Outsider in Amsterdam (32 page)

De Gier drove calmly, trying to forget the accident and concentrating on what he remembered about the houseboat.

Even with all the lights against them it didn’t take long. A short bearded man was standing near the houseboat’s door.

“Police,” Grijpstra said as he got out of the car. “Are you the one who phoned?”

“I am,” the man said. “Bart de Jong is the name. Call me Bart, everybody does. I live in that boat over there.”

Grijpstra shook the man’s hand and said his name. De Gier joined them. Bart looked unusual, but not very unusual, considering they were in Amsterdam. A short-set strong-looking man some forty years old. The beard seemed to grow right up to his small twinkly eyes. Dark eyes, like beads, black and pearly. The left ear was decorated with a gold earring. He wore a corduroy suit and an open-necked shirt and leather boots, beautifully polished, covering his ankles. The narrow trouser
legs had been tucked into the boots. The man looked clean, even his hair was neatly brushed.

“What’s this about the lady’s cat?” Grijpstra asked.

Bait offered cigarettes. De Gier noticed that his hand shook as he held the burning match. “Ah. The cat. The cat has been bothering me for the last two days. The cat often calls on me, scratches my door and I let him in. Beautiful animal, a Persian. There he is now.”

A cat came stalking along the narrow path leading to a small houseboat, lying next to the luxurious structure that was directly facing them. De Gier squatted down and patted the cat’s head while it rubbed itself against his leg, half-closing the large yellow luminous eyes in obvious pleasure.

“Friendly animal,” de Gier said. “I prefer Siamese cats myself but this one is pretty, has a lot of fur.”

“Exactly,” Bart said, “that’s what I’ve got against him. I don’t mind him visiting me and he can get milk and meat any time he likes but he wants much more. He is used to being properly pampered, hair has got to be brushed ten times a day for he doesn’t like things sticking to it, and he walks through the plants here and messes himself up. And if you refuse to brush him he begins to whine and scratch your legs. If he does that I send him home, but he has kept on coming back for the last two days. I rang Mrs. van Buren’s bell but she doesn’t want to open her door. Her cat is here and I am sure she is home, so perhaps something happened to her.”

“Let’s try the bell again,” de Gier said.

They rang the bell, knocked and shouted. No response.

“So?” Bart asked.

“We’ll break the door.”

“I thought even the police weren’t allowed to break doors in this country,” Bart said.

“We are special police,” de Gier said, “and we have a warrant.”

“And we won’t break the door,” Grijpstra said. “Let’s find another way.”

De Gier reached out from the gangway and studied a window.

“You have long legs,” Grijpstra said.

De Gier nodded and produced his pistol. The glass broke with the first tap of its butt.

“Careful now,” Grijpstra said. “Last time you climbed through a window you hurt yourself and bled all over your suit.”

“I live and learn,” de Gier said, and eased his arm through the broken window. The window swung open after a while and de Gier, supported by Grijpstra, climbed through. Within seconds the front door opened.

“You don’t want me to come in?” Bart asked.

“No. Wait here. We won’t be long. Hell! Watch it.”

The cat, which had been with them on the boat’s gangplank and had seemed to be eager to get in, had suddenly made an extraordinary sound, a deep yowl ending in a bloodcurdling shriek, and had turned in a flash and rushed off. It stopped at a safe distance and sat down. Its thick furry coat seemed twice its usual size.

Bart was shaking his head. “That’s not so good. You better go in and see what’s wrong. Something is wrong.”

“Yes,” Grijpstra said, and pushed his body into movement. He tapped de Gier on the shoulder. De Gier was still watching the cat.

They found nothing in the lower story of the boat. Everything looked in order, a bit dusty possibly. The lady had decorated her home with a strange taste. A strange but expensive taste. Persian carpets, a large stone fireplace. De Gier stopped a second in front of a statue carved out of wood, depicting three female figures standing on top of one another. Their breasts were exaggerated, pointed, with long nipples. The lips were thick and the foreheads low. The three tongues, lolling in three open mouths, had been
painted red, and the very white teeth were pointed seashells. “An African fertility symbol perhaps,” he thought, but there was more than fertility in the three figures. They seemed to radiate some strong power.

