The Streetbird (21 page)

"Which is?"

"I believe," Cardozo said, "that neither Gustav nor Lennie had anything to do with Obrian's death."

"But your theory does include a suspect, I hope."

"Certainly, sir." Cardozo sat up eagerly. His fist pounded the table.

"Who?" asked the commissaris.

\\\\ 27 ////

"You have a suspect?" de Gier asked.

Cardozo tore at his curls. "Yes, sergeant."

"And who could your suspect be?"

"You."

Cardozo dropped his hands on the table and froze. All others moved. De Gier reacted most noticeably: he hid his face in his hands and groaned. Grijpstra crushed a cigar. Jurriaans pronounced a word consisting of consonants. Adjutant Adèle bit the nail of her right index finger. Ketchup veered forward and Karate backward. Reserve Sergeant Varé flattened his nose with the knuckle of his thumb, and the commissaris burped behind his handkerchief.

"Me," de Gier said. "It was
me.
The end is near."

"But, Simon," Grijpstra said. "What's the matter with you? The warm weather perhaps? Some trouble at home?"

"No," Cardozo said. "I feel fine. I've got my facts and I've got my theory. If I fit the facts together in some other way, I get lost in the absurd. Whenever they fit, they point at de Gier as the killer. Is it my fault that de Gier shot Obrian?"

His question wasn't answered.

"It is not," Cardozo said firmly.

"And those facts?" the commissaris asked. "Could we also try to fit them together?"

"I will disclose my facts." Cardozo opened his notebook. "Here is one. We have the report concerning Obrian's murder that was written and signed by Sergeant Jurriaans. My fact is the untruth contained in that report. The report states that the shooting took place at twenty past three in the morning, but Obrian was shot at three o'clock."

"You have witnesses?"

"Three roller-skating young gentlemen," Cardozo said, "who rolled along the Seadike and heard the shots tear through the tinkle of the local church's carillon."

"So I lied?" Jurriaans asked.

"Yes, sergeant."

"But I'm not de Gier."

"De Gier"—Cardozo's voice squeaked and he had to clear his throat—"is your friend. He shot Obrian at your request. You lied to protect de Gier. If you hadn't lied, he might have been suspected, which would have made you guilty too because of supplying him with the weapon."

"Fact?"

"And the funny clothes," Cardozo said, "No, not a fact, sergeant. Sorry, this part is only a suspicion."

"You're joking," Grijpstra said.

"I'm not joking. Here comes another fact. The murder weapon belonged to Eliazar Jacobs, which I can prove because the experts told me that the bullets that did away with Obrian originated in Jacobs' Schmeisser. Another fact is the actual friendship between Jurriaans and Jacobs. Another fact again— Jacobs lives five minutes' walking distance from the Olofsalley. Jacobs often drinks too much. The evening before the murder was spent by Jurriaans and Jacobs in one another's company, partly in Hotel Hadde. Jurriaans walked Jacobs home. Now another suspicion. Jurriaans put Jacobs to bed. Took the Schmeisser. Passed the Schmeisser to de Gier. De Gier shot Obrian. De Gier returned the Schmeisser to Jurriaans. Jurriaans took the weapon back to Jacobs' room."

"Jacobs never knew?" the commissaris asked. "We're talking about the Jacobs who works at the morgue?"

"Yes, sir. He was asleep, deeply asleep, because he was also drunk."

De Gier's mouth sagged. He closed and opened it again. "Cardozo, little friend, can I say something?"

"Yes," Cardozo said.

"So why did I later find the weapon in Jacobs' room? Why did I allow everybody to fire it? Why did I ask you to take it to headquarters?"

Cardozo smiled.

"No," Grijpstra said. "You've got to answer those questions. Are you quite out of your mind?"

Cardozo spoke softly. "I'm sane, adjutant. And I'm sad. You know why de Gier forced that situation. You've known him longer and better than I have. You know the bizarre jokes he fancies."

"Me?" de Gier asked. "Don't you think I'm an excellent cop?"

"You're an absolutely splendid cop," Cardozo said. "That's why I admire you so. You're my hero. I'm always imitating you. Your nonsense almost always contains sense. Because you're a good policeman you had the weapon confiscated. It had performed its task in trusty hands, but Jacobs is crazy and you didn't want him armed."

"I'm a bizarre splendid cop?" de Gier asked.

Cardozo caressed the table. He looked up. "I don't know what you are, Rinus. I've been trying to figure you out for a long time, but you never fit my definitions. A policeman who murders a bad pimp—you think that's exaggerated?"

