The Rattle-Rat (22 page)

"What do I see?" de Gier asked.

"Goodness," Eldor said, "is too one-sided for me. I wouldn't mind being bad, but that's impossible in these parts.
Ride a horse into a church and rape the bride, I wouldn't mind that. Or be a pirate, swinging through rigging, flashing a curved sword, or astride an old-model Harley-Davidson, in smudgy leather, with 'Fuck You' painted on the back of my jacket."

"Really," de Gier said. "Eldor!"

"I just want to be courageous," Eldor said. "On the right side, if need be."

"Good hasn't won yet," de Gier said, "and as long as it hasn't, there is still much to do."

"It has won here," Eldor said sadly.

The fanners began to climb the stone steps to the bar.

"Watch it now," de Gier said. "The suspects should be taking charge of the doors."

"You're sure now?"

"I have never," de Gier said, "been more sure of anything than that that bastard over there, with the dusty curls under the edge of his cap, is Fritz, and the other bastard over there, in the shiny wooden clogs and the dustcoat with the sleeves rolled up, is our Ary. They each have a hand in a pocket, holding a gun, and they have other hands out to hold on to their bags."

"I'm not to go inside," Eldor said. "The chief constable told me just now. My uniform might just possibly excite the suspects."

"Oh, I don't know," de Gier said. "They're professionals, they won't be easily upset."

"Our instructions," Eldor said, "tell us clearly that in a
situation like this, we cannot even think of drawing our guns.
Three hundred fellow beings pushed together in a bar, and there I would be, maybe firing hard-hitting, long-range rimfire bullets. The bullets will penetrate the guilty party and all the not-guilty parties behind him too."

"You stay right here," de Gier said, "where nothing outof-the-way can happen."

A shot cracked, followed by sudden silence, then by the
screaming of waitresses and the melancholy lowing of the cattle below. Eldor considered, his hand resting on the butt of his gun. "Maybe I'll just take a look," Eldor said softly.
De Gier walked along. Fritz came hurtling out through one of the bar doors, revolver in one hand, filled bag in the other.
Eldor pushed himself through the door and the human cluster behind it.

Ary, interrupted in saying good-bye to his victims, looked around. "No cops here, get out."

Eldor towered quietly, his eyes ablaze with cold blue power.

Ary's revolver indicated a moaning waitress. "You want me to do away with this poor innocent woman?"

Eldor's silence persisted.

"You don't," Ary said. "So here we go, the poor woman
and me. Get going, miss."

"Just a moment," Eldor said.

"Listen, cop," Ary said. "I'm serious. You really want me to do away with this lovely lady?"

Eldor's finger pressed the spring in his holster. Hie gun jumped into his hand. Eldor's arm rose slowly. His pistol's barrel pointed at Ary's nose.

Ary's revolver pointed at Eldor's wide chest.

"You," Ary said, "or me."

"I," Eldor said, "or you." His other arm rose and supported the mighty hand that held his pistol.

"You're making me real nervous," Ary said.

"Put your gun on the floor," Eldor said.

"So what have I got to lose?" Ary asked. "Think of yourself, dear fellow. A young man with a beautiful wife and cute kiddies playing at her feet. Your career, officer, consider it while you still
can
consider."

"I'm going to count now," Eldor said. "Starting with
one"

"You," Ary said, "are making a serious mistake."

"Two,"
Eldor's bass voice sang melodiously.

Ary lowered his revolver.

"Put it down," Eldor said. "Don't drop it. I'm counting
again.
One."

Ary's gun nuzzled Eldor's knee.

"Two"
Eldor sang.

Ary squatted and placed his gun on the floor.

Everybody around them cheered and applauded.

De Gier ran away, through the door, across the gallery, down the stairs. He sped athletically through the hall. He crossed the parking lot. He came to a stop. Two cars, their noses mashed into each other, were silently watched by tall, unhappy-looking men. All the men were heavily armed.

"A little accident?" de Gier asked the commander.

