The Mind-Murders (9 page)

"I'll do it anyway."

"You won't," de Gier said, "but how did you ever think of it? How wonderful."

Grijpstra inhaled deeply. De Gier cut the adjutant's protest with a loving wave of his arm.

"Not now, Grijpstra, I want to see it again." His eyes rested on the canal's surface while he saw the phantoms raised by Grijpstra. First of all there goes the suspect Fortune, wandering in solitude, a prey to his own bad conscience and his self-inflicted demons. His muffled curses interchange with gnashing of his teeth. At a safe distance follows a detective. He is Cardozo, constable first class, a member of the murder brigade, a small figure, untidy and long haired, blending with the city. He carries a bundle of red flags. Everytime the suspect's behavior changes, whenever Fortune curses or gnashes louder, Cardozo remembers where the change occurred and inserts a flag between the bricks. The flags are small but bright of color and are seen by the laborer who follows the detective. The laborer drives a yellow machine, grumbling on wide crunching tracks, the machine carries a blade, and the blade digs holes. But each hole is always empty.

"Each hole is always empty."

"But where could the corpse be?"

"Each hole is always empty, and how will you defend your decision when you are asked to explain the holes?"

"I do have serious suspicions," Grijpstra said sadly.

"You do not. You have a bizarre construction, resting on what isn't there. You have negatives and you're adding them. No contents of a house, no lady, no life in a dog. Added negatives do not make a positive. You have a no head on a hearsay teddy bear. You have an insufficiency, adjutant, you have a nothing obscured by shapes."

"What can I serve the gentlemen?" Beelema asked. "You're just sitting. You aren't ordering. It's dinnertime. Tell you what? I invite you to come to the sandwich shop with me because my kitchen is closed because Titania is crying upstairs."

"No, no," Grijpstra said. "Can't you send for some food? It's nice here, why leave?"

"Yes," Beelema said, "what will it be?"

"A roll with warm meat, another with chopped steak, another with ox sausage and another with
two
meatrolls."

"Yes," Beelema said, "and the sergeant?"

"A roll with meat salad, another with crab salad, another with lobster salad, and another with
two
meat-rolls."

"That'll be four meatrolls," Grijpstra said worriedly, "two for him and two for me, that makes four. Not two, not one for him and one for me, but two each, that's four, but only with two rolls, one for him and one for me. Can you remember that?"

"Four each?" Beelema asked. "Isn't that a lot? He doesn't smoke anymore and should be careful and you're heavy already. It isn't my concern, of course. I'll get eight, or sixteen, but..."

"Two each," Grijpstra said.

"Let Mr. Beelema go," de Gier said, "he understood."

Beelema returned. Zhaver had laid the table. Beelema joined his guests and observed them while they ate.

"I'm proud of you," Beelema said when they were done. "You didn't mess about. Where do we go from here?"

Grijpstra turned slowly. He observed the crowd at the bar. The South American low-cut lady admonished the mustachioed South American gentlemen. Two groups of glass-in-hand locals flanked the foreign element

"Introduce me to somebody who knows the Fortunes, a reliable somebody. Can you do that?"

"Yes," Beelema said. He walked over to the locals and studied them one by one. He made his choice. "Mr. Hyme," Beelema whispered, "do you see the two men sitting at the corner table? They are police officers. They want to meet you. Please go and talk to them."

10

"Sir," Hyme said and contemplated the foam on his beer. "Sir, your question fascinates me. I asked myself the same question, last night, to be precise, when Beelema told me that Rea had gone and left an empty apartment. A most interesting question. Where is Rea Fortune? Or may we formulate it differently?
Is
Rea Fortune? The
where
could be immaterial, and if we should pursue that side, we might find ourselves in the Hereafter of parapsychology or the Bardo of Tibetan migrants. I believe that I understand the direction of your reasoning, and I agree in anticipation. Especially since I met with Fortune, just now in fact, on my way here. The man's mood is peculiar, victoriously nervous it seemed to me. And the tale he told me does not fit the past, if that past were decent, which we doubt, do we not? He told me that he is now eager to sell his business, while only a week ago the possibility drove him into a frenzy."

Grijpstra smiled cheerfully. Hyme smiled back. De Gier glanced out of the window. Hyme, dressed like a British sportsman of the early twenties and affecting the whiny tone of voice that is respectable in some provinces but antagonizes the denizens of the capital, irritated the sergeant. The view the window offered irritated him too. He had seen the elegant hairy cyclist before, he had heard the clanging pedal before. He forced himself to listen to Hyme and to neither kick nor hit Grijpstra. It was a pity that Grijpstra had so little intelligence, de Gier thought. He found a burned match in the ashtray, inserted it into his mouth, and began to chew slowly and rhythmically.

"Victoriously nervous," repeated Grijpstra, "exactly sir. The very impression the suspect made on me, when we interrogated him earlier today."

"As if he had succeeded in the undertaking of an important project," Hyme continued, "as if he had surmounted certain risks. Do you know what I thought when I reflected on our recent meeting?" ("No?" Grijpstra asked eagerly.) "I thought of the possibility that Frits Fortune is engaged in the Great Clearing. He rids himself of everything. First of all of his home, then of his work. Isn't that what life consists of? Home and work? Aren't both stress situations? Isn't home the worst of the two? Shouldn't home come first? If our lives contain too much hardness, if suffering outbalances pleasure, will we not destroy first the one and then the other?"

