The Streetbird (13 page)

"Is that turtle yours?"

"And the lady is my wife." The commissaris picked the reptile up. Its shell fitted his hand partly but the turtle's head and legs dangled. "See how tame he is?"

Nellie opened the door to the garden and the commissaris put the turtle down.

"He's so fast," Nellie said. "Look at him running at my lettuce."

"Whoa," the commissaris said.

"No, that's fine. He can eat as much as he likes. How are your legs?"

"Better."

"You see?"

Nellie went back to the kitchen and the commissaris sat in the garden. The turtle chomped on a leaf. "Some of your mates were in my dream, Turtle," the commissaris said softly.

The turtle looked up, lettuce hanging out of its mouth.

"The wrong type altogether."

The turtle ate.

"But all ended well."

Nellie came out, laid the table, and put down a bottle of wine and two stemmed glasses. "You can get the cork out."

He accepted the corkscrew. "Nellie?"

"Yes, Uncle Jan?"

"Opete is on the wall. He wouldn't harm my turtle, would he?"

"Never," Nellie said. She rubbed the turtle's shell. "You can come out now, that bird is a friend."

\\\\ 14 ////

"One moment," Jurriaans said. "Just one tiny moment." He breathed in deeply, leaned back and forward again.
"Ketchup!"

Ketchup popped up and stood to attention.

"Take these colleagues to the police garage."

"Something good?" Ketchup asked. "Anything happening? Action at last?"

"A ride," Grijpstra said. "Nothing special. Sergeant de Gier took the time and trouble to stop a car this afternoon, and now there are extra complications. As if we don't have anything to do. One job at a time, I always say, blinkers on and straight ahead, then old age will come all by itself, but the sergeant begs to differ."

"Like me," Ketchup said. "I prefer to do everything at the same time. Karate, too. Making a mess, we call it, but we usually get to the end of everything nevertheless."

"You shouldn't talk when you're at attention," de Gier said.

Ketchup jumped up, came down with his legs apart and his hands on his back. "We're bad at protocol, because we serve with the uniformed branch. The detectives are higher, so they mind their manners, isn't that correct, sergeant?"

"Away at once," Jurriaans shouted. "Take the gentlemen and bring them back again, don't lose a moment."

Ketchup ran off and returned, driving a new Renault patrol car. Grijpstra and de Gier got in. The car's siren was wailing and its turning blue lights were reflected in passing bar windows. Grijpstra leaned toward Ketchup. "Easy, no need to panic, constable."

"Away at once," Ketchup shouted. "Not a moment to lose." The car screamed past the Prince Hendrik Quay, hardly braked for red traffic lights, veered away from the river again, turned sharply and raced into the Anna Frankstreet. Grijpstra cursed; de Gier grinned.

The garage doors slid up and the Renault shot into a large space lit by white neon tubes, a last complaint sighing from its siren. A white-haired gentleman in an impeccable suit jumped to the side.

"Good day, Mr. Ober," Grijpstra said.

"There was no need to rush, adjutant. Were the siren and chase lights being used under your orders?"

Ketchup marched up and saluted. "Mission completed, sir."

"I did not ask you anything, I'm talking to the adjutant."

"Yes, sir," Grijpstra said.

"Then I would appreciate a little less zeal on a future occasion."

"Yes, sir."

Ober waited.

"Sorry, sir."

"Yes, adjutant. Please follow me. There's the car that we caught, thanks to you. The suspects have been placed in custody. Good tip, adjutant."

De Gier coughed.

"It wasn't my idea, sir," Grijpstra said. "The sergeant spotted the suspect."

Ober never took his eyes off the adjutant's face. "I believe you two work as a couple and that you're the higher in rank?"

De Gier's elbow touched Grijpstra's side.

"Yes, sir," Grijpstra said.

"Right, adjutant."

Two mechanics reduced the remnants of the Mercedes into even smaller pieces. "I don't think we'll find any more," Ober said, "but we have enough to please the court. More than a pound of heroin in an aluminum tube dangling in the gas tank. Suspects deny any knowledge of the cargo of course, but they did tell us something already and the investigation is well under way. I wouldn't be surprised if further arrests will follow, and with a bit of luck we may even detain the Turks who smuggled the material in. Congratulations again, adjutant."

Ketchup whispered. "Who he?"

De Gier whispered back. "Chief Inspector Ober, Drug Brigade." The sergeant strolled off; Ketchup followed.

