The Streetbird (5 page)

"Old drunk," de Gier said.

"An alien," Cardozo said. "They get no welfare. Maybe I should go after him and take him to the Salvation Army. Sir?"

The old man had reached a mud puddle and slithered on, jabbing his stick ferociously into the tiles of the sidewalk.

"Leave him alone," Grijpstra said. "It's not your job to save old bums."

\\\\ 5 ////

Older women pushed wet rags along grimy windows, the squealing of dirt against dirt matched the shrill voices that argued or complained. Hung-over clients left dingy one-night hotels, staring from red-rimmed eyes at the lack of possibilities that another day would offer. A hawker pushed a cart, yelling hoarsely out of a toothless mouth between sunken stubbly cheeks: "Radishes and smoked eel."

A cat on high legs rubbed itself against the commissaris' cane and looked up, squinting from bright yellow eyes. The commissaris scratched the animal's gleaming fur. "Haven't we met?"

The cat howled softly.

"Yes. In the Olofs-alley this morning." The commissaris shivered violently, reacting to a stab of pain that had burned up his thigh and found the bone in his hip. He concentrated on the cat, stroking its neck, feeling its soft body vibrate under his hand.

"Not enough love?"

The cat slid away and ran ahead, stopped and looked back before it turned the next corner.

"Love may be hard to find around here," the commissaris mumbled, following the cat.

"Hi, Gramps," a female voice said. The commissaris looked up. A young woman, a girl perhaps, leaned out of a window on the second floor. He saw her breasts bounce. "He's got me from the rear," the girl said, "and I've got to wait till he's done. Want to talk to me meanwhile?"

The commissaris couldn't see the man but he could hear him groan. He walked on, his cane tip scratching on the alley's cobblestones. The girl called after him, "Come back later, Gramps, I'm cheap today."

"Radish and smoked eel."

A bit to eat, the commissaris thought, and then an hour's worth of quiet contemplation in a clean room. He turned the corner the cat had taken before. The cat was waiting, sitting on the edge of the sidewalk, licking a paw. She jumped up when she saw him and ran on.

A guide, the commissaris thought. The alley ended at the wide Eastern Canal. He followed the waterside, walking under huge elms and their proud load of small newly green leaves. An old woman, wrapped in plaid, crumbled bread for noisy ducks, who splashed each other to reach their free lunch. The commissaris watched. Two small boys, one white with long blond hair and one black, bright-eyed under a frizzy crest, paddled a plastic bathtub. The cat stood next to him, stiff forelegs pressed on stacked bricks, chattering at the quacking ducks. "Not quite your size," the commissaris said. "Try a sparrow." There were sparrows about too, hopping at crumbs.

I really need lunch, the commissaris thought. His original plan—to be a tramp in the Salvation Army dormitory and listen to the gossip—faded out. He saw a stone jug with a silver spout, tinkling coolly while cold
genever,
the juniper flavored gin the Dutch favor so much, filled a long-stemmed tulip-shaped glass. He also saw hot toast, thickly buttered, spread with slices of white and pink eel, circled with cut radishes and artfully placed gherkins. He glanced about, searching for the sign of a suitable establishment, but saw only freshly painted windows of tall gable houses, leaning against each other in age-old confidence. He lifted his hat and addressed the old woman. "A small hotel? Where the food is good?"

The woman looked doubtfully at the leather bag, cracked at the seams, dangling from his gesturing hand. "Can it cost a few pennies?"

"Oh, yes."

She pointed. "The Straight-Tree Ditch. Ask for Nellie. Third house on the right."

"Much obliged."

"Rooms," the sign said in four languages. The sign was elegantly lettered and hung from a freshly painted heavy rod, ending in a copper ball. The commissaris admired the narrow house, five stories high, with wooden planters holding pink geraniums attached to each window. The dark brown bricks shone and the white trim of sills and posts set off the pink of curtains. A rather fleshy pink, the commissaris thought, but what's wrong with flesh? The cat had lost interest and danced away, tail up, legs straight.

The commissaris leaned on his cane and tried to remember why the house was familiar. Had he been here before? There had been a murder in the street, some years back, but on the other side, he thought, across the water and farther along. Pink? What had been pink in that case, properly solved and conveniently forgotten. He tried to activate his slow brain and worried about cells lost through age and never replaced.

