The Streetbird (3 page)

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The room was vast, had a high ceiling and narrow old-fashioned windows. An antique table was surrounded by straight, leather-upholstered chairs. "You can sit at the head," Jurriaans said to Grijpstra, "seeing you're in charge."

"I'm a guest," the adjutant said, and frowned at Karate and Ketchup, who were sitting down noisily. "Is this our work group?"

A good-looking female constable brought coffee. De Gier studied her and smiled. "A woman," de Gier said, "and this is the whore's quarter. Shouldn't our group have a woman too?"

The constable eyed him coldly. De Gier got up and bowed from the waist. His smile widened. The constable frowned.

Jurriaans coughed. "Allow me to introduce these colleagues to you." He mentioned names. "And this lady is Constable Anne, but she hasn't been fully trained yet. Our regulations say that one-stripe constables may not be led into dangerous situations."

"But to serve you with coffee is okay," the constable said, left the room, and closed the door behind her with too much force.

"A woman," Grijpstra said. "Yes."

Jurriaans pulled a telephone toward him. He leafed through his notebook and dialed a number. "Hello, adjutant. I know you were still asleep, but there has been a murder and we have initiated an investigation. Do you think you might assist?"

He replaced the hook. "She'll be here, Adjutant Adèle, in fifteen minutes I would guess, since she lives around the corner. Do you know the adjutant?"

"I have admired her looks," de Gier said.

"I have been impressed by her brain," Grijpstra said, "the first female to rise from constable to adjutant, with straight A's and music on the lawn."

"I have met her on the shooting range," Cardozo said. "She sort of passed, but I was excellent that day."

"We know her very well," Karate and Ketchup said. "A splendid addition to our team," Karate added. "I often dream of her," Ketchup said.

"Shall we begin or wait?" Jurriaans asked.

"To wait shows better manners," Grijpstra said.

The adjutant arrived, a stately woman with the face of a Madonna as painted by masters of the primitive school, but softened by freckles, subtly placed, to make her human. She shook hands and was given a chair. The constable brought more coffee, and cake, at Grijpstra's request and de Gier's expense.

"What do we have here?" Jurriaans asked. "A dead pimp. Who? Luku Obrian, black, born in Paramaribo, Surinam, formerly Dutch Guiana on the South American east coast, thirty-eight years ago. Who his father was is unknown, but we may assume that his grandfather, in any case his great-grandfather, was a slave, originating in Africa. Our contemporary corpse arrived five years ago at Amsterdam airport, before independence, but not out of fear for the potentially shaky future of his country or because of small-minded greed, knowing that he could apply for social security and never work again, but because of spite. He wished to avenge the fate of his forefathers. He told me so the night of his arrival, when he was dragged into this station, accused of unruly behavior. Drunks do not always speak the truth, but Obrian wasn't lying when he predicted that he would
disconcert
us. The expression is his, for he spoke perfect Dutch, better than we do, and phrased his thoughts accurately, using excellent grammar. He
did
disconcert us, during five long and terrible years, us and the civilians, and last night he was finally taken away from our midst by means of six nine-millimeter bullets fired from an automatic weapon." Jurriaans looked at Adjutant Adèle. "Corner of Olofs-alley and Seadike. Did you hear anything?"

"I was asleep," Adjutant Adèle said.

Jurriaans telephoned. He thanked the other party and replaced the receiver. "That was headquarters. The sergeant of the arms room said that the weapon must have been a Schmeisser."

Cardozo crooked a questioning finger. "I'm not familiar with the term."

Jurriaans held his hands apart at a distance of sixty-five centimeters. "That long." He diminished the distance to twenty-five centimeters. "This is the size of the clip, perpendicularly inserted into the chamber. The clip holds thirty-two cartridges. An antique machine pistol, Second World War vintage, used by SS and Gestapo, well-known from concentration camps and street raids, reputed to work well and shoot accurately. When the German Army surrendered, its weapons were supposedly handed over, but we didn't get them all, every now and then another one pops up, and is used improperly, like last week when the Turks held up a bank."

Adjutant Adèle got up. "The weapon is still in this station. I'll get it so that you can see what we are looking for."