"Hello," a helmeted policeman standing next to a motorcycle said.

"Hello, Orang," Ketchup said. "Do you have a minute?"

De Gier walked on and admired neatly arranged heavy motorcycles being caressed by the screwdrivers of respectfully kneeling mechanics. Hairy bundles had been attached to some of the cycles' saddles. De Gier touched one. "What's that?"

"A scalp," a mechanic answered. "Whenever they arrest a Hell's Angel, they take a souvenir."

"Real hair?"

"Everything is real here."

"And that one over there? Real blood on it?"

"That one came from a Hell's Angel who harassed the officer."

"Whacked with a billy club?"

"Cracked the fellow's skull." The mechanic shrugged. "That'll teach them to fight our selected troopers. Who are you? A journalist?"

De Gier showed his card.

The mechanic returned it with two hands.

"And that?" de Gier asked. "Isn't that a kid's cart? Or was, rather?"

"The kid is dead," the mechanic said. "Hit by a drunk. The troopers got the drunk."

"This place is about as bad as the morgue." De Gier wiped his forehead with his handkerchief. He saw Ketchup, gesturing at the motor cop called Orang. The cop was listening attentively. The man was short and square and his long arms hung loosely, reaching beyond his knees. Under the edge of his orange helmet glittered deep-set black eyes above a beard that reached his cheekbones.

"That's Orang Utan," the mechanic said, "one of our worst, but the best rider in the city."

"Sergeant de Gier?"

De Gier walked toward the chief inspector. "Sir?"

"What made you stop the Mercedes?"

De Gier rubbed his chin. "Well, sir, something wasn't right, I thought. A black hoodlum in such an expensive car. Rather strange, I thought."

"We are supposed not to discriminate, sergeant. Would you have stopped the suspect if he'd been white?"

"Just a moment, now," Grijpstra said.

"Adjutant?"

"I don't agree, Mr. Ober. Last month we stopped a young man driving a new BMW convertible. The suspect was dressed in torn clothes and had long blond hair. It turned out that he had stolen the car. He was white."

"Not a nice young fellow," de Gier said. "Stayed in a discarded houseboat where we found a female minor who prostituted herself for him."

"I see," the chief inspector said. "Would you two care for a good cigar?" Ober flicked his golden lighter.

The detectives thanked him.

"Society degenerates continuously," Ober said, sucking smoke out of his cheroot. "But we should be careful to maintain our morals. Take that bearded constable over there, for instance. Recently criticized because he wounded some teenage suspects."

"Suspected of what, sir?" Grijpstra asked.

"Cut him off and called him a nigger."

"But he isn't a nigger," de Gier said. "More like a gook, I would say, from one of our former colonies in the East, isn't he?"

"Sergeant!"

"Sir?"

"Orang Utan is from the island of Ambon," Grijpstra said. "The religion out there is martial. Very courageous, the Ambonese are supposed to be. And Orang was mentioned in the paper the other day. A little boy had gotten himself stuck between the automatic doors of a streetcar and was dragged along, held by his foot. Orang cut off the streetcar. The motorcycle was a total loss and Orang was injured, but the little boy was saved. Anything else we can do for you, sir?"

"No, adjutant."

Ketchup reversed the Renault and opened its passenger door. His hand slid to the dashboard. "No," Grijpstra said, pushing the constable's hand away from the siren's switch.

"You wouldn't be frightened of that martinet who swallowed a walking stick, adjutant?"

"Very frightened," Grijpstra said. "You behave, and we all stay out of trouble. Take your time, constable. Rinus?"

"Yes?" asked de Gier.

"Why didn't you tell Mr. Ober that you had seen the suspect exiting from a drug-infested house?"

De Gier stretched. "Does it matter? He's caught anyway. And the chief inspector irritated me a little."

Ketchup drove through red lights. Grijpstra touched his shoulder. "Don't."

"Sorry, adjutant. Matter of habit, I suppose. Look, there's Gustav, driving his Corvette." Ketchup waved.

The low sports car's driver looked away. "Never mind," Ketchup said. "We'll catch you tomorrow. Luku has been fried and you'll be stewed." He looked at de Gier. "I hear you'll go on patrol with us tomorrow."

"Yes," de Gier said, and got out. "Hello, Cardozo. What happened? Fall into something?"

"Fell into me," Cardozo said. "Tell me about the sun roof next time you give me your car. It won't close."

"Paint?" Grijpstra asked.

