The Streetbird (12 page)

"I know Baf," Grijpstra said, "but he doesn't know me. Wasn't he a bouncer in a champagne bar once? Mashed a customer? Got three months?"

"The very man."

"I'm surprised Lennie hired him. I thought Lennie was smart."

"He is," Jurriaans said, "and Baf has a better temper now. So have Lennie's brothel customers. You forget that Lennie's place is a whorehouse. When the clients leave, they've had it all. Makes them quiet and polite. Champagne-bar clients only get champagne and a peck on the cheek. Makes them agitated. So they bounce the bouncer. Brothel customers tip the bouncer."

"Herr Roder?" de Gier asked.

Jurriaans and Grijpstra listened to their side of the conversation. De Gier put his hand over the phone. "He wants to know who pays."

"Really," Grijpstra said. "What sort of a favor is this? We invite him to misbehave in our great city's most exotic brothel and he expects us to foot the bill? What about the suspect we gave him the other day?"

De Gier waited.

"Why are you looking at me?" Grijpstra asked.

"You're in charge."

"Of wasting money?"

"No money, no Roder."

Grijpstra nodded. "We'll pay," de Gier said. "Herr Lieutenant.
Griisz Gott."

"SKMieutenant," Grijpstra said. "And why should he greet God?"

"A higher rank is a polite way of addressing somebody, and God won't mind, even if Roder does greet him."

Jurriaans fetched coffee and passed cups. "He may mind if Baf reverts to type and kills your Kraut, but if we've paid, maybe he won't. Provided he's the God of Justice."

"There are others?"

"I do believe so, adjutant."

"And John Varé? Will I get him or not?" Grijpstra asked.

"What do you want with Varé again?"

"Ethnic information," Grijpstra said. "What's a lukuman, for instance?"

"What do you think?"

"I think," Grijpstra said, "that a lukuman must be someone adept in the dark forces."

"Give me a break," Jurriaans said, "and Varé too. Of course a lukuman fights for the enemy. You don't suppose that an ordinary silly woods nigger would have been able to cause such havoc as our deceased prince of the quarter managed to bring about?"

De Gier replaced the phone. "Roder'll be here tomorrow afternoon."

Cardozo came to the counter, the rolled-up towel under his arm and a small carton in his hand. "I want coffee too."

"Later," Grijpstra said. "We're off."

Cardozo walked along with his superiors to the front door. "Why did Sergeant Jurriaans look so upset?"

"Because he's jealous," Grijpstra said. "He's hopelessly in love with adjutant Adèle but she already has a friend, who's black besides."

"I want to know everything," Cardozo said. "And without having to beg for information. If you want to make use of my intelligence and devotion, it won't do to keep valuable facts back."

"Don't pay any attention to Adjutant Grijpstra," de Gier said. "Jurriaans is jealous of me because I've just arranged to spend the night with Adjutant Adèle. What else would you like to know?"

"Does Adjutant Adèle really have a black friend?"

"Yes, a colleague."

"There are no black cops in Amsterdam, except three students who're much too young for such a full-blown woman."

"A reserve sergeant."

"More."

"More what?"

Cardozo jabbed at de Gier's stomach with his box. "More information."

"Watch it. That thing isn't loaded, I hope."

"You drive me crazy, sergeant. What about that black imitation cop?"

"John Var6," Grijpstra said. "Sociologist. Native of Surinam. Volunteer in the reserve. Assistant professor at the university here. Intimate with our Adjutant Adèle, occasionally, for he's also married."

"Thank you."

"And a little less rambam, please," Grijpstra said. "You're tiring me. I also found out what a lukuman is. A lukuman is a magician, flipped over to the wrong side."

"And dead," Cardozo said. "That's what the alcoholic lady said who attacked de Gier with her dinner. So now what? We already knew that Obrian wasn't your average victim, in view of that scene on the bridge. Remember? With that beautiful lady whore who gave Obrian a—"

"I don't want to hear anything more about it," Grijpstra said.

"But that's what it was. Oral sex, if you can't stand plain language. We're still not getting anywhere. I need real news, not information that merely confirms our serious suspicions."

"Good advice?" de Gier asked. "Can I give you some of that?"

"Yes, sergeant?"

"You're too eager. Don't push like that."

Cardozo looked hurt.

"And here are the car keys," de Gier said. "Take it easy, now."