De Gier watched Adjutant Adèle leave the room. She wears the uniform well, the sergeant thought, which is surprising, since they usually look a trifle homely, our policewomen. I wonder why that would be? Because she has such long and slender legs? And wriggles a little in the hips when she moves? Does that make her so watchable?

Cardozo was thinking too. He thought that he would like to put his hands on the adjutant's calves and move them up slowly to the point where stockings end and pink flesh starts. The pensive desire startled him. He looked at his watch. It was far too early for carnal lust. But it's her fault, Cardozo thought. She may be my superior and well respected, but she is also tall and lusciously shaped. Just the sort of woman to trip up and jump upon. Why do I think that? I'm not that way at all. I'm polite and thoughtful in female company. Why is she provoking me? Why isn't she dumpy and silly like other policewomen? What's getting into me anyway?

Adjutant Adèle returned and placed a machine pistol on the table. She spoke softly but clearly. "This is a Japanese imitation of the German original. It doesn't fire and is meant as a model, for collectors. Sold to a Turkish migrant worker who bought the instrument in London. He smuggled it in because our law says that models like these look too real and can be misused. Said Turk misused it—he pointed it at a bank teller. The Turk is no longer with us. He was shot twice in the belly by a colleague who was in a hurry." She looked at Karate.

"Yes," Karate said. He picked the model up and put it down. "Looks real enough, doesn't it?"

"Our own weapon," the adjutant said, looking at the tabletop that hid Karate's pistol, "is meant as an instrument of prevention, not as a means of immediate destruction. A suspect, even a Turk who handles a toy, could possibly be warned first so that he has an opportunity to surrender and maybe answer some questions."

"Luku Obrian," Jurriaans said, "was black and moved in black circles, hard to get into for us, but I do not think he was killed by a representative of his own race. Obrian was an example of a man who knows how to organize his resources, a rich and successful entrepreneur, owner of an expensive car and a luxurious apartment on the Emperor's Canal, of at least two local bars, of—"

"Wait," Grijpstra said. "If you knew all that, you could have alerted the detectives of the Internal Revenue. Pimps are known not to declare their income. If a pimp is the owner of expensive property—such as a Porsche convertible and an apartment in the best area of the city—that fact is taken as proof of tax fraud. He could have been arrested and his property confiscated."

"Besides, it's a good way to get suspects into debt," de Gier said.

"Because," Cardozo said, "the fine is more than what their property will be worth."

Grijpstra picked up his saucer, tipped it, watched the cake crumbs slide into his cupped hand, and poured the contents of his hand into his mouth. He chewed and swallowed. "Well?"

"How easy," Jurriaans said. "What a pity Obrian wasn't an easy man. The Porsche has a foreign registration and we can't trace its rightful owner. Officially, Obrian rented his apartment, but he didn't pay rent. The bars he owns are operated in the name of his employees, who gave him eighty percent of the profits in cash. Obrian declared what he couldn't hide, which was something, sufficient to pacify the tax hounds."

Grijpstra produced a cigar from his waistcoat. "May I?"

"Rather not," Adjutant Adèle said.

"May I say something?" Ketchup asked.

"Could I perhaps smoke a cigarette?" Grijpstra asked.

The adjutant ducked a strand of hair back behind an ear. "If you blow the smoke the other way."

"Listen," Ketchup said. "You know what Obrian did? There was a whore here by the name of Madeleine, a most extraordinarily beautiful woman who acted like a lady and worked for her own account, from the best-placed display window of the entire quarter. She could unlock her door electrically and would only push the button if the client looked well-heeled enough, and she earned a daily fortune."

"With exaggerated but still aristocratic boobs," Karate said, "and legs like you see in private movies made for oil dealers."

"Yes," Ketchup said, "and she kept all the dough she earned, right? No pimps dragging it from her, man, and the gents were bringing it in, a wheelbarrow a day. Cold frog, like the best of them, but with soft mysterious eyes and a smile that just begs a little, a comedian with character in her soul."

Karate's small fists banged on the table. "And Obrian couldn't touch her, that's what we all thought."

Ketchup's fists banged the table too. "Even if he had every hooker in the quarter, even if they all slaved for him and got the tremors when he happened to pass their windows, our Madeleine was made of steel, he would never get our Madeleine."

