Tumbleweed (6 page)

"Nostalgic is the word," the commissaris said. "We are being taken back to the Middle Ages, the dark times when people lived in small communities in great forests. It's a time we have forgotten but it's still in the memory of the people, hidden, but alive. Lately it is coming up again, I have seen it in the hippies. Some of them must look exactly like wizards' disciples, pure fourteenth century. Do you ever go to bookshops?"

"No, sir," Grijpstra said, "not very often."

"Yes, sir," de Gier said.

"You must have noticed that books on herbs are very popular. I have read some of them. Collected rubbish I would say, stuff you can find in the encyclopedia, but then bunched together and with a couple of drawings thrown in. The real books are not for sale. The old hermits had books but you could only use them if the hermit was prepared to train you, and you had to live with him for years and he would really teach you about plants. One could also find out by oneself I daresay, by trying to grow herbs and by studying them. I spend some time in my garden every day, it's amazing what you can learn. Do you have a garden?"

"I have some plants on my balcony, sir," de Gier said.

"What do you have?" the commissaris asked, looking very interested.

"Geraniums," de Gier said, "and something called asylum, a small plant with lots of little white flowers, it smells of honey."

"Alyssum," the commissaris said. "Do you ever look at your plants?"

"Yes, sir."

"And what do you see?"

"They are beautiful."

"Yes," the commissaris said slowly. "They are beautiful. Even geraniums are beautiful, almost everybody has them and they are beautiful. It's the first lesson to learn."

He had spoken with some emotion and the silence had come back into the room. It was a pleasant silence and Grijpstra suddenly felt very peaceful. De Gier was sitting on the edge of his chair, the brandy glass in his hand, waiting for the commissaris to speak.

"But I am not prepared to believe that Mrs. van Buren was a witch. She may have had the plants for some other reason. Maybe she liked the look of them. She had lots of other plants as well. She had the colonel in her power and I am sure she had our Mr. Wauters under her spell. But she was a beautiful sexy woman. Women have power, a passive power. All they have to do is smile a little and men run to them. Men don't want to be manipulated but they are, by women and their own uncontrolled desires. Perhaps the colonel and Mr. Wauters are pleased now, because they can go and hunt for fresh game. And perhaps she was blackmailing them. Our friends wouldn't admit that they were being blackmailed. That's understandable. The blackmailer is dead and the secret has gone with her. Three detectives have gone through the houseboat today; tomorrow morning we'll know what they have found. Nobody has taken anything out of the ship for I had it guarded all night and this morning until the detectives arrived. Perhaps we'll find something."

"What did you think of the colonel, sir?"Grijpstra asked.

"An intelligent man," the commissaris said. "He admitted a lot which was good strategy if he had anything to hide. He even admitted having spent a fortune on her during the last three years, but a fortune he could afford to spend. Colonels have a good income, especially in the American army. He has an alibi and I am sure it's a good alibi. The American military police will be checking it now but it will hold. But the colonel said something which may support your theory, de Gier."

"Did he say she was a witch?" de Gier asked.

The commissaris smiled. "No. But he said that she was very attractive and that I would have been interested in her if I had ever met her. I said that I am an old man and suffering from rheumatism. And then he said that Mrs. van Buren would perhaps have cured me. Rheumatism is hard to cure."

"Did you ask him if Mrs. van Buren had been interested in plants?" de Gier asked.

"No," the commissaris said. "I didn't think of it. The remark only sunk in later."

"You can contact the American military police and they can ask him," Grijpstra said.

"I may. And I may not."

"You don't think it matters?" de Gier asked.

"Perhaps not. She was killed by a man who didn't like her. He didn't like her because she was blackmailing him, or because she had humiliated him. She may also have been killed because she knew something. The Secret Service
is
interested in her and has been interested for some time. Perhaps some professional killer paid by an embassy has thrown the dagger. The fact that she is a witch, which isn't a fact so far, may have nothing to do with her death. We may have to consider her sorcery as a hobby."

The commissaris got up. "It's late, gentlemen, and you will want to go to bed. Tomorrow is another day and we'll see what it brings. I'll get hold of IJsbrand Drachtsma and make an appointment with him for the afternoon. You should be there as well and we can ask all the questions we want to ask without military policemen and diplomats hovering around us. Phone me at one o'clock tomorrow and I'll tell you when he is coming. Tomorrow morning you should try and find the man with the Edam cheese face, the fellow who wears a red waistcoat and who has a small son who plays with a ball. You can ask everybody in the area and show your sketch. While you find the red waistcoat I'll be contacting the police in
and find out as much as I can about Maria van Buren's background. Good night."

"Sleep well, sir," de Gier said.

"Wait," the commissaris said. "I still have to phone a taxi for Grijpstra."

"It's all right, sir," Grijpstra said. "I'll walk to the taxi stand; it's a nice evening."

"As you wish."

The commissaris walked them to his front door and smiled as he shook hands. He looked very friendly.

"I hope that Belgian fellow hasn't done it," de Gier said when they were walking toward the taxi stand.

"Why not?"

