The Corpse on the Dike (3 page)

“Please let them in, Mary,” the girl said. “They are policemen and they want to go next door. Tom is dead.”

“Police?” the short woman asked suspiciously, without moving.

De Gier produced his identification and gave it to her. “Sergeant de Gier,” the woman read to herself. “Municipal Police, Amsterdam.”

“That’s right, madam,” de Gier said sweetly. “Can we go through your house now?”

His charm didn’t impress the woman. She put out a hand and de Gier shook it. He didn’t like the feel of the hand. The stubby fingers had a lot of force in them.

“Mary van Krompen,” the woman said. “I am a retired teacher and I live here. You can come through if you like, sergeant, though I don’t see why you should. Evelien is making a flap about nothing like all young girls do. The man is probably sick or something. How do you know he is dead, Evelien?”

“I
saw
him,” Evelien sobbed.

“When?” the short woman asked.

“Just now. I have been inside his house and he’s on the floor and there’s blood on his face. There’s a hole in his face. I am a nurse, aren’t I? I
know
when somebody is dead.”

“All right, all right,” the short woman said.

“Can I come through too?” Grijpstra asked.

“You police too?”

“Yes, madam.”

“Any more?”

“No, madam.”

“An invasion,” Mary muttered. “Wipe your feet, men! I have been cleaning this damned house all day; don’t muck it up any more than you have to.”

De Gier didn’t hear her and Grijpstra didn’t answer. They were in the garden and looking at the fence. “You are quite sure that you aren’t making all this up, aren’t you?” de Gier asked the girl. “If there’s nothing the matter with your friend he may be upset if he finds us trampling all over his ground. Legally it would be trespassing and could get us in a lot of trouble.”

“Please,” the girl said.

De Gier looked at the fence again. It was five feet high and overgrown with creepers. He put his hand on one of its poles. It felt strong enough. “Right,” he said and vaulted over. The girl, in spite of her disturbed state of mind, opened her eyes widely. The movement had been perfect, supple and seemingly effortless.

“Wow,” the girl said.

Grijpstra sighed and explained, “An athlete; he wins lots of prizes. Has a black belt in judo and is a crack shot too.”

The girl, calmed somewhat by the detectives’ equanimity, had relaxed a little. “Can you do that too?” she asked, looking at Grijpstra for the first time.

“No,” Grijpstra said. “I am bad at sports, but I fish. Unfortunately I don’t catch much these days. The water is getting too dirty I think.”

There was a faint smile on the girl’s face. “Never mind,” she said, “I am sure you are a good policeman.”

“Middling,” Grijpstra said, “but I learn a little every day.”

“I am a terrible nurse,” the girl said. “I always drop things. I am too nervous.”

“You can walk round the fence at the end, Grijpstra,” de Gier called, “near the landing, but be careful or you’ll get your feet wet.”

Grijpstra maneuvered his heavy body round the fence.

“The window up there is open,” de Gier said. “That must be the window of the room where she said she found the body.”

The girl joined them.

“Didn’t you say the kitchen door was open, miss?” de Gier asked.

She nodded.

“I’ll go have a look.”

De Gier’s head appeared in the upstairs window.

“Yes?” Grijpstra asked.

“Yes,” de Gier said. “You’d better come up.”

Grijpstra went into the kitchen and found a short flight of stairs at the back and climbed them. De Gier was standing near the slumped body of a young man. The body was, indeed, dead, and lying on its back with both arms stretched out.

“I’ll never get used to it, never,” de Gier muttered. “Look, his mouth is open and there is a hole between his eyes. A black hole. Bah.”

De Gier was very white in the face. He supported himself against the wall.

“Go next door,” Grijpstra said, “or, rather, go back to the café There won’t be a telephone next door or the girl would have used it in the first place. I’ll wait here. Take the girl home, we don’t want too many people running about.”

“Yes,” de Gier said. There were large wet spots under the arms of his expensive tailored suit.

“Go on,” Grijpstra said.

De Gier left. Grijpstra heard him talking to the girl in the garden. Then the voices faded out. Grijpstra put his hands in his pockets and looked at the dead man again. “Silly man,” Grijpstra asked, “why did you get yourself killed?”

2

T
HE THUNDERSTORM TOOK ITS TIME
. O
CCASIONAL FLASHES
of lightning were followed by thunderclaps, but at long intervals, and the noise of a heavy truck passing on the dike behind Grijpstra and the quietly grinning corpse easily swallowed the rumble of far away thunder. The room was dark and Grijpstra looked about him. There should be a switch somewhere but he didn’t see it. There seemed to be a lot of furniture in the room. Grijpstra slowly revolved on his heels. Bookcases, cupboards, a large old-fashioned TV, several easy chairs, two round tables, a couch, a sideboard. Wherever the wall had offered space a painting had been hung, paintings with gold frames, frilly frames. The furniture was ornamental as well. There were cushions on the chairs and the couch—cushions made of thick gleaming velvet, a tassel on each corner.

Grijpstra moved. He had to find a switch, even if he would be destroying footmarks and prints. His hands groped along the wall; he stumbled against a chair and hurt his shin. He felt cold and his hands were sweating. His neck itched. The light helped, but not much. A weak bulb illuminated the room, but there were still shadows and the corpse grinned on.

“Silly man,” Grijpstra said again.

He sat down on the couch. Why? he asked himself. What had happened? A fight? A disagreement about something? Had the other man threatened the occupant of this rotting, crumbling little hovel? “I’ll kill you for that!” Had he shouted? Hissed perhaps? Had he handled the pistol or revolver dramatically, waving it about? Or was this a cold, bam, you-are-dead affair?

Grijpstra told himself to observe. First observe, then draw a conclusion perhaps. No. No conclusion. Observation. What did he observe? A dead man, undoubtedly. A man thirty years old, with thick black hair, a heavy mustache and large white teeth, protruding like a rodent’s. No, not a rodent. No mouse or rat. A rabbit. A nice animal. The man looked nice, pleasant, even in death. The grin was horrible, but it was a grin of fear. And surprise. The man had been surprised to meet his death that evening. Evening? Why evening? He might have been shot early in the morning, or in the afternoon. Some time ago now, a day, two days perhaps. Flies had been busy on the face. And the river rats too? No. Grijpstra wiped his face with his large white handkerchief. Not rats. Something strange. What? The furniture. Why would a poor little hovel consisting of a few rooms—a lean-to rather than a house—a shack tottering against the dike, have such a wealth of furniture? There was something else to support this observation. What? Yes; the sports car outside. An expensive new model. The man was a man of property, so why live in a shack? And why was everything so dusty? What else had been dirty? Right, the sports car again. The car was caked over with mud. A year-old car, never cleaned.

He got up so that he could see the corpse better. He wanted to see its clothes. The corpse was wearing a suit: an old-fashioned suit with a waistcoat. No tie. Dirty shirt, frayed collar. He could see one of the cuffs. Frayed too. Old shoes. Grijpstra moved a little. Hole in the sole. A line of logic. Rich man who doesn’t look after himself. Yes. Look at that enormous easy chair facing the TV. Probably the only chair the man ever sat in. Watching TV. Grijpstra saw the ashtray. Filled with stubs, ash, crumpled empty cigarette packs. The ashtray had overflowed. Empty beer cans too. No glasses, just cans. How many? Grijpstra counted and stopped at fifty; there would be more. A very untidy man. No. Something didn’t click again. What was it? Yes. The garden. He took a step forward and could see the garden through the open windows. A beautiful garden. Neat rows of dahlias, daisies, asters. Shrubs at the side. The cobblestones under the tree had been swept and the garden chair looked clean as well. What had the girl said? “Always in the garden.” So—neat outside, messy inside. Crazy. Why?

But there was something else that didn’t click. Where was de Gier?

“Grijpstra,” de Gier said. He was standing in the open door.

“Yes?”

“They’ll be a while. I telephoned but I couldn’t locate anyone except the sergeant at the desk. They are all over the town. There was a corpse in the canal, and a corpse in the park, and there has been a fight in a pub somewhere. The doctor is busy and the photographers are and the fingerprint people too. We may have to wait some time. The chief inspector is off duty; his mother is very ill. The commissaris will come. He is visiting friends and they couldn’t reach him straight off.”

“No,” Grijpstra said. “What about the famous city service? There should be two cars racing around, two cars full of officers. Inspectors and subinspectors. Where are they?”

“Busy,” de Gier said. “It’s a hot evening.”

“Well, sit down,” Grijpstra said. “This is a funny place. Look around.”

“Grijpstra,” de Gier said.

“No. Let me think. I was thinking something when you came in and now it’s gone again.”

Grijpstra closed his eyes and the heavy eyebrows came down and almost hid the sockets of his eyes. He frowned and his hands became big powerful fists. What? Ah, yes. The hole. The bullet hole. Right between the eyes. Not a scorched wound, so there had been a fair distance between gun muzzle and victim’s head. A good shot. A very good shot. An excellent shot, considering that the dead man must have been standing close to the window, looking out. And the killer was in the garden. A crack shot. Professional. That had been the thought that flitted through his slow dense brain. Nobody carries firearms in Holland. To carry a firearm is a crime. Even an unloaded gun in a man’s pocket draws a heavy fine and a stretch in jail. To threaten with a toy gun is a crime. Nobody gets a license to carry arms. For sport, yes. But only to take the gun, suitably wrapped up, directly from one’s house to the shooting club, and straight back again. And even a sporting license is hard to get. There are forms to be filled in, and memberships to be obtained, and the police want references. But here a man had been shot, from a distance, and right between the eyes. A gangster? And why, pray, would a gangster shoot a man who works in his garden during the day and who watches his TV in the evening? A man who doesn’t even work? Who only goes out to do a little shopping? Grijpstra groaned. What had they stumbled into now? Into a maniac who hides a horrible secret and another maniac comes and kills him from the garden? No. Amsterdam is a quiet town. A nice quiet town. Grijpstra had spent the afternoon reading through police reports covering nearly three full weeks of daily events. Thefts, burglaries, a few street robberies, a knife fight, suicides, plenty of fires, a house that had collapsed of old age and crushed the leg of a child. The worst that had happened during the last two
months
had been an Italian bankrobber trying to fire an ancient Sten gun, which had jammed after the third cartridge. The police never stopped talking about it. “Tommy guns,” the young constables had said in the canteens. “It’ll be cannon next and all we have is 7.65 pistols with six cartridges.” The officers had smiled at the constables, patted their heads and said, “Now, now, now.” And here was a man with a hole between his eyes.

“Grijpstra,” de Gier said again.

“Yes, yes.”

“He was shot from the garden,” de Gier said, “through the open window.”

“I know.”

“Look at all those empty beer cans.”

“I have seen them.”

“This is an antique shop,” de Gier said. “Where did he get all this stuff? It’s valuable too. If the whole house is filled with this type of furniture, he must have owned a hundred thousand guilders’ worth of antiques. So why didn’t he get someone to clean up for him? And why didn’t he polish his shoes? Or get a new color TV instead of that croaky old thing? Or buy a shirt?”