"Our own little fierce ferret," Grijpstra said as the Volkswagen left the curb on squealing tires. "When he gets hyper like that, I always have to hold back. Needs his ears tweaked." "Cardozo provokes," de Gier said. "An illegal activity in our line of work. Look who we have here."

Grijpstra nodded at the black cat that, gleaming tail neatly tucked around bottom and feet, was watching them from the sidewalk on the other side. Grijpstra craned his neck. De Gier grinned. "I did that too, but the vulture went home for his nap. Don't you have the impression that we are spied upon?"

They walked back to the station. "What would there have been in that little box Cardozo was carrying?" Grijpstra said. "The towel held the weapon. I hope he hasn't tried to pull the Schmeisser into parts and had a few leftovers."

Jurriaans waved at them from behind his counter. "A telephone call for you. Mr. Ober of headquarters. He's waiting for you in the police garage, something about a new Mercedes that has been confiscated at your request."

\\\\ 13 ////

Nellie showed him a bottle filled with a thick green fluid. "Your obeah. Uncle Wisi made it for you."

The commissaris studied the bottle. "Nice and fresh. What's the foam?"

"I shook it when I came up the stairs. You have to rub it into your skin, Uncle Wisi said, and then I'll have to pour a little into your bath."

"Would you put it on the night table?" He opened his wallet. "And could you give this to Uncle Wisi?"

"Isn't that rather a lot of money?"

"There are no free lunches," the commissaris said. "He did his best, I presume. And he said he would pass the money on." "You're not being sarcastic, I hope," Nellie said. "Uncle Wisi is very honest. I'll have you know. He gives things away and treats people for free and all. But the rich have to pay, because they've got the dough. You can't shave a snake, Uncle Wisi always says."

"I wasn't putting him down," the commissaris said, and glanced at the bottle. "You really think that'll work? I don't want to get a rash. I can handle the pain somewhat, but a skin disease won't improve my condition."

"You really think that that neighbor of mine is a bit of a creep, don't you?"

The commissaris sat up on his bed. "You don't?"

"No," Nellie said. "At first maybe, but not when I got to know him. I was still in the business then, and I thought most men were creeps."

Nellie put the notes into her apron pocket. She looked at a chair. The commissaris got off the bed. "Would you like to sit down?"

She smiled. "You're always so polite. I'm only learning now again that gentlemen exist. You should have seen my customers. Those Japanese, for instance. They looked like proper gents when they came into the bar, but if I wasn't careful they would tear me apart. I prefer blacks myself, but they never stop, and I had to set an alarm clock. When it buzzed they went out."

"Not very romantic."

"Romantics," Nellie said. "I had those too. They wanted to flirt and so on; I put them on the buzzer too."

"You don't mind if I lie down again?"

"Shall I cover you up? I've got a nice plaid."

"No," the commissaris said. "Tell me, Nellie, what exactly was the connection between Uncle Wisi and Obrian—there must have been something between them. And how many animals does Uncle Wisi have now?"

"Two. Opete and Tigri. You met them both. They're nice."

"And if I tell you now that the vulture was flying above the Olofs-alley last night and that the cat was about in that street too?"

"Damn."

The commissaris turned his head. "What did you say?"

"I said, 'damn.' That must have been what Uncle Wisi was doing Sunday night. I wasn't sure then, but I think I am now."

The commissaris waited.

"You know," Nellie said, "when you were with Uncle Wisi this afternoon—after I left, I mean—he was singing for you, wasn't he?"

"Yes?"

"And drumming?"

"He made some pleasant music."

Nellie bowed toward him, her hands on her thighs. "He was making music Sunday night too. Not so pleasant. He was creaking and yelling and the drum sounded nasty too. I couldn't sleep, and when he finally stopped, I had the most awful dreams."

"About what, Nellie?"

"About him, of course. I was afraid of Uncle Wisi, for the first time ever."

"You think he was damning Obrian?"

"Yes."

"But weren't they friends?"

Nellie shook her head. "No, they weren't friends."

"But they did see each other. You told me yourself that Obrian used to visit Uncle Wisi."

Nellie got up and looked out of the window.

"I don't understand," the commissaris said.

She looked over her shoulder. "How can I explain it to you. Take Henk, for instance. He visits with you sometimes, doesn't he?"

"Sure."

"For no reason?"

"No, there's usually some purpose. We work together, so I sometimes ask my wife to invite him to dinner. We're friends."

"You're his boss," Nellie said.

The commissaris smiled. "These are modem times, Nellie. Nobody is a boss anymore. We all work together."

