The Mind-Murders (18 page)

10

"Good," the commissaris said while he read through the large menu, handwritten on elegant paper. "A new restaurant, but obviously handled by the right people. Even the chief constable recommends it. Hmmm, oysters. Hmmm, mushrooms. Hmmm, sirloin steak. Yes. Well, have you all made up your mind? I'm sorry I'm late, but I couldn't find a parking place easily and I've forgotten my cane, took a while to get here. Oysters, Grijpstra?"

The waiter took his time writing down the order and the commissaris sipped his drink. Asta sat opposite him.

"How's your knee, dear?"

"The swelling is going down, sir."

"I trust you had a restful night?"

Asta looked at de Gier. "Not quite. The sergeant has a cat. I woke up in the middle of the night because I thought my alarm went off." She pointed at an electronic watch that seemed far too large for her slim wrist. "I switched it off, but the beeping went on. It was the cat and a friend."

"The cat beeped?"

"No sir. The friend. A mouse. I suppose Tabriz wanted to catch the mouse, but the mouse didn't want to play. It got annoyed. When I switched on the light, I saw the mouse jumping, a foot high, right in front of the cat. Every time the mouse faced Tabriz, it beeped. It was a rhythmical sound, that's why I thought my alarm went off."

"I'll have another drink," the commissaris said, holding up his glass. "I see. These are modern times indeed. Not only do you spend the night with a lover, you're telling us about it."

"He didn't love me, sir. My knee still hurt. I didn't want to go home. My landlady doesn't approve of latecomers and I don't have a key for the night lock. There was no choice."

The commissaris offered de Gier a match. "Sergeant?" "Yes sir. Thank you, sir."

"You'll never learn, will you? Is there a happy end to the tale?"

"Yes sir. She made me get up and take the mouse down to the park. It wasn't hurt. Tabriz couldn't go to sleep after that; she rattled about in the kitchen. Kept me awake."

The meal was served and the commissaris was the first to finish his plate. He sat back and lit a cigar. "The chief constable was right, this is an excellent place to have lunch. Now then, I must congratulate you three on the arrest of Miiller. I would like to hear the details. Tell me, adjutant, but eat your potato first."

Grijpstra reported. The salt cellar became Miiller, a toothpick was Asta, the Black Jackets turned into two black olives, de Gier was a small cigar, and Grijpstra himself the pepper shaker.

"No," the commissaris said, "you mean to say that you mugged the robbers?"

"There was no other way, sir. We had to keep them away from Asta. We couldn't arrest them because they hadn't done anything yet. If we'd merely stopped them, they might have shouted or interfered with Mtiller's arrest in some other way."

The commissaris pushed his spectacles to his forehead. He picked up the olives and ate them, then he chuckled. "Hee hee, Grijpstra."

"I'm sorry, sir, but we did a good thing; the parson got his money back."

"Hee hee." The commissaris laughed helplessly. Two tears streamed down his cheeks. He wiped them away with his handkerchief. "How silly, Grijpstra, how
apt.
What splendid fellows you two sometimes are."

"And MiUler confessed, sir," de Gier said. "We got his statement this morning in German. Inspector Wingel gave it to us, signed and witnessed by himself and his assistant."

The commissaris was serious again; he blew on bis spectacles and wiped them carefully. "Yes? I thought Mttller wasn't too cooperative after the arrest."

"He wasn't," Grijpstra said, "but he weakened when the German inspector woke him up somewhat roughly, sir. They had him for two hours after that."

"Were you there?"

"No sir, I waited in my office. They interrogated him in a room on another floor. It was five in the morning then and there wasn't anybody in the building, except the staff of the radio room. I thought I heard Miiller scream a few times. When I saw him again, there was a stream of spittle running out of the side of his mouth and he seemed dazed. Subinspector Roider had gloves on; he was taking them off when he escorted the suspect to my office. Muller's face seemed abnormally red."

"Ah."

"The German colleagues were pleased, sir. The suspect had provided them with some names and addresses in Hamburg and other cities. He also made a full confession. Apparently Boronski had brought down the first consignment of cocaine to get the connection started. Future deliveries would be made by couriers, so-called tourists, nice elderly couples who would have their trips paid for and receive an ample fee on top of expenses. This was the first time Muller bought drugs from Boronski. Until now their business was legitimate."

"Where did he buy before?"

"From Turkey through Lebanon and France, but that traffic was stopped by the French police a while back. He was buying heroin then, but cocaine is about as profitable."

