The Mind-Murders (7 page)

7

Grijpstra danced. Two little steps ahead, a little step to the right, then to the left, to the rear, and repeat. He sang sidewards and backwards.

"Weedeeho. Weedeeha."

"Don't do that," de Gier said, "or do you want me to dance too? I will if you insist, although I see nothing but misery. What
is
the matter with you?"

"Good luck comes to those who keep on trying," Grijpstra said, performing a fresh set of steps with care, "and whoever insists will win in the end. I've been trying for a long time. So here it comes. A chance encounter, you will say, providing incidental information. In a way you are right, but I see more. Bull's-eye I see, thanking fate meanwhile, and you too. If you hadn't stopped last night
...
I don't want to think about what would have happened then. But you stopped the car, dear friend, and activated yourself and handed me the murderer, solemnly in your inimitable way. You raised him from the water for me to receive and appreciate your gift, decorated with weeds. "There you are,' you said, and 'thank you kindly/ I replied. And you made your gesture so
naturally."

"Are you done?"

"Weedeeha. Weedeeha."

A patrol car rode by with a tall male constable at the wheel and a young female, impeccably uniformed, most of her long dark blond hair tucked away under a small round cap, in the observer's seat. She observed Grijpstra's dance and waved. De Gier waved back.

"Nice girl," de Gier said, "but very young for a constable. I think she knows you."

Grijpstra no longer sang and lowered his foot. He stood.

"Her name is Asta. She's not so nice. She seduces older men. Men like you, sergeant. From forty years old upward. She would even seduce me. Sergeant Jurriaans told me about her. He managed to escape her clutches, but she wounded him, I think."

"Ah."

"Ah what?"

"Interesting," de Gier said.

Grijpstra's heavy forefinger pressed against the sergeant's chest.

"For you perhaps, I will introduce you. If you won't smoke, you can still have Asta. She would be a minimal risk to you, and you would keep her away from others."

De Gier's large brown eyes dreamed away.

"Sparkly eyes," he whispered, "dominating an intellectual face, alive with sensual unfulfilled longing, A good mouth with the fullness of the lower lip restricted in the tight curve of the upper edge." He shrugged. "Too young."

Grijpstra's finger dropped away.

"Let me tell you what Jurriaans had to say about her."

De Gier listened, then nodded.

"Yes, I see. Drunken driving, indecent exposure, adultery, lesbian cavorting. Not all of it is punishable, but he should watch it all the same, arid he shouldn't tell you. The relationship still continues?"

"No," Grijpstra said. "She's all yours." The adjutant's voice trailed away. His feet shuffled.

"Please," de Gier said. "Not again." He pointed at a display window. "Look, adjutant, final sale. Just the store for you, elegant and expensive. See that cap? For ten guilders? A gift. But maybe your head is too fat, you think your head is too fat for that classy cap?"

Grijpstra danced into the store. He tried the cap. The fit was a little tight. He left a ten-guilder note near the register and danced out of the store.

"Weedeeho. Weedeeha."

"Please, Grijpstra, that'll be enough. Let's sit on that nice tree over there. You can't dance on it, for you'll fall into the canal. Let's go look at the geese. A moment of peace and quiet, Grijpstra."

De Gier guided the adjutant to the fallen tree. Grijpstra balanced carefully on the fairly wide trunk. De Gier followed. They sat down.

"What happened is clear," Grijpstra said.

"What happened?"

"You described it yourself when we visited the suspect. Frits and Rea are sitting down together, man and wife. Togetherness in the living room, without harmony. A conflict situation about to change into turmoil. Rea Fortune is a woman of fantasy. She pictures herself in a chauffeured Mercedes automatic, silver sheen finish."

De Gier looked up. "The driver is German."

"If you like."

"Fat? Bald? Rolls of bacon for a neck?"

"Whatever your choice, a chauffeur, may I continue?"

"Yes."

"Rea Fortune, she wants to go out. She wants to eat snails in a wine sauce, brought by waiters with Byzantine profiles. A Gypsy plays the violin, right into her ear. High notes, glassy, harp in the background. Fortune said so himself. A woman of fantasy, unfulfilled."

"He gave no details."

"I give you details so that you can see how it happened. Unfulfilled fantasy leads to frustration, frustration leads to tension, tension translates itself into deeds. Misdeeds. She attacks the suspect, sucks the blood from under his fingernails, chips at the last shred of his discipline. I understand both sides. I'll write some of this into my report. A horrifying circle; woman irritates man, man hides in his habits, he works even harder, reads even more, talks even less, irritates her even more. They'll never go on holidays, they'll never have any fun. She becomes more aggressive. Tension increases, becomes unbearable. The woman shrieks her insults. The poodle yaps. The man's nerves snap.
Bam!
Sometime earlier this week. The poodle escapes into the street, while Fortune gets rid of the household goods, beg pardon, the contents of the house, in a hired van, with the help of a couple of illegal migrants, Pakistanis maybe, Turks maybe. The poodle returns. Fortune is pleased; he takes the animal into the house, tries to enjoy its company, but the dog is whining, it looks for Rea. Again,
bam!
Babette gets chucked onto the roof and becomes dinner for the birds. Bear Brom got buried. Habitual behavioral patterns repeat themselves. But where did Rea go? Oh
nor
!"