"It seems exaggerated to me," the commissaris said.

"My friend's enemy is my enemy," Cardozo said. "Jurriaans is de Gier's friend. Obrian was Jurriaan's enemy. Sergeant Jurriaans is known was the king of the quarter. Obrian was a mere prince. The prince attempted to supplant the king. I know this station, I served here for a number of years. The sergeants are in charge of the station, and Jurriaans is the sergeants' sergeant. His word is law. He rules by a single gesture at the right moment. He protects and restrains. He's respected."

"You're talking about me?" Jurriaans asked.

Cardozo nodded at Jurriaans. "Yes. Your authority was impaired, a little more each day, and always by Obrian. Divide and rule, that's what you always did; you balanced the princes against each other. Prince Obrian, Prince Lennie, Prince Gustav. Obrian had pushed his brothers out and you could no longer rearrange the balance. Obrian's shadow increased; you couldn't stop the black cloud."

"Pimps can be caught," Jurriaans said, "as you saw."

"So why didn't you catch them earlier, sergeant? You made de Gier grab Gustav because you had lost control. You went all-out, but you could only do that because Obrian had been removed. You were paralyzed when he was still around."

"Why was Obrian so strong?" the commissaris asked.

Cardozo thought.

"Some strange power perhaps? A god?"

"Yes," Cardozo said. "The devil is also a god. Obrian was a man who could make use of the shadow force. I thought so when I saw his wicked dead smile. And then there's the tale about what happened to a woman called Madeleine."

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "No more of her."

"What happened?" the commissaris asked.

Ketchup described the incident.

Cardozo shook his head. "Such a lovely woman, in such a lowly attitude, in public too."

"Please," Grijpstra said.

"It was rather submissive," Karate said.

"Still a bit of a taboo," Varé said, "although it has been common practice for as long as humanity exists. I've seen prehistoric images depicting oral sex. I suppose that the local taboo is of Victorian origin, and local indeed—outside of Western Europe, no eyebrows are raised."

Grijpstra closed his eyes.

"You can open them again," de Gier said. "We'll change the subject. Cardozo, why are you dragging me into your theory?"

"You assisted Jurriaans," Cardozo said, "because you're his friend and because you sympathized with his predicament, and also because the challenge was new to you, for I'm sure you've never shot a pimp before. You're an adventurer and delight in being a hero."

"You make your sergeant sound like a teenage punk," Adjutant Adèle said.

"Maybe I don't express myself well," Cardozo said. "I really admire Sergeant De Gier. He's fearless, and when he thinks he should do something, nothing will hold him back. I always hesitate when I'm about to be courageous, and I usually only succeed in making a fool of myself."

"Courageous?" the commissaris asked. "To mow a man down with an automatic weapon when he's out for a stroll?"

"I think so," Cardozo said. "Not so much the deed itself as the idea that the sergeant did something that went against all the rules."

"So I put up a good show," de Gier said. "Now, what if I tell you that I was peacefully asleep when Obrian reaped his reward? May Tabriz be my witness, for she was stretched out in my arm."

"Who is Tabriz?" Adjutant Adèle asked. "Your girlfriend?"

"His fat cat," Grijpstra said, "that was assembled from the remnants of worn-out Persian rugs. A miserable sod that likes to break glassware and sniggers when you cut your toes."

"A very lovely animal," de Gier said.

"You put up a good show," Cardozo said, "and you're now putting up another. You shot Obrian at night, with a weapon you weren't familiar with. Then you left the burned-out corner house, crossed the Seadike, and entered the police station through a side door. Jurriaans took your weapon and disguise and you left the station again. You drove home, which at that time you could have done in ten minutes. Jurriaans telephoned you. You telephoned Adjutant Grijpstra. You picked him up and drove back to the station."

"And saw some roller-skating gentlemen on the way who would witness against me later on. But because I like to make real trouble for myself, I told you about those jokers so that you could find them and prove that Jurriaans and I had changed the time of my crime."

"That's what you did," Cardozo said, "because you didn't care. I think that's great."

"You do like to create chaos," Grijpstra said. "I've often noticed that tendency. And you often do the opposite of what circumstances seem to require."

"You too?" de Gier asked. "You're also in this scheme?"

"Adjutant Grijpstra plays no part in my theory," Cardozo said, "but Ketchup and Karate do. They contributed to the setup."

"You're not getting personal now, are you, Simon?" asked Karate.

"You wouldn't be slandering your closest friends, now, would you, Simon?" asked Karate.

