Death of a Hawker (8 page)

"And what happens now?"

"I'll sell the stocks. I phoned Bezuur about an hour ago to tell him about Abe's death. He said I can go on with the business if Esther lets me, for she will inherit it. And I can repay the loan as planned."

"Did you speak to Esther?"

"Not yet."

"And what will you do when you have moved the stocks?"

"No idea. Find a partner maybe and go on as before. I like this business, especially the irregularity of it."

"And if Esther won't let you go on?"

Louis shrugged and smiled. "I don't care. Bezuur will sell the stocks and get his money back and the rest will go to Esther. I'll just leave. Nobody depends on me."

"Detached, are you?" de Gier said, offering a cigarette.

Thanks. Yes. I am detached, lb hell with it. But I am sorry Abe died, I enjoyed being with him. He taught me a lot. If he hadn't taught me I would be very upset now but you find me playing happily with clockwork animals. And I am not pretending. Any more questions?"

"Was Abe close to anyone else? Any enemies?

Competitors?"

Louis thought, taking his time. "He slept with a lot of girls," he said in the end. "Perhaps he stepped on somebody's toes. I am sure some of those girls had lovers, or husbands even. He behaved like a stud bull at times. And he insulted people, of course. Insulted them by not caring. They could go blue in the face and blow steam out of their ears and he would just laugh, not offensively to annoy them, but because he didn't care. He would tell them they were balloons, or stuffed lifeless animals."

"But he included himself, didn't he?"

"Oh yes, he refused to see any value anywhere."

"So why did he make money then?"

Louis got up and put the carton in a corner of the room. "If nothing matters you can laugh and you can cry, can't you?" De Gier looked blank. "Abe preferred to laugh, with a full belly and a cigar in his mouth and a car parked in the street and a boat in the canal. I don't think he would have minded if he hadn't had any of those things, but he preferred having them."

"Ah yes," de Gier said.

"You don't understand," Louis said. "Never mind."

"You really admired him, didn't you?" de Gier asked viciously.

"Yes, copper, I did. But now he is dead. The balloon has burst. More questions?''

"No."

"Then I'll go to the nearest pub and have six glasses of colored alcohol, and then I'll go and sleep somewhere. There'll be a girl in the pub who'll let me go home with her. I don't want to spend the night here."

De Gier got up from the floor and left the room. He was too tired to think of any suitable repartee. He found the toilet before he returned to Esther's room and washed his face with cold water. There was a small mirror in the lavatory and he saw his own face. His hair was caked with soapstone powder and mud and there were paint spatters on his cheeks; the eyes looked lifeless, even his mustache drooped.

"Well?" Esther asked.

"I heard the name Bezuur."

"Klaas Bezuur," Esther said slowly, inviting him with a gesture to sit in the easy chair again. "Yes, I should have mentioned him but I haven't seen Klaas for such a long time that I have forgotten him. He asked me to marry him once but I don't think he meant it. Abe and he were very close once, but not anymore."

"Did they fall out?"

"No. Klaas became rich and he had to give up working in the street market and traveling about with Abe. He had to take care of his business. He lives in a villa now, in one of the new suburbs, Buitenveldert I think."

"I live in Buitenveldert," de Gier said.

"Are you rich?"

"No, I have a small flat. I expect Bezuur lives in a quarter-of-a-million bungalow."

"That's right. I haven't been to the house although he has asked us but Abe didn't want to go. He never visited anyone unless he had a good reason, sex, or a party, or a business deal, or a book he wanted to discuss. Klaas doesn't read. He's a bit of a slob now; he was very fat and closed up the last time I saw him."

"I'd better go," de Gier said, rubbing his face. "Tomorrow is another day. I can hardly see straight."

She saw him to the door. He said good night and meant to walk away but stopped and stared at the canal's surface. A rat, frightened by the tall looming shape of the detective, left its hiding place and jumped. The sleek body pierced the oily surface with a small splash and de Gier watched the converging circles fading out slowly.

"Aren't you going?" a voice asked, and he looked around. Esther stood at the open window of her room on the second floor.

"Yes," he called back softly, "but don't stand there."

"He can throw his ball," Esther said, "if he wants to. I don't mind."

De Gier didn't move.

"Rinus de Gier," Esther said, "if you aren't going you may as well come in again. We can keep each other company." Her voice was calm.

The automatic lock clicked and de Gier climbed the two flights of stairs again. She stood at the window when he came in, and he stood behind her and touched her shoulder. "The killer is a madman," he said softly. "To stand here is to invite him."