Grijpstra groaned. He looked about him but didn't seem to„ recognize the sergeant or the familiar surroundings.

"Now what?"

"But of course I know where she went. How stupid of me. Of you too. We could have known it all along. Amsterdam is a city of holes, fenced-in holes. They're always tearing at the street bricks, taking them out, stacking them, digging, fencing, taking the fences down, filling the holes. Aren't they?"

"He buried her in the street?"

"Where else? He didn't have a car and he couldn't give her to the Pakistanis or the Turks. Had to keep her in the house. He looked out of the window and saw the street workers had been at it again. Holes everywhere. He picked up the corpse, nipped outside, buried her, removed the fence. You think the street workers remember where their holes were? Never. They just come in the morning and dig and cover up, whatever comes first. But I've got to get that corpse, Rinus, no corpse, no case. They'll have to tear it all up again."

"You do carry on."

"Hmm?"

"You chatter and prattle. If the commissaris could hear you, he'd water your neck with his little plastic can."

"The commissaris would listen politely," Grijpstra said. "Politely and approvingly."

"Would he now? Think of the base your construction rests on. You're building a tottering tower on the unconfirmed and hearsay gossip that Frits Fortune, in the remote past, as a toddler, whopped a teddy bear. He is, you state, a bear-whopper. I was a smoker. I no longer am. If somebody asks me, 'Do you smoke?' I say, 'No, I do not,' and I speak the truth. If somebody asks Fortune if he is in the habit of whopping bears, he will reply, 'No, I do not whop bears,' and that can be the truth too. It doesn't have to be true, but it could be true."

"You
carry on," Grijpstra said. "You're suffering withdrawal effects. You're a bit out of your head. Not that it matters. I will do this job alone. Stay with me so you'll be safe. I'll provide distraction by keeping you busy."

"There's Kiran."

The dog stood on the quayside and chewed on a cap.

"Haha," Grijpstra said, "he got hold of somebody's cap. Probably took it from one of the fellows in the sandwich shop. Look at that, he's tearing off the rim."

"That's your cap."

Grijpstra felt his head.

"Where's my cap?"

"Probably fell off when you danced onto the tree. Kiran found it He's got strong teeth, hasn't he?"

"Miserable hound! Hellish mongrel! Is nothing holy in the city of Sodom? Get away, Rinus, Tve got to get by you."

De Gier got up. He tried to turn around Grijpstra's bulk. Grijpstra held on to him.

"What goes on there?" two harsh voices inquired. "Get off that tree, you two."

"Sorry, adjutant," Karate said. "Ketchup thought you were fighting. I thought you were fighting too. You weren't fighting, were you?"

"No. There goes Kiran, Rinus. Escaping into Cafe" Beelema. I'm going there too, to ask for immediate compensation. Coming with me?"

"Adjutant," asked Karate, "are we correct in assuming that you left number 33, Emperorscanal, just now?"

"You are," Grijpstra said.

"Were you visiting Mr. and Mrs. Fortune?"

"I was."

"And the man who happened to fall into the canal last night, by accident so to speak, wasn't his name Fortune too?"

"It was."

"Curious," Karate said. "It's a small world. A while ago, maybe a year ago, Ketchup and I also visited the Fortunes."

"Pleasant people," Grijpstra said, "and reliable too. They supplied me with welcome information. And now I will go to Café Beelema. I want you to arrest that dog. That dog robbed me of my cap and subsequently destroyed it."

"Did you say reliable, adjutant? Did you say that Mr. and Mrs. Fortune supplied you with reliable information?"

"Yes."

"That couple is not reliable, adjutant. That couple is mad."

"Why do you think so, constable?" de Gier asked. "Please explain your reasoning to the adjutant. Don't bother to explain it to me because Fm mad too. But the adjutant's mind is in perfect order and he has to know everything. Especially as he is now working on his own."

8

"We visited the address officially," Karate said, "following orders as we always do. It was about a year ago; I can check the exact date if you like. We were sent by Headquarters, because of a fight, of sorts. It could have been anything, an exchange of words or missiles, but we didn't know what to make of it because of the address, which is good. Ketchup thought there might be a sex club, there are some around here. We'd been to one before; that was because of a fight too. We found naked ladies up to their ankles in broken glassware. So were some of the clients, and one had lost his eye. I found it for him and he lost it again. Amusing in a way, for the time being, that is. Later it turns to work when you have to write it down. We found a variety at that club, and all of it was bad. There was gambling, and liquor without a license, a bit of junk, some weapons, and a minor. AH of it to be reported on, but that would be later, as I said. There was a gentleman there who got away without his clothes in an Alfa Romeo. Nervous he was and he drove into the canal; not at once, for the car stuck on the railing. We watched it and thought maybe it wouldn't go all the way, but it did in the end, and the fire brigade got it out. Very nice."