"Always an extra problem," the commander said. "How
can one ever take all possibilities into account? Some idiot truck, complete with trailer, suddenly shooting off toward the gate. All my routes blocked at once. Car number three, supposedly swerving to the right, totals car number one, which supposedly is the pivot of my pursuit."

"And Fritz?" asked de Gier.

The commander waved a tired arm at the gate. "A most unfortunate concurrence of unpredictable circumstances. My car in the middle, pushed out of its course by the truck and trailer, makes a sudden sharp left, and one of my men, ready to shoot, falls on the door handle. The door opens. My man falls out. Fritz, in his Mercedes, coasting toward the gate too, sees the pistol in the hands of my man."

"You had five cars," de Gier said.

"Three are in pursuit now," the commander said. "But where is the beauty of a well-planned attack, if two-fifths of my power falls away at the start? If it could only go right once, just once. Why do I always have to improvise within the first five seconds?"

De Gier found his Volkswagen and drove into Leeuwarden. The streets were busy. Somewhere ahead, in the core of the city, sirens chanted sadly. Threatened by two lanes of oncoming traffic, the Volkswagen found refuge on the sidewalk. A policeman approached. "Lost, colleague?"

"Looking for those sirens."

The officer listened too. "Would be close to the railway station. Take the next alley to the right, and never mind from then on. Just go straight, can you do that?"

De Gier made the Volkswagen bounce along the pavement and took the first right. The alley was marked as a bicycle route. Ignoring further signs, de Gier took a one-way bridge from the wrong side, broke through a red and white check- ered partition that bordered a parking lot, and roamed about between long lines of silent cars. A Mercedes sports car appeared, and the car's pursuers, racing along in two sleek Ford convertibles. The Volkswagen jumped ahead and tried to follow the chase.

Around and around and around.

Monotonous, de Gier thought. The Volkswagen began to weaken. De Gier noticed an open parking space, and filled it. The Mercedes aimed for the bridge, but a Ford tried to cut it off. The military policeman in the rear seat emptied a clip from his Uzi. The weapon spat rapid fire just before Mercedes and Ford ripped off each other's fenders, went out of control, and began to destroy parked cars. De Gier approached the final scene on foot. The Ford's driver rested his bleeding head on the steering wheel. The Ford's horn howled tragically.
"Yayhay"
the other policemen, jumping from the Ford, were shouting while they leaped at the stalled and silent Mercedes from three sides. The Uzi chattered again. De Gier reached the Mercedes too.

"Huh?" the military policemen asked each other.

De Gier looked into the car. "You took his head off," he said quietly. "No head." De Gier sat down, for he was tired now. He preferred to lie down, and stretched himself on the tarmac.

"Everything is fine," a kind voice said.

De Gier thought he might want to sit up now for a bit, but he couldn't, for he was strapped down.

"Won't be long now," a kind voice said.

Isn't the world a friendly place? de Gier thought.

He woke up a few minutes later and heard Grijpstra's
voice.

"Can I have him now?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier noticed a sour taste in his mouth.

"He threw up in the ambulance just now," Grijpstra said.
"Otherwise he's fine. Truly. I've known him for maybe twenty years. The sergeant can't stand blood. If he sees blood he throws up."

De Gier stumbled against Grijpstra's arm. "Fritz had no head." He burped.

"So they were saying," Grijpstra said. "But it isn't too bad. Sprayed fire, they call it. The bullets spread, formed a cloud, cut down everything in their way. And that Fritz was no good."

The Volkswagen waited in the hospital's driveway, with a bashed-in front end.

"Did I do that?" de Gier asked.

"It was me this time," Grijpstra said, "but it's all right.
Bit of confusion out there. I found the car, and you had left the key. I wanted to save our faithful companion, but one of the Arrest Team's vehicles was still tearing about, and the ambulance came for you. Not a clear situation. You know a colleague by the name of Eldor Janssen?"

"A great man," de Gier said. "An example to us all. A true Viking, Adjutant, they still have some here, I believe.
If only there were more of them."

"Sure," Grijpstra said. "Well now, that Eldor has a wife and she also wrecked a Volkswagen, her own, but the front end is okay. She's giving it to us."