"Right!"
Grijpstra shouted. "A type of suicide?" Grijpstra asked meekly.

"And reincarnation. But not in the hereafter, no,
here.
That was the impression Fortune gave me. Everything goes but he stays here. Remarkable, don't you think?"

Why does he wear a tie? the sergeant thought. That man is an asshole. Why does he wear a blazer? Why is he so happy? De Gier's thoughts colored the atmosphere, weighed it down, but Hyme pushed ahead. Perhaps he noticed the threat, for he spoke both louder and faster, and his hands, which had grabbed at Grijpstra's cigar smoke before, found a more useful occupation in producing a newspaper and folding it artfully so that it became a triangular hat, of the type old-fashioned children will wear.

"Yes, adjutant, the disappearance of Rea Fortune, a charming woman engaged with the short end of the stick throughout her short and unhappy life—she can't have been older than thirty-five when I saw her last—" ("Yes?" Grijpstra asked compassionately) "is surrounded by doubt." Hyme focused his eyes triumphantly. "Doubt!"

De Gier's chewing changed. He abandoned the earlier method of simple chomping and replaced it by repetitive sucking and flattening.

Zhaver, at Grijpstra's request, brought more beer.

Hyme patted his paper headgear into shape and placed it on the table. He stretched both arms and nodded pleasantly.

"Doubt. And why do I doubt Rea's so-called voluntary retreat followed by a complete failure on Frits's part to retrieve her presence? I doubt, for the one-among-other-reasons that this very same Rea practically embraced me when I offered Frits Fortune, at this same table a week ago, a cool million for his assorted rubbish, against my personal inclination, although the urgency of my associates' desire to take over Frit's's business might have warranted such a price." Hyme sighed briefly. "Did Frits accept? He did not. Was he sorry? No, he was angry. Was he very angry? He was furious. An emotion of that caliber is not without its deeper meaning. It isn't necessary to have studied psychology, as I have . . ."

"Really?" Grijpstra asked admiringly.

". . . to conclude that Frits's personality began to split at that moment. A new personality attempted to emerge: new Frits trampled old Frits and confronted me, a once trusted friend."

Zhaver brought more beer, at Hyme's request.

Hyme collapsed. The beer supplied new energy. His voice dropped. His hand touched Grijpstra's knee. "We had been drinking, my guests and I. The stage was set well and I meant to give joy. Was I thanked? I was not. Frits stalked out of here; Rea followed sadly. What happened afterward? Can we surmise?" Hyme took his hand from Grijpstra's knee. "Was Rea a dragon, and did new Frits become a knight without fear?"

"Or blame," de Gier said.

"With blame," Hyme whispered.

De Gier stood up. His chair screeched on the boards. Hyme coughed, shielding his mouth politely. "Suicide and reincarnation, and the new birth financed by a million florins to ease the black knight's future path."

Grijpstra ordered a box of expensive cigars. Hyme accepted a cigar, reached again, and put a handful in his breast pocket.

De Gier combed his hair in the rest room. Except for the detectives and Hyme, there were no clients in the café.

Beelema returned from having walked Kiran in the street. "Titania hasn't come back yet?"

"Not yet," Zhaver said. "I shouldn't have joked about her predicament. True love is admirable. She has loved Fortune since he bought her those flowers."

De Gier came back. "Flowers?"

"Two dozen roses. Beelema and I forgot about Titania's birthday although we remembered the year before, and Titania complained. She cried. Frits Fortune was here and a flower cart happened to pass. He rushed outside and bought the roses. A sentimental gesture and the undoing of Titania."

"Because Fortune is a serious man," Beelema said. "Titania isn't used to his type, she is used to the others."

"Fornicators," Zhaver said, "like us."

"Whom she tries to avoid."

"Not too successfully," Zhaver said.

"Which makes her feel worse," Beelema said.

Zhaver smiled. "Frits Fortune is a serious gentleman left by his wife, a handsome man still in the strength of his late youth and blessed with ample income. Titania is a lonely and beautiful woman looking for appreciation and solidity. If those two could meet, even for a moment, everlasting joy would surely result. I would like to see such bliss. True love, harmonious and lasting. It would encourage me. Why don't you arrange it, Borry? You claim divine parentage, it's your sort of thing."

Beelema nodded, shifted on his stool, bent his elbows on the counter, rested his head in his hands, and closed his eyes.

Grijpstra and de Gier studied Beelema.

Hyme said goodbye and left the cafe" quietly.

Zhaver put his hands to his lips and moved to the far end of the bar. The detectives followed him.

"Sshh," Zhaver whispered, "he's thinking, it may take a while". What will be your pleasure?"

"Coffee," Grijpstra said, "for me and my sergeant." He smiled. "I was glad to meet Mr. Hyme. He argues along sensible lines and he is a reliable gent." He turned to de Gier. "I don't understand your negative attitude, Rinus. I'm going to telephone Cardozo and Public Works. They'll have to produce a digger and be quick about it. Weekend work is healthy and pays double."

