The Perfidious Parrot (16 page)

“The lower level?”
the commissaris asked at breakfast on the Eggemoggin Hotel’s terrace. “Isn’t American an expressive language? What do they mean? A hellish cellar? What do the police want with you on the
lower level
, de Gier?”

De Gier wiped his mustache with a napkin handed to him by Grijpstra, swallowed the rest of his coffee, put half a bagel with salmon, cream cheese, onions, and capers into his mouth, spread his hands in a gesture of innocence and followed the waiter who had delivered the message.

The commissaris’s cellular telephone in his pocket rang. “Hello-ooh,” said Carl Ambagt. “Rain, drizzle and fog, did you hear the weatherman say that this morning? He likes saying that, but it is clearing up nicely. You bothered by bugs there? I’ve been slapping mosquitos all morning. We have arrived. We’re in dry dock. Close to you. Within walking distance. Repairs to the
Rodney
won’t take up much time. Throw out bad parts, put in
good parts. Costs an arm and a leg though. But who cares, eh? With a bit of luck we can leave before sunset. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Ambagt, sir,” the commissaris said, watching a mosquito sucking blood from his right hand. His left hand held the phone. He turned the bitten hand and tried to squash the mosquito on the tablecloth but the mosquito saw that coming.

“Beds are made,” Carl Ambagt said, “drinks are iced. Sailors have changed into crisp uniforms. We are eating crêpes with powdered sugar tonight, and Dad isn’t all that drunk today.”

“Crêpes,” the commissaris said, snapping his telephone shut. He missed the blood-digesting mosquito. “What did we get ourselves into? Culinary kindergarten?”

Grijpstra accepted more plum compôte, served by a smiling waiter. Spooning cream into his bowl he reminded the commissaris of what had been done to them. “Feather removed from your hat. De Gier still can’t breathe deeply. And I …” Grijpstra coughed.

“Vengeance,” the commissaris said, swiping at the mosquito. The animal landed slowly, nursing a broken wing. The commissaris smashed it. “We should not give in to our lower emotions, Grijpstra. This project is no more than a character exercise. Our adventurism is pure, like that of the knights of old.” He watched the bloodstained tablecloth with satisfaction. “What did the waiter call the location where Sergeant Symonds is lurking, waiting for fearless de Gier?”

“The lower level,”
Grijpstra said.

The commissaris nodded. “We are not of the lower level, Grijpstra, we have vanquished egocentricity, small-mindedness, the need to revenge insults and pain inflicted on our illusionary egos.”

“Sir,” Grijpstra said.

The lower level was a parking lot contained by concrete corner pillars holding up the hotel’s main building. The lot had a wide view of the sea. Sergeant Symonds had assumed the lotus position on the saddle of her Harley Davidson. She wore shorts. She was watching pelicans planing elegantly above the blue-green surface, ready to drop like rocks as soon as they spotted shoals of small fish. The sergeant laughed. “Bunch of flying comedians. I am glad they are back. Fishermen were shooting them but the new laws give them a chance now.”

“Protected?” de Gier asked.

Ramona waved at the sidecar connected to her motorcycle.

De Gier got in.

“You have the right to remain silent,” the sergeant said. “Anything you say can be used against you. You can make one telephone call. If you can’t afford an attorney the city of Key West will hire a lawyer for you.” She bent down to him. He could smell her perfume. “Yes, the pelicans are protected because they attract tourism to the area, Rai-nus. Murderers do not attract tourism, Rai-nus. We do not protect murderers.”

She reached for handcuffs, gleaming on her gunbelt, but changed her mind. The Harley roared. The tip of her boot put the motorcycle into gear.

Police-psychology, de Gier thought. Bag of tricks. Pelican-talk, then show handcuffs. Intimidation by evoking fear of shackles and the desire to enjoy nature.

The motorcycle and sidecar passed small wooden houses. Hedges blossomed, flowers grew from pots dangling from veranda ceilings, palm trees grew everywhere, tall palm trees with clusters of red fruit, little fat palm trees with huge leaves, palm
trees in the shape of giant fans. Oranges, grapefruit and lemons gleamed between moist green foliage. White lattice work contrasted with pale blue or rose window shutters. Ramona shouted above the thunder of the engine that the houses had been built by ships’s carpenters of the previous century. Sailors brought tropical seeds from Tahiti and New Zealand. Key West, as found by early conquistadores, knew only the grays and greens of swamp mangroves but the imported fauna thrived on local soil.

