The Mind-Murders (17 page)

8

"But look here," Grijpstra said, "you were seen opening your case, taking out a small plastic bag, and pulling back your arm with the obvious intention of throwing the bag into the canal. We subsequently searched the case, which you closed again when you were arrested and managed to kick into the water. The case contained plastic bags, and each bag, according to our laboratory, was filled with a quarter of a pound of first-class cocaine. All in all, you had four pounds of high-priced junk in there. True or not?"

Muller's chins moved convulsively in a fluid movement upward until his thick lips trembled slightly. Grijpstra wasn't sure how to interpret this facial agitation. "Are you smiling, Herr Mtiller?"

"I am."

"Why?"

"Because you're wrong."

"You weren't about to throw the cocaine into the canal?"

The fat man's hands shifted slightly on his belly, which was pushed up obscenely and ready to flow over the edge of Grijpstra's desk.

"Your facts are correct but your explanation isn't The case belonged to Boronski. He left it in my room; perhaps he planted the case on me, I don't know. Boronski was a sick man. He chose my car to die in; perhaps that desire was intentional too, again I don't know. We weren't getting on well; I was displeased with the quality of his shipments. I told him that I might find another supplier. He wasn't in his right mind, he was hallucinating, he was causing trouble in the hotel."

"Really?" Grijpstra asked. "So why would you destroy the cocaine, why didn't you give it to us?"

Miiller's face appeared to become more solid. A crafty light flickered in his protruding eyes.

"Tell me, Herr Muller."

"Because you are the police. The police here are no good. The food is no good either. Nothing is good here."

There was a newspaper on Grijpstra's desk. The adjutant glanced at the headlines.
Further moves in drug scandal.
He had read the article earlier that day. The paper claimed that charges would be pressed against several highly placed police officers.

"Yes," Muller said. "I'm from Hamburg, our dialect is similar to Dutch. I can read your newspapers. What would happen if I gave you four pounds of cocaine?"

"It would be confiscated and in due time destroyed."

"Nein."

"Nein?"

"Nein. It would disappear. It would make you rich. I don't want to make you rich. Cocaine is bad. It would still reach the addicts. I decided to do some good work. I'm an honest merchant, I deal in lumber. My material goes into homes and furniture. I protect society. I took the risk to do away with the poison myself, but you prevented my service to society."

Grijpstra nodded pleasantly. "You could also have burned it, or flushed it down the toilet."

"I'm not a chemist. Perhaps cocaine explodes when it bums. Perhaps it does not dissolve easily. I did not want to clog up the hotel plumbing. I thought I was doing the right thing, but you interfered."

Grijpstra got up. "Fine. I will now take you back to your cell."

Muller got up too. "I want some cigarettes and matches."

"But of course. We will get them from the machine on our way to the cell block. By the way, Herr Muller, there's another charge against you. You resisted arrest and attacked an officer. You hurt her knee."

Muller smiled triumphantly.

"This way," Grijpstra said.

He came back a few minutes later, sat down, and dialed.

"No," a female voice said, "the teletyper is in use by your chief."

"My chief is at home."

"He's here."

"Here? Doing what?" Grijpstra looked at his watch. "It's two in the morning."

"He's using the teletyper."

Grijpstra looked at the telephone.

"Will that be all, adjutant?"

"No. Get me the Hamburg Police Headquarters, Inspector Wingel, drugs department. He won't be there, but they'll know where to find him. I'll wait here for his call."

"I
don't speak German," the girl said.

"Then just get me the number."

It took twenty minutes before Wingel was on the phone. His voice sounded sleepy but became clipped when he understood what he was told. "Yes," he said. "Yes."

Grijpstra yawned. "I thought you might be interested."

"I am. I'll be right over."

"Here?"

"There. I'll leave now and bring a colleague. There won't be much traffic. We'll be there in three hours."

"Very well," Grijpstra said. "I'll wait for you." He let the telephone drop back on its hook. He yawned again. He picked up the phone again.

"Who is the commissaris talking to? Not to the German police, is he?"

"No, adjutant. To Colombia. It took us forever to make the connection. He's got himself set up in the other office. He's been there for more than an hour; he's speaking to our embassy out there."

Five minutes later the adjutant was asleep, his head against the wall, his feet on his desk. The remnants of a grin eased his face and he burbled placidly through pursed lips. De Gier was asleep, too, at the edge of his bed to give room to Tabriz who had stretched herself on a wet towel. She had come in late and nudged Asta's body aside patiently, pushing the girl with her nose and soft paws. Even Muller was asleep, snoring heavily while he fought shapeless fiends that tore at his lies. Boronski was dead, more dead than when the detectives observed his stiffening features. Perhaps his spirit was about, but the attendant Jacobs no longer cared. He had built his transparent insubstantial egg and sat within it, peacefully puffing on his battered pipe, studying a Hebrew text through his little round glasses.