There were other statues in the room. On a shelf he saw at least a dozen little men, varying in height from two to six inches. They were African warriors, carrying spears and other weapons. All the little men looked very intent, as if their ferocity was directed at a common goal.

“Me,” de Gier thought. “They want me. What the hell do they want me for?”

But he felt comforted immediately. They didn’t want just him, they would want anyone who came in their way.

“Nice place,” said Grijpstra, who had gone to the next room.

“You think so?” de Gier asked politely.

“Yes,” Grijpstra said, looking about him. “Lots of space. Nice comfortable chairs. A man could sit here and read his paper or one of those books and smoke a cigar. Very pleasant. Look at that painting.”

De Gier looked. The painting was peaceful, dreamy. A Pierrot and his Columbine strolling through a garden lit by the moon, a pale dark garden. The background of the scene was formed by a line of poplars, bare poplars, so it would be winter. There were some strangely shaped clouds in the metallic blue sky, small clouds with sharp white edges.

“You like the painting?” de Gier asked.

“Yes,” Grijpstra said, “much better than all that pink flesh you see nowadays. It’s very sexy but they are fully clothed. They aren’t even holding hands you see, just arm in arm, respectable, pleasant.”

“They must have made love to each other in that little summerhouse next to the poplars,” de Gier said.

Grijpstra looked at the summerhouse. “Yes,” he said slowly. “That’s the sexy atmosphere I saw in it. But it’s all relaxed now.”

“Yes, yes,” de Gier said. “How much do you think this place is worth? Complete with all the trimmings I mean.”

Grijpstra was still looking at the painting. “That painting is worth about ten guilders,” he said. “It’s a reproduction. But the frame is worth a few hundred. It’s the only cheap item I have seen so far. A reproduction of a painting by Rousseau. Rousseau the customs officer. A chap like me. A government official earning a low salary. I wish I could paint.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in art,” de Gier said. “You can still learn to paint. There are evening classes at the university.”

“I know,” Grijpstra said. “Maybe when I am pensioned off. I don’t know anything about art but I know about this fellow. I read a book on his life and I have seen exhibitions of his work. He is a primitive painter. You want to know how much this place is worth?”

“Yes,” de Gier said.

“A lot of money. These leather chairs are worth a few thousand guilder each. There are three of them, and there is a couch. Real leather. The carpet is worth money too. And this boat is about the best houseboat I have ever seen in Amsterdam. Good solid timber, two floors, must be over twenty meters long and over six wide. Two hundred thousand maybe, or more. It’s a floating palace.”

They had come to the kitchen. De Gier was again impressed. He thought of his own little kitchen, a large cupboard with a mini-refrigerator and two hot plates. He had learned to cook in it with his arms pressed to his chest.

“Nice kitchen, hey?” he asked Grijpstra, who was looking at the gigantic fridge and the automatic stove with its array of switches.

“Some people are really rich,” Grijpstra said, “and this is supposed to be a socialist country with the differences becoming smaller all the time. It would be interesting to find out what her source of income is.”

“We will,” de Gier said, “if anything has happened to her. If not, we won’t.”

“Maybe she inherited the money,” Grijpstra said in a soothing voice.

They climbed the stairs. There was only one large room upstairs, a very large room covering the full length and width of the ship. The end of the staircase was a hole in the floor of this room, fenced off on three sides by a railing supported by carved wooden columns.

They were both careful not to touch anything; de Gier had his hands in his pockets, Grijpstra’s hands were folded on his back.

Grijpstra sighed when he saw the woman on the floor. She had collapsed on the thick white carpet. She had fallen forward and they saw the long legs, the short skirt, the white blouse and the flowing black hair spread partly on the carpet, partly on the white blouse.

The blouse had a large red stain and the center of the stain was the brass handle of a knife. Three large blue-bottomed flies were buzzing through the room, their feeding disturbed by the arrival of the detectives.