"Because he is a diplomat, we can't arrest him."

"You want to punish somebody?" Grijpstra asked. "I thought you didn't believe in punishment. Didn't you tell me the other day that it would be much more fun catching criminals if you could be sure they would be taken to a nice place with a large park where they could relax and eat good food and play games and become healthy again?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "Criminals are sick people and should be cured in pleasant surroundings. But there are exceptions. This murderer killed a beautiful woman and beautiful women are scarce. A man like that should wear a ball and chain. And Mrs. van Buren was a witch as well. I would have liked to meet her."

"Ach," Grijpstra said.

"You don't agree?"

"I agree," Grijpstra said, and patted de Gier on the back. "Now you go home and go to sleep and dream dreams."

"Life
is
a dream," de Gier said.

"That's enough. Good night."

The taxi door slammed and the car took off.

De Gier waved.

Grijpstra didn't look around.

6

I
T WAS TEN O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING AND IT WAS RAINING. De Gier had just knocked on the door of a houseboat and was waiting for the door to open. He had put up the collar of his stylish raincoat and was muttering a string of curses, directed at himself who had bought the raincoat and the manufacturer of the raincoat who had forgotten to waterproof it.

The door opened and a fat woman, dressed in a torn peignoir and with her hair hanging down her face, looked at him with bleary eyes. "No, thank you," she said, and slammed the door.

De Gier knocked again.

"Go away," the woman shouted from inside the boat, "whatever it is you want to sell me, I don't want it."

De Gier knocked again.

"Go away," the woman shrieked, "or I'll phone the police."

"I
am
the police," de Gier shouted.

The door opened.

"Show your identification," the woman said, and pulled the card out of his hands. She studied the card, holding it at arm's length, spelling out the words to herself. "Amsterdam Municipal Police. R. de Gier, sergeant."

"All right," she said, "what do you want, sergeant?"

"Can I come in a minute?"

The woman stepped aside. De Gier gave her a photocopy of the sketch Bart de Jong had made of the man in the red waistcoat and his little son, holding a ball.

"Do you know this man at all, madam?"

"Let me get my glasses."

The fat woman got her glasses, polished them, and put them on. She studied the sketch carefully. "I have seen him," she said, "he only comes on Sundays, Sunday mornings. Walks about with his son. A lot of people come here for walks but I wouldn't remember them but I remember this one because of his silly waistcoat. A red waistcoat. He has a golden watch chain as well. He reminded me of my grandfather, that's why I remember him too."

"Do you know his name?"

"No," the woman said, "why should I? I never talked to him. Why are you looking for him?"

"We want to ask him a few questions," de Gier said, looking around and noticing how well kept the interior of the boat was. Everything was in its place, the furniture looked as if it had been polished a few minutes ago, the windows were so clean that he had to look again to make sure that there was glass in them. "Typical," de Gier thought, forcing himself to look at the woman who was still eyeing him suspiciously. "Ugly woman," de Gier thought, "should go on a diet and spend an hour a day on herself. She can't be thirty yet, could be quite attractive if she tried."

"Nice boat you have, madam," he said sweetly, "must be wonderful living out here on the water."

"I would prefer a nice apartment," the woman said, but she smiled.

"You didn't notice whether the man used to come here in a car and park it somewhere around here?"

The woman thought; the effort made her less ugly. "Yes. He might have come in a car. It's a long walk from the city and he had the little boy with him. Maybe he parked somewhere close by and then went for a walk. But I haven't seen his car."

"Thank you," de Gier said.

"Would you like some coffee, sergeant?"

"No, thank you, madam, I still have a lot of work to do."

De Gier left. It was the seventeenth door he had knocked on that morning. He knocked on another ten doors and finally got an answer. He walked back to the police VW where he found Grijpstra waiting for him, patiently smoking a cigar.

"What kept you?" Grijpstra said. "I have been waiting here for nearly half an hour. I looked for you, did you find a pretty lady somewhere?"

De Gier took a deep breath. "No."

"The man used to drive out here," Grijpstra said, "in a red Rover. I wanted to tell you."

De Gier took another deep breath. He had been training himself in mental discipline lately and had set himself several goals, such as not to smoke before breakfast, not to swear, to stop at orange traffic lights, to be modest. But the exercises were difficult and he didn't win much. He lost now.

"I know," he said.

"What do you mean you know?" Grijpstra asked gruffly.

"The man drove a red Rover."

"So why didn't you tell me?" Grijpstra asked. "I was running around knocking on doors and seeing a lot of old women with curlers in their hair and you knew all the time. What kept you?"

"Nothing kept me," de Gier said. "I was working and I know more than your red Rover. Two girls live in a houseboat right at the end, students. One girl studies English and the other medicine."

"Yes. And they were under the shower and you had to dry their backs and then they made you some coffee and it was rude to refuse. I know."

"You know nothing," de Gier shouted.
"They
knew something. They had seen the car and they remembered the letters on the license plate."

"So?"

"V.D.," de Gier said.