Only the commissaris was awake, waiting for the teletyper to rattle again and reading through a stack of paper with torn edges that recorded his conversation so far.

9

The commissaris had gone home that afternoon and limped up the cracked cement steps to be embraced by his wife, stripped out of his clothes, and lowered into a hot bath. In his bath he was without pain, for his rheumatism was eased by the steam and the swirl of minute soapy waves, as well as the coffee, and the cigar that his wife brought and lit ceremoniously, before placing it carefully between his lips. She hovered about while he read the paper, skipping over the headlines and the editorial and concentrating on two items. Astronomers, an article tucked away into the far corner of an inside page told him, had discovered a new galaxy; it was about the size of the Milky Way and would, therefore, contain the same number of planets that were the size of the earth, at about the same distance from their suns, at more or less the same state of development; approximately a million. The commissaris chuckled. The other item informed 190 him that a Gypsy child on the outskirts of the city died that morning. She had, somehow, fallen into burning rubbish. The identity of the child had not been established; she was about three years old.

"A new galaxy," the commissaris said to his wife. "At three billion inhabitants each, multiplied by one million. How much would that be?"

"I don't know, dear."

"Would their suffering add up to the fear and pain of one child?"

His wife did not hear him, she was letting a little more hot water into the bath. "Are you comfortable, dear?"

"Very."

"Afterward you should have a nap."

He slept, first thinking, then dreaming about Boronski. After a while, he was conscious of waking up but resisted and slipped into no man's land where everything is instantaneously possible and solutions rise up like bubbles, each holding a complete picture.

He dressed and left. His wife accompanied him to the front door.

"You won't work, will you?"

"A little."

"In your office?"

"Oh yes."

His sleek Citroen was respectfully greeted by the old constable in charge of the large courtyard behind Headquarters. He reacted by lifting a finger. He didn't see the old man, he didn't see anybody in the corridors either. In the teletype room he asked to be connected to the Dutch embassy in Bogota, Colombia. After a good while the machine came to life. He heard the staccato of the keys, saw the words form.

"Please go ahead."

He gave his name and rank and asked for the ambassador.

"He's lunching."

"This is urgent. Please find him."

"It'll take time. He's not in the building. There are some festivities. Perhaps later in the afternoon . .."

"It's late evening here, the matter cannot wait"

"Yes sir. You'll hear from us."

The commissaris returned to his room and brought out his projector. He unrolled the screen and closed the curtains. He sat and gazed at the slide showing Boronski and the unknown woman. The telephone rang two hours later; he was asked to return to the teletype room.

"This is the ambassador."

"Do you know a man by the name of Jim Boronski?"

"Yes."

"He died here in Amsterdam yesterday. There are some complications. Please describe the man to me, not his body, his mind, please."

The machine hummed. A minute passed.

"Are you there?"

"Yes," the machine wrote, "but remember that I'm a diplomat. I've also consumed a fair quantity of alcohol. This is not the time to make an official statement that is recorded at your and my end."

"Are you dictating this message?"

"I am."

"Can you handle the teletyper yourself?"

"I suppose so."

"Please make direct contact with me. I will ask the lady who's assisting me to leave this room and will write myself. Afterward I will destroy the messages."

The commissaris nodded at the female constable sitting next to him. She got up and left the room.

The machine hesitated. "This is . . ."

"Go ahead."

"The ambassador. Are you alone?"

"I am."

"What's your age?"

"Sixty-three."

"What is your job?"

"Chief of the murder brigade."

"Will you give me some private advice?"

The commissaris sat back. He reread the sentence, then reached for the keys. "Yes."

"I'm in personal trouble. I'm also drunk. The lunch was heavy. I need advice; do I have your word of honor that this correspondence will be destroyed?"

"Yes."

"I'm fifty years old. I'm partly homosexual. I'm married and have children, not yet grown up. My family does not know about my sexual inclinations. I appear to be normal."

"Homosexuality is not abnormal," the commissaris typed slowly.

"So I hear. I don't believe it. I'm ashamed. You understand?"

"Yes."

"I have a lover. A Colombian. Sometimes I visit him. He has had us photographed."

"I see."

"The photographs are revolting."

"So you say."

"I could describe them to you. You would agree then."

"I would not."

"Are you homosexual?"

"No."

"Are you faithful to your wife?"

"Lately yes; I'm old and suffer advanced rheumatism."

"And before?"

"Ye*, I was unfaithful."

"Often?"

"There were certain bursts of activity."

"Were you ever blackmailed?"

"No, but it has been tried."

"Photographs?"

"No, correspondence."

"What did you do?"

"I told the lady to go ahead. She did. Photocopies of what I wrote were sent to my wife and my chief."

"What happened?"

"I had some trouble, not too much, the truth is the best lie."