"The collected shit," Cardozo said, "of a complete squadron of until recently constipated seagulls. I saw it coming, but the roof was stuck."

"It's dripping out of your hair," Ketchup said. "Would you mind moving up a bit?"

Cardozo walked away.

"Not too even-tempered lately," de Gier said. "Now I've still not asked him what was in the little carton."

"It's just the right time to go and eat something," Grijpstra said, "and then to bed."

"And Hotel Hadde?"

"We'll get up again."

"Hotel Hadde?" Ketchup asked. "You better be careful."

"We're peaceful lads," Grijpstra said. "Befriending others wherever we go. Come along, sergeant."

"I'll have a bite," de Gier said. "But I don't need sleep. Will you be on duty later on, Ketchup?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"I'll go along."

"In uniform," Grijpstra said.

"No."

"Oh, yes. And then you'll change again and go to Hotel Hadde in your regular clothes."

De Gier turned away.

"Everybody seems a little short-tempered lately," Grijpstra said to Ketchup. "Rinus?"

De Gier turned back. "Now what?"

"Eat."

"Bah," de Gier said.

\\\\ 15 ////

"What did you believe before?"

"I thought," Jurriaans said, "that you had slipped in from some movie studio during the period that cops were still heroes. What can I do for you?"

"I'm reporting for duty."

Jurriaans bent over his clicking teletype. "Then you shouldn't be here. You should be in the south of the city. Riots again. Squatters who don't want to leave villas. We've got tanks helping us there, to crush the barricades."

De Gier read the message too. "Tanks indeed. Guns too?"

"They took the guns off, but one house is on fire and there are some wounded. And a dead Pekingese. Got crushed by an armored car. A lady's companion, with hair combed over its pop eyes. Nobody gets any respect anymore. Why don't you join the fray, before they get a Chihuahua?"

"I've got something else to do," de Gier said. "Dead pimp, remember? To patrol the area in order to acquaint myself with the local atmosphere."

"True," Jurriaans said. "Ketchup and Karate will be ready in a moment. You might help them with their report meanwhile. I didn't accept their previous attempt because the charge wasn't correctly stated. They're in their own room, at the end of the corridor."

De Gier found the room. The constables were huddled over a typewriter. He read the heading of their report: "Bicycle Without Rear Light." "You still bother with that?"

"Not really," Karate said, "but this bicycle belongs to a pimp. We've got to apply all available laws, so that the bad guys know we're still around."

De Gier read on. "Why was he on a bicycle? Something the matter with his Ferrari?"

Ketchup pushed the typewriter away and emptied a watering can into potted plants. "The suspect drives an antique Bentley, but we have a parking problem here and it's easier to collect his whores' earnings on a bicycle. Am I doing this right, Karate? The fern gets a lot and the little round leaves just a drop?"

"Other way around, I think." Karate typed on, poking at the keys with two fingers. "This is quite a complicated report, sergeant. The suspect's bicycle was equipped with a rear light but the generator hadn't been pushed against the tire because the suspect claimed the squeaking makes him nervous. Pimps are sensitive types, as you know. Makes it difficult for us. We were charging him with not having the light, while in fact it was there, but not working, and according to Sergeant Jurriaans we have to apply another article that states the charge more precisely but carries a lower fine."

"You're just irritating the citizen," de Gier said.

Karate arranged carbon paper between two sheets and started on the continuation of his report. "Not at all. When we're done with this, we'll think of something else to bother the suspect."

Ketchup picked up a plant and poured water from its pot into its neighbor. "And if we can't come up with something suitable, we'll just ring his bell to tell him that we haven't come to arrest him."

Adjutant Adèle came in. De Gier got up. She nodded. He sat down again.

"The plants are doing well, adjutant," Ketchup said. "I'll be giving them their vitamins tomorrow. The fern is trying to grow, it seems."

"You're drowning them again," Adjutant Adèle said. She read through the report. "My, haven't you been busy? And what was with the lady you've just dragged to the cells? Had she left her garbage can out after sundown?"

"The suspect was intoxicated," Ketchup said, "and talking to herself. She was also barefoot."

"Did you apply handcuffs?"

"She had driven her car into a tree, adjutant, and the car didn't have any license plates. And she pissed on the floor here."

"Bah," Karate said. "We were polite enough, and she had to wait a moment because the rest rooms were occupied. But she couldn't control herself and pissed straight into her pants. A silly suspect. I mean, you people also have muscles to close the opening, just like we have, haven't you?"

"That'll be enough," Adjutant Adèle said.

"And I was allowed to mop up the mess," Ketchup said, "because I had brought the lady in. It's always the street crew that has to do the work, and the inside staff sort of lolls about."

Adjutant Adèle left the room. De Gier watched her leave.

"Yes," Ketchup said.

"Yes what?" De Gier asked.

"The way you were watching the adjutant. I agree with you. Ladies are more sensuous, after all."

"The reserved approach wins in the end," Karate said.

"Madeleine could carry herself like that," Ketchup said. "She would never openly invite a man, but she did sit in a display window and if you had the money and looked decent you could get into her. Most of them smile and show a bit of flesh—that seems okay, but it turns you off after a while."

"Adjutant Adèle," de Gier said, "does not fit in the category on principle. Anyway, she has a friend."

"How did you manage to find that out so quickly?" Karate asked.

"A black Ph.D., Reserve Sergeant John Varé."

"Straight A's," Ketchup said. "But the Murder Brigade employs our best brains. You've also been told that Sergeant Varé is married?"

"He's being told now," Karate said. "By little blabbermouth himself."

A big man stumbled backward into the room and upset Karate's table. Karate was thrown against the wall. A second man, as big as the first, held on to the door post. He bled from his ear. Three constables wrestled themselves past him and pulled the first man to his feet.

The first man resisted. The second man attacked the first. The men punched each other and were punched by the constables.

"What's this?" shouted Ketchup and Karate.

The two men called each other names while they grappled. The constables pulled them apart. De Gier grabbed the first man and turned him toward a constable. Handcuffs clicked.

"That's one," de Gier said. "What happened to the other?"

The other lay on the floor. De Gier bent down and pulled him to his feet. "Thank you, sergeant," one of the constables said. "Come along, men."

"But what seems to be the trouble?" de Gier asked.

"This one," the constable said, "the one with the swelling eye, is a youth of shame, and this one, with the bleeding mouth, is his customer. Mouth picked up Eye, in the Alley of the Crazy Nun. We saw the meeting from our patrol car but took no action since it's all right for two citizens to meet. When we saw them again, the meeting had become a fight, and when we made inquiries, we were told that Eye promised certain favors, and received a suitable payment in advance, but did not execute the favors properly, or so says Mouth."

"Fairies?" Karate said. "Such well-developed gentlemen?"

"My typewriter is broken," Ketchup said, "and my chair lost a leg. Would you mind stating that in your report?"

"I certainly will," the constable said. He turned to the prisoners. "Forward, march." He left the room.

"An efficient and also polite constable," de Gier said.

"A reserve cop," Karate said. "They don't know any better. Now all I have to do is get me another typewriter and another chair and type the report once more, because everybody wiped his footsies on the last version. And if there's still any time left, we might even go on patrol."

"I lost a button off my tunic," de Gier said. "Any needles and thread in this station?"

"Adjutant Adèle," Ketchup said. "I'll show you the way."

"Here's the needle," Adjutant Adèle said, "and here's the thread. You're on your own."

De Gier closed one eye.

"Very well. Now take it through your button and make a loop."

"Like this?"

"Right again. Now insert the needle into the material."

"Sergeant de Gier?" Ketchup asked. "You're wanted at the counter. Sergeant Jurriaans is asking for you."

De Gier followed Ketchup. "And the button?" asked Adjutant Adèle.

"Would you mind?"

"I'll oblige," Adjutant Adèle said. "But perhaps I shouldn't. If men could learn to take care of themselves and not to invade our space at inopportune times, there might be more balance and less conflict."

"The adjutant is an asshole," Ketchup said in the corridor.

"But lovely."

"A lovely asshole," Ketchup said.

"This gentleman," Sergeant Jurriaans said, "is a friend of our station and his name is Slanozzel. And this sergeant is also a friend of this station and his name is de Gier."

De Gier shook the offered slender sunburned hand and noted that Slanozzel had risen above the bourgeoisie, was no longer young, dressed expensively but well and carried a facial expression that could be defined as friendly, dignified, and experienced.

"Good evening," de Gier said.

"Mr. Slanozzel," Jurriaans said, "owned, up till half an hour ago, a wallet that contained his papers and a goodly sum of money. He visited with a local woman in the Saltstreet."

"Perhaps he will visit her again," de Gier said, "in my presence. I'll be right back. I left my tunic upstairs."

De Gier ran up the stairs. The adjutant was done. "Thank you," de Gier said. "Would you happen to know who Mr. Slanozzel may be?"