"The damage," Ketchup said. "Unbelievable indeed. Another client in a Porsche, in a bit of a hurry too and didn't look where he was going. Hit a street full of cars on both sides and all the owners pouring out of their houses. You shouldn't laugh and I didn't. It cracked my jaw, it hurt for days. Endless damage!'*

"Right," Grijpstra said. "Well, we'll mosey along.'*

"Wait, adjutant, please, don't interrupt, Ketchup. As I said, we stood on the steps of thirty-three and the old gent opens up and acts all surprised and says, 'Good evening, constable, anything wrong or are you coming to visit the servant?' and I say, 'No sir, we came to ask
you
what is wrong because we hear there is a fight,' and he says, 'No, you must have been given the wrong number, there are some Negroes further along who play the trumpet,' and he wants to close the door, but his wife comes and holds it and tells us that she was expecting us and to please come in."

"So it gets difficult," Ketchup said. "She is pulling and he is pushing. There was a fight but they don't manhandle each other, they manhandle us. What to do? How to write it down? Do conflicting elements constitute a prosecutable misdemeanor or will it be the easy way out again? Are the officers harassed?"

"Just a moment, Ketchup. As I was saying, adjutant, the lady had phoned but it took half an hour before we found out what for. They served us coffee and a spot of cognac, they threw in cigars, although he said she shouldn't. We are busy, he said, and mentioned the trumpeting Negroes again. Then, in the end, she told us what it was. Would we arrest her husband and take him with us, for she was complaining about being threatened with appreciable physical injury. By him."

"Right," Ketchup said, "and that's unlawful. They were married, but even so. Rape is okay but they didn't do that so much anymore. They got to threatening, he threatening her. We were supposed to take action. I spent a while in the bathroom and checked the situation in my notes; I carry notes for special cases. It was right there, clear enough."

"A moment, Ketchup. See what happened, adjutant? He had threatened her and he had done it every night for years. The judge would like that, for it makes it worse. He'd ask for coffee and she wouldn't want to make it and he'd say, 'Right now, dear, away with you, to the kitchen, or I'll knock you down. I'll wring your neck. I'll batter you to death. Get up, dear, I'll count to three.' And he was serious, she said, he'd pull faces, and count and push himself out of his chair and she'd have to rush to the kitchen or he would do all that. But she wouldn't let him do that anymore because of equal rights, and so she phoned Headquarters and here we were."

"What?"
Grijpstra asked.

"Yes, adjutant. Thought you might want to know. Not quite what one would expect, although she was right in a way. Knew the correct terms too. If you don't do it, you aren't
in the legal exercise of your service,
she said. I wonder where she found the term, maybe she was hiding in the classroom when I went to police school. And that's what we would be, not in the legal exercise of our service, if we ignored her complaint."

"Go on, constable," de Gier said.

"We arranged matters in the end, sergeant. There was no way we could have arrested old Mr. Fortune. I don't believe you know our Sergeant Jurriaans. If we had brought that old bird in, he would have pulled our ears and there'd be
ee-ee
again. We couldn't refuse either, for she was out for his blood and would have written to Headquarters. The cognac saved us, and another two hours of patient listening. Disgraceful in a way, and Karate got drunk."

"And yourself?"

"Just a little," Ketchup said. "I drove him home. Karate was tired and he couldn't remember where he lived."

De Gier looked at Grijpstra.

"Would you care to go?"

Karate and Ketchup saluted. Grijpstra watched the patrol car drive off. He was whispering and de Gier leaned close to catch the words.

"Good luck comes to those who keep on trying," Grijpstra whispered. "A minor setback. Now I'll find the corpse." The whisper was fierce and de Gier stepped back. "I'll find that corpse, sergeant," Grijpstra shouted, "even if I have to lift the last brick in the last alley!"

De Gier led him away.

"That Sergeant Jurriaans," de Gier said, "maybe you're right. I don't think he's much good. He tortures his subordinates and rapes them when they're female. Didn't you tell me that he made that lovely young cop strip on a garden table and perform on a carpet with another lady?"

"You got that wrong."

"Tell me again then."

"It was the girl, Asta, who caused the trouble, not Sergeant Jurriaans who is a mature man who happened to be off balance that evening, because of his wife who is restless and who watches TV."

"Asta," de Gier said softly.

"Stay away, the girl is horse medicine. You might start smoking again and die peacefully of cancer at a ripe age. That would be better."

"Asta."

"You're not old enough for her," Grijpstra shouted. "She likes older men. Like Sergeant Jurriaans. Like
me."

"Yes," de Gier said softly. "I'm sure you're right, adjutant. Maybe I shouldn't interfere."