"My trouble is more serious than yours was."

"I don't agree."

The machine hummed for nearly two minutes. The commissaris lit a cigar. He puffed and watched the paper in the machine.

"You know, Colombia is not The Netherlands. Guns are for hire here. My enemy is evil. I was set up. He'll go to the limit."

"Don't."

"The matter could be arranged, I know where to go. A colleague was in the same predicament. His problem was taken care of."

"Don't."

"What if there's a scandal? I will lose my job, my wife, my children. At my age I cannot find other employment, I'll rot somewhere in fear, in misery. I'll be alone."

"You won't, but even so, there is always something worthwhile to do. Murder is a lowly way out and will twist back on you."

The reply was prompt. "Yes." There was a pause. "What would you do in my case?"

The commissaris put his cigar on the edge of the machine. He typed slowly and carefully. "I would sit in my garden and communicate with my friend. Do you have a garden?"

"Yes. Who is your friend?"

"My friend is a turtle."

The machine was quiet.

"You're laughing, aren't you?" the commissaris asked.

"I am. Your advice is good. I have a small dog, I will communicate with him tomorrow morning when I'm sober."

"What sort of dog?"

"Small, white with black spots, ugly. I found him a year ago, starving, covered with vermin."

"He'll confirm my advice."

"Yes."

"Boronski?" the commissaris asked.

The machine picked up speed.

"No good. I know him fairly well. An amoral smalltime tycoon. Deals in lumber and anything else that is profitable. Smuggles whisky into the country, on a fairly large scale. Probably exports drugs. Owns a large villa in the suburbs. Originally a ship's steward, worked his way up rapidly. Goes to most of the parties of the foreign community to show off his importance. Unmarried, but attractive to women. There have been unsavory affairs."

"How unsavory?"

"He uses women, then drops them when he feels bothered or as soon as they bore him. There have been divorces and at least one suicide."

The commissaris closed his eyes, opened them again, and typed out a description of the woman in the photograph. "Is she known to you?"

"Yes. She doesn't live here, she came on a South American vacation with her husband. They were due to go to Rio from here, but she stayed behind to continue her affair with Boronski."

"For long?"

"No. Boronski tired of her, he has a lot of choice here. She had no money and came to the embassy for help. We contacted her husband who paid for her ticket. About two months ago. She fell down the stairs in her hotel, slipped a disc and left in a wheelchair."

"Her name?"

"I forget, I'll phone my wife. Hold on."

The commissaris stretched.

"I have her name. Marian Hyme. Her husband works for a publishing company in Amsterdam. Was Boronski killed?"

"Yes."

"How?"

"He was harassed to death."

"Will you be able to prove that?"

"No."

"So why bother?"

The commissaris lit another cigar. He smoked peacefully.

"I see," the machine wrote. "Thank you for your advice. I trust you. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

The commissaris got up and tore the sheet out of the teletyper. He crumpled it, together with the others that had slipped off the small table attached to the machine. He dropped the paper into a metal wastepaper basket, held the container on its side, and lit a match. The paper burned fiercely and the smoke hurt his eyes, but he held on until the flaming balls fell apart into black crisp shreds. He stirred the ashes with a ruler. Two girls came into the room.

"Is there a fire? Are you all right, sir?"

He coughed. "Yes. I'm sorry I made a mess. I threw a burning match into the trash can, silly habit of mine. My wife keeps warning me and I keep on doing it." He left the room while the constables opened windows and waved the smoke away with a plastic tablecloth.

It was quiet in the building as he walked to the corridor to take the elevator back to his office. He found Grijpstra and two middle-aged men waiting near his door.

"Sir," Grijpstra said, "I'm glad to see you. These gentlemen are Inspector Wingel and Subinspector Roider of the Hamburg Police. I have interrogated the suspect Mtiller, without success so far. These colleagues now request permission to speak with him. They have met him before and are interested to find out what connections he may have in Germany."

The two men straightened up and clacked their heels as the commissaris shook their hands.

"Why not? We're always happy to oblige."

Grijpstra smiled apologetically. "They want to see him right away, sir. They say it's better when the suspect is tired. We arrested MUller tonight because he was in possession of four pounds of high-grade cocaine and because he kicked and hurt Constable Asta's knee. She was in pain."

The commissaris stiffened. "She was, was she? How is she now?"

"De Gier took care of her, sir. They left together earlier on."

"Nothing serious?"

"Not too serious."

The commissaris looked into the cold eyes of the German inspector. "You may go ahead; my adjutant will find you a suitable office. Do you have a hotel?"

"We'll find a hotel later, Herr Kommissar, we know our way about in Amsterdam." Wingel bowed stiffly.

The commissaris watched the three men walk away, Grijpstra leisurely ahead, the German policemen marching slowly in step. He shuddered and his hand missed the door handle of his room.