The Rattle-Rat (16 page)

Hylkje chose the emergency lane. The Citroen followed.
"This is the way it came about, Cardozo," the commissaris said. "Heroin dealing in Amsterdam is at present controlled by two Triads, secret Chinese societies that have been active here for years. Each Triad wants a monopoly, so friction results. The Hong Kong-based society fights the Singapore society here, in our city." The commissaris raised a slender finger. "Always the same thing. Conflicting interests. They could join and share, but that's too much to expect, when we consider human greed. So now what do we get?"

"Dead Chinese?"

"Ah," the commissaris said. "This part of the trip may be even better. Narrow country roads, Cardozo—we'll see what
this exclusive car can do. We'll be glued to that motorcycle no matter what the corporal has us do. Just pay attention."

"Yes," Cardozo said. "Easy now, sir. Blind corners. Easy now."

Hylkje turned sharply, and the Citroen equaled her performance. "A hundred kilometers an hour," the commissaris said. "That's an easy speed, but in view of the road condition it's still an appreciable figure."

"So what would the Triad members want of me, sir?"

"Postulating," the commissaris said, "that this Adjutant Oppenhuyzen, who you found in Hop's restaurant contacting young Chinese toughs—assuming that this colleague, let's say, entertained intimate communication with the opposing party, we might possibly conclude"—the commissaris raised a finger again—"that the enemy, seeing you with the adjutant, surmised that you were in their business too. Moreover, they saw you having dinner with two uniformed constables. So they now know you're a police officer too. Look at it through their eyes, Cardozo, what do you see?"

The Citroen leaned into the next tight curve.

"Couldn't we park somewhere?" Cardozo asked. "It's hard to concentrate when I try to imagine what may happen any minute now."

"Close your eyes," the commissaris said. "Darkness helps at times. After you had dinner with the Red District constables, you were seen again, liberating two members of one Triad from the sadistic claws of the other. Where does that place you now?"

"On Hop's side?" Cardozo asked. "But I arrested both sides."

"And you let one side go later," the commissaris said. "Become a Chinese gangster for a moment, Cardozo. What is your aim? You're trying to increase your own happiness and possessions. Always the same motivation. Strengthening of one's own position. What's your next step?"

"I was going home."

"No, no," the commissaris said. "Switch your position.
You're
them
now. See through their eyes. You'd be after a considerable sum of money. How would you plan to get that? What do cops have that the other side wants? Heroin, of course. We confiscate the drug and sell it back to the suppliers."

A straight line of road loomed up. Trees swishing by changed into a hedge of solid green, which broke for a moment and showed black and white dots—cows. Ahead of the Citroen, the large white motorcycle picked up speed. The siren sang her song.

"No!" Cardozo yelled, as a railway crossing humped up ahead. Motorcycle and car took the bulge spectacularly.

"Yes," the commissaris said. "The Chinese like to complicate simplicity. Ever interrogated a Chinese? They even change their names every two minutes. They expect the enemy, us, to like complications too. In order to get wise to what you would be planning, they dogged your steps. You were heard to say that you'd be bicycling to Friesland. Who would you want to visit out there?"

"Frisians?"

"More Chinese," the commissaris said. "Chinese finding refuge there because we hunt them out of Amsterdam. And what would you be taking to more Chinese?"

"Really?" Cardozo asked. "They thought my tin lunch box was filled with dope?"

•They did."

"Now where were the Chinese who were cycling toward me coming from, sir?"

"From Triad headquarters in Friesland."

"Please," Cardozo said. "You're driving too fast, sir, do please slow down."

"Had to pass that slowpoke," the commissaris said. "If I hadn't, Hylkje would have lost us. Now do you understand?"

"No."

"Betrayal?" the commissaris suggested. "There's always betrayal. Evil can't help betraying itself, we see that so often."

"The refugees in Friesland had been informed by a spy
in the Amsterdam Triad that I would be taking them supplies?
And that I would be followed? But there were only cheese sandwiches in my lunch box. And the apple that I was about to peel."

"Evil is suspicious—paranoid, in fact," the commissaris said. "If it weren't, it wouldn't destroy itself, but keep growing and eventually take over. I've always wondered about that theoretical possibility," the commissaris said softly. "If evil took over completely, what would happen to our struggle? If it swallowed the last vestige of good, would it become good itself?"

Hylkje switched off her siren and applied her brakes.

"Dingjum," the commissaris said. "And that dear little house where Lieutenant Sudema lives, in the company of his lovely wife, Gyske. Such a delightful woman."

Gyske welcomed them at her gate. Hylkje placed her
helmet on the saddle of the Guzzi. "It's you again?" Gyske asked. "I owe you thanks for bringing Sjurd home this morning. He's still asleep, thank God. When he wakes up he'll be tearing down the wall, after he rips out the cupboard."

"Pity," Hylkje said. "Such a nice wall. He'll kill the ivy and climbing roses. Can't he forgive the cupboard?"

"The cupboard of my sin," Gyske said sadly.

"Didn't you have a good time in there?" Hylkje asked.
"Wasn't your lover a therapist? If it was part of the treatment, it should have been fun."

"It wasn't," Hylkje said disgustedly.

"Would you happen to know," the commissaris asked, "how we can get to Mrs. Scherjoen's home? I've been there before, but I can't remember the way."

Gyske pointed. 'That way, hard to miss."

"Will I see you both tonight?" Hylkje asked. "Rinus invited me to dinner. He's picking up some fresh sole in Ameland."

"More trouble?" Cardozo asked. "Mrs. Sudema didn't look too happy."

The commissaris and Cardozo were walking. "A marriage crisis," the commissaris explained. "Sjurd Sudema did not properly love his beautiful wife, and then she picked on a certain Anne."

"A lesbian affair?" Cardozo asked. "Do they have that here too? It's quite popular nowadays, understandably so. If I were a woman, I would go after women too."

The commissaris was quietly thoughtful.

"You disapprove of normal abnormalities, sir?"

"I watched it once," the commissaris said. "In Paris, an age ago. Most interesting. But that Anne is a man."

"Homosexual?" Cardozo asked, shocked. "No wonder that lieutenant is about to demolish his house. A homosexual raping his wife, in his very own cupboard."

"No, no," the commissaris said. "And the fellow supposedly looks like me. Are you trying to upset me, Cardozo?"

"/'m upset," Cardozo said. "I still can't understand why the Chinese cycling behind me would invite the Chinese cycling toward me to have themselves shot."

"Themselves?"

"The behind-me Chinese, sir."

"Oh,
those
Chinese," the commissaris said.
Chinese," the commissaris said. "Because, no, that was different, someone else again,
another
Chinese, must have heard the behind-you Chinese plan their trip on the dike, and passed that information to the toward-you Chinese."

"Right," Cardozo said doubtfully.

"Are you pretending to be that stupid," the commissaris said, "or are you trying to prove that I've underestimated you for the last few years? The Chinese have nothing to do with us. You shouldn't have been on the dike. If I hadn't thought of phoning your mother, I wouldn't even have known that you were trying to peel apples on the dike. That conceited attitude of yours, Cardozo, I don't know whether I like it."

"I'm doing everything wrong," Cardozo said. "Uncle Ezra wants me to take over his market stall, but I don't feel like doing that either. I don't feel like doing anything at all."

"Feelings will change,** the commissaris said. "Where is this Scheijoen house? Didn't Gyske say we couldn't miss it?"

"It's beautiful out here," Cardozo said. 'The soft, lush shades of summer, the flowering bushes."

'This would be quite a simple case," the commissaris said, If Mrs. Scherjoen would confess."

"No houses here," Cardozo said. "The emptiness of the past. I feel rather empty myself, I'm quite hollow inside, even my cold is gone. Maybe I'm about to disappear."

"Mem is Frisian," the commissaris said. "Perhaps she
thinks that what she did is justified. The way society views the law doesn't equate with the individual's attitude, lake Mem Scherjoen, for instance. We see her as a dear rustic old lady and she probably is, but just how far can such a sweet soul be pushed?"

"I see where you're going," Cardozo said, "but you want to push her into murder? If it were simple manslaughter, violence of the moment—but this was thought out, and executed without mercy."

"Listen here, Cardozo. Continuous abuse, twenty, thirty years of torture..." He looked around him. "I think we should go back, this path is a dead end."

They walked back. "It has taken me a while," the commissaris said, "to see clearly how potentially dangerous marriage can be. Applied boredom, nonsensical pursuits, may wear down the sharp points, but if the togetherness started with passionate love, passionate hatred may easily result.
And you're right too, Douwe's end was obviously premeditated. No emotion that suddenly flared up, no unprepared attack that may make the killer feel sorry later. Whoever commits murder in cold blood will be able to forestall our investigation in some sly and clever manner. No, a simple confession is probably out of the question."

"We're back at the Sudemas' house," Cardozo said. "Shall I ask for more precise directions?"

"Don't trouble those poor people now," the commissaris said. "We'll take the car. It can't be far. Just down that road* Mrs. Sudema said."

'The proof," the commissaris said in the car. "That might
be another hassle. What happened to the weapon? The Inner Harbor is a mess, our divers won't easily find it in there. Witnesses? I don't think there were any. If Mem persists in protesting her innocence, we can't even trick her. She's Frisian, Cardozo, you have no idea how self-willed we Frisians can be. I was born in Joure."

"So you won't give up."

"Never."

"And Mem Scherjoen won't give in."

"Never."

"I heard a Frisian joke once," Cardozo said. "Two Frisian coachmen travel from opposite directions toward a bridge that's only wide enough for one carriage. On the bridge they stop, facing each other. One coachman unfolds a newspaper and begins to read. After an hour the other coachman asks if he can have half the paper. The first coachman gives him half his paper. The second coachman begins to read too."

"Yes?" the commissaris asked.

"How do you mean?"

"So what happens then?"

"They're now both reading the paper," Cardozo said. "Nothing more happens."

"How did we manage to reach the freeway?" the commissaris asked. "And why do all those signs point away from Dingjum?"

A State Police Land Rover stopped behind the Citroen.

"Now where do you chaps come from?" the commissaris asked.

"Where would you like to go?" the sergeant asked. "Just tell us and we'll drive ahead. We just heard about you over our radio."

"Heard what?"

"A silver Citroen and a disabled but mobile Volkswagen.
Call for assistance to colleagues from abroad who are constantly getting lost."

"I suppose," the commissaris said, "your headquarters considers us to be retarded."

"Not used to the ways of a country foreign to your own," the sergeant said. "Doesn't that sound better?"

"The mansion of Mr. and Mrs. Scherjoen, Dingjum," Car* dozo said.

The Land Rover drove off.

"Some learn a little slower than others," the sergeant said to die corporal riding with him.

"These may never learn," the corporal said.

\\\\\ 14 /////

D
E GIER, DROPPED OFF THAT MORNING, WITH HIS CASES of tomatoes, at the Military Police barracks, shook Private Sudema's hand.

"I telephoned just now," de Gier said. "Here's a present.
Tomatoes, ripe and fresh, a gift from your uncle."

Private Sudema was taller than his uncle, and broader in the shoulders. His blue eyes sparkled in the sun. "Morning, Sergeant."

"Shall I help you carry this load in?"

"Not necessary," Private Sudema said. Other policemen marched about in the yard, giants topped by gleaming hats above white braid draped across their muscular shoulders and torsos, musclemen in black tailored jackets with folded-back lapels, showing off starched white shirts and collars and faultlessly arranged blue scarves.

"Assistance!" bellowed Private Sudema.

A still younger man turned sharply, marched up, stopped smartly, and stood to attention. "These cases," Private Sudema barked, "have to be taken to the kitchen."

The other policeman bent his knees, stacked all four cases,
picked up the lowest, and stretched his legs. He marched away at speed. "One, two," shouted Private Sudema.

"You're both privates?" de Gier asked.

"I'm first-class," Private Sudema said, pointing at the thin white chevron on his sleeve. "Rank. We're in the military here."

They walked to the main building. "You wish to visit the island of Ameland?" Private Sudema asked. "In connection with the murder of Scherjoen? You wish to interview the deserter? We'll arrest him today."

"That would be nice," de Gier said. "Just following up on information received. I'm a detective. I like to detect."

"Would you mind repeating your purpose to our adjutant,
please?"

Hie adjutant waited behind a polished mahogany table.

"Sergeant de Gier," Private Sudema said, "who telephoned earlier on. Municipal Police, Amsterdam, detective.
Request for assistance re murder Scherjoen. The sergeant brought us four cases of tomatoes, with the compliments of my uncle."

"The deserter," the adjutant said. "A connection? Please sit down, Sergeant. Were you tipped off? I don't quite get it. Of course, I don't have to get it. But if I did get it..."

"We sometimes hear something," de Gier said. "Last night I happened to be in Leeuwarden. An irresponsible drunk mentioned your deserter. Nonsense, maybe, but then we never know. We like to follow up. I'm here anyway, so I thought I might check."

"Is our deserter suspected of having killed Scherjoen?"

"No," de Gier said. "But there might be a divergence of lines that once met. Separate causes that shared the same effect. One never knows."

"Coffee?" the adjutant asked. "Sudema?"

Sudema stood a little more at attention.

"Could I have the file on the deserter?"

Sudema marched to a cabinet and yanked open a drawer. He pulled a carton file, brought it over, and handed it to the adjutant.

The adjutant consulted the file. "Deserter. Air Force. Air- base Leeuwarden. Gone three weeks. Plays football. Champion runner. Hm. Yes. Likes to sail. Almost arrested on three occasions. In Rotterdam. On a highway in the far south and in Dingjum. Hm. Right. Didn't Scherjoen reside in Dingjum?"
He looked at Sudema. "Your uncle, now. Isn't he the lieutenant in charge of the State Police station over there?"

"Lieutenant Sudema sent you the tomatoes," de Gier said.

"Private Sudema," the adjutant said softly. "Does your uncle drink?"

"He doesn't
not
drink, but one can't say he drinks." Private Sudema looked straight ahead. "Uncle Sjurd knows his limits."

"Where's that coffee?" the adjutant asked loudly.

Private Sudema marched off. He marched back again.
"They're coming, Adjutant."

They came. Eight privates.

The private who had carried the tomatoes poured the coffee. The coffee had been waiting on the mahogany table, in a silver pot between a silver milk jug and a silver sugar bowl. The adjutant was given the first cup, de Gier the second; the others received their coffee in order of rank.

"There you are. Thank you."

"Why are all of you so tall?" de Gier asked.

"Fertile Frisian soil," the adjutant said. "Pure air. I won't say that we are a super race, but we came out better. Handsome people, handsome cows."

"Handsome sheep too?" de Gier asked.

"Yes," the adjutant said. "When sheep originate here, they come out better." His gaze shot down the length of the table. "Has everyone been served?"

"Yes, Adjutant," Private Sudema snapped.

The adjutant stirred. Everybody stirred. The adjutant took a sip. Everybody sipped.

"Scherjoen bought and sold sheep," de Gier said. "Any sheep in Ameland?"

"Yes," the adjutant said. "Ameland is a Frisian isle, so Ameland sheep are Frisian too. A murder motivated by sheep?"

"I've never been to Ameland," de Gier said.

"You'll know better," the adjutant said. "I'm only a simple guardian of frontiers, a hunter of deserters, and a protector of royalty, that's all."

"I don't know anything better," de Gier said. "I know nothing at all. I keep busy in case my superiors might be watching. And it would be nice to spend a day on one of your beautiful islands."

"Good," the adjutant said. "We all do what we have to do. Sudema."

Private Sudema replaced his cup.

"You'll be going to Ameland today."

"Yes, Adjutant."

"Or do you have something better to do?"

"Not today, Adjutant."

"Fine. The deserter is at home, we have received a report.
He doesn't show himself much, but he does happen to be at home. He's been betrayed. The deserter was born in the village in the north and the informer is from the village in the south. The northerners and the southerners do not live in harmony."

"Adjutant?" said the private who had carried the tomatoes.

"Yes, my boy."

"He wasn't betrayed," the private said. "I was on the island and had a drink in the pub, and the southerners were there and had been drinking too. Southerners have a habit of raising their voices. I happened to hear that the deserter would be at his home in the north."

"You were in uniform?"

"No, Adjutant."

"But everybody knows you on the island. You're from
the south, aren't you, my boy?"

"I am."

"We'll call it a coincidence," the adjutant said.

"Adjutant?"

"Now what, my boy?"

The private was quiet.

"Whatever you like. Old wives' tales. Foam on a wave.
The swirl of a tea leaf. Are you busy today, my boy?"

"Yes, Adjutant, I have to fetch my motorcycle."

"You have motorcycles here?" de Gier asked. "What brand? I used to be a motorcycle cop. I rode a BMW."

"My private motorcycle," the private said. "A brand-new
thousand-cc Kawasaki. The dealership is closed after our hours, so I have to pick it up during the day."

"How about you?" the adjutant asked another private.
The private had to visit the doctor. The next in line had to see the dentist. The next three had to attend a party, to celebrate the transfer and simultaneous promotion of a colleague. The last two privates were available for duty.

"So you two stay here," the adjutant said, "for otherwise there'll be no one in the barracks. Sudema, you'll go alone, but keep things quiet. Two years ago we had some trouble on the island. A Marine, remember?"

"A deserter?" de Gier asked.

"Subject was on holiday," the adjutant said. "Ripped a tent while camping—his own, but we don't like boisterous behavior in a military man. Sudema, you go to the subject's house, ring the bell, and ask him to accompany you. If he's unwilling, we'll see what we'll do. Report to me first. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Adjutant."

"Call our vessel. The vessel is available? Did the skipper get over his cold?"

"The ferry?" de Gier asked.

"Our own vessel," the adjutant said. "Or, rather, lent to us, for it belongs to the Army. The Wet Engineers, to be precise. The skipper is an Army sergeant. Our name has been painted on the ship, so people may think it's ours, but that isn't really the case. The sergeant is borrowed from the Engineers, but the crew are footsoldiers. We're not really in charge, but we make use of the craft."

"Hello?" Private Sudema asked through the radio. "Barracks
here. Over."

The radio coughed.

"Are you all right again, skipper?" Private Sudema asked.

"Right, right. A bit better, let's say."

"Can you take two men to Ameland?" Private Sudema asked.

"Why not? It's a nice day."

"We'll be there soon. Over and out."

"Fetch the bus," the adjutant barked. "You. Before you fetch your motorcycle."

The private drove the bus into the yard. The adjutant
inspected the vehicle. The ashtray contained two butts. The private excused himself, took the ashtray inside the building, and came running back. He pushed the ashtray back into the dashboard.

"Where did Sudema go?"

The adjutant went back into the building. De Gier followed. "Can't find cartridges," Private Sudema said.

The adjutant and Sudema opened and closed cupboards.

"I emptied my last clip on the shooting range," Private
Sudema said. "There should be a box here."

The adjutant locked in a file. "Ordered a thousand rounds three weeks ago. They usually take a month. Next week, maybe?"

"I have an extra clip," de Gier said. "Same caliber. You use twenty-two Magnum too."

"No," the adjutant said. "Thanks all the same. You have Municipal Police cartridges, and if Sudema lost them, we'd have a week of paperwork. I'm short on clerks too."

"Don't really need them," Private Sudema said.

"Exactly," the adjutant said. "Just imagine that, God help us, you wounded a subject. Do you have any idea what a room in the hospital would cost us per day?"

"But we never shoot anyone," Sudema said.

"It could happen," the adjutant said, "if we had something to shoot with. It's simple enough. All you have to do is pull a trigger. What happens afterward may be beyond all hope."

Sudema closed his eyes, considering possibilities.

"It happened to me once," the adjutant said. "Long ago, but still... In Korea. I'll never forget. We had eight hundred men out there, and ten military policemen. We mostly directed traffic. I was in charge of a crossing. I was short-tempered then. Nobody ignored my orders. We were near the front line, and a carload of Koreans came at me. I motioned to them to stop. The stop sign is international, everybody is supposed to know it, but that vehicle kept coming. Some sort of jeep, of Russian manufacture, and the soldiers in it were from the north. By chance—there's always chance, you know—an American soldier stood next to me and was carrying a bazooka, complete with a rocket in the tube, but he wasn't doing anything, for I was in charge of the position. I took that bazooka and fired it at the jeep."

"A hit?" de Gier asked.

"Not much distance, and a big rocket. Hard to miss, Sergeant. It happened that I'd been trying out a bazooka the day before, so I knew what to do."

"North Koreans were the enemy?" de Gier asked.

"Let's go," Private Sudema said.

The bus drove off, the young private at the wheel. "The adjutant is still as short-tempered as ever," Sudema said, "but that time he got a medal."

The trip didn't take long. The ship was waiting in the port of Harlingen. It seemed in excellent order, sixty feet long, painted blue and white, a clean new flag on the after deck.

"Nice," de Gier said.

The skipper welcomed his passengers. "You like my boat?
I do too, but she's obsolete, I'm told. There'll be a new vessel next month. Cost as much as a jet fighter, and this one will be sold for scrap."

"A sturdy craft," de Gier said.

The skipper caressed the railing. "She'll take you to the end of the oceans, provided you stick to the channels. She's really too deep for here." The boat, with the help of two soldiers, detached herself from the quay. The skipper showed off the engine room. "Nothing ever breaks down," he said. "Pity, really, I do like repairs. Every two weeks the boys and I take everything apart and fit it back together again, but the material is outdated, couldn't break it if we tried."

"Look here," the skipper said. "Every part is made out of copper. Nice to polish. We do that a lot."

"Stolen copper?" de Gier asked.

"What's that?" the skipper asked. "Are you here because of theft? You're a detective, aren't you? I won't have thieves on board, ever. Couldn't stand it. What's this copper that was stolen?"

"Not on your boat," de Gier said. "I heard that copper was stolen on the island—maybe a rumor. You mentioned copper, and I thought of what I heard."

"On Ameland they like to steal," the skipper said. "Have you heard their song?" He sang to the beat of his wrench, tapping on a tube:

Without forethought or guile

Lifted three beams from a house

As quiet as a mouse

The house fell apart

Now wasn't that smart?"