She didn't reply.

"You are alone in the house. Louis told me he is sleeping out. If you like, I'll telephone Headquarters and we'll have two constables guarding the house. The riot police have gone."

"Here," he said and gave her the toy mouse he had put in his pocket when Louis wasn't looking. Esther had left the window and was wandering through the room. She was looking at the tin animal as if she didn't know what it was.

"A mouse," de Gier said. "You can wind it up and put it on the floor. It walks and it jumps a bit. It's yours."

She laughed. "What's this? Shock treatment? I didn't know the police had become subtle. Are you trying to unnerve me so that I'll drop my defense and give you a valuable clue?"

"No," de Gier said. "It's a clockwork mouse."

"Abe used to give me things too. Seashells and bits of driftwood and dried plants. He would buy them on the market or find them on the beach somewhere and keep them in his room, and then he would suddenly come into my room, usually when he thought that I was depressed about something or other, and give me a present. I still have some of them."

She pointed at a shelf and de Gier saw some shells, bits of white and pink coral, a twig with dried seedpods. Esther was crying. "A drink," she said. "We need a drink. He has a bottle of cold jenever in the fridge, I'll go and get it."

"No, Esther. I have to go, but you can't stay here by yourself."

"Do you want me to come home with you?"

De Gier scratched his bottom.

She giggled through her tears. "You are scratching your bottom, are you nervous? Don't you want me to come home with you? I'll go to the police hotel if you have one, or you can lock me in a cell for the night."

De Gier adjusted his scarf and buttoned his jacket.

"You look a bit scruffy," Esther said, "but you have had a hard day. You are still handsome. I'll come home with you if you like. The house makes me nervous. I keep on thinking of Abe's face and that spiked ball you keep talking about. A good-day you said. It's all too horrible."

De Gier brushed his mustache with his thumb and index ringer. The hairs were sticking together, he would have to wash it. He grimaced. He would get soap in his mouth. He always got soap in his mouth when he washed his mustache.

"You aren't a sexual maniac, are you?" Esther asked. "It'll be safe to go home with you?" She laughed. "Never mind. If you are a maniac you'll be a very tired maniac. I'll probably be able to handle you."

"Sure," de Gier said. "Why were you standing at the window?"

"I heard a splash. I thought the killer had come back and that he had dropped his ball into the canal."

"So why go to the window? It's the most dangerous place in the house. Abe got killed at the window, or, rather, we think so now."

"I don't mind."

"You want to die?"

"Why not?"

"You are alive," de Gier said. "You'll die anyway. Why not wait?"

Esther stared at him. He noticed that she had a thick underlip and a wide nicely curved upper lip.

"All right," de Gier said. "I'll take you to my sister's place or anywhere else you want to go. You must have friends in town. This Corin lady you mentioned just now, for instance. Or relatives. Or I can take you to a hotel; there are lots of hotels. I have a car, it's parked near the Newmarket. I'll go and pick it up and you can pack a bag. I'll be back in five minutes."

"I'll go with you and come back tomorrow. Perhaps it'll be better tomorrow. I have washed the floor of Abe's room. I won't stay here tonight."

"I have a cat," de Gier said as he opened the door of the car for her. "He's very jealous. He'll probably want to scratch you and he'll wait for you in the corridor in case you want to go to the toilet. Then he'U jump you suddenly and yowl. He may also piss on your clothes."

"Maybe I should go to a hotel after all."

"If you want to."

"No," she said and laughed. "I don't mind your cat. I'll be nice to him and my clothes will be in my bag. It's a plastic bag and it's got a zip. I'll pick him up and turn him over and cuddle him. Cats like to be cuddled."

"He can't stand it if people are nice to him," de Gier said. "He won't know what to do."

"There'll be two of us," Esther said.

De Gier was on the floor, trying to adjust to the hardness of his camping mattress. Esther was standing in the open door of his small bedroom, her finger on the light switch.

"Good night,'' Esther said.

"Good night."

"Thanks for the use of your shower."

"You are welcome."

"Your bed looks very comfortable."

"It's an antique," de Gier said from the floor. "I found it at an auction. The man said it came from a hospital."

"I like the frame," Esther said. "All those ornate metal flowers. And it's very nicely painted. Did you do it yourself?"

"Yes. It was a hell of a job. I had to use a very fine brush."