Waiting at a traffic light Sergeant Symonds told her prisoner that the police Harley was a Dyna Glide model, capable of going one hundred sixty miles an hour, without the sidecar of course. “Only in America, Rai-nus. What do you guys ride in Europe? Japanese rice cookers?” She shook her head. “That stuff isn’t real.”

De Gier looked at the real handcuffs on her gun belt.

“Did you ride a motorcycle when you were an Amsterdam cop?”

De Gier mentioned a twin cylinder BMW.

“Were Harleys too expensive out there?”

“They were, Ramona.”

Here I am, de Gier thought, stuck in a baby carriage, being pulled along by Nanny Chauvinista making goddamn conversation.

Ramona served gourmet coffee in her office. “I really appreciate being able to arrest you, Rai-nus. I was lucky. You want to know what I have?”

“A new incriminating fact?”

The sergeant looked pleased. “Yes sirree.”

“May I know what new incriminating fact?” de Gier asked.

“You know,” Symonds asked, “what the old incriminating facts were?”

American police methodology, de Gier thought, wouldn’t be essentially different from what he was used to. Sergeant Symonds would have had to convince a high ranking authority, a police chief or a judge, that an arrest was justified. De Gier set forth a possible theory formulated by the arresting officer, based on facts:

“
Fact 1:
Victim T. Stewart-Wynne drives his jeep into a restaurant where Suspect de Gier is having dinner with two associates.

“Hypothesis: Victim was to meet Suspect in that very restaurant. Victim was attempting to park close by when he lost control of the vehicle.

“Defense: There is no proof that Victim and Suspect knew each other. The jeep’s malfunction just happened to occur in that particular location.

“
Fact 2:
A bicycle-policeman investigates the jeep after it has stalled inside the restaurant. Of all people present only Suspect is interested in Victim’s corpse.

“Hypothesis: Suspect is the killer, he is checking whether his attempt succeeded.

“Defense: Suspect is a former police officer, he is interested in the deadly accident out of habit.

“
Fact 3:
Both Victim, an employee of the British financial company Quadrant, and Suspect, a former policeman, are connected to Ambagt & Son, a shipping company working out of the Liberian-registered FEADship
Admiraal Rodney
. Ambagt & Son claims it deals in crude oil. Victim stayed in the luxury hotel Eggemoggin. So does Suspect. Key West is a strategic location for the drug trade.

“Hypothesis: Quadrant financed Ambagt & Son’s dealings but wasn’t paid back. Victim looks for possible wrongdoing and
obtains proof of drug dealing. Victim threatens to call the cops. Ambagt & Son hires Suspect to get rid of Victim.

“Defense: Suspect says he doesn’t know Victim and denies being a hit man.

“
Fact 4:
The rented jeep’s brake and acceleration systems have been tampered with, changing a means of transportation into a deadly weapon.

“Hypothesis: Suspect did the tampering with the object of murdering Victim.

“Defense: Suspect says he did not.

“Yes?” de Gier asked.

“Perfect,” Ramona said. “You’ve hit all the nails on the head. All you have to do is keep denying everything. But now …” she bent across her desk, smilingly aggressive, as if she was going to grab his crotch—a uniformed guard and her helpless slave—“… what new fact showed up which allows me to arrest you?”

“Somebody saw something?” de Gier asked. “But there was nothing to see. I am innocent. You are misinterpreting something.”

“
Two
somethings?” Sergeant Ramona Symonds of the KWPD asked triumphantly. She reported, staring over de Gier’s head as if she was addressing a godhead throned behind him. “Victim,” Ramona said, using a professionally modulated voice, “stayed for five days in the Eggemoggin Hotel. He was very busy during the first four days. He dressed in regular clothes and drove a regular rental.” Symonds looked at her notes. “A two-door beige Geo compact. He didn’t bother the chamber boy, wasn’t interested in Cocaine Annie’s services—Annie, an expensive prostitute, works the Eggemoggin, officially, as a masseuse.
A very classy lady.… But on the fifth day Victim suddenly changed his persona.” She glanced at de Gier briefly. “Do you follow me?”

“I am with you, Sergeant,” de Gier said brightly.

Symonds smiled triumphantly. “On the fifth day, Victim dresses up as an expensive cowboy, pinches the chamber boy in the buttocks, orders Cocaine Annie into his room and demands special sexual acts, changes the Geo for a rental jeep, complains about the food—beefsteak too well done, wants it rare—laughs loudly while drinking champagne by himself.”