Eel on toast.

I don't want to think of food now, the commissaris thought. But why shouldn't he? The pinkness of whatever it was would come to him later. He rang the bell. The door clicked open.

"Come in," the mature voice of a woman called out. "I'm in my office, on the left, come in."

The commissaris dragged himself along, tired of the long walk and the increasing weight of his bag. The point of his shoe hit the threshold of the room and he had to force himself to lift his foot. He took off his hat. "I'm looking for a room for a few nights."

She didn't answer at once, and he looked at her quietly, hat in hand, the other clawed around the handle of the bag. The woman's breasts, caught tightly in a pink jersey, seemed abnormally full; he felt as if the massive mounds pointed at him, with their aggressive nipples, surging through the thin material. She smiled and he saw the whiteness of her strong teeth, growing firmly out of healthy gums. "This isn't a cheap place, Gramps."

"I don't mind."

"Are you sure? Are you in town to visit relatives? There are more reasonable rooms available, not far from here." Her hand touched the telephone. "Shall I try to get you one?"

"I've got cash." The commissaris put down his bag and took out his wallet.

She pointed at a chair. He shook his head. "Can I see the room? I would like to lie down for a minute and then eat something perhaps." He stepped forward, put the wallet on her desk, and brought out his tin of cigars. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

She struck a match. "You can do what you like, as long as you pay in advance." Her breasts were close and he had trouble looking into her eyes. He knew who she was now and wondered if he'd remind her. She had been trustworthy then, so why be squeamish now?

"Nellie?"

She smiled. "Did someone tell you my name?"

The commissaris sat down. "Try to think back. Five, no, it must be six years ago. A street hawker on the other side, living with his sister, killed by a lead ball at the end of a fishing rod. There was trouble in the streets then and the police fought the rioters, so my adjutant brought me here, but you didn't have a hotel, the place was a kind of bar."

She clapped a hand over her mouth.

"You made coffee for us. Adjutant Grijpstra had a bad cough and you made him drink syrup."

She got up and walked around the desk. "And I just let you stand here, and called you Gramps!"

"Well." He touched his shabby coat. "I look a bit strange maybe. Can I stay here? If I do, you can't tell anyone who I am. There's been another murder, in the Olofs-alley, and I'm working on my own for a while."

She dropped her voice. "I know. Luku Obrian was shot. Nobody knows you're here?"

"I'm supposed to be on holiday." He missed the ashtray. "I'm sorry. Only my wife knows I'm not. I'd better phone her."

"Henk doesn't know either?"

"Henk?"

"Your adjutant. Henk Grijpstra. Surely you've told him."

Right, the commissaris thought. I thought so at the time. Henk and Nellie, a romance. And Nellie was a prostitute then, entertaining clients in a cozy bar without a license. Not quite the thing to do, but even an adjutant has a private life.

"No, Grijpstra doesn't know."

"You don't trust him?"

He nodded. "Yes, of course I do, but it isn't a simple case and I prefer us looking at it from different sides. We'll meet later, when suspicions firm up a little. I need a few days, longer maybe."

"I never!" Nellie said. "And me worrying whether you could pay."

He smiled. "So you should. This hotel is far too good for bums, but I'll try to keep out of the way."

She hid her nose and mouth under her hand. Her eyes twinkled.

"Yes?"

"Some bum." She laughed outright. "A top official earning a yearly fortune. You're quite an honor to have around, sir."

He laughed too. "I'm glad you got rid of your bar. How do you like running all this?" He gestured about him. "Such a pleasant-looking place."

She pushed out her lower lip. "I was making out but it got harder every night. Bah." She shook her head. "I was taking ten baths a day in the end and throwing up too. All those hands, all over me." She patted her hips. "I was losing weight too, made me look better but I was crazy inside. Had to give it up. The money went into the hotel but it's coming back again and most of the customers pay cash so it doesn't show on my forms. Henk feels good about it too. Not that he was complaining, but a woman who makes a business of it isn't quite what a big shot like Henk should take out, or, well ..." She rubbed her cheek. "I'm his girlfriend, you know."

"I know."

"Commissaris?"

"I think you shouldn't call me that now."

