted to shout at de Gier, to tell him mat the lady was dead, and that they wouldn’t revive her by hitting a tree or drowning in a muddy canal or getting under a streetcar. He wanted to ask the sergeant why he had switched the siren on if the din of the gale was so overwhelming that they had hardly been able to hear the streetcar’s electric bell clamoring right next to their ears.

Grijpstra opened his eyes when de Gier’s hand brushed past him. The sergeant was switching off the siren. They had arrived. Mierisstraat. He recognized it. Quiet, slightly elegant. Wide sidewalks lined with tall plane trees. Tall narrow houses, turn of the century. A street of doctors and lawyers and comfortable upper-middle-class families making their money in gentle leisurely ways. An unlikely street to be stalked by violent death. A street where pedigreed dogs lift their legs daintily before they spray a lamppost. He smiled. The smile didn’t come to full bloom.

“Dog,” Grijpstra said, and his fist hit de Gier’s side softly.

“Dog, damn it. Same address. Day before yesterday. Cardozo was supposed to take care of the complaint. Remember?” De Gier whistled.

“Same address. Poisoned dog. Mierisstraat Fifty-three. Cardozo didn’t want to go.”

“Right.” De Gier’s handsome profile was nodding solemnly.

“You had to kick him out of the room. And he was talking about it yesterday. He had a suspect, he said. Man who lives in the rear. The gardens meet. He had some of the dog’s puke in a bottle. Very proud of himself. Lab test proved arsenic poisoning.'’

While de Gier’s head nodded Grijpstra’s head shook. “Bad. A poisoned dog and a lady with a broken neck. Same address. We’ll be busy.”

They waited while they thought. Police reasoning. Something small happens, then something big happens. Same place. There would be a connection. They waited until a respectful gloved hand tapped on the windshield.

De Gier got out and the health officer saluted.

“Evening, sergeant. Haven’t met for a while, have we? Different routes. My mate is waiting for you inside. The lady’s daughter is a bit upset, he is keeping her quiet. The two ladies live by themselves, no man in the house. And there is something with a dog. Poisoned, so the young lady says.”

“The wind,” Grijpstra said hopefully, “the bloody gale. Sure the gale didn’t grab your lady?”

“No, adjutant.” The health officer’s face showed helpfulness and apology neatly blended. “The gale can’t reach into the gardens here. The houses are high, you see. The wind may be getting at the tops of the trees but it can’t reach down to the garden stairs. I’ve been out in die garden awhile, nice and quiet. But maybe she slipped. It had been raining earlier on and the stairs are wet and she was wearing high-heeled shoes and a long dress.”

“A party?”

“Could be. There’s a smell of alcohol and an empty bottle. The daughter says there was no party. Lady liked to drink by herself.”

“Wasn’t she with her mother when it happened?”

“No. The young lady has her own apartment, top floor. She said she came down to check if everything was all right before going to bed. The garden door was open and her mother … Well, you’ll see.”

De Gier was looking at the closed door. A good-quality door with simple dignified ornamentation. Varnished oak with a garland of leaves. Two nameplates and two bells. Elaine Camet. Gabrielle Carnet. Hand-painted nameplates, white on green. Polished brass bells. A polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

The door moved as his hand reached for the lower bell.

This is a bad night, de Gier thought, and he waited for die door to open altogether. A very bad night. I should be home to safeguard the balcony’s plants and to comfort Tabriz and to have a hot shower and several mugs of strong tea. It wouldn’t be a bad night if I were home. But I am not, and this is a killing.

He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he was. As sure as Grijpstra, who was standing just behind him. Each profession develops its devotees. The detectives of Amsterdam’s murder brigade are trained to be suspicious, but that doesn’t mean much more than that they are always suspicious. They ask mild questions and they look at faces and dig about in the endless chain of cause and event, but their eyes are quiet and their voices soft and their manners mild. Not always. There are moments when the detectives quiver, when little fiery stabs touch their spines, when they sweat slightly, and when their eyes open and stare fiercely.

Gabrielle Carnet stepped back quickly and nearly stumbled. De Gier’s long arm shot out and steadied her.

“Evening, miss,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice down to the prescribed level of politeness. “We are the police.”

Grijpstra had walked past the sergeant. He followed the other health officer through a long corridor, a central hall, into an enclosed porch, to the garden door.

Elaine Camet, a soaked sad shape, lay crumpled at die bottom of the steps. The health officer pulled the blanket away. The head had snapped back at a most unnatural angle. The woman’s dead eyes stared out of a messy arrangement of sodden make-up smears. Her double chin was stretched tight by the position of the head. The hair, neatly puffed up into fluffy curls only a few hours before, clung to the wet scalp. The wide mouth was smiling, and the gold fillings of two canines sparkled in the light filtering from the porch windows. The smile seemed genuine, a joyous surrender to an unexpected but welcome visitor.

Grijpstra stepped over the corpse and squatted. The light fell differently now and the smile had become a snarl. The sudden change upset him and he went back to the steps. A smile again, definitely.

It was only later that he remembered a common feature of the two facial expressions. The common denominator was victory. Something had pleased Elaine Camet, some event had elated her seconds before she died. The thought sparkled through his brain but didn’t ripen just then. He had already settled down in his routine. He was observing his surroundings.

“Leave her here?” the health officer asked.

“Sure. I’ll get the experts. We want some photographs.”

There was a phone on the porch and he dialed. “Commissaris?”

“Yes,” a soft voice answered.

“I know you are ill, sir, but I thought I would phone you all the same. We’ve run into something, Mierisstraat Fifty-three. It’s a bad night, sir. Shall I phone the inspector?”

“No. I’m feeling better. Send de Gier to fetch me—there’s a tree blocking my garage and there won’t be any taxis tonight. What have you got, adjutant?”

“A poisoned dog, sir, and a dead lady.” Grijpstra moved to the window and looked out. Big raindrops were clattering down on the corpse. “A very dead lady, sir.”

*
The ranks of the Amsterdam municipal police are: constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris. An adjutant is a noa-commissioned officers.

*
Criminal tovertgatioii Department.

\\\\\ 2 /////

“M
ISS?” DE
G
IER ASKED AS HE STEADIED THE GIRL.
“A
RE
you all right?”

“Yes. Gabrielle, that’s my name, Gabrielle Carnet. You are the police?”

He showed his card but she wasn’t interested. She looked at it, and he put it back into the breast pocket of his tailored denim jacket. The rain had gotten into his silk scarf, and he pulled it free and refolded it before tucking it back into his open shirt. The scarf was a very light shade of blue. The denim jacket and the matching tight trousers were dark blue. She followed his movements dreamily. Her eyes came up to his face, noting the full brushed-up mustache and the high cheekbones and the large glowing brown eyes.

“Are you really a policeman?”

“Yes. I showed you my card just now. Detective-Sergeant de Gier. Rinus de Gier. We answered the health officer’s call. Was it you who phoned the ambulance service?”

“Yes.” Her voice was low. It had an interesting quality. He tried to determine what it was. Silky? No. Something with texture. Velvety. A purring voice. The voice she would use on men, not on women. She would have a different voice for women.

“What happened, miss? Would you tell me, please?”

She still seemed unsteady on her legs, and he looked around for a place to sit down. The corridor was bare except for a carpet and a small table next to the coat rack. He put a hand under her elbow and guided her to the stairs.