“Manic?” de Gier asked. “Abnormal excited behavior after a period of colorless depression? Can Victim be diagnosed as bi-polar?”

Ramona ignored the interjection. “Hypothesis: Victim successfully closed his investigation. Victim parties and Suspect …,” (Ramona was staring de Gier in the eyes) “which is you, Rai-nus … gets him.” Sergeant Symonds leaned back in her chair. “Defense: Suspect denies having gotten Victim at this crucial point of proceedings?”

De Gier laughed. “He does, Sergeant. And what you have there is old. I mentioned it already. No proof, you know. Nothing doing.”

Symonds was smiling too. “I have enough here to make a jury listen to what the prosecutor has to say, but there is more.” Her smile widened. “So much more. You want to hear?”

De Gier was shaking his head. It all sounded ominous. Perhaps he should have stayed in the police force, on the power side of the table. “Tell me,” he said quietly.

“The Key West Post Office,” the sergeant told him, “is on the edge of our black district. Someone has been bothering kids
there. We patrol the area more frequently now. A woman cop out of uniform was watching the parking lot on the day Stewart-Wynne died. She saw a long haired white male subject sliding under a blue jeep, holding tools. She thought he was making repairs. The man looked disheveled, the jeep looked new. The contrast was of note, of course. You know the police are always looking for contrast?”

“Yes,” de Gier said. “What else did your lady constable see, Sergeant?”

“A white gentleman in a cowboy outfit drove the jeep away, after the disheveled pseudo-mechanic had done what he did.”

“It wasn’t me,” de Gier said. “I don’t have long hair and I don’t look disheveled.”

“Wig? Different clothes?” Sergeant Symonds read from her notes: “Tall white male subject, military posture, huge mustache, six feet tall, wide shoulders.

“Hypothesis: Suspect had somewhat changed his appearance while changing the jeep into a lethal weapon.”

De Gier grinned. “It still wasn’t me.”

Sergeant Symonds looked serious. “Policewoman Susan G. Wilson begs to differ. I took her to Hotel Eggemoggin last night. She saw you in the bar, listening to jazz. I didn’t point you out to her. It wasn’t necessary. She recognized you at once. She’ll swear to it too. That’s why you’re under arrest now.”

De Gier dropped his hands to his knees.

“Defense?” Symonds asked.

De Gier shrugged. “My name is Janneman Jackrabbit and I know nothing.”

“Who Jackrabbit?”

“A Dutch children’s song,” de Gier explained. “Little kids
chant it when they’re accused of getting into the cookie jar.” He sang the line for her, beating time with his hands.

“This is no joking matter.” The sergeant got up and looked out of the window.

“You don’t really wish to hold me on these trumped up charges,” de Gier said.

“Policewoman Susan G. Wilson has a good reputation,” Ramona said icily without turning around. “I can hold you until you rot.”

“Please,” de Gier said. “Did I mess with a jeep in a post office parking lot while I was eating key lime pie in Lobster Lateta in the company of two witnesses?”

“Your accomplices?” Sergeant Symonds turned sharply. “Hired by Ambagt & Son, alleged macro-drug dealers operating from a tax-free floating palace that keeps visiting Mexican ports for no obvious reasons. Are you aware that Mexico supplies half of all cocaine, heroin and cannabis products consumed in this country? How do you think you can wiggle out of that, tell me!”

“Release me on bail,” de Gier said. “I will find you the real killer, who I now know to be a former military man who looks just like me.”

“Former? How so?”

“Men in the U.S. military service do not look disheveled nor do they have long hair. I will be looking for a renegade, dishonorably discharged.” De Gier jumped up. “It shouldn’t take me long. Let me do this for you.”

Ramona Symonds approached the prisoner. Her pouting lips touched his cheek. She whispered. “I thought you would never ask, my dearest.”

The FEADship
Admiraal Rodney
left Key West for St. Maarten the next late afternoon. De Gier was not on board. Grijpstra had tried to take over the pursuit of Stewart-Wynne’s killer, citing his exchangeability with de Gier. Hadn’t he been in Lobster Lateta when the British Quadrant bank inspector died there? Wasn’t he de Gier’s partner and fellow private eye? Wasn’t he also working for the owners of the suspect
Rodney
? Wasn’t he, like Stewart-Wynne, associated with the Ambagt people?