Outsider in Amsterdam (6 page)

“Good,” de Gier said, looking up.

“What’s good?” Grijpstra asked.

“That roll. And this report too. So he had taken one of his mother’s pills. Palfium, wasn’t it? A trace of an opiate in the stomach. And the times fit. He must have died around seven
P.M
. and we arrived at eight.”

The telephone rang.

“Yes, sir,” Grijpstra said and pointed at the ceiling with a thick index finger. De Gier got up obediently. Within half a minute they were between the cactuses of the chief inspector.

* * *

“And?” the chief inspector asked.

Grijpstra told his story.

“And?” the chief inspector asked again.

Grijpstra said nothing.

The chief inspector got up and paced up and down. The detectives stared at nothing in particular.

The chief inspector stopped in front of a cactus that was nearly five feet high, a stiff giant noodle, pimply and dotted with sharp cruel hooks. He watched the plant with concentration. De Gier grinned. He had seen the chief inspector measuring the monstrosity, using a tightly wound measuring tape in a metal container, which could be released and sprung by pressing a button and which he carried in his pocket. De Gier knew that he carried the measuring tape at all times, for the pocket of his tailor-made expensive suit bulged. For years de Gier had suspected him of carrying a mini-pistol until he had seen the tape-measure one day when the door of his office had been open and its occupant had been indulging in his secret pastime. De Gier was sure that the chief inspector was sorely tempted at this very moment to produce the tape and measure the cactus, which should have grown another millimeter or so since the previous day.

The chief inspector turned on his heels and faced the detectives.

“A nut,” he said. “A crazy nut who wants to improve the world. He goes to a solicitor and registers a society. To improve the environment. A religious society, it can’t be less, and containing a religion that he has created himself, or combined from a lot of ill-digested rubbish he has read or heard about. He buys an old rackety house at the Haarlemmer Houttuinen, fixes it up a little and whitewashes all its walls. He buys a second-hand imitation of an Asiatic statue and puts it in the hall, lights an
incense stick and sells health food. Unwashed tomatoes and grains. The kind that sticks in your throat. A rat couldn’t digest it. And carrot juice.”

He interrogated the detectives with his eyes. Both nodded.

It was clear that the chief inspector had no liking for carrot juice. They knew what he liked. He liked Dutch gin, and shrimp cocktails, snails and peppersteak. Pineapple with whipped cream. And cognac.

“There’s a bar as well,” Grijpstra said.

The chief inspector looked surprised.

“A what?”

“A bar,” repeated Grijpstra, “downstairs, as you go in, on the right, a bar where they sell gin and beer.”

“Good idea,” the chief inspector said. “With a glass of jenever you can get through to the other nuts. And when you have weakened their defenses you can make them eat unpeeled rice.”

He thought.

“Ah right,” he said. “But there is no base to the thing. It will attract the odd misfits who will come to join the faith, eager to penetrate the emptiness of purity above. Valhalla on earth. Or Nirvana. Or whatever it is called. What the great man does is new and so he is admired. The society is a success. He is making some money. Before you get into his temple you have to fork out twenty-five guilders, because the joint is ‘members only.’ True?”

Grijpstra nodded.

“And later, if you pass the test, you are allowed upstairs. You can enter the meditation room. Have you been there?”

“Yes, sir,” de Gier said. “A large empty room with low seats of scraped pine topped with foamrubber cushions. And an altar. And a special higher seat with a cushion with an embroidered cover.”

“Sure,” the chief inspector said, “for the chief nut. And candles of course. And there they sit, legs crossed. A row of
holy men. Piet is the high priest, the illuminated sage. I have read a little about it. There are various degrees apparently, first degree of the silence, second degree of the silence and so on. The more silence, the deeper the whatever. Perhaps they were wearing funny robes. Did you see any funny robes?”

“No, sir,” Grijpstra said.

“Probably hidden in a cupboard.”

The chief inspector thought.

“And after a while the whole thing falls to pieces. The sage becomes transparent and you can see through him. He has come to the end of his new value. At first he blames the others, which is usual human procedure, but finally he grasps that he, himself, is the fool. A crazy man. And, worse, a silly crazy man. So he takes one of his mother’s pills, falls over, stays on the floor for a bit but manages to get up and finish the job. And when you came he was dangling from a deal beam that had been created for a nobler purpose, namely to support a merchant’s ceiling.”