"But he's got to do as you tell him."

"Well..." the commissaris said. "In a way, perhaps."

"All the way. Now, suppose that Henk won't do as you say. All the time, I mean."

"That would rather interfere with our cooperation," the commissaris said. "But I don't think I would damn the good adjutant."

"I don't express myself too well, do I, now? But can't you follow me at all?"

"I can," the commissaris said. "Until what time did Uncle Wisi sing and drum last night?"

"Until daybreak."

"So he was still at it at twenty past three?"

"You don't think that Uncle Wisi fired that gun, do you? Uncle Wisi is no shooter."

"He's more like a curser," the commissaris said. "And the damnation certainly worked. All I need to know now is the name of the person who executed the curse so that I can close the case."

Nellie sat on his bed. "I don't know the name, but when Uncle Wisi really wants something, he'll make it happen."

"Whether people agree with him or not?" the commissaris asked. "That's kind of bad, Nellie. Not the proper thing at all. Just imagine if we all got into that. Like making puppets of suspects and sticking pins into them. Or collecting their cut-off nails or bits of hair to burn them—that's done too. Witchcraft, you know. A despicable activity."

She tried to smile. "You don't really believe magic works."

"I wouldn't be surprised if it did," the commissaris said. "And if Uncle Wisi really practices the evil crafts, we should have a serious talk with him."

"He doesn't," Nellie said. "You don't know him yet. I see how he helps people. He has time for everybody and he doesn't mind not being paid. He listens to what seems to be the trouble and he hands out medicine and he sings and he—"

"He sang for Obrian and look what happened."

Nellie pursed her lips.

"Well?" the commissaris asked.

"Obrian was bad. He had to go. How could it go on? He kept getting stronger and the station here couldn't hold him either. You've no idea what Obrian could do."

"Tell me what he did."

"There used to be a woman here who was called Madeleine ..." Nellie said.

The commissaris listened.

"What do you think of that, eh? The cops were there, looking at the whole thing—
they
didn't know what to do either."

"Hmm."

"What would you have done?" Nellie asked.

"I think I would have looked too."

"And after that?"

"I would have worked on Obrian for a bit."

"And would you have caught him?"

The commissaris studied the end of his cigar. Nellie put an ashtray on the bed.

"Thank you. Yes, I think I would have caught him. He was a pimp and dealt in drugs. A criminal like that can be tripped up."

"Not Obrian," Nellie said. "Luku Obrian knew tricks. Whoever went after him tripped himself up."

The commissaris rubbed his leg.

"Would you mind taking your trousers off?"

"Would I mind
what?"

Nellie had picked up the bottle. "Please take your trousers off." She slipped his suspenders off his shoulders. "Uncle Wisi said that you shouldn't wait too long. Now, where are the sore spots?"

The commissaris closed his eyes.

"Please?"

"No."

"Yes." She removed his shoes and pulled at his trousers. "I have seen men's legs before and you can keep on your underpants. I'll put my hands in from the side so that it doesn't get too private."

The commissaris groaned.

"Does it hurt?"

"It burns."

"Isn't that a nice feeling?" Nellie rubbed. "Is this the right spot?"

"A bit higher."

"Then the underpants will have to come off too." She poured more of the green liquid into her hand. It does burn a bit, doesn't it? Not too bad, though. Now turn over," Nellie said. "I have to do a complete job. Rheumatism is in the bones, they say. I suppose it'll have to soak right in. There you are. Now, how do you feel?"

The commissaris dressed. "Thank you. Now I'm sleepy again. I'm about ready for a rest home."

"You take a bit of a nap and I'll cook supper. Do you like steak and fried potatoes? With fresh peas from the garden."

"Sounds excellent." He walked to the door. "Do you mind if I use your telephone?"

"It's in my office."

"Jan? Oh, I'm so pleased to hear your voice. Is everything all right?"

"Couldn't be better. I was very lucky. I'm in a pleasant little hotel and I'm doing some useful work too, but maybe you wouldn't think so if you saw what I was doing."

"What are you doing?"

"Napping mostly, dear. And there's a hammock in the garden, and flowers, decorative animals even. This is quite a pleasant place."

"Don't overdo it."

"I'll do my best."

"And where are you exactly?"

"Straight-Tree-Ditch, dear. I can't recall the number, but there's a sign outside, in several languages."

"And do they know who you are?"

"Only the owner, dear, a lady by the name of Nellie."

"Jan?"