Grijpstra got out of the car and slapped de Gier on the shouder. "Splendid. Good work. Excellent. That's enough for the clerks at Headquarters. You found our man."

De Gier had his first kind thoughts of the day and thanked his fate. He knew other adjutants. He also thanked the commissaris. The commissaris had made him Grijpstra's assistant.

"I am soaked," Grijpstra said, "and so are you. Let's get back but let's go to your flat first and I'll have coffee while you change your clothes and then we can go to my house a minute so that I can change as well, and we'll phone the commissaris from there."

"Right," de Gier said.

"Yes," the commissaris said through Grijpstra's phone. "IJsbrand Drachtsma is coming at two o'clock, but I would like you to come to my office at one. The detectives have finished their search in Mrs. van Buren's houseboat and I would like to discuss their report with you."

The detectives had lunch in a cheap little restaurant close to Headquarters. They ate quickly and rushed, still chewing their last roll, to a room on the top floor of the police building where two men in shirt sleeves were playing cards.

"Would you like to do a little work?" de Gier asked politely.

"No," the men said.

"Good. A red Rover, new model. The license plate starts with the letters VD, we don't know the number. Who owns it?'

"An interesting question," one of the men said.

"How long will it take you?"

"A couple of minutes or a couple of hours, depends how lucky we are. It isn't urgent, is it?"

"It isn't urgent at all," de Gier said, "but I would like to have the man's name and address within ten minutes and while you are about it you might check if he has a record."

The men stopped playing cards.

"Ha," the commissaris said, "there you are. Did you find the man in the red waistcoat?"

"We know who he is, sir," Grijpstra said. "His name is Holman and he lives in town. He is the owner of a small firm specializing in the nut trade."

"Nuts?"

"Cashew nuts, walnuts, peanuts, any type of nuts. He imports them and resells them to the wholesalers and supermarkets and so on. We telephoned his office and made an appointment for five o'clock this afternoon; he is coming here, to our office. He sounded very upset."

"Did you tell him why you wanted to see him?"

"No, sir."

"Good," the commissaris said, and rummaged through the papers on his desk. "I have the report here on the search of the houseboat. The detectives told me all about it this morning but it is nice to have some facts on paper. Sit down and I'll tell you what we found out."

The detectives sat down and relaxed. De Gier was rubbing his hands. The case was going well, he thought. The suspects were coming in, one by one. They were getting somewhere, but in the back of his mind a little thought was bothering him. He found the little thought and identified it. What if the killer was hired? He had never come across a hired killer before. Hired killers are professional. They have no real motive, they work for a fixed sum of money which will arrive in an envelope when the job is done. They have no personal connection with the victim. They are cool, disinterested. They only pay one visit to the victim's house. How long does it take to throw a knife? And how does a policeman catch a man who leaves no traces? The killer might even be a foreigner, especially flown in for the purpose of finishing Mrs. van Buren's life. He would have been shown the houseboat and a photograph and given a date and a time.

"You look worried," the commissaris said.

De Gier told the commissaris about his little thought.

"Yes," the commissaris said, "it worries me too. Very few people can throw a knife. In the army only special troops are taught to fight with knives. But perhaps the knife wasn't thrown, the doctor wasn't sure. But we shouldn't worry; worry is a waste of time. The woman was killed and somebody killed her. We have certain rules to follow in our investigation, and we are following the rules. We are interviewing the suspects. One of them may give us a clue. And we have searched the boat. Most of the information the detectives gave me this morning is negative. No fingerprints, the handle of the front door was wiped clean on the inside and outside, there were no signs of breaking-in so the visitor had let himself in with a key or Mrs. van Buren opened the door for him. The windows of the boat were closed except for two very small windows which must have been left open by Mrs. van Buren for ventilation. There is no way of entering through the small windows. The railing of the staircase was also wiped clean so the killer wasn't wearing gloves. The detectives found a metal strongbox in the bookcase which was locked. I had it opened and there was over a thousand guilders in cash in it. I have also been given a file with accounts and she had nearly thirty thousand guilders in her bank account. She has been paying taxes on a yearly income of twenty-five thousand guilders, her source of income is described as 'entertainment.' The houseboat is Mr. Drachtsma's property and she wasn't paying rent."

"Well," Grijpstra said, "that's not too bad. We know something anyway."

"There's a little more," the commissaris said. "I asked the detectives to look at her bookcase; I am always interested in what people read. She had a lot of books in Dutch, all novels by well-known writers. They wrote down the titles of the foreign books for me, must have taken them an hour at least. Perhaps de Gier was right, there were two shelves of books on witchcraft and sorcery, in five languages. She could read English, French and German but also Spanish."

"
is close to South America," de Gier said.

"Quite. There is one more item of interest. Look at this."

The commissaris produced two objects and put them on his desk. "What do you think these are?"

"Roots," Grijpstra said.

De Gier was looking at the roots with amazement. The roots were some fifteen centimeters long and looked like dried-out little men with spindly legs and complete with long thin penises. The little men had proper faces with noses and eyes.

"They look like little men," he said.

"They do, don't they? They are mandrake roots."