Outsider in Amsterdam (25 page)

Sientje’s voice came through.

“Your motorcycle has just emerged at the other side of the tunnel. A patrol car is after him and its siren is going.”

“You see?” Grijpstra asked.

“Pity we have no siren,” de Gier said and put his foot down.
The VW went through a red light. Two cars honked at them and a man on a bicycle shouted something and tapped a finger on his forehead.

“No race,” Grijpstra said, “I have a lot of children.”

“I have a cat,” de Gier said.

The VW dived into the tunnel and Grijpstra closed his eyes. De Gier was zigzagging through the tunnel’s traffic. The radio had stopped crackling.

“You can open your eyes,” de Gier said. “Sientje is calling us.”

“One-three,” Grijpstra croaked.

“Were you in the tunnel?” Sientje asked.

“Yes. Did they catch up with him?”

“No,” Sientje said, “they’ve lost him.”

“Where?”

“In that new housing development where all the streets have bird names,” Sientje said. “They saw him last in the Hawkstreet and think he is riding about close by now. The patrol car is still looking for him, but I think they have run into a little trouble. They have dented a mudguard.”

“We’ll go there as well,” Grijpstra said, and held on as de Gier made the little car scream through a corner.

“Ha,” de Gier said. “Probably ran into something, got their mudguard right into a tire, had to stop, get out and pull the mudguard free, and meanwhile van Meteren smiled and got lost.”

“He won’t be lost,” Grijpstra said. “This is the Goldfinchstreet.”

De Gier stopped and switched the engine off.

“No use driving around in circles,” he said. “Listen! Can you hear the Harley anywhere? It’s quiet here and that motorbike has a very remarkable sound, a deep gurgle.”

“No,” Grijpstra said.

“The map,” Grijpstra said suddenly. “That map in his room!”

“Map,” de Gier repeated, “map in his room. The map of Lake Ijssel. You think he has a boat?”

“Yes,” Grijpstra said.

“A boat!” de Gier shouted. “Of course! That map is a proper maritime map, indicating depths and so on. Only a sailor would have a map like that. A boat somewhere. But where is the boat?”

“Close by,” Grijpstra said.

“So we hope.” De Gier lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed.

“In Monnikendam,” Grijpstra said, “closest Lake Ijssel’s port to Amsterdam.”

De Gier shrugged. “Could be Horn as well, or Enkhuizen, or Medemblik.”

“No,” Grijpstra said, “too far. We have a lot of rain here and it must be damn uncomfortable on that motorcycle. He bought it because it satisfied some need, made him think of his New Guinea days. But this is a cold, wet country. He had plenty of money, so he bought a boat and kept it in a harbor close to Amsterdam. He would ride out there, park the Harley, and get on his boat. A nice comfortable boat with a cabin and a little stove. Could make himself a hot cup of coffee and soup and stew, much nicer than going into a restaurant and being stared at. New Guinea is an island, he may have had a boat out there as well. I think the boat is in Monnikendam.”

“We can ask Sientje,” de Gier said. “She can phone the chief inspector’s house. The chief inspector had van Meteren shadowed for a while.”

“No use,” Grijpstra said and shivered. “Let’s get back into the car.”

De Gier got into the car.

“No use perhaps. Van Meteren knew he was being followed, ever since Verboom died. So he wouldn’t have gone near his boat. You are probably right. His boat was his escape, he wouldn’t show us where he kept her. In any case, he couldn’t let us know that he owned a boat. He wasn’t supposed to have any
money. If we could have proved that he had money, we would have arrested him on suspicion of murder. He jumped out of the window when I mentioned the name of Seket.”

Grijpstra nodded thoughtfully.

“But where is that boat? He must be on her now and Lake Ijssel is big. If he had stuck to the Harley, we would catch him easily enough. Every policeman in Holland will be watching for that Harley by tomorrow. He may stick to his boat now; he may have enough food on her to last him for months and we don’t know what the boat looks like.”

De Gier called Sientje.

“Headquarters,” Sientje said, “come in, one-three.”

“We think he has a boat and may be on the Lake Ijssel by now. We will be leaving the city soon in the direction of Monnikendam. Please alert the State Water Police.”

“I will,” Sientje said. “Have a pleasant time. Out.”

“And that,” Grijpstra said, “is the end of Sientje. Another few minutes and she won’t be able to hear us.”