"Have the Germans left?"

"Yes. They said Muller was lucky that he was caught here and not in his own country. The penalties in Germany are stiffer, here he'll only get a few years."

"True," the commissaris said. "Did you ask him anything about Boronski's death?"

"Yes, he denies having anything to do with that."

"Do you believe him?"

"Yes sir." Grijpstra was playing with the menu that the waiter had replaced next to the commissaris's plate.

"Yes," the commissaris said, "we'll choose our desserts in a minute. Why don't you believe that Muller killed Boronski?"

Grijpstra put the menu down and held up two fingers. "First, Boronski was Muller's goose that lays the golden eggs. Second, Mtiller wouldn't have placed the body in his own car, a car reportedly stolen at the time and looked for by the police."

De Gier held up a finger too. "Boronski died of an ulcer, sir."

They ordered and ate their desserts. It took a while, for both Grijpstra and Asta selected the special, which came in a tall glass and had many layers of different ice creams, topped with fruit and whipped cream.

"Boronski was killed," the commissaris said when Asta licked her spoon. "He was attacked by a mind that was more subtle and agile than his own, and manipulated to the point where his fear and uncertainty turned inward and gnawed through his gut. Remember Mr. Fortune, this case is similar. Fortune faltered, became accident prone, fell afoul of the police, and was dumped into the Brewerscanal. But there was some insight in him and he managed to save himself. Fear eventually strengthened Fortune; it destroyed Boronski, understandably, I suppose. Boronski was, I hear, rather a rotter, and Fortune, according to your reports, seems to be a nice fellow."

De Gier deposited the remnants of a match into the ashtray. "Is good stronger than evil, sir?"

"I've often wondered about that," the commissaris said, "and I do believe that I have had some indications that the supposition may be true. The subject is tricky, sergeant. Good is useful and evil destroys. Sometimes it is good to destroy, and useful is often a shallow definition; it's relative, of course." He folded his napkin. "If we imagine that a drug dealer is a bad man and that a publisher ready to retire in solitude to meditate on the center of things is a good man, and if we bring them both into stress situations by playing about with their environment, and if they are both of the same strength, I would say that Boronski will go under and Fortune will come out on top. But the experiment starts at the end and I've built up its base afterward. We know that Fortune is a happy man today and Boronski's spirit is in hell, if I'm to believe Mr. Jacobs, the morgue attendant."

"You seem to have investigated Boronski's death further, sir."

The commissaris wrote a check. He looked up. "I have, Grijpstra. I spoke to an acquaintance of the dead man last night by teletype. The lady in the photograph you studied in my office yesterday is a Marian Hyme, the wife of a local publisher."

"Hyme," Grijpstra said.

"The name is familiar?"

"Back to Beelema, sir. It's the last place I want to go to. I was there twice yesterday. I can't get away from it."

"Tell me what you know about Mr. Hyme," the commissaris said, "and I'll tell you what I know. If we pool our ignorance, Mr. Hyme may turn out to be our missing link."

11

"I must ask you to calm down," the commissaris said. "Please sit down, sir, and don't shout."

Hyme sat down. His pale face framed a flabby and twitching mouth. "Boronski! The bastard! Dropped Marian like a sack of potatoes when he was through with her. Destroyed her dignity. She was a beautiful woman, intelligent, witty. You should see her now.
He
saw her. He came to the hospital to see if she was about to get out. Looking for a free fuck. Man hasn't been in Amsterdam for years and he has no connections here. He let her go in Bogotd, pushed her out of his palace with hardly enough time to pack her suitcase, but here he comes running after her. Marian has just been operated on again; she's fiat on her back and in pain. It's the second operation and they don't know yet if they got the disc back in place this time. If it's where it should be, it'll be another six months before she can walk. When Boronski realized there 205 was nothing doing, he shook her hand and left. I'm surprised he didn't take his flowers with him; he could have given them to somebody else. He had wasted his money."

"So you were aware that BoronsM was in Amsterdam. Did you meet him at the hospital?"

"No. Marian told me about his visit."

"Did you meet with him here?"

"Briefly, on the Brewerscanal. I ran into him; he stays at Hotel Oberon. When I met him, I couldn't speak. The man has ruined my life. That vacation to South America was the worst hell I've ever lived through. We were invited to a cocktail party at the embassy and Marian fell for the bastard immediately. I thought it was a little flirtation, but she went home with him. She checked out of the hotel. We had a terrible scene; everything was said, everything that has ever been bad between us. I thought it would be the ultimate farewell, but she came back to me. She probably still loves him."