"Never would get near her with his sooty grabbers." Ketchup was standing up.

Karate was also on his feet. "You know how he got Madeleine?"

"By glancing at her," Ketchup shouted, "sideways, when he passed her window."

"And you know what he made her do?" yelled Karate, "on a beautiful Sunday morning, with the weather as bright and fresh as today? On a lovely summer day, when we were all out in the street, to keep a quiet eye out and make sure everything went the way we wanted it to go?"

"He made her come to the small green bridge," whispered Ketchup, "the cast-iron bridge on the Oldside Canal, pedestrians only, with lions' heads on the railing, many centuries old, a cherished antiquity the tourists gape at."

"They were gaping too," Karate whispered, "and so were we, and everybody else as well. Obrian looked too, but he was quiet, like a cucumber."

"He wasn't doing anything in particular, Obrian wasn't."

"Just standing there, high on the bridge."

"In his linen tailor-made suit, worth a thousand or so, and under his panama hat, and with a Cuban cigar between his gold-rimmed teeth."

"And with his silk handkerchief hanging from his pocket."

"And unarmed, clean as a whistle."

"Unseizable; a civilian is allowed to stand on whatever bridge he likes."

"And there Luku Obrian stood, and there she came, our Madeleine, in her new lovely dress, with the skirt not too short and the cleavage not too visible. Our
lady."

"And she knelt for him."

"And she opened his fly."

"I don't want to hear it," Grijpstra said.

"And then?" Cardozo asked.

"Now, what do you think?" Karate asked. "Eh? At her leisure, softly and firmly, as if there was nothing she'd rather do. As if she were grateful for the favor he bestowed."

It was quiet around the table. Adjutant Adèle looked at her nails, transparently lacquered, perfectly filed. Grijpstra killed his cigarette in the ashtray, slowly, ferociously. Karate and Ketchup sagged back into their chairs and sighed. Jurriaans drew a circle with a sharp pencil on a fresh page of his notebook. De Gier waited for his blush to fade away.

"And Madeleine?" de Gier asked.

"She continued to work," Jurriaans said, "but not for long, because Obrian soaked all her money out of her and the heroin he supplied her with was never enough. She hung herself from the lamp in her room. I still have her file, complete with photographs. I'll show it to you whenever you have a spare minute."

Grijpstra felt in his pocket, produced the cigar he had put away, made it crackle near his ear, smelled it, and put it on the table. He watched the cigar. He mumbled.

De Gier mumbled too.

"You two sound surprised," Adjutant Adèle said.

"I'm always surprised," de Gier said, "if I don't pay attention. That's because I believe in certain limits, which I must have made myself, since reality makes fun of limits. Take this morning, for instance—three roller-skating gentlemen carrying new briefcases, and it wasn't four o'clock yet and now this Obrian again, on a cast-iron bridge, sucking his Communist straw while the lady whore sucks him, in full view of everybody."

"Never mind," Grijpstra said. He took a deep breath. He scraped his throat. "Look here. The number of whores is not unlimited. If Obrian got more, others got less. It is a human habit to become angry when something is taken away. I have heard names; Gustav and Lennie. How angry did those pimps get, and what would they be likely to do once something made them angry?"

Jurriaans smiled. "That's the way to go, adjutant. A cause deducted from its effect, via the relentless logic with which every policeman has been suitably equipped. I am glad you're with us." He drew two circles. "Who are our suspects? All criminal types out in these streets. How many remain once we have applied discernment to our thoughtful structure? Two." He pricked centers into his circles. "Who are our suspects now? Gustav and Lennie. The cheerful satisfaction of Obrian was the biting pain of his rivals. Do we acknowledge the right motivation in our suspects Gustav and Lennie? We do. Did they have the opportunity? They did. Do we grab them?" His pencil stabbed the circles. "We certainly do."

Jurriaans bent over to Grijpstra. "This, adjutant, is our opportunity. We will clean out the quarter so thoroughly that our streets will be clean forever. We have the blessing of your commissaris, the chief of detectives who—could it be better?—has left on sick leave at once. In his name we will slash away in, under, and above. Thank you, Karate."