“Two little men in a biscuit tin,” de Gier thought, “and the biscuit tin is going into nowhere.” He started the car.

They found nothing in Monnikendam’s little port. They left the small city and followed the dikes, keeping close to the lake. Half an hour passed. They met no one.

“
There’s
somebody,” Grijpstra said and pointed into the direction of the lake. A small yacht was moored to a jetty.

De Gier put his pistol back into its holster when he got close to the man. The man was tall and had very blond hair.

“Evening.”

“Evening,” the man said.

“We are policemen,” said De Gier, “and we are looking for a small colored man who rides a big white motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson. We thought you might have seen him.”

“I have,” the man said. “The motorbike is over there, parked behind that hedge. And your man is on the lake, in his boat, a
flat-bottom, a botter with brown sails. But he isn’t sailing, he is using his diesel engine. He left about an hour ago.”

“Beautiful,” Grijpstra said.

“Did he know you were after him?” the man asked.

“He did,” de Gier said.

The man shook his head.

“Strange. He seemed quite calm. He even talked to me for a minute. Said he couldn’t sleep and was going to spend the night on the water.”

“Do you know him at all?” Grijpstra asked.

“Not very well, but his boat has been here for about a year now; we share the jetty, it belongs to a retired fisherman. I have often talked to your man; he is a Papuan, isn’t he? I always thought he was a very likable fellow, I even asked him to come to dinner once but he refused and I didn’t try again.”

“Oh, he is a likable fellow all right,” de Gier said, “but he is suspected of having committed a murder. We’ll have to go after him. Can we use your boat?”

The man smiled.

“Why ask?” he said. “I couldn’t refuse anyway. A civilian has to assist a policeman at the first request. That’s the law, isn’t it?”

Grijpstra smiled as well.

“That’s the law. But a civilian can refuse if there is any risk to the safety of his person. So we are only asking for the boat. You don’t have to come with us. Just explain to us how we should handle your yacht.”

“That’s all right,” the man said, “I’ll come with you. I may be of use. I can handle the boat and I used to be an officer in the commandos. My name is Runau.”

They shook hands.

De Gier had gone back to the car, grinning to himself. He brought out the carbine and its six spare magazines, the searchlight and a rope with a heavy metal hook attached to one end.

He had to make another trip to fetch the large tin marked with a Red Cross.

“I hope we won’t have to use the tin,” he thought.

“You didn’t have to bring all that,” Runau said when de Gier clambered aboard. “I’ve got everything on this boat. Everything except the carbine, of course.” He took the weapon from de Gier and handled it lovingly. “Long time since I’ve had one in my hands. Much nicer than a rifle but not as deadly. I used to be pretty good with a carbine.”

“Give it here,” de Gier said. “We shouldn’t lead you into temptation.”

Runau laughed. “You aren’t tempting me. I wouldn’t aim it at a man, not even at a bird. I may have been a commando but I respect life.”

“So do we,” Grijpstra said. “You wouldn’t have any coffee aboard, would you?”

“Plenty of coffee,” Runau said, and started the yacht’s engine. De Gier untied the mooring rope and the slender vessel nosed its way toward the lake.

“Were you going to spend the night on the water as well?” Grijpstra asked.

“Yes,” Runau said grimly. “My wife and I don’t get on very well lately. I don’t always go home after work. It’s peaceful out here.”

“I see,” Grijpstra said.

They watched de Gier rummaging about on the yacht’s deck. De Gier was still grinning to himself.

“Your colleague seems to be enjoying himself,” Runau said.

“He does. He is an adventurer. This is different to patrolling the streets. He is still a little boy at heart and he reads too many books.”

Runau moved the throttle and the yacht increased her speed noticeably. “We are all little boys at heart,” he said.

“Hmm,” Grijpstra said. “Will you be divorcing your wife?”

Runau was looking straight ahead. He looked suddenly tired.

“I think so.”

“Any children?”

“No,” Runau said. “We haven’t been married very long. She is very young, we were going to wait.”

“I see,” Grijpstra said.

“Nice night, isn’t it?” de Gier asked, sticking his head into the cabin. He was rubbing his hands. “Show me where the coffee is and I’ll make it.”

De Gier busied himself with the small paraffin burner. When the coffee was ready, Runau switched the engine off and they listened.