"When I looked in on Fritz," de Gier said, "there was
still some movement in there. Maybe Fritz wanted to tell me something, but he was short of his head."

"What were you doing there, anyway?" Grijpstra asked.
"The confrontation was planned for next week. Here I am, doing everything possible to keep you free of what's going on, and you're out there in a hail of bullets."

De Gier had been bedded down on the couch. Grijpstra brought tea.

"Was I out a long time?"

"The doctor said you were asleep," Grijpstra said. "He thought you'd been overdoing things a bit."

"I fainted."

"You did not, you know," Grijpstra said. "First you ran about all day on a tourist island, and then you spent a hectic
night with Hylkje. A visit to the cattle market after that.
You
had worn yourself out."

"I'm tired now," de Gier said.

"Rinus?"

De Gier mumbled.

"You're not doing something sneaky, are you now? Remember our arrangement? This is my project. Rinus, are you with me?"

"So tired," mumbled de Gier.

\\\\\ 18 /////

"
I
NEVER THOUGHT OTHERWISE," SAMUEL CARDOZO SAID, "and it couldn't have gone any other way."

Simon Cardozo was trying to carry the bicycle's remains
up the steep and narrow stairs.

"You wouldn't be expecting any help, would you?" Samuel asked. "Why bring up this mess, anyway? Leave it outside with the other garbage."

"Shh," Cardozo said. "I'm not alone.

"Evening, sir," Samuel said to the commissaris. "Didn't see you. Sorry about that. A bit dark on the staircase." The commissaris pushed, Simon pulled, Samuel pulled a little too.

"Not in my kitchen, that scrap," Mrs. Cardozo shouted.
"Oh, hello, sir. Nice of you to visit us. Would you like some coffee?"

Samuel had a friend with him. "Are you the famous com-missaris?" the friend asked. "I read about you. About the bribes and so forth, but that wasn't your department, that's what you said to the journalist."

"How are your legs these days?" Mrs. Cardozo asked.

"Better," the commissaris said. 'Thank you. I've been given exotic herbs for my bath. Samuel, I'm sorry about your bicycle. We brought in what's left because your brother says you're handy. You think the bike can be fixed?"

Samuel bowed over what had been put against the kitchen table. "The frame is gone, and the wheels are beyond repair too, buckled, very buckled, and the pedals—these must be the pedals—and the handlebars, where are the handlebars?
Maybe I could do something with what's left. The chain seems okay—no, the chain is broken."

"I'm sorry," the commissaris said. "The police are thrifty these days, but I would be delighted to buy you the new bicycle of your choice."

"Sir," Samuel said, holding up his hands. "Sir. Please."

"Don't do it, sir," Simon said. "My brother is a member of the Socialist Party. The purpose of his life is to serve others, right? Samuel?"

"Mrs. Cardozo," the commissaris said, "your Simon has been a true hero again, I came to tell you that. You should be proud of him."

"Is that right?" Mrs. Cardozo asked. "Oh, sir, I was so pleased when my Symie was able to become a detective.
When he was still in uniform, I always worried so. When he's in regular clothes he can always get away. I keep telling him that. 'Simon,' I say, 'I'm telling you, me, your mother, for one heroic deed and one guilder and seventy-five cents, no respectable caf6 will serve you a cup of coffee.'"

"I wasn't heroic," Cardozo said. "I was hiding in a ditch and out of reach. Nothing could possibly have happened to me. The commissaris was around, and the Military Police, and all the bad guys were mowed down in the end."

"You were shooting?" Samuel's friend asked. "I thought a commissaris never used a gun. They just like to travel a lot. I read that in the paper. It said that commissarises travel to the ends of the earth, using special funds. Tax money well spent."

"I had forgotten my pistol again," the commissaris said.
"The new model is too large for me. I don't want to keep leaving it at home, but unconsciously I never seem to take it along." He scratched his chin. "What do you do for a living?"

The friend made manikins.

'To play with?"

