The Corpse on the Dike (16 page)

“Yes, sir,” Grijpstra said. “De Gier played his flute and I banged about for a while. We also read the reports of the day.”

“Yes, yes. So what happened.”

“Remember the old lady who was found in the canal, sir?”

“Yes, I read about it, but I didn’t see the corpse.”

“I saw the corpse,” de Gier said.

The commissaris shook his head.

“I know, sir,” de Gier said. “I don’t like corpses but when I read through the report the name of the dead woman seemed familiar and I finally remembered that I knew her.”

The commissaris looked interested.

“She made a complaint about the man she lived with,” de Gier said. “About six months ago. I dealt with the case. She said he had been threatening her.”

“Had he?”

“Yes, sir. He had beaten her up too. She had a black eye. But there was no case. When I saw her at her home she said she had made a mistake.”

“And the black eye?”

“The doorpost,” Grijpstra said. “They always walk into the doorpost. Amsterdam is full of doorposts.”

“Yes,” de Gier said, “the doorpost. I talked to her and tried to reason with her but she was a funny old lady. She was a little drunk that time.”

“So there was no case,” the commissaris said and noticed with some pleasure that the words came out fairly easily now. “No complaint, no case.”

“But then she died,” de Gier said, “and I saw the corpse. There was a wound on the head. The Water Police thought the wound might have been caused by a screw on one of their own patrol boats or by a river barge. She was found near the Brouwersgracht/Prinsengracht bridge. There’s a lot of traffic there.”

“The tourists’ boats,” the commissaris said.

“Yes. I thought they might be right and it wasn’t our case anyway, so I didn’t do anything. But last night we read through the reports again and saw that the death had been written off as accidental.”

“So?”

“We thought we might as well go into it,” Grijpstra said. “De Gier said that the lady wasn’t the sort who would fall into the canal. And there was the wound.”

“But the inspector says you arrested two men and they confessed,” the commissaris said and tried to light a cigar. His hand trembled and Grijpstra jumped up and flicked his lighter.

“A very easy case, sir,” Grijpstra said. “We went to the house where she used to live and the man wasn’t in. He is a painter, a tall man with long gray hair. I am sure you know him yourself. He paints in the street and sells his work to tourists. Clever portraits—a bit wishy-washy but good enough to ask money for—and he also paints houses and bridges.”

“Wears a necklace of colored pebbles?”

“That’s the man, sir.”

“I know him,” the commissaris said. “He never used to have a license and has been fined a few times, but he’s got a license now. Man with a red nose. He drinks.”

“That’s right, sir,” Grijpstra said.

The commissaris felt a slight wave of pity.

“So we went to the nearest pub and there he was.”

“Yes,” de Gier said, “with his friend, a young fellow.”

“What pub?” the commissaris asked.

“The Emperor, sir.”

The commissaris grimaced. He knew the Emperor, a long narrow room furnished with the latest in bad taste. A frilly pub with cretonne lampshades, pink lights, imitation crystal ornaments, full-size mirrors and tables with plastic tops that looked a little like marble. The commissaris also knew the Emperor’s reputation.

“You know the place, don’t you, sir?” Grijpstra asked.

“Yes. Where the gay boys pick up the shopkeepers from the provinces.”

“But the gay boys aren’t gay at all,” de Gier said. “They are hoodlums who squeeze the country boys dry and blackmail them if they can.”

“Didn’t the owner lose his license?” the commissaris asked.

“Yes, sir. But the new owner is just as bad.”

“Perhaps the chief constable should have the place closed,” the commissaris said. “I’ll mention it some time.”

“They’ll go somewhere else, sir.”

“True,” the commissaris said. “Go on. A young fellow you said.”

The two detectives looked out the window.

“We had a theory, sir,” Grijpstra said after a while.

“Quite. The old man liked the young fellow and they murdered the old lady together. Where did the young fellow stay?”

“With the painter, sir. Has been living there for over a year.”

“And the old lady objected so they beat her up and she came to us. Then they talked to her again and she withdrew the charge.”

“And they murdered her six months later,” de Gier said, “but we had to prove it.”

“Did he remember you?” the commissaris said.

“That’s what made it difficult, sir,” de Gier said. “He remembered my face the minute I sat down next to him.”

“Did he think you were after him?”

“No; that’s what made it easy again. I bought him a drink and Grijpstra bought him a drink and the young fellow bought us a drink and we laughed a lot.”

“You didn’t mention the old lady of course,” the commissaris said. He was feeling much better now; the ants had gone and he wasn’t so thirsty anymore. He rubbed his legs.

“No, sir. We let them talk. They wanted us to mention the old lady, for they knew the Water Police were ready to close the case, or had already done so.”

“He bragged,” Grijpstra said; “that young fellow bragged. He thought he was awfully clever. The painter makes a lot of money and I am sure he was getting most of it. A sharp dresser, that boy. A four-hundred-guilder leather jacket, hand-embroidered shirt, heavy golden bracelets, six-hundred-guilder watch, rings, suede boots, and a fifty-guilder haircut. He talked a lot, that boy.”

“And he trapped himself, did he?”

“Yes, sir,” de Gier said. “It was unbelievably easy. He told us where the body was found—the exact spot—Brouwersgracht/Prinsengracht bridge. But the report said that they had only been told that the body was found somewhere in the Prinsengracht. The Prinsengracht is a long canal. It starts at the Amstel River and it ends at the IJ River. We had read the Water Police report of the questioning. It never mentioned the bridge, so he couldn’t know.”