“Can’t hear anything,” Runau said. “He must have gone the other way. His engine is noisy and the sound carries far on the lake. We’ll bear north for a while. He won’t have gone south toward Amsterdam, not if he wants to get away. Has he really murdered somebody?”

“We think he has,” de Gier said. “He may have been dealing in drugs and we think he has killed his partner. Hanged him, making it look like suicide.”

“Hanged him?” Runau asked. “That’s a nasty way to kill somebody. I thought a Papuan would prefer a knife, or a bow and arrows, or a blowpipe.”

“He stunned him before he hanged him,” Grijpstra said.

“That botter he is sailing, is she fast?” de Gier asked.

Runau shook his head.

“Not very fast. This boat is much faster, but the botter is nicer. She has a lot of character, that boat. Must have cost him money too. A restored boat, some sixty or eighty years old, but the engine is brand new.”

“This is a nice boat too,” Grijpstra said.

“She is all right,” Runau said, “but I would prefer the botter. This is just a little thing for pleasure. I work for the municipality and I don’t earn very much. I had to save for years to
buy this one but I should have bought a bigger boat. I’d like to cross the ocean one day; this boat will never make it. The botter could make it, if her deck is sealed properly.”

Grijpstra laughed. “Van Meteren may be on his way to New Guinea. We better warn the Water Police to watch the locks in the dike.”

“He won’t make the dike,” Runau said. “We’ll find him before he does. Pity I don’t have a radio on board.”

“That’s all right,” de Gier said. “The Water Police have been alerted. We’ll catch him on the lake, unless, of course, he makes for another port and gets off his boat.”

“He won’t,” Grijpstra said.

Runau had switched the engine off again and raised a finger. They listened. “You hear?”

“Yes,” they said. The heavy
plof plof plof
of the diesel engine was clearly audible.

“Bah,” Grijpstra said. “We need a radio now. The Water Police are watching but they don’t know
what
they are watching.”

“There she is,” Runau said.

The boat was no more than a black dot on the horizon. Runau got his binoculars and the dot became a little bigger.

“He has a rifle,” de Gier said suddenly.

“A what?”

“A rifle,” de Gier repeated, “a Lee Enfield rifle. He must be a crack shot with it and I am sure he has hundreds of cartridges.”

“But how …?”

“Smuggled it from New Guinea,” Grijpstra explained. “We knew he had it but he said it was a souvenir and we let him keep it. Never be kind to anyone. Now he’ll kill us with his souvenir.”

“We have the carbine,” de Gier said.

“No match for a Lee Enfield,” Grijpstra said. “Tell you
what—let’s just follow him, keeping out of range. It may take a long time but the Water Police will come eventually.”

“You could go back to the coast,” Runau said, “and make contact with the Water Police. They have some small planes as well.”

“No,” de Gier said. “I prefer to catch up with him and tell him to surrender. He is a reasonable man and he will have to give himself up. If he starts shooting, we can always duck.”

Runau laughed. “That’s commando talk. I am with you.”

They were both looking at Grijpstra.

“All right,” Grijpstra said.

“More coffee,” Runau said and filled their cups. “I am beginning to enjoy this. Better than filling in forms at the office.”

The botter was visible now. They saw the thick line of its single mast and a thin, short line at the rudder.

“That’s him,” de Gier said and lifted the carbine. “He must know that it’s us.”

He aimed the carbine’s barrel at the moon and fired. “We are in range already,” Grijpstra said. “If he knows how to handle his rifle, he can have us with three bullets.”

They heard the shot; van Meteren’s bullet wined past them.

“That’s a warning shot as well,” Runau said. “Two meters off at least.”

“We’ll impress him,” Grijpstra said.

De Gier gave Runau his pistol and together they fired a ragged salvo at the moon. The crack of the carbine swallowed the small explosions of the pistol cartridges.

They were close now, sixty meters at the most, going in the same direction.

“Careful,” de Gier said and ducked.

Van Meteren fired three times; the bullets just missed.

“He is serious now,” Runau said.

“Not really serious,” Grijpstra answered. “He missed us, didn’t he?”

“Hello,” van Meteren called.

“Yes?” Grijpstra’s voice was very pleasant.

“You can stand up,” van Meteren shouted. “I want to talk to you. I won’t fire.”

“That’s all right, friend,” Grijpstra shouted. He got up, de Gier and Runau following his example.