No, the friend was employed by Madame Tussaud's Museum of Wax Manikins.

"Mother," Samuel said, ''why is Simon wearing that weird suit?"

"Now
he notices," Simon said. "I could paint myself green and he would notice next week."

"I think you look cute," Mrs. Cardozo said. "When you were little, I made you a suit out of corduroy once. You were such a little darling, and I always washed your hair. It used to shine, just like it does now. Oh, my little Symie."

"A mishap," the commissaris said. "He was covered with the stuff."

Mrs. Cardozo's eyes grew round. "Blood? Was he bleeding?"

"Shit," Simon said. "Frisian."

"What were you doing in Friesland?" Mrs. Cardozo asked
angrily. "You should stay away from the country. I raised you in the city. The country smells. Stay here where you belong."

"And who do the cute clothes belong to?" Samuel asked.

"To a corpse," Cardozo said angrily.

"A corpse's suit," the commissaris said thoughtfully to
Samuel's friend. "Tell me, young sir, are you good at making those wax figures that Madame Tussaud's exhibits?"

"I'm gifted that way," Samuel's friend said. "I've just finished the Libyan colonel, and our prime minister, but I'm not happy with our top official. He's a good guy, and I prefer to make the other kind, I'm good at showing up evil."

"Good at evil," the commissaris said thoughtfully.

"I'm working part-time," Samuel's friend said. "Madame Tussaud's thinks that there's enough horror about nowadays."

"And you're an idealist too?" the commissaris asked, "like your friend Samuel, I mean?"

"Certainly," the friend said. "Labor Party, that's me, but I don't labor much these days. Through no fault of the party. It's the reactionaries again."

"Yes," the commissaris said. He got up and shook the friend's hand. He sat down again. "I do admire idealism."

"How do you mean that?" Samuel's friend asked.

"I mean," the commissaris said, "that in these difficult times we are short of funds. The funds you kindly mentioned just now have all been spent. If we upholders of public order ask for help these days, we cannot pay for such service."

"I gathered you were aiming that way," Samuel's friend said. "What can I do for you? I would like to perform some labor."

"Cardozo," the commissaris said, "let's see that album with the snapshots of Scherjoen."

Cardozo brought the album and opened it on the table.

"Nice old bird," Samuel's friend said. "Much too nice for what I'm gifted for."

"Not so nice," the commissaris said. "Look a little closer. What we have here is an evader of taxes and a usurer at thirty-percent interest. If you " The commissaris smiled warmly and went on, "But this may be quite a tricky project— if you feel you can't do it, you can say so at once—if you could distill the evil from these images and dress them in the suit that Simon is wearing right now, and if you used, instead of a proper head, a burned skull that we'll provide you with, and if you found some skeleton hands that could extend from the jacket's sleeves, and if you made those hands hold something—what, I don't rightly know now, but we may think of a suitable object..." The commissaris felt his chin.

"Yes," Samuel's friend said. "Absolutely. The very thing. I can do it. I want to do it. You have some goal in mind?"

The commissaris asked if he could smoke. Mrs. Cardozo nodded and shivered. "How terrible, sir."

"It has to be terrible," the commissaris said. "You see,"
he pointed at the album, "this man may not have been a likable gent, but he was cruelly murdered, and we have four suspects, but nobody is talking. I'm not saying that the suspects are not as innocent as they profess to be, but I would like to be sure. If they escape from our grasp, we'll look for something else, but at the point where we are now, the four suspects are in my way."

"You plan to shock them loose?" the friend asked.

"I don't like the method," the commissaris said, "but I don't like any method in our branch. Threats, manipulation, interference with liberty, all our tricks are the same, in essence. A quick shock might be best."

"So my manikin has to be nasty," the friend said. "I can use lights? Some movement? I do have some skills. Do I have some time? Can I do a good job?"

The commissaris looked at his watch. "No hurry. Can you
deliver by tomorrow?"

The friend shook his head sadly.

"Don't put yourself out," the commissaris said. "All we
need is an impression, a glimpse, nothing fancy."

'Tomorrow," