The Hollow-Eyed Angel (4 page)

"Made a good impression?" Grijpstra said. "Right?

You liked Peter."

"Yes," de Gier said. "Sure."

"Believable?"

"That's right."

"You discussed your admiration for black jazz with Peter?"

"I did not," de Gier said.

"And friend Peter thinks that Termeer is right to consult the Amsterdam Murder Brigade re the possible criminal nature of his uncle's death?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "I really liked that Peter."

"Biased," Grijpstra said. "You are biased, Rinus. You like midnight-black-skinned men because they remind you of Miles Davis, who plays trumpet the 'way you want to play trumpet but can't."

De Gier shrugged.

Grijpstra looked critical. "Unacceptable associations. Preconceived ideas, the wrong way round. Peter could still be unreliable. You agree, don't you?"

"Cut it out," de Gier said. "The opposite isn't true either. Although I dislike most pink-skinned folks who don't play the trumpet the way I would like to but can't, I can still appreciate reliability in you."

Grijpstra blinked.

"Sentence too complicated?" de Gier asked.

"Okay," Grijpstra said. "Complainant's partner, Peter, checks out. So does Termeer." Grijpstra paused. "Workwise too?"

"As a hairdresser, you mean?"

"Please," Grijpstra said. "As a cop."

De Gier read his notes, made that afternoon at Warmoes Street Police Precinct, in Amsterdam's Red Light District. Termeer, as auxiliary, had served there for some years now, doing evening duty and also working weekends. Two Warmoes Street Precinct uniformed sergeants, interviewed separately, stated that Termeer would show up two or three times per week. Such zeal, they declared, was unusual for voluntary policemen, who aren't expected to put in that much time on active duty.

"Did you hear about his participation in the arrest of a Yugoslav gangster?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier found the note. Firearms were used. Termeer jumped the suspect after a professional cop had been wounded and brought down. Suspect struggled free. Termeer ran Suspect down after a long chase along alleys and canal quays. The spectacular arrest earned the reserve constable-first-class a special mention for bravery beyond the call of duty.

"Outperformed the professionals, yes?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes," de Gier said.

"What do you know," Grijpstra said. "A disciple of mine, Rinus. It's me who guided this good man for years. By my example, experience, expertise..."

De Gier read on. On another occasion Termeer arrested an armed and violent whoremonger.

"Details?"

Seventy-year-old German suspected of abusing a prostitute. Suspect, flashing a handgun, resisted arrest but was disarmed by Termeer using judo.

"Gestapo Untergruppenfuehrer on weekend leave from a federal prison in Bonn, Germany, nostalgically reenacting World War II atrocity," Grijpstra said. "And you were home, watching a video of cannibals from New Guinea. Wasn't Herr Muller lucky?
You
would have pulled out his toenails."

"Yeah," de Gier said. "Hurting an old man with a personality problem." He scratched behind Tabriz's ears. "What was Termeer like as a police school student?"

"Good," Grijpstra said. "Passed the final exam summa cum laude."

"Any fawning? Bending over backwards?"

Grijpstra nodded. "Some. Sure."

"Tough guy syndrome? Bought special equipment and clothes in the police store? Nazi boots? Leather coat? Expressed interest in arresting young sailor types on bicycles without proper rear lights?"

Grijpstra shook his head.

"Negative observations?"

Grijpstra recalled a neatly dressed soft-spoken student who paid attention, made neat notes, didn't ask silly questions, arrived on time, didn't miss lessons, drove a clean and undented Volkswagen Golf.

"Not a nutcase?" de Gier asked.

"No."

De Gier's head moved closer to Grijpstra's. "Why,"

de Gier asked, "would, if you please, a non-nutcase desire to voluntarily join the Amsterdam Police to serve without pay?" De Gier dropped his voice dramatically. "Henk, listen. Isn't that, in itself, suspicious behavior? What we policemen are dealing with is human filth, misery any decent being would want to stay away from. And this good guy
volunteers?"

Grijpstra grinned. "You mean that the very idea of wanting to be a cop is despicable in essence?"

"You disagree?" de Gier asked.

"Ask complainant," Grijpstra said. "I'm not being investigated here, okay?"

"I did ask complainant."

"You got a clear answer?"

"Termeer said he liked our type of work."

The detectives had more tea. Tabriz was turned upside down and kneaded by Grijpstra this time. The cat purred dutifully.

"Why," de Gier asked, "did you join the police yourself?"

Grijpstra cited stupidity, ignorance of choices, a slavish desire to serve the ruling class, a sadistic inclination. Uniform, badge, the right to carry arms are ways to indulge power.

He stared into de Gier's eyes. "And you, my dear?"

De Gier said that he wanted to serve the queen and that one could see the queen, or her symbol, the crown, as a kind of opening, a tunnel through which the aware and diligent disciple could approach divinity, even here on earth.

"That's nice," Grijpstra said.

De Gier poured boiling water into his teapot. "So what else do we know?" de Gier asked. "The commissaris mentioned that Termeer, according to Antoinette, appeared to be a 'young fellow of forty."'

"Some young fellow," Grijpstra said. "Six foot two, a sporting type, physically not unlike yourself but mentally more pure. Less cynical, I mean."

De Gier had the same impression. Termeer could be described as childlike. As "nice."

"You told that to the commissaris?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier said he had but that, in spite of the possibly authentic complaint, now sustained by a profile drawn up by an experienced criminal investigator...

("Meaning you?"

"You too somewhat," de Gier said.)

...he didn't think it was fair that because of Grijpstra, via his pushy introduction of his star student, complainant Jo Termeer, the commissaris was now more or less forced to jump into a risky set of circumstances. In a dangerous city like New York of all places. Right before the rheumatic little old gentleman was to be retired.

Grijpstra felt bad.

Chapter 3

                                        "Grijpstra should feel bad," Katrien said.

The commissaris was having breakfast—a Sunday morning ritual comprising a choice of three cheeses, fruit juices in antique tumblers, perking coffee, which set him up for the day.

Since Katrien no longer smoked she had done away with breakfast. Her sudden gain in weight distressed Katrien. The commissaris kept saying he liked her "ladylike figure."

"You like nothing better than being a hero in America," Katrien said, "another ruse that you hope will make your image live forever."

The commissaris, squeezing a fresh roll, spilled crumbs.

"Or would this case be somehow special?" Katrien asked. "A nasty twisted puzzle requiring your exclusive genius perhaps?"

The commissaris butchered a new piece of Gruyere.

"What is so peculiar about an Amsterdam book dealer found dead in Central Park, New York?"

The commissaris got up, walked over to his cylinder desk and came back carrying a fax that he handed over.

Katrien read that the commissaris's colleague Hugh O'Neill (a high-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, the commissaris explained) was nominally in charge of investigating the case of Bert Termeer, deceased, this fourth of June, in Central Park. The dead body had been found dressed in rags and covered with a filthy blanket. The autopsy indicated a fatal heart condition aggravated by trauma, an injury caused to Termeer's chest. A fallen branch was found near the corpse. Termeer's case was about to be defined as death due to natural causes, or caused accidentally, without intent. A sport-related incident hadn't been ruled out.

"The book dealer was struck by an unidentified implement, possibly propelled or wielded by an unknown party?" Katrien asked. She had been to New York and tried to recall a visit to Manhattan's Central Park. "Don't people play ball there?"

"This case is about to be closed," the commissaris said. He sipped apple cider. "A piece of cake, Katrien. Mere routine. I'm only looking into it in order to help out a nephew of the deceased, a policeman known to Grijpstra."

"Do book dealers wear rags in New York?" Katrien asked. "Do they sleep in parks under filthy blankets?"

The commissaris said he planned to look into those controversial aspects.

"Maybe golf," Katrien said. "Or baseball, or something. Victim was hit, collapsed, crawled into the bushes?"

The commissaris nodded.

Katrien was still thinking. "No. Wouldn't he be more likely to stay in the open, where help would be forthcoming?"

The commissaris fetched more fresh rolls from the kitchen.

"A busy park within the metropolis," Katrien said. "A man has a heart attack. Wouldn't people notice?"

The commissaris agreed.

"What age was Grijpstra's pal's dead uncle?" Katrien asked.

"Seventy, Katrien."

"Enjoying good health, apart from the heart condition?"

The commissaris said he would inquire.

"Not a drunk? Or an addict? So why would he wear rags?"

The commissaris planned to find out.

Katrien, frustrated, ate something after all—thinly sliced cheese—and drank coffee, no cream, no sugar.

The commissaris played with his roll, then handed the rest to her.

"Looks like it is all over," Katrien was saying. "What do you expect to come up with, Jan? Old people don't respond well to shock. They tend to just keel over. Remember my father?"

"Uncle Bert wasn't married," the commissaris said.

Katrien interrupted her eating. "Meaning what, my sweet?"

The commissaris meant that when Katrien's father died, he hadn't just switched off. He had been gradually worn down by seventy years of irritation caused by life's vicissitudes. That he was also hit by a truck was because, exhausted, he was paying no attention.

Katrien stared at her husband.

"I don't mean that you irritate me," the commissaris said. "Don't worry, Katrien. I'm sure the case is simple, even if it seems puzzling when we look at it from here. I'll check the details, ask around a little bit, study the location, go into this Uncle Bert's background. I'm sure my final report will put complainant's mind at rest."

"You'll be mugged," Katrien said. "You've been very sickly lately. You hardly sleep at night. You don't even enjoy napping. You keep taking pain pills. And I can't go with you because of our daughter's due date. I won't let you go."

Soon, the commissaris said, he would be retired. All the rest a man could ask for. He would wallow in nondoing.

"I'll go with you," Katrien decided.

"You promised to be here for the grandchildren's birth."

There was that—twins were about to be born to Katrien and Jan's youngest daughter. The birth was predicted to entail some complications. Katrien had promised support.

"I'll be fine," the commissaris said.

Katrien wanted to do something. The police convention accommodations consisted of a room in a Holiday Inn. Katrien had inherited a small fortune in tax-free jewels from a tax-evading aunt who had left her the key and authorization to enter a Swiss bank's safety deposit box. Katrien never wore "trinkets." She had sold the stashed rubies.

"I'll get you a nice hotel room. Right on the park. That will be pleasant. Maybe that place near that enormous museum. The Cavendish? I'll get you a suite. You can rest and enjoy room service."

The commissaris didn't hear her.

"You are thinking of something," Katrien said.

His attitude didn't change.

"Stop stirring your coffee, dear." She took away his spoon.

He looked at her over the rim of his cup.

"You don't have a premonition, do you?" Katrien asked. "I have one myself. Or was it that dream you were going to finish telling me about this morning? About the driver of a Number Two streetcar? You did tell me something but I kept dozing off."

"The Angel of Death," the commissaris said. "The driver was an angel. The message had to do with death, but not mine, I don't think."

"Good," Katrien said. She worried—about his frail health, the strenuous journey he was about to undertake, his coming retirement.

He helped his wife wash up.

"Will you tell me about that dream now?"

The commissaris busied himself stacking plates in the cupboard.

"Don't put that funny look on," Katrien said. "I know that look. That streetcar driver was a woman, wasn't she now? I know the one you mean."

"Which one?" he asked.

"That blonde? Long legs in the glass driver's cabin, glass all the way down to the street. On the new type of streetcar. You forget we were together when you noticed that lady driver. You were all eyes. You wouldn't talk much afterward."

The commissaris admitted that the driver had made an impression, had set off an erotic fantasy. The new model Amsterdam electric streetcars had all glass fronts, enabling the drivers to see in every direction. The drivers were therefore visible themselves. A long-legged female driver on a Number Two streetcar had made an impression. The woman displayed her body well. She wore a miniskirt and had a magnificent hairdo. She sat there like a prostitute in a window in the inner city, proud of her qualities, pretending not to notice men leering, possibly drooling. As a tram driver in uniform she was unapproachable, of course—the tram's radio connected to all police cars. This unapproachable status made the fantasy even stronger. "But the dream wasn't really all that sexy, Katrien. I mean, nothing happened."

Katrien smiled sincerely. "Enjoy your naughty dreams, Jan."

"It was more like a mystical dream," he insisted. "There was an extra meaning. More like divine, Katrien." He looked up. "One doesn't have sex with angels."

"Yes, right," she said kindly.

He was arranging the silver, forks with forks, knives with knives, neatly lined up in their drawer.

"Jan," Katrien said sternly, "is that why you use public transport nowadays? You want to be near that long-legged blond driver again, have her take you where she wants to?" She patted his cheek. "And you have such a nice car."

"I don't use the Citroen anymore because there is no more parking in town, Katrien." He sighed. "Not unless one tolerates the exorbitant charges. Last time I tried I was delayed and they put a boot on one of my tires. Another enormous hassle. A fine. I had to stand around while they took the boot off."

"It's all right," she said kindly. "When was the last time you saw that angel driver? In reality, I mean."

It was the day he had received the auxiliary policeman. "They don't issue miniskirts to tram drivers," Katrien said. "That beauty you and I saw had the garment cut short herself."

"Yes, Katrien."

"Bah." She glared at him. "I used to have nice legs too, but you never noticed."

"I did, Katrien." He smiled. "They still are very nice."

"You're not going to be a dirty old man, are you?"

He said he didn't think so.

She laughed. "You look worried."

He thought he looked more frightened than worried. He had just remembered that the dream driver had no eyes.

"A hollow gaze, Katrien."

Katrien liked to understand dreams. She tried to analyze his. Did he feel encouraged by the seductive angel? Was she urging him to cross the Atlantic? Was there any connection between the mystical presence and his future retirement? Very often male retired high officials couldn't bear to lose their sense of importance, respect, their self-esteem. They withered away or met with accidents or took heroic risks while they still could. Like the commissaris, at the end of his career, reaching out into a region where he would have no protection.

He didn't know what to answer.

"You're really going on this wild goose chase, aren't you?" Katrien asked.

The commissaris nodded.

She shook her head. "You'll get bashed yourself. Parks in big cities aren't the safest of places. You'll be another corpse in the azalea bushes."

Later that day she waved a travel guide, borrowed from a neighbor, at him. "It says right here: Central Park should be avoided after dark. Even during daylight solitary hiking is not encouraged on paths that seem deserted." She banged the book on his desk. "Isn't that terrible? Guidebooks are supposed to promote travel and even so they warn you off."

He said he'd be all right.

She showed him a folder advertising the Cavendish Hotel. "Nouvelle cuisine, Jan, you might like that. Here, look at this spread." He admired the displays of mini-helpings on maxi-plates. The plates were surrounded by dishes filled with gleaming fruit, jars of shiny candied foodstuffs, flasks filled with glowing wines or juices. There were elaborate flower arrangements too. He also studied a photograph of a Cavendish suite: a complete apartment— air-conditioning, every luxury provided. "You can watch nice movies."

Australian movies, the commissaris thought. He had read de Gier's report, specifying what Jo Termeer liked. The commissaris didn't care for action movies himself but liked simple drama. He remembered an Aussie film featuring a drunken party. Each guest had to bring his own pornographic object. One guest brought an attractive woman, who set out to seduce the host. The party didn't end well. There were arguments and disappointments. Sunrise found the host watching his car being driven into a tree by guests.

She pointed out furniture to him: a four-poster bed, Chippendale couches. Yes, he would be able to lie down there.

"And a view of Central Park. You'll be looking down on all your suspects."

He looked at the rates. "But so much money, Katrien."

"Aunt Koba's present."

The inheritance, of course, he thought.

"And you won't stay long, will you?"

Not at those prices.

"Kiss me," she said.

They embraced.

Later that Sunday the commissaris walked in the rear garden of his house at Queens Avenue, between three-foot-tall weeds. His pet turtle, waiting for lettuce leaves, made swaying movements on his private rock.

"Let's hope we face no evil out there," the commis-saris told Turtle. "Katrien is probably right. A showdown in Central Park could be bloody. Hooliganism, gang-t related. And I would be alone. This Detective Hurrell doesn't appear very alert."

Turtle chewed more lettuce.

"Never mind?" the commissaris asked. "Jo Termeer insists that God is Good and Justice will be Achieved and who am I to argue with Positive Thinking?"

Turtle, sarcastically, closed one eye.

"I'm doing this because I am getting very feeble now?" the commissaris asked. "My last chance to win medals?"

Turtle started one of his slow dances.

"Katrien is right?" the commissaris asked. "Realizing I am entering my Final Agony now I plan a last fling? I will be all set to lose my life there spectacularly after setting things right?"

Turtle gummed more lettuce.

"I don't have any teeth either," the commissaris said, baring his long dentures, fair enough copies of what had once been real, craftily shaded a pale ivory hue. "Pure plastic, my dear."

Turtle swallowed, looked up expectantly.

"Or is this one of these instances that calls for detachment?" The commissaris winked. "We do this for Nothing? We don't walk the way that can be called a way? No, Turtle, we surrender." The commissaris smiled down on the reptile. "We are merely aware, we meditate, we gain ultimate insight."

Turtle heightened the rhythm of his dancing feet and shaking shield.

"Too Zen for me perhaps," the commissaris said. "Even now, when my working life is almost over. Who am I fooling? Career does matter to me. I'm in this to win. I insist on being admired." He bent down to the dancing reptile. "We're Dutch, my dear. The Dutch are basic traders. Nothing is for free. And there has to be some profit."

Turtle slipped down his rock and waddled underneath a thorn bush.

"Not that I would mind being free of all that," the commissaris told the moving bush.

"And what was the oracle's advice today?" Katrien asked when the commissaris limped back into her kitchen.

The commissaris grinned. "I think he's holding out for more lettuce."