The Streetbird

A
DJUTANT GRIJPSTRA SLEPT, TUCKED BETWEEN ARMY-surplussleeping bags wrapped around a foam-rubber mattress, all brand new. Except for the camping gear and Grijpstra's snoring bulk, the room was empty. Although the apartment on the Amsterdam Oilmakerscanal was old, and rented by the adjutant a great many years ago, the room looked new. Its walls had been recently whitewashed and the floor sanded, removing all traces of much wear and tear. The other upstairs rooms of the small gable house had also been worked on, mostly by Grijpstra himself but also by his friend and assistant, Sergeant de Gier. The sergeant had moved in immediately after Mrs. Grijpstra and the little ones left, squeezed into a van that also contained the family's furniture and countless odds and ends. Only the adjutant himself stayed, just about forgotten, left to his own devices and work: the tracking of evildoers wanted by the Murder Brigade or the Department of Serious Crime of the Amsterdam Police.

Now de Gier had left too, after a long and busy weekend, leaving his superior almost unburdened of possessions and in a happy frame of mind. The adjutant's happiness had continued into his sleep and was about to be broken now, at 3:30 A.M. on Monday.

The telephone rang. The adjutant's left eye opened and his right hand began to pat the floor. It came back holding a pistol. The adjutant ordered his hand to put the gun down and try again. This time it gave him the phone.

"Now what?"

"I was asleep too," de Gier's voice said accusingly, "but it seems there has been this murder."

"Why tell me about it?"

"I'm not only telling you, I'm coming to fetch you—in a minute, because right now I'm still in bed."

"Umptssjteh."

"I didn't quite get that."

"I smacked my lips," Grijpstra said patiently, "in order to manufacture a little spittle because my mouth was dry, as it often is when I've been asleep. Where is this murder?"

"Olofs-alley, corner Seadike."

"You exaggerate," Grijpstra said. "As you often do. Maybe a bit of manslaughter, sergeant, and I will not be joining you. Try Cardozo, he likes little stuff like that. Do a good job. Good-bye."

"Hey."

"I'm about," Grijpstra said kindly, "to replace this phone."

"Whoa!" de Gier yelled. "Murder, I say. With an automatic weapon. Not just one misplaced small-caliber bullet, but a complete spray of killing fire. A deadly rattle, and you'll love the corpse."

"I know the previous owner?"

"Of course you do."

Grijpstra's toes were feeling for the floor. "Who?"

"Luku Obrian," De Gier said triumphantly.

Grijpstra, if fully awake, might have shouted. But he was partly awake and merely mumbled louder. "The prince of the quarter? Assassinated? Damn his black soul!"

"Wouldn't we have liked his soul too," de Gier murmured wistfully. "It got away," he said in a loud voice, "and so did the killer. But
he
is still about and if you would get dressed and step outside, we might catch him."

Grijpstra dropped the phone and put on his shirt, back to front. He put it on again, front to back. Exhausted, he sat and thought until the disruptive clash of a garbage can, stumbled into by a drunk outside, reminded him of the sergeant, now surely halfway there.

De Gier arrived in a new-model Volkswagen, already rusty and liberally dented. Grijpstra folded himself into the car. "The commissaris should be on his way too," the sergeant was saying. "The station in the red-light quarter called him directly. He will have picked up Cardozo. Lovely murder, adjutant, it will be very useful."

"For who?"

"For us." De Gier adjusted his mustache, modeled after the Queen's Cavalry of the previous century. His large brown eyes glanced at his passenger. De Gier's strong after-shave made Grijpstra crank open a window. The sergeant looked neat, in narrow freshly laundered trousers and a tailor-made wide-lapeled jacket adorned with a loosely knotted silk scarf.

Grijpstra sat stolidly, his hands intertwined on the waistcoat of his pinstriped suit. The car whined on, at twice the legal maximum speed. De Gier, foot down, while artfully turning the wheel, talked about riddance and rubbish and six black holes in a chest of the same color, in a cheerful manner.

The car raced through Amsterdam's old inner city. Grijpstra looked up, to avoid flashing lampposts and the feverish sweeping of tree branches. He yanked at the sun roof and prayed to the sky that was steadier than blurring objects.

"No!" yelled de Gier.

Grijpstra groaned. "No what?"

"That couldn't have been real," de Gier said. "Even in Amsterdam. Did you see what I saw?"

"What could I have seen?"

The three men, far behind the onrushing car, roller-skated on. They were perfect gentlemen, properly attired, in spotless white shirts under three-piece suits, with well-knotted ties, and proper hairstyles, not too long, not too short. They carried new briefcases and swung their free hands in unison, riding easily on the smooth tarmac, heading for the Dam square and the National Monument, intent perhaps, on circling it three times to honor the country.

"What did you see?" Grijpstra insisted. "What
is
there to see at four in the morning?"

De Gier explain. Grijpstra grunted.

"Really," de Gier implored. "Three gentlemen roller-skating soberly on their way to where?"

"To their office. Staggered hours? Who cares? We are going to the Olofs-alley. Over there. Make a right. Avoid the cyclist."

The Volkswagen avoided the cyclist, but he fell over anyway and the car stopped. Grijpstra got out. "Are you all right?"

"No," the drunk said, "just fell off my bicycle."

Grijpstra got in again. "Gentlemen," de Gier muttered. "On roller skates."

Grijpstra fumbled with a cigar. The Volkswagen jumped away. The cigar broke. Grijpstra threw it out of the window. "Why not? There are gentlemen and there are roller skates. The ideas can be combined."

"At four A.M.?"

"Anything can be combined," Grijpstra said. "Just give it a chance. And there has to be a time. What's wrong with early in the morning?"

The car found the Seadike and was parked. The detectives strolled into the alley. No one was waiting for them, but their arrival seemed acceptable. The commissaris extended a small hand and allowed it to be shaken, first by Grijpstra, then by de Gier. The commissaris was old, an insignificant shadow next to the large uniformed sergeant with the red hair. "Hello, Jurriaans," Grijpstra and de Gier said simultaneously. "Hello, Cardozo." Cardozo stood on the sergeant's other side and also contrasted with the martial figure, for Cardozo was young, loosely fitted together, untidily dressed in a well-worn velvet coat and crumpled corduroy trousers. The young detective's nose curved nobly and his eyes, too large for his face, gleamed inquisitively. He couldn't keep still and pulled Grijpstra by the sleeve. "Come along, adjutant, the corpse is over there."

The corpse welcomed its visitors with a wide grin, between drawn lips displaying strong white teeth, perfectly repaired with much gold. The dead Obrian was as imposing as he had been alive. His tightly buttoned linen jacket was stained with blood that had dribbled down to his trousers, followed the immaculate lines and reached his polished white leather boots.

"A marksman got him," Jurriaans said, and squatted down to point out bloody tears in the jacket. "Six shots, all in the chest. A machine pistol, the experts think. To aim an automatic weapon correctly isn't easy. A splendid job, colleagues."

The narrow alley was crowded and the police were everywhere, both uniformed and plainclothed. Grijpstra and de Gier were nodding to acquaintances. Two constables appeared to study the dead man. The constables looked alike; they were of the same size, that of the commissaris, and of Cardozo.

"Hello, Ketchup," Grijpstra said. "Hello, Karate."

"Hello," said de Gier.

"Got the bastard nicely, didn't they?" Karate asked.

"Who?" The commissaris shuffled forward, leaning on his cane.
"Who
got him, constable?"

"Hard to say, sir. And so close to our station. We heard the killer fire but we thought there was trouble with our furnace again, we haven't had hot water in the station lately—bubbles in the tubes. Or maybe a car with a busted muffler."

"And you?" the commissaris asked Sergeant Jurriaans.

"I wasn't aware anything was wrong either."

"So how did you find out?"

"Crazy Chris told us, sir."

"And who is Crazy Chris?"

"A methylated-spirits drinker, sir," Ketchup said. "The old codger had been watching Obrian's car. Crazy Chris sells vegetables and stuff off his cart by day and can't sleep, so he's around at night too. One of Obrian's retainers, sir, unpaid of course and dumb enough to do odd jobs like guarding the Porsche, brand new, with all the options."

"Crazy Chris saw the murder?"

"Not quite," Jurriaans said. "That would have been too good. He heard shots and saw Obrian fall, so far okay, but Chris never thought of ascertaining where the bullets came from. Lost his cool and whirled about for a while, took him a little time to understand that he should call us." Jurriaans pointed. "That's where the killer stood, sir."

The commissaris looked at the top floor of the corner building. "The burned-out ruin?"

"A sex shop unable to pay its bills. Valid insurance, a match and an old newspaper. Last week, sir. It will be pulled down shortly."

"Traces," the commissaris said. "The trail is fresh. There'll be plenty of charcoal inside, and charcoal holds good prints. We've got prints?"

Cardozo wanted to dart off. Jurriaans restrained him by lowering a large hand. Camera flashes could be seen inside the building. "You don't want to go in there now," Jurriaans said kindly. "You might be in the way."

"Machine pistol?" the commissaris asked. "Why?"

Jurriaans turned ponderously to face the old man. "A rattle, sir, according to Crazy Chris, and also to an old lady farther along the alley. The weapon was heard, not seen.
Turrdm.
A powerful weapon, for the bullets went through the body, we found all six of them. Nine-millimeter."

"A heavy caliber," the commissaris agreed, "possibly too heavy for a revolver or a pistol, although there are army sidearms of that size, I believe. Machine pistol? Any particular brand? The Germans had a nine-millimeter, I recall." He thought, carefully touching the tip of his small nose. "A Schmeisser perhaps?"

"Or a British gun, sir, the Sten."

The commissaris nodded. "Where was Chris when Obrian got hit?"

Jurriaans paced about. "Here stood Chris." His arm extended accusingly. "There lives the old lady, you can see her now. It's a great day in her life. And there was the killer. All he had to do was run down the stairs and leave by the Seadike, to the Dam Street and a maze of alleys on the other side, to be lost forever." The commissaris leaned on his cane and studied the corpse's face. "Quite, sergeant. Now, who benefited by this man's death?"

"The competition, sir, the exploiters of the quarter."

"The dead man was a pimp?"

Jurriaans smiled. "Pimp of all pimps. Prince of the quarter. Bottom of the line, sir, close to the devil."

The commissaris' weak eyes blinked behind his small rimless glasses. "So the competition would be pimpish too. Anyone in mind?"

"Lennie," Ketchup said.

"Gustav," Karate said.

The commissaris' cane slipped on a bloody cobblestone. Helped by de Gier, he regained his balance. He rubbed his hip.

"In pain, sir?"

"Yes," the commissaris said. "And I shouldn't be here. This is the worst time for my rheumatism, and I'm on sick leave anyway. Tomorrow I leave for Austria, there's some slimy hot water there they say, and I will sit in it for a week. If I don't get home quickly my wife will kill me before I can be cured. This murder is badly timed."

The remark caused silence, respectful and compassionate as expressed by Grijpstra, de Gier, and Cardozo; respectful and slightly amused in the half-smiles of Jurriaans, Karate, and Ketchup. A thrush, perched on the corner of a roof gutter, framed the pause with clear powerful notes, stridently lowered at his audience. Hoarse singing interrupted the bird. An undisciplined crowd of inebriated seamen or degenerate tourists, arms around each others' shoulders, appeared in the delicate light of the early morning, staggering forward. Karate and Ketchup, gesturing with their truncheons, attempted to head it off.

The group lowered its many chins.

The constables advanced. The group split up into strategically placed individuals, fists swinging. Sergeant Jurriaans stretched to his full length, de Gier spread his legs and bent, ready to jump. Cardozo sneaked ahead. Grijpstra froze. The commissaris stepped back.

The commissaris hadn't really seen the enemy. He was interested in the thrush. He ruminated, leaning on his cane again, and raised his small head sparsely covered with neatly combed hair. The thrush obliged and a fresh arpeggio tinkled down but broke once more, as a large shadow winged over the gutter and made the songbird falter and flutter away. "My," the commissaris muttered as the shadow wheeled away and disappeared behind the gables. "What on earth ?" The commissaris mumbled. "Blacker than a crow? Larger than a falcon? A wide tail kept up by stiff yellow legs? A sharp bent beak?"

"Sir?" Grijpstra asked.

"Talking to myself," the commissaris said. "Old men, you know. That's what they do." His cane touched the corpse. "Pity."

Grijpstra looked down. "An evil sort of chap, sir."

"How evil?" the commissaris said. "And why? I would like to know, but I've got to sit in slime. Don't want to, really. Nevertheless."

The enemy had linked up again, but retreated in ominous silence, surrounded by Ketchup and Karate, running in opposite circles and waving their nightsticks. "Don't hit them," Jurriaans shouted. "There's enough trouble," Sergeant Jurriaans said to no one in particular. "Sir? Can the corpse be taken away?"

"By all means." The commissaris touched the sergeant's sleeve. "A simple case?"

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