“You arrested them straightaway?”

“I took the young fellow and Grijpstra got a patrol car for the painter.”

“They confessed quickly?”

“The painter confessed in the patrol car, sir,” Grijpstra said. “The young fellow took an hour. They killed her together because they couldn’t get rid of her in any other way. She had threatened to go to the tax people to disclose the painter’s real income. He only declares one tenth of what he gets, of course.”

“I don’t think the tax people would have been very interested,” the commissaris said. “They’re after bigger fish.”

Grijpstra sighed.

“I think she loved the old fellow,” de Gier said. “She was only threatening, hoping he would tell the boy to go.”

“How old is the boy?” the commissaris asked.

“Over twenty-one.”

“No loose ends in the case, are there?”

“No, sir. The confessions are signed. We found the weapon as well. The Water Police dragged it up this morning. I watched them do it. First they found twelve bicycles, then a perambulator, and then half a ton of tin cans, and bicycles and bottles and furniture. But they found the pipe as well, a solid metal pipe a foot long. The doctor says it matches the wound.”

“How did you know where to look?”

“The old man told us; they threw it in with the body. The body should have floated away but it got stuck on something, a bicycle probably.”

“Congratulations,” the commissaris said. “That’s one death solved. The girl with the heroin is no problem either; the doctor is sure she gave herself an overdose.”

“That leaves us with Wernekink,” Grijpstra said.

“Brilliant work,” the commissaris said, “but we are still left with a killer. A killer with no apparent motive. Go think about it. If you can’t find him nobody can. I’ll sit here and think as well but I’m getting old and my head hurts. Is there any more orange juice, de Gier?”

They were in the corridor a minute later and de Gier stopped in front of the large mirror that the chief constable had installed so that the men could check their appearance. He stopped and waved at himself. Grijpstra stood next to him and saluted.

A constable stopped and asked them if they were all right.

“No,” Grijpstra said, “we are mad. Hehehehehe.”

The constable came to attention and farted.

“Don’t do that!” de Gier said.

“I am mad too,” the constable said. “Hehehehehe.”

10

“Y
ES,” GRIJPSTRA SAID LOUDLY AND HIT THE LARGEST OF
his drums with some force.

De Gier looked pained.

“Don’t,” he said. “Please.”

Grijpstra put his drumstick down. “No?” he asked heavily and pushed a hand through the short gray stubble on his skull.

“No,” de Gier said and made a gesture as if he were holding a tall slim girl by the middle and shaking her. “No, Grijpstra.”

Grijpstra got up and walked to the center of their large room, which de Gier was dominating with his elegant presence.

“No,” de Gier said again. “We are in the right mood now. We pulled that other thing off. You played it down so that you could impress the commissaris but the fact is that we did well. And if we can do one thing we can do another. This Wernekink business is annoying me; it’s annoying you too and it
was
annoying the commissaris. He’s got something else on his mind now so it’s all up to us. And we are in the right mood. If we think properly and use the information we have in the right way we can crack the case. I am sure of it. But we can’t do anything if you’re going to hit that drum with all the force you have in you.”

Grijpstra’s mouth was open.

“Close your mouth,” de Gier said.

“What’s the matter with you?” Grijpstra asked. “What’s all this cleverness all of a sudden? We arrested two stupid murderers because they committed a stupid murder and we used ordinary straightforward police routine. What are you puffing yourself up for? And what’s this about the commissaris?”

“A hangover,” de Gier said. “He must have got himself drunk after we left the Mouse yesterday. His rheumatism must have been worse than usual; he has been very sickly lately. All he wants to do now is sit behind his desk and drink orange juice and coffee and maybe smoke a few cigars. Later today he’ll go home and go to bed. He’ll be asleep because his wife will give him a pill.”

“He’ll still be concerned,” Grijpstra said. “He’ll think and he’ll come up with something.”

De Gier smiled and put a long hand on Grijpstra’s shoulder. “He’ll think but we can do something. What are we going to do?”

“You name it,” Grijpstra said. “You name it.”

“You can play your drum, but softly. You can play this as well, look.”

De Gier had gone to the comer of their office and stood in front of the curtain covering a recess where they kept their coats in winter. Grijpstra, his low forehead wrinkled, was staring at him.

“You’re irritating me, de Gier.”

“I know. Look.”

De Gier pulled the curtain aside and Grijpstra uttered a deep throaty sound.

“You know what this is?”

The object, attached to a metal rod resting on a three-pronged, rubber-capped base, looked like a fat cucumber with a number of ridges.

“Nice,” Grijpstra said and picked up his drumstick again.

“No, no,” de Gier said. “It’s got its own stick.”

He gave him a heavy short stick and put the instrument close to the set of drums. “Sit down and see if you can do something with it. I have tried but it isn’t for me. Perhaps I can use the flute with it. Go ahead.”

Grijpstra rustled on the middle drum with his left hand, tried a roll on the smallest drum, hit a cymbal and suddenly hit the cucumber. The sound was electric, changing the atmosphere of the room immediately and completely. De Gier had his flute to his mouth and breathed a tremulous obbligato into the raucous exchange of drums and cucumber. Grijpstra sat up and began a rapid pounding on the big drum; de Gier’s obbligato continued but became less complicated and somewhere in the next few bars a shuffle formed itself, which went on for some ten minutes with the cucumber sound as its main pivot. They stopped because someone had come into the room. They began to laugh at the same time.