Hyme hid his face in his hands. Grijpstra sucked patiently on his cigar. De Crier studied a stain on the wall.

"Would you like some coffee?"

"Yes."

De Gier poured the coffee. The cup rattled on its saucer when Hyme took it.

"Did you see Boronski at his hotel, Mr. Hyme?"

"No. If I had, I would have killed him. I'm not a violent man, but I must have changed. I keep on thinking of ways to destroy that devil. I thought of having him kidnapped, locking him up in some dungeon, torturing him, but what can I do? The days a man could take revenge are over. I'm not too courageous anyway, that's why Marian got bored with me. I'm a slave, chained to my desk. My only act of bravery is pissing off bridges and I can only do that when I'm drunk."

"Yes," Grijpstra said softly.

"With a paper hat on. I'm the knight of the paper hat and the wooden sword, riding a rocking horse."

"Ah," the commissaris said. "What sort of a car do you have, Mr. Hyme."

"What?"

"What sort of a car do you drive?"

"A Porsche."

"With the wheel on the right side?"

"How do you know?"

"I guessed."

Hyme drank his coffee. The room was quiet. Grijpstra got up and left The telephone on the commissaris's desk rang.

"Yes?"

"It's me, sir, Grijpstra. Can I have a word with you in the corridor?"

"Yes?" the commissaris asked when he had closed the door behind him.

"We might as well arrest him, don't you think, sir? The car checks out, he had the opportunity and the motive. He must have paid the employees of the Oberon to play tricks on Boronski."

"You can arrest him, adjutant."

Grijpstra reached for the door handle, but the small almost transparent hand of the commissaris rested lightly on his sleeve.

"I wouldn't advise you to do that, however. Harassment is difficult to prove and hardly punishable. You'll find yourself wasting endless time in a court case where the lawyers will have a field day. Besides, Hyme is not your man."

Grijpstra stepped away from the door. "He isn't?"

"No. I admit that the suspect's nerves are in a bad state and that he may be at the lowest point of his life. But you mustn't forget that he is a director of a large and successful firm. Mr. Hyme is no fool. He's not a genius either. Only a genius would have confirmed, in the way he just did, that his dearest wish is to do away with Boronski, and tried to prove his innocence in such a perverse way."

"Shall we tell him that Boronski is dead, sir?"

"We can do that now."

"Dead?" whispered Hyme. "When?"

"Yesterday. Jim Boronski bled to death internally. A severe duodenal ulcer. Some would-be muggers saw him staggering about on the Gentleman's Market just after midnight on Saturday and, for some reason, dumped him in the trunk of a car. He must have died shortly afterward."

"My God," Hyme said. "But he was still a young man."

"Young men die too, Mr. Hyme. Your enemy must have labored under heavy stress. He suffered, but didn't go to a doctor. His complaint worsened, circumstances were against him, and . . ." The commissaris gestured.

"Dead," Hyme said.

"Where were you last night, sir?"

"I ate in a restaurant, visited Marian at the hospital, went home, and watched TV."

"And the night before, Sunday evening."

"Same thing."

"You weren't at Café Beelema last night?"

"No."

"And the night before?"

"No. I was there Saturday and met with your assistants."

Grijpstra raised a hand. "Have you met with Mr. Fortune recently?"

"Yes, yesterday. We arranged for the take-over of his firm. He came to my office. I was glad to hear that his wife turned up after all."

"Did Mr. Fortune tell you about Boronski's death?"

"Frits Fortune? No. Why should he? He doesn't even know Boronski."

"Did Borry Beelema know Boronski?" de Gier asked.

"Yes. I pointed him out to Beelema. Hotel Oberon is just across the street from Beelema's."

"When was that?"

"Last week some time."

"Did you confide in Beelema about your troubles with Boronski?"

Hyme nodded. "Yes. Beelema is a friend. Fve known him for years, ever since he bought the café. Before that I was his client at the hair salon, I still go there every fortnight and at the café I see him several times a week. He's my best friend." He smiled. "He's more than a friend, he's an incarnate angel. A lot of people call him the other son of God."

"Did you," de Gier asked, "by any chance, some time last week, lend your
..
."

The commissaris jumped up with such force that his chair hit the wall.

"That'll be all, Mr. Hyme. Thank you for coming here. I hope your wife's condition will soon improve. Adjutant, please escort Mr. Hyme out of the building."