There was silence in the room, a nice noble silence. Perhaps a second degree silence, de Gier thought.

“Well?” the chief inspector asked.

“Perhaps,” Grijpstra said, “but I would prefer, if you are agreeable, to look into the matter.”

The chief inspector grunted. “You have suspicions?”

“No,” Grijpstra said, “but I can’t imagine how he got that bump on his temple. He wouldn’t have got it from a fall on the floor. He must have fallen
against
something, if he did fall. There wasn’t much furniture in the room. It’s a pity the wound didn’t bleed, we might have been able to find traces somewhere in the room. I keep on thinking that he was hit, and if he was there may have been murder.”

“Homicide,” the chief inspector said. “Murder is always hard to prove although we can try, it’s the least we can do. But the youngest silliest lawyer can convince the wisest judge it’s been homicide, whatever we prove.”

He sighed.

“And it might not even be homicide,” resumed the chief inspector. “That Papuan of yours, is he really a Papuan? I didn’t see him.”

“Yes, sir,” de Gier said. “His name is Dutch, van Meteren, but he is only one-eighth white, a rare specimen, an almost full-blooded Papuan in Amsterdam.”

“There’ll be others,” the chief inspector said. “You can find anything in Amsterdam when you look for it. But I seem to remember that van Meteren pointed out that someone might have picked a fight with Piet and that Piet, after the fight, in a fit of depression had committed suicide. You might work on that for a bit. Murders are rare in this city. A homicide, well. But murder … And your theory would point to a murder, what with a fist-fight and a noose.”

He shook his head.

The detectives recognized the sign and knew that the meeting was over.

Coffee break was getting close. They were waiting in their room, the trolley would be due any minute now. Their normal patrol duty was suspended.

All available time could be spent on thought.

“We have a case,” Grijpstra said.

De Gier nodded. The trolley’s wheels squeaked near the door, he jumped to open it and smiled at Treesje, the coffee-and-tea girl, a mini-skirted nineteen-year-old. Grijpstra coughed; he didn’t approve of the beaming contact de Gier and Treesje had built up over the last few months. But even Grijpstra had to admit that Headquarters’ coffee had much improved since Treesje’s appearance had put a glint in most of the officers’ eyes.

They were busy for a while, tearing the little paper bags, pouring sugar and thick coffee milk, stirring.

A constable brought a thick file.

“Ha,” Grijpstra said, “the interrogation reports. Let’s see.”

De Gier got up and looked over his shoulder. “Hey,” he said.

Grijpstra cleared his throat again. “Nice, what?”

It was nice. The detectives had noted the names and addresses of the restaurant’s thirty-eight guests. Nothing special with two exceptions. The two exceptions had been found in the Hindist Society’s bar. Two drug dealers, one once-convicted, the other a suspect. The conviction had been minor for lack of substantial proof.

“I have heard about them,” de Gier said. “Michiels of the Drugs Department was talking about them the other day. Big birds, both of them.”

“Wholesalers,” Grijpstra said and smiled. “Two nice juicy wholesalers. I’ll spend a phone call on them.”

The chief inspector wasn’t easy to handle that morning and Grijpstra had to repeat himself twice. Finally he hung up and de Gier gave him a questioning look.

“It’s all right,” Grijpstra said. “We’ll be given some help. And the chief inspector promised to look through the files.”

The help arrived within ten minutes and Treesje was summoned for more coffee and another display of long tapered legs and rounded thighs. Grijpstra was forced into another coughing fit. The two drug detectives read the reports and listened. They said “yes” half a dozen times and left.

Grijpstra wandered toward his drums, sat down, and vibrated a stick.

“Right,” he said. “They can be happy. Off to the bars and the cafés. I wonder how much money they’ll spend, tax money, all of it. While we work.”

De Gier looked morose.

“How many hours have you spent in cafés? Quietly? With half a glass of jenever on the table?” Grijpstra asked.

“Thousands,” de Gier said.

“That’s all over now,” said Grijpstra.

De Gier half closed his eyes and dreamed. How many hours had he spent in bars? Listening, chatting, acting. And meanwhile the eternal search. Who knows something, who says something? Who knows whether the wholesalers were in contact with Piet? Piet who is dead now? Who knows Piet? Who knows the old gable house Haarlemmer Houttuinen 5? What happens over there? I don’t mean the holy talk in the bar, the health food and the sitting-still in the temple room. What really happens? Would you like another drink? Shall I tell you another joke? Easy now. Talk to the girls. Listen to the girls. Wait for a little fight to break out, a nice argument. Stir it up a little. Whoever gets angry talks. Whoever gets jealous talks. Whoever’s pride is touched talks. Or do you want some money perhaps? Here, have another drink first, there’s plenty in the bottle. You name it you get it. A hundred guilders? Why not? If the story is worth it. You can tell me outside, on a bench in the park or under a tree in the square. And then you can drink as much as you like for a couple of evenings, or you can smoke something, or inject. Is there anything worse than the needle? The other stuff will release you, after a good fight, but when the needle has got you it keeps you.

“We’ll do some work,” Grijpstra said. “You go back to the house. Go right through it. It’s a big house and we only saw a bit of it.”

“And you?” de Gier asked.

“I am going to have a sniff at that Society. If you find anything important you can phone me and if I’m not here you can leave a message. And tonight I should be home.”

“Car?” de Gier asked.

“You won’t need the car. It’s the right day for walking. You better phone the garage that the car is free today.”

* * *

Grijpstra had looked through Piet’s bookcase the night before and had found some files. One of the files contained bookkeeping and gave the name of a chartered accountant. Grijpstra had read a report, signed by the accountant, describing the Society’s financial progress during the previous book-year. He had noted the accountant’s name and address.

De Gier left. Grijpstra phoned the accountant.

“Police?” the accountant asked. “Certainly, I am at your disposal.”

Grijpstra arrived ten minutes later. A beautifully restored house on the fashionable Keizersgracht, shadowed by elm trees, its gable elaborately sculptured and recently whitewashed. The accountant’s secretary smiled and talked to him in a cultured voice. She took him to the oak-paneled inner office.

“Coffee?” the accountant asked.

“If you please,” Grijpstra said.

“Cigar?” the accountant asked.

“If you please,” Grijpstra said.

The accountant knew. He had read the morning’s paper.

“Were you surprised?” Grijpstra asked.

“Yes,” the accountant said, and pulled a hand through his thick grey curly hair. “Yes, I was surprised. Piet wasn’t the merriest type I knew, and he wasn’t quite run-of-the-mill of course, not very stable I may say, he had his moods. But suicide …?”

He looked at Grijpstra’s passive face. Grijpstra sucked on the cigar.

“Or wasn’t it suicide?” the accountant asked.

Grijpstra shrugged his shoulders.

“Murder?”

Grijpstra shrugged again.

“What can I do for you?”

Grijpstra sighed.

“This Society, what exactly was it?”

“Yes, yes, yes,” the accountant said. “It wasn’t much. But
we earned some money. The bar was a paying proposition, the restaurant definitely made a profit and the shop was all right. A small but profitable business. You know the sort of thing they sell in these shops. Cent buying, guilder selling. Very good margin. They sold some books and leaflets and statues of Buddha and holy men. And chopsticks, machine-made in Hong Kong, you can buy them by the ton for next to nothing and he was selling them at one ninety-five a pair. Not bad. And the cost of the operation was ridiculously low, of course. That was the main thing, perhaps. There is always a good margin between buying and selling in business but the money goes to costs and you still make a loss. But Piet had found the right way of doing it. He hired idealists only, made them members of the Holy Society and paid them a pittance a week. No social security, no minimum wage. He didn’t even have to put them on the payroll. And if they didn’t like it they could go back to the street, or the youth hostel, or the park. He always found others to replace them.”

“What was he making?” Grijpstra asked.

The accountant produced a ledger from a metal filing cabinet.

“About two thousand guilders a week, I guess. A little more perhaps. He must have pocketed some as it came in.”

“Did he pay taxes?”

The accountant looked sly.

“Not yet. The Society was only three years old. He had copied it from a similar thing in Paris, I believe; I think he worked in Paris for a while. No, he never paid any tax, only purchase tax. Nobody avoids purchase tax unless they sell in the street and run when the coppers arrive.”