"Yes?"

"Is it really a nice place?"

"Suitably decent, dear."

"And how long will you be?"

"Another day perhaps, or a little longer. I'm going to snoop about in the quarter tonight."

"Do be careful. Can I phone you?"

He read the number to her that was indicated on the phone.

"Good-bye, darling."

"Good-bye, dear."

The commissaris stumbled up the stairs, holding on to the railings with both hands. His legs cramped and glowed. "A witch's brew, rubbish, why do I let myself in for stuff like that?" He slammed the door behind him and staggered toward the bed. He felt faint when he dropped down. He tried to get up again but his muscles seemed too soft and he flopped back. He tried to stay awake.

I'm rowing, the commissaris thought, on a canal. How many years have I worked in the city, and I always wanted to row, but this is the first time. He pulled on the oars and the dory pushed its slender nose through short waves that split on the bow and foamed past its sides. The commissaris looked up at the majestic trees and high silver houses, sharply outlined against a clear sky. This must be the bend of the Gentleman's Canal, he thought, an elegant power spot of the old city, and I'm not just rowing along, I'm in uniform and therefore engaged in the legal execution of my duty. I'm an admiral; there are golden bands on my sleeves and medals on my chest. I seem to be an important man, but that would be an illusion, of course, for I'm only an official and serve the people. Meanwhile I'm enjoying myself, which is fine, for we are allowed to take pleasure in our work.

The canal widened out and he could no longer see the quays.

Dark gray clouds formed and sat on the horizon, and the commissaris leaned on his oars. The water around him swelled slowly without breaking. The surface was fouled with rotting leaves and slimy weeds. Another boat approached. A canoe, the commissaris thought, long and narrow and manned by savages, dreadful cannibals, listen to their yells. They aren't after me, I hope.

He noticed a sword at his side. He got up and pulled it from its scabbard.

The canoe glided past the dory. Obrian stood at the helm, his mouth open in a scream of fear. The beings that knelt in the boat paddled furiously. They rather look like turtles, the com- missaris thought, but not of the pleasant type. Look at those hard little eyes and their open beaks filled with razor sharp teeth. And why are they yelling?

A smaller canoe flashed over the water, much faster than the first. Only one man stood in the little boat; a cat had clawed itself into the bow and a large ominous bird sat on the rudder. "Hello, Uncle Wisi," the commissaris shouted, and waved his sword. "Hello, Tigri, hello Opete."

Uncle Wisi touched his beaded cap but kept his eyes on the fleeing Obrian. The cat's hair bristled and her tail swished. Opete seemed angry too, and leaned forward, his sharp beak pointing straight ahead. The vulture had spread its wings and seemed ready to fly off.

The commissaris sheathed his sword and reached for his oars. The dory sped over the water. "Uncle Wisi," the commissaris called. "Let me do it. I'll grab the criminal."

"Too late," Uncle Wisi shouted. "Get him, Opete."

The vulture flew up and dived down. Obrian tried to defend himself while his paddlers jumped overboard and sank as they howled, pulled down by the weeds that grabbed them from all sides. Tigri jumped too and hung on to Obrian's back, tearing his flesh with her claws and biting him in the neck. Opete's beak hacked into Obrian's head.

Uncle Wisi watched. The commissaris watched too.

"I wish you hadn't done that," the commissaris said.

"Couldn't really leave it to you," Uncle Wisi said. "Maybe it's for your own good. We all have our responsibilities."

Obrian's skeleton disappeared into the greenish jelly. Tigri rubbed her head against Uncle Wisi's leg. Opete sat on his shoulder and cleaned his beak on a lifted wing.

"We may as well go back, opo," Uncle Wisi said. "Shall I pull you?"

"No, thanks," the commissaris said. "This is my own boat, and the water rather belongs to me too."

The commissaris woke up, grinning and sweating. He got up and went downstairs.

Nellie met him in the corridor. "I'm almost done." She pointed at a box that stood in the corridor. "A lady brought that for you."

"What's in it?"

"I'm not too sure," Nellie said, "but I think it's alive."

"What did the lady look like?"

"A very nice lady," Nellie said. "She had white hair. She came in a Citroen, but she had double-parked so she couldn't wait."

The commissaris lifted the lid off the box. The straw inside moved.

"Ugh," Nellie said. "It isn't a snake or something, is it?"

A small head peered over the top. "Old friend," the commissaris said. "Came to keep me company, did you? Now, isn't that thoughtful of you?"