"No, because you're working, right? Gramps?"

He put up his hand. "I'm not that old."

"Dad? But we look so different."

"Jan," the commissaris said. "That's my name, but only my wife calls me that. Uncle Jan? From Utrecht? Visiting his niece? How would that do?"

"Good," Nellie said. "Uncle Jan, and about the money, I would rather that you didn't pay me. Henk wouldn't like that, I'm sure."

"No." The commissaris opened his wallet. "I have to pay. What do you charge per day?"

She mentioned the price. "But you can give me half."

"No." He counted the bills. "Here you are, three days in advance."

The room was on the second floor, spotlessly clean and with a large comfortable bed covered by a pink crocheted spread and a pink rose in a slender vase on the night table.

"You prefer that color, don't you?"

"The color of what I used to do, so that I won't forget." She squeezed his arm. "Retired whores get uppity, you know. Henk doesn't like that. He wants me to be quiet, so that I can listen to him. There's a bathroom next door. Henk put in the tiles and we painted it together and it has its own tank. You can have as many baths as you like, the hot water is included."

"Beautiful," the commissaris said. "I had no idea Grijpstra was a handyman. Can I see the rest of the house too? You wouldn't have a rear door, would you? So that I can get in and out without anybody seeing me?"

Nellie held on to his arm, and the commissaris had himself guided down the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the small rear garden. "Is that the door?"

"No, it leads to the garden of my neighbor." She giggled. "Another uncle. He calls himself Wisi. He's black, but we're good friends and I'm sure he will let you use his exit."

The commissaris admired lettuce plants and tomatoes growing against the wall. "My wife should see this. We never have much luck with ours. A black man, you said? From the west, you mean?"

She picked a small tomato, washed it under the tap, and gave it to him. "Yes, but he didn't come with the others. He's been here a very long time, he came before I was born. He is old, he says he doesn't know how old. You may know him, he used to sell herbs in the street market."

The commissaris felt the earth with his cane. "Let me see. White hair? Wears a robe and a little skullcap made out of beads?"

"That's him." She laughed. "You do know everybody, don't you, Uncle Jan?"

"Fortunately," the commissaris said, "you exaggerate. I have seen the man, however. Didn't he have a houseboat before, on the Prince's Canal? And keep animals? I think I recall seeing a donkey, and a fox or a wolf, and birds. I distinctly remember birds."

"Yes, but that must have been a while back. And he still keeps animals, but not too many now."

The commissaris glanced at his silver pocket watch. "A little lunch, I think. Would there be a restaurant you can recommend?"

"Yes. Right here." Nellie swept an arm in the direction of her kitchen. "I'll make lunch and you can sit here in the garden if you like and enjoy the sun." She brought him a chair and got a small table from the house. "Henk likes to eat outside too. What would you like? I don't have too much choice today. Fried eggs maybe? On toast with some roast beef? Or smoked eel? With a salad, yes?"

"Yes." The commissaris rubbed his hands while she laid the table. "Radishes—would you have those too? And some cold genever, to encourage the digestion?"

Why do people complain so much? the commissaris thought as he ate. Life isn't all that bad really, and with a bit of patience you get just about anything you can wish for. I thought that I would have to hang round the streets and be thoroughly uncomfortable, and look what fate has pushed my way. But one has to be able to frame the exact desire, like smoked eel on toast, so that fate knows what to give.

"You seem happy," Nellie said.

The commissaris raised his glass. "I am. Your very good health."

"Henk likes to eat too," Nellie said, "and he loves the garden. I'm fond of men who know how to enjoy themselves. But he doesn't come too often. How is his wife doing?"

The commissaris pointed at his mouth that he had just filled with lettuce leaves. He chewed diligently.

"Do you know his wife?"

"From a distance."

Nellie became interested in the hem of her little apron. "Isn't she rather fat?"

The commissaris stuffed his mouth again.

Nellie's fingers plucked away at the hem. She looked down. "I have that problem too, but Henk doesn't like too much of me, so I'm careful." She made gymnastic movements. "Every morning, with the radio, there's a lady who says what to do, and music. I get all twisted up sometimes. Pity in a way, I like pie, with cream on top." She patted her hips. "But the cream makes me puffy. But why bother, eh? He doesn't come too often anyway."