"Such a dear," Adjutant Adèle said. "Is he downstairs? I'll go and greet him."

"Not now, adjutant. There's a problem. What do you know about him?"

"A businessman residing on the island of Curaçao in the Caribbean. Owns factories on the South American mainland, in Colombia and Venezuela. Deals in junk metals and skins, tanned in Barranquilla. Wealthy, and a regular visitor to the quarter."

"Business?"

"Pleasure."

"Why does he copulate here and not where he lives?"

"He'll copulate there too," Adjutant Adèle said, "but he has sentimental ties with this city. He was born here but escaped just before the war broke out."

"Jewish?"

"Yes." Her nostrils flared. "So?"

De Gier showed his profile. "I have a Jewish grandmother. Do admire the gentle curve of my nose."

Slanozzel was still at the counter. De Gier saluted. "I'm all yours. Shall we go?"

"A peculiar feeling," Slanozzel said, strolling along with the sergeant. "To be without means all of a sudden. And without identification, which makes me a nonperson." He grinned. "Not a bad idea, don't you think? Nameless? Transparent? Like a statue made out of compressed air?"

"But you do want your papers back?"

"I do, sergeant. The liberty which the undefinable offers frightens me. I haven't seen you here before. Are you new to this station?"

"I work with the Murder Brigade."

"The Obrian case?"

"Yes, Mr. Slanozzel. You knew the victim?"

"We talked at times. A disgrace to his people, sergeant, and he could have been a gift. A most outstanding man. This is the Saltstreet, and there's the lady we want to speak to, on her way to her car."

De Gier ran after the woman and touched her shoulder. "Ma'am, I want a word with you. In your room. Lead the way."

The woman's hair had been dyed yellow. She had small eyes in a narrow face extenuated by a high forehead. Her skin seemed pulled too tightly over her skull.

"I didn't do anything." She unlocked the door. "And I don't know that man. Is he with you?"

"We'll talk inside."

The woman switched on a red lamp and closed the curtains."Isn't this more cozy? What do you two want of me?"

"Can we sit down?"

A missing tooth showed in her smile. "You can lie down too. Two at a time? Quick or slow?"

"This man visited you about half an hour ago."

"Yes? I never remember faces."

"And Sergeant Jurriaans sends his regards. Don't make things too hard on yourself."

The woman sat on the edge of her chair and dug her nails into the material of her short skirt. "The client wasn't properly satisfied?"

"No complaints," Slanozzel said. "But you might return my wallet."

The woman looked at the floor.

"Been working here awhile?" De Gier asked.

"Just started, and in trouble already."

"Where are you from?"

"Rotterdam."

"So am I," De Gier said. "I was bora on the Duke's Wall."

She tried another smile. "Me on the Resident's Alley."

"That's around the corner."

"Yes. But you've lost the accent."

"Been here too long."

She took cigarettes from her bag, hesitated, but extended the packet to the sergeant. "You smoke?"

"Please."

"And you?"

"No, thank you," Slanozzel said. "I'm fighting a cough."

She lit de Gier's cigarette. "That Jurriaans has a good reputation. The women here say so. He always helps, when there's trouble with the customers or with the sharks who rent us our rooms."

De Gier put out his hand. "The wallet, please?"

She studied a broken fingernail. "There'll be a charge?"

De Gier looked at Slanozzel.

Slanozzel adjusted the golden clasp of his silk tie. "If the wallet comes back, I'll forget I ever missed it."

"Ma'am?" de Gier asked.

The woman got up. "I threw it away."

De Gier got up too. "Over a wall?"

"Yes. You'll have to climb it."

"Here you are," the woman said.

"I wish there was something I could do to show my gratitude," Slanozzel said back in the station.

"There's no need," Sergeant Jurriaans said. "Our services are funded by the taxpayers."

"I don't pay any tax, since officially I have no fixed abode. There are times that I'm proud of my clever evasions, but an occasion like this clouds my conscience."

"We all feel guilty," Jurriaans said. "To live with guilt strengthens character."

De Gier looked at his watch. "I'll have to go."

Slanozzel walked with the sergeant. "Are you doing well with the Obrian case?"

"We have some ideas, sir. Too vague for definition at this point."

"I have an ear for languages," Slanozzel said, "and I often go to Surinam. I can't say I'm fluent in their lingo, but I can understand most of what they say. I had a beer this afternoon in a bar frequented by blacks."