"I am glad you didn't use a lot of colors. Just gold, lovely. I hate these new fads. Some of my friends have used all the colors of the rainbow to decorate their houses, and those horrible transfers! Butterflies in the toilet and animals on the bath and funny pictures in the kitchen and you are forced to read the same jokes over and over again. Bah!"

"Bah!" de Gier said.

"This must be a good place to live in. Just a bed and a bookcase and a lot of cushions and plants. Very good taste. Why do you have the one chair? It doesn't seem to fit in."

"It's Oliver's. He likes to sit on a chair and watch me eat. I sit on the bed."

She smiled.

Beautiful, de Gier thought, she is beautiful. She had turned the switch now and the only light in the room came from a lantern in the park. He could only just make out her shape but the light caught the white of her breasts and face. She was wearing his kimono but she hadn't tightened the sash.

She can't feel like it now, de Gier thought. Her brother died today. She must still be in a state of shock. He closed his eyes, trying to destroy the image in his bedroom door but he could still see her. When she kissed him he groaned.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

He groaned again. The commissaris will find out. Grijpstra will find out. And Cardozo, the new detective on the murder squad, will find out and make sly remarks. And Geurts and Sietsema will know. The murder squad will have something to discuss again. De Gier the ladykiller. A detective who goes to bed with suspects. But he hadn't planned it. It had happened. Why will they never accept that things happen? Oliver yowled and Esther jumped.

"He bit me! Your cat bit me! He sneaked up to me from behind and bit me! Ouch! Look at my ankle!"

The light was on again and de Gier rushed to the bathroom and came back with a bandage. Oliver sat on the chair and watched the scene. He looked pleased. His eats pointed straight up and his eyes looked bright. His tail flicked nervously. Esther tickled the cat behind the ears and kissed him on the forehead. "Silly cat, aren't you? Jealous cat! It's all right, I won't take him away from you."

Oliver purred.

She switched the light off and took de Gier by the hand.

The kimono had dropped to the floor. Oliver sighed and curled up.

"He doesn't watch, does he?" Esther whispered on the bed.

De Gier got up and closed the door.

The rest of the sentence was a mumble, a mumble which changed into a soft pleasant polite snore. The commissaris patted her shoulder with a thin white hand. He hadn't asked for coffee, he hadn't said any* thing at all. She had probably noticed that he was awake and her sense of duty had been aroused. Dear Katrien, the commissaris thought, dear excellent soul, soul of souls, you are getting old and weak and tired and there are more lines in your face than I can count. Have you ever shared my thoughts? Perhaps you have.

He patted her shoulder again and the gentle snore changed into deep breathing. He sat up and pushed the blankets away and crossed his legs, straightening his spine. He lit a small cigar and inhaled the first smoke of the day, blowing it away toward the open window. In the garden his turtle would be rowing about in the grass. It was eight o'clock and Sunday morning. The city was silent without the growl and clank of traffic. A thrush sang in the garden, the sparrows had left their nests above the drainpipe and were rummaging about in the hedge, twittering softly, and the magpies were looking for more twigs to reinforce their domed nest in the poplar. He could hear the flap of their wings as they wheeled about just outside his window. He grunted contentedly.

There had been a dream and he was searching for its memory. It had been an interesting dream and he wanted to experience it again. Something to do with the garden, and with the small fishpond at the foot of the poplar, and with a splash. He sucked his cigar and the dream came back to him. He had been in the garden but his garden had been much bigger, spreading far into the distance, and the fishpond had been a vast lake. And the poplar was a forest, and the turtle was close. The turtle was his ordinary size, small, compact, self-contained and friendly, with a lettuce leaf in his mouth. The commissaris had been expecting something and so had the turtle, for it was craning its leathery neck and chewing excitedly. It had been staring at the blue metallic sky and the round white moon flooding the lawn with soft downy pale light.

And then it came. A purple spot growing quickly in size. Mauve and moving. Splitting into two individual but similar shapes. Female, with large wings. They were so close that he could see their long limbs, curved breasts, calm faces. He saw their features, high cheekbones and slanting eyes. Quiet faces but intent, purposeful. Wings fluttered as they turned above him, him and the turtle, who had lost his benign solitude and was trying to dance in the high grass and had dropped his lettuce leaf. The commissaris was squatting down, holding on to the turtle's shield. He recognized the winged shapes' faces. They resembled the Papuan who had once been arrested by the murder-squad detectives and who had escaped again without leaving a trace. Perhaps they were his sisters. Or his messengers. Or his thoughts, reaching out from wherever he was now. The commissaris lost his association. The apparitions were so close above him now that he could have touched their slender ankles if he had reached out. The wings moved again and they were gaining height. They hovered above the lake and then, first one, then the other, folded their wings, and dropped. They hit the surface of the lake like arrows and plunged right through.

The turtle had lost all self-control and was capering about at the commissaris' feet, distracting his attention. When he looked up again the mauve figures were with him on the grass, with spread wings, observing him and showing a glimmer of amusement in their sparkling eyes and softly smiling mouths. That was the dream. He rubbed the bald spot on his skull, amazed that the dream had come back to him. He didn't like purple or mauve and he had never been particularly impressed by naked winged angels. Where had the images come from? He now also remembered the events of the previous evening. Nellie's bar. Nellie's colors had been purple and mauve too, and pink, of course. He saw Nellie's large solid breasts again and the cleavage the doctor had been so poetic about. Had Nellie so impressed him that she had helped form this dream, together with the sympathetic presence of his turtle and the glorified version of his garden and the Papuan, a man he had liked once and whose attitude had puzzled him at the time?

The commissaris sighed. It had been a good dream. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. The phone rang for a long while.

"De Gier." The voice on the phone sounded deep and throaty.

"Morning, de Gier."

"Sir. Good morning, sir."

"Listen," the commissaris said. "It's early and it's Sunday, and judging from the way you talk you were asleep when your phone rang. I want you to get up and wash and have some coffee and shave perhaps. When you are ready you can phone me back. I'll be waiting for you."

"Yes, sir. Ten minutes."

"Make it twenty. You can have breakfast first if you like."

"Right," de Gier said.

The commissaris replaced the phone and stretched out. Then he changed his mind and got up and fetched some lettuce leaves from the kitchen. The turtle was waiting for him in the garden and bravely left the grass and marched ponderously on the flagstones leading to the open door of the commissaris' study.

* * *

"Morning sir," de Gier said again.

"Tell me," the commissaris said, "about last night. Anything worthwhile?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "Miss Rogge gave me three names and three addresses. Do you have a pen, sir?"

The commissaris noted the names and addresses. De Gier talked. "Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.

"Perhaps Grijpstra and I should call on these people today, sir."

"No. Grijpstra can go and Til go with him. I have other plans for you. Are you ready?"

"Yes, sir."

"Right. Go to our garage and ask for the gray van. Then go to the stores. We have some confiscated textiles, bales of cloth, a good assortment. They are due for auction next week but we can have them. I'll phone the chief clerk at his home later this morning."

"Textiles?" de Gier asked. "The gray van? Do you want me to take the textiles somewhere?"

"Yes. To the street market tomorrow. A detective should be a good actor; tomorrow you can be a hawker. I'll contact the market master at the Albert Cuyp and he'll give you a stall and a temporary license. You won't need more than a few days. Make friends with the other hawkers. If the killer comes from the market you'll be able to pick up a trail."

"Just me, sir?" De Gier didn't sound pleased.

"No. You can take Sergeant Sietsema with you."

"Can't I have Cardozo?"

"Cardozo?" the commissaris asked. "I thought you didn't like Cardozo. You two are always quarreling."

"Quarreling, sir? We never quarrel. I have been teaching him."

"Teaching. O.K. Take him. Perhaps he's the right choice. Cardozo is Jewish and Jews are supposed to be good traders. Maybe he should be the hawker and you can be his assistant."

Til be the hawker, sir."

The commissaris smiled. "Right. Phone Cardozo and get him to join you today. Better phone him right now before he leaves for the day. And what about Esther Rogge, was she in a good state of mind when you left her last night?"

There was no answer.

"De Gier?"

"I have her here with me, sir, in my apartment."

The commissaris looked out the window. One of the magpies was sitting on the grass, looking at the turtle. The turtle was looking back. He wondered what the two could have in common.

"It isn't what you are thinking, sir."

"I wasn't thinking, de Gier, I was looking at my turtle. I had a dream last night, something to do with the Papuan. Do you remember the Papuan?"

"Yes, sir."

"A strange dream. Something about his two sisters. They had wings and they flew into my garden. There was a full moon and my turtle was in the dream as well. My turtle was excited, jumping about in the grass."

"In your dream, sir?"

"Yes. And it was real, more real than the conversation I am having with you now. You dream too, you told me last night."

"Yes, sir. I'd like to hear more about your dream sometime."

"Sometime," the commissaris said, and stirred the coffee which his wife had put on the little table next to his bed. "Sometime we'll talk about it. I often think about the Papuan, possibly because he was the only suspect who ever got away after we had caught up with him. You'd better get Miss Rogge home, I suppose. I'll phone you tonight and tell you what Grijpstra and I found out, or you can phone me. My wife will know where I am."

"Sir," de Gier said, and rang off.

By eleven o'clock the commissaris' black Citroen was parked outside Grijpstra's house on the Lijnbaansgracht opposite Police Headquarters and the commissaris had his finger on the bell.

"Yes?" Mrs. Grijpstra's tousled head shouted from a window on the second floor.

"Is your husband in, madam?''

"Oh, it's you, sir. He'll be right down."

The commissaris coughed. He could hear the woman's voice inside the house and Grijpstra's heavy footsteps on the narrow wooden staircase. The door opened.

"Morning, sir," Grijpstra said. "Excuse my wife, sir. She is getting too fat to move around much and she won't answer the door anymore. Just sits near the window and shouts a lot. Right opposite the TV, but there won't be any TV till this afternoon."

"Never mind," the commissaris said.

"We are going to see this Bezuur fellow first, aren't we, sir? Does he know we are coming?"

They were in the car now and Grijpstra greeted the sleepy-eyed constable at the wheel. The constable wasn't in uniform but sported a dark blue blazer with the emblem of the Amsterdam Municipal Police Sports Club embroidered on the left top pocket.

"Yes. I phoned and he will see us right now. Then we can have lunch somewhere and see if we can raise the two ladies on the phone. I would like to see them later today if possible."

"Good,'' Grijpstra said and accepted a cigar.

"You don't mind working on a Sunday, do you, Grijpstra?''

"No, sir. Not at all, sir."

"Shouldn't you be taking the little ones out?"

"I took the brats to the zoo only last week, sir, and today they are going to play at a friend's house. And they are not so small anymore. The littlest one is six and the other one eight."

The commissaris mumbled.

"Pardon, sir?"

"Shouldn't have asked you to come," the commissaris repeated. "You are a family man and you were up half the night. Sietsema could have come just as well, I don't think he is working on anything now anyway."

"No, sir. But Sietsema isn't on this case, sir. I am."

The commissaris smiled. "How is your oldest son, by the way? He must be eighteen, right?"

"Right, sir, but there's nothing right about the boy."

"Doing badly with his studies?"

"Dropped out altogether and now he wants to leave the house. The army doesn't want him and he'll never find a job, not even if he wanted to, which he doesn't. When he leaves the house he'll be applying for national assistance, he says. I never know where he is these days. Rushing about on that little motorbike, I imagine, and smoking hash with his friends. He's sniffing too, caught him the other day. Cocaine powder."

"That's expensive," the commissaris said.

"Very."

"Any idea where he gets the money?"

"Not from me, sir."

"So?"

"I've been with the police a long time, sir."

"Dealing?"

"Everything, I think," Grijpstra said and pretended to be watching the traffic. "Dealing, motorbike stealing, straight-out burglarizing and a bit of prostitution. He doesn't like girls so he'll never be a pimp, but that's the only bad thing he'll never be."

"Prostitution?" the commissaris asked.

"He goes to the wrong pubs, the sort of places where they pick up the shopkeeper from the provinces and get him to take them to a motel."

"That's bad," the commissaris said. "Anything we can do to stop him?"

"No, sir. I am not going to hunt my own son but one of our colleagues will stumble into him and then it'll be reform school and he'll come back worse. I have written him off. So have the social workers. The boy isn't even interested in watching TV or football."

"Neither is Sergeant de Gier," the commissaris said brightly, "so there's still hope."

"De Gier has a cat to care for, and he reads. He has things to do. Flowerpots on the balcony and flute-playing and judo at least one evening a week and visiting museums on Sundays. And when a woman is after him he gives in. Sometimes anyway."

"Yes," the commissaris cackled. "He's giving in right now."

Grijpstra thought.

"Esther Rogge? Nellie didn't want him."

"Esther Rogge."

"He'll never learn," Grijpstra said gruffly. "Bloody fool he is. The woman is involved in the case."

"She's a lovely woman," the commissaris said. "A refined woman even. She'll do him good."

"You don't mind then, sir?" Grijpstra sounded relieved.

"I want to find the killer," the commissaris said, "and quickly, before he swings his ball at somebody else. The man can't be altogether sane, and he is certainly inventive. We still haven't worked out what weapon he used."