"Please, Grijpstra."

"I don't quite know what you're talking about," Zhaver said, "but Mr. Hyme is not a reliable gent."

"No?" Grijpstra asked. "No? A director of the best known publishing house of this country? A gentleman who dresses as a gentleman, who behaves as a gentleman?"

"Don't talk like the American lady in Paris," de Gier said. "A gentleman is a gentleman is a gentleman."

"Rose," Zhaver said. "Rose. Not gentleman. Do me a favor and please look out of that window, so that I can share my suffering. Throughout the week he holds himself together, but the weekends are too much, like now. Again and again. Isn't that type of behavior degenerate? Or am I old-fashioned? I think it is degenerate."

Hyme straddled the bridge railing in feeble but ecstatic balance. The triangular paper hat rested on his elongated skull. His penis rested on the tops of two fingers. A thick foaming jet of sunlit fluid raced to the sky before—gracefully forced by gravity— curving downward to unite with the passive and gleaming canal water.

"No,"
said Grijpstra.

"Yes," said de Gier. "As if you couldn't have known. Why did you have to force it? Forget your imagination and join the party. Nothing whatsoever is the matter. We are in a caf
6
in the inner city of Amsterdam. Life is bad but we can put up with it here. And when we're done, we'll go for a nice little walk and look at the geese if you like. A Hondecoeter theme, remember?" He clenched his fist and shook it in Grijpstra's face. "Cheer up. It's all right."

Beelema opened his eyes.

"It's not all right, but we can rectify the situation. Zhaver, it won't be easy but I can do it, as you say. Fetch Titania and tell her to wear her new jacket and skirt."

"With this heat?"

Beelema sighed. "You want me to do it or not? You want to obstruct or assist? Is it your fate or Titania's?"

"This is
it,"
Grijpstra said. "This is
it
forever. I will no longer do this work. Everybody is quite abnormal in this town. I hereby grant them leave to destroy each other. I will, from now on, be sorting out traffic. No, because then I will still see them. I will be working in the clothing store at Headquarters. Not up front, but in the rear where nobody ever comes."

"I want to assist in achieving Titania's happiness," Zhaver said. "I'm sorry, Beelema."

"Go and fetch her then. She has to wear the long skirt, not that mini-rag. Her knees, first, will be covered or I won't even get into this. And a simple black blouse and something easy around her neck, that silk cord with the bone ring, she wore it the other day. She has to look neat."

"Neat," said Zhaver.

"Neat. And long silk stockings, no combination, real stockings, with real garters, she'll have some somewhere, and no panties."

Zhaver was at the door but stopped and turned.

"Is that neat?"

"Neat? What neat? What do I care about
neat?
We're concerned with Fortune's mind, and with contrast. What are you delaying the action for, Zhaver?"

"Right away, Bony."

"And I need her make-up kit, and a comb, and a brush."

They heard Zhaver crash up the stairs.

Beelema locked the front door. He closed the curtains and placed a chair in the middle of the room. He arranged the lights.

Titania came in and was directed to the chair. She sobbed pitifully.

"I can't help it that I fell in love. And that he never notices me. Never
wants
to notice me. Because I'm a street girl. Heeheehee."

"Don't cry, Titania."

"Heeheehee."

Beelema talked into her ear.

"This is your big day, Titania. The prince is coming."

"What prince, heeheehee?"

"Prince Frits the First. He loves you but he doesn't know that yet, because he doesn't know your true shape. We're going to work on your true shape. You're not what you think you are. You are a princess."

"Yes?"

"Yes. Easy now, Titania. You're an easy princess. Lovable on a high level, as I'm about to indicate. Here, a little here, and a little here too, close your eyes or 111 glue your lashes together, this shit is sticky, and a little there, oops, rub it away a mite. Aren't you incredible now? And you'll have a small accident, and the prince will be there to save you and take you to his castle. It's a bit empty his castle, but never mind, there'll be a mattress I hear, and that's all you need. A round of fahdee-foozle, a shower together, a bowl of soup and a sandwich shared in the main chamber, or in the royal kitchen maybe, and your souls will be linked. You'll never work again, Titania. We'll miss you maybe but nobody is irreplaceable, we'll find another so that the clients can have a fresh view, two fresh views, haha. Don't pull faces, Titania, or I can't do your mouth."

Borry Beelema worked on and continued his monologue. He rubbed color on her cheekbones and wiped most of it away again. He stood back.

"You'll have to be tragic, Titania, and decent, but sensual." He bowed down, adjusting lipstick. "Sit still, I've got to concentrate, or we get nowhere."

"Morons," Grijpstra said, "and not an exception among them. If they're in Amsterdam, they're morons. Sometimes I think I see a normal person, but the fault is mine. I've let myself be persuaded by weakness, by unhealthy idealism, but it won't happen again."

"I'm a little nauseous," de Gier said. "Maybe it's the matches. Don't you have any gum, Zhaver? Who would ever have thought that I would chew gum? And to think that I stopped Seeny on the corridor the other day and bothered her, and now I do it too."