"Cardozo's quite clever," Jurriaans said, "but some of his theory's details aren't clear to me yet. Why didn't I shoot Obrian myself? Since when do I need others to take care of my problems? I'm a fairly good shot, I don't need movie heroes to take my place."

"I thought we were friends," de Gier said.

"No," Grijpstra said, "you had to make use of de Gier's talents because you were on duty. You had to be on duty so that you could find the corpse, once the crime had been reported."

"And I'm a convenient weapon," de Gier said. "A robot anybody can switch on at the right time. I'll kill Obrian for you, and a day later I'll hunt Gustav down, at the request of the constables here. It's a good thing I managed to hold my temper or that fiend would be stored on ice too by now."

"But what's wrong?" the commissaris asked. "If I listen to you, it seems that everything has been taken proper care of, according to the Argentine method."

"The what method?" Adjutant Adèle asked.

"The Argentine method. The police commandos who drag suspects out of their beds and shoot them at will. The courts do not seem to work very well out there, so the police like to arrange matters themselves. In other South American countries the routine is rather similar. In Colombia bums are hunted down and shot, and even stray children who live on offal and theft. And in Peru the PIP operates. That's also police. If they interrogate a suspect, they undress him first, pull a plastic bag over his head and shoulders, and keep hitting him with truncheons until he confesses."

"I don't quite like that way of behavior," Cardozo said, "even if it does reestablish order. That's why I telephoned the commissaris."

The room became quiet. The commissaries looked at his watch. "A break." He got up. "I would like to see all of you here again in half an hour's time."

\\\\ 28 ////

"That Cardozo, hey? Sergeant?"

"Right," said Jurriaans.

"Will this last very long, sergeant?"

"Depends how strong the commissaris' strings are."

"Which strings, sergeant?"

Jurriaans touched Ketchup's shoulders with his fingertips. "The strings that have been attached to us."

The commissaris had sat down already and was talking to Varé. He got up, nodded at Adjutant Adèle, and pointed at Varé\ "Our colleague has also come up with a suspect, and a theory in which this suspect may fit. He will now elaborate on his findings."

"Ehhum," Varé said. "I appreciate your considering my ideas seriously. As a member of the reserve, I don't really belong to the scene and I often regret being outside, but sometimes I quite enjoy it too. To be able to observe from a distance may afford a better view."

His audience stared.

"Ehhum. Yes. It may also be good that I belong to a minority, since the Obrian case is black, and you're all white, so that you're looking down and I'm looking up. The case is black, yes, as black as Opete, our little angel of death, circling above the alley, and Tigri, the dark spy, sniffing at the corpse and at your legs."

Adjutant Adèle giggled. "You're putting it well."

"I'm glad you think so." Varé allowed a black hand to shoot from a white cuff. "And who are these somber powers, this Opete and this Tigri? They're the extensions of a magician." Varé' looked at the commissaris. "This is somewhat of a scientific lecture, sir, and if my expressions are too poetic, you're welcome to restrain me. I'm a sociologist and presently working on research regarding the culture of blacks in the Netherlands. The culture incorporates religion, and the black variety is called the winticult, which is magical, like all religions. We sociologists assume that Negroes are human too and therefore feel the need to tangle with the intangible. If this effort does not work out, an expert is hired. The expert in our case is the magician Uncle Wisi, who I now introduce as our suspect. Uncle Wisi is known to us. Adjutant Grijpstra has called on him. Uncle Wisi was Luku Obrian's teacher."

"A very old man," Grijpstra said. "Neither senile nor crippled, but unable to fire an automatic weapon and make a fast getaway."

Var6 nodded. "Indeed. His age makes him innocent of the crime, but he did know Jacobs and lived close to him. Uncle Wisi could therefore obtain the weapon, and anybody can disguise himself. However, I do admit that I don't see him as the actual killer."

"He's still your suspect? You suspect him as the intellectual author of the crime?"

"Yes," Varé said. "I'm familiar with the construction as it belongs to the material that I have to study for my inspector's examination.
He who makes use of another to commit a crime."

"Not an easy construction to present to court," the cornmissaris said.

"Indeed, sir, but easy to incorporate into a hypothesis."

"The motivation?" asked de Gier.

"I'm getting to that, sergeant. I do hope that you won't be upset if I tell you that I did some sleuthing on my own. It wasn't difficult for me, as I speak the Surinam language and I'm a civilian when not in uniform, while you people are cops twenty-four hours a day. My civilian status makes me harmless."

"Where were you?" Adjutant Adèle asked. "In the ladies' boudoirs?"

"The quarter was designed to accommodate the lonely male."

"Yes, yes," Adjutant Adèle said critically.

"Where was I, now?" Varé asked.

"At the winticult?" the commissaris asked.

"Thank you," Varé" said. "The city blacks that emigrated from the West—and most of the Negroes now living in Amsterdam belong to that category—never rejected their original religion completely. They may call themselves Christians, and even go to church, but often still rely on the services of their home altar. Sociologically seen, it's good that old habits die hard, since a separate culture often strengthens its practitioners. The cult traveled with the blacks in the slave ships that took them west and made them believe in one single God, the creator of the universe, Massa Gran-Gado, a power that's out of reach of worship, as it exists outside our dimensions. Blacks are practical. If something isn't necessary, they won't spend time on it, and they never built any temples in honor of the original mystery. The cult's sacred buildings are meant for the wintis, and the wintis are the projections of Him who will not let Himself be known—the spirits, or gods, of nature and later also of the cities. The cult worships the wintis that will separate, for our benefit, and also by our choice, into good and bad." Varé kept up a finger. "Originally, however, the wintis are neutral, and separate from any duality. We pray to the wintis and try to make them serve us."

"We?" the commissaris asked.

"They," Varé said, "but I identify with my subject now, to make my lecture easier to listen to."

"I see," the commissaris said. "Carry on, sergeant."

Varé" bowed. "I bow to my altar." He mumbled. "I utter sacred formulas." He poured from an imaginary bottle and spooned food onto an invisible plate. "I make offerings." He drummed. He blew a trumpet. He raised his arms and stamped his feet.

"I do all this," Varé said, "to please the winti. If I do that for a good reason, let's say to make somebody else happier or less sad, then the winti will answer by producing positive power. We call that power
opo. Opo
may possess objects, or substances, that will change into
obeah,
which is medicine.

"But," Varé said, "I can also make the winti work the other way, to enrich myself, for instance, and that way I manufacture
wisi
that can also turn into something which we also call
wisi."

"So you're a wisiman," Grijpstra said. "But don't tell me that Uncle Wisi serves the devil. I got to know the man a little, and I think I'm quite fond of the old fart."

Varé clapped his hands. "I'm so glad you said that, adjutant, for I share your feelings. Uncle Wisi is an outstanding old chap, but he nevertheless calls himself Wisi. Now, how would you explain that quirk in his character?"

"I'm not explaining anything," Grijpstra said.

"Then I'll try," Varé said. "How about Uncle Wisi having been converted? And changed into an obeahman who kept his former name?"

"Obrian was bad," De Gier said, "and he seemed connected to Uncle Wisi."

"I do agree. But please remember that I said that the wintis are essentially neutral. The winti provides power, and it's up to us how that power will be directed."

"One moment," the commissaris said. "Didn't you say just now that you made investigations of your own? What can you tell us about Obrian's background?"

Varé frowned. "Luku was once employed by one of the Dutch international lumber dealers, a company that cuts the valuable trees of the jungle without bothering to plant seedlings. Obrian's mother was a whore and his father might have died while doing forced hard labor, but it's hard to believe that Luku knew who his father was, because the children of prostitutes usually do not know their fathers' names. Luku was by no means stupid and his successful thefts from his employer made him an authority among his friends. He was a dignitary of the cult. The company accused him of fraud and he escaped to this country. Luku brought Opete with him, a vulture chick incubated under his arm, of the species which we call streetbird or carrion crow. The streetbird also functions in the cult, for they're supposed to embody a winti, not always but certainly in a case of being born in close contact with an initiate."

Karate and Ketchup scratched under their armpits and looked at each other.

"Wow," said Karate.

"Hup-ho," said Ketchup.

"Silence," the commissaris said. "If you please."

"Obrian arrived here," Varé" continued, "and became drunk at once. He stayed drunk for days on end. To be drunk is a form of heightened perception. After three or four days his mental state took its toll and his body began to become paralyzed and he foamed at the mouth. His friends took him to Uncle Wisi. One might say that Uncle Wisi cured his patient, but I prefer to think that Uncle Wisi recognized Obrian as a luku and made use of Obrian's condition to open him up a little further."

"For a beneficial purpose?" the commissaris asked.

"Absolutely," Varé said. "I'm convinced that Uncle Wisi wanted to strengthen Obrian's power so that he would be better able to guide and represent his people here."

"Well, he failed," said Jurriaans. "Obrian became a superpimp, a drug dealer, a slimy sadist."

Vare raised his hands to heaven. "The human being is free. We can always choose."

"Wasn't Uncle Wisi ashamed of what he had brought about?" asked De Gier.

"You've got it," Varé said. "That was his motivation."

"But Uncle Wisi didn't shoot Obrian," Grijpstra said sullenly. "I'll never believe that. That friendly old clown wouldn't point a gun."

"There are injunctions and prohibitions," Varé said. "No adept will pass his power without conditions. Uncle Wisi strengthened Luku Obrian's gift to handle the power, but he must have given him a taboo as well, and when a taboo is broken, the
keenu,
the curse, is triggered off. As soon as the
keenu
is released, the disciple dies."

"Pointing the bone?" Karate asked. "I saw that on TV the other night. With the Papuans, somewhere in New Guinea I believe. There were a couple of dry old chaps huddled around a fire, grunting and grumbling away, and all of a sudden one of them grabs a bone and points it somewhere, and whoever is at the other end, no matter how far away, croaks for sure. He has an accident or gets sick or something."

"You do carry on, you know," Ketchup said. "Obrian got shot. Not by accident. And he wasn't sick either."

"He was, I think," Varé said. "When you're shot, you do have an accident in a way. I would assume that Uncle Wisi set off the
keenu,
weakened Obrian by doing so, and thereby surrendered him to his enemies."

"So Uncle Wisi didn't point a bone," the commissaris said, "but a machine pistol, in someone else's hands."

Varé sat down.

"But what was the taboo that Obrian broke?" the commissaris asked.

"Hmm," said Varé.

"You have an idea?"

"Didn't your female informers tell you?" asked Adjutant Adèle.

"I think," Varé said, "but I only think so, aloud right now, that Obrian's taboo was somehow connected to this police station. Uncle Wisi is on good terms with us. He is, one might say, a special protege of Sergeant Jurriaans'. Today Uncle Wisi is a respected figure in the neighborhood, but his status was different when he first moved into the quarter. The inhabitants thought that he was some kind of monkey that had escaped from the jungle and could be teased. Sergeant Jurriaans wouldn't let them."

"Aha," Cardozo said, "so Obrian was supposed to show respect to the station."

"Respect?" Karate asked.

"Will we be excused if we laugh softly?" Ketchup asked.

"Interesting," the commissaris said. "Very. What do you think, Sergeant Jurriaans?"

"I have been listening attentively, sir."

"And there's nothing you could add?"

"When Obrian was shot," Jurriaans said, "I was downstairs behind the counter."

"I saw you there," said Karate.

"So did I," said Ketchup. "And never mind the time, that carillon is always off."

"A sergeant's official statement," said Grijpstra, "confirmed by two constables. Even the Supreme Court will bow in silence."

The commissaris checked his watch and stretched. "It isn't getting any earlier. Perhaps we should terminate this pleasant gathering."

His audience moved.

"But even so," the commissaris said, "something still bothers me. There must have been some direct cause, I keep on thinking. Mr. Obrian was a disappointment to Uncle Wisi, but the old man cannot have given up hope quickly. He must have warned his disciple on various occasions until something happened that made the master realize that the disciple had to be removed. At that time the
keenu
was raised by chanting and drumming,
then
the herbs burned, Opete flew over the alley, and Tigri sneaked through it, teeth bare, tail trembling, only
then
the rays of fire flashed and shot Obrian into damnation. But what was the direct cause that brought all that about? What could have been the specific reason?".

The answering silence was oppressive and broken only by Adjutant Adèle's pink right hand, attempting to squash a black ball-point.

"Adjutant Adèle," the commissaris asked. "Will you permit me to ask you a question?"

The adjutant's lips trembled.

"I have the impression," the commissaris said, "that you know Sergeant Varé well."

"I do," Adjutant Adèle said.

"An affair?"

Adjutant Adèle nodded.

The commissaris smiled helpfully.

Adjutant Adèle unbuttoned the breast pocket of her tunic and inserted the ball point. "I'm fond of black."

The commissaris nodded encouragingly.

"Obrian was black too," the adjutant said, "and particularly attractive to me. I also detested him, especially after he made his request."

"You met with him?"

She smiled ruefully. "Yes, in the street. From then on he was in all my dreams. I knew I would have to give in."

The commissaris' voice was toneless. "On the bridge?"

"Yes, sir. He specified the place." She eyed the commissaris calmly while Jurriaans filled in the gap. "She would have to be in uniform, sir, in full view of everybody."

"You knew?' the commissaris asked.

"Oh, yes, sir. She confided in me. I was aware that something was very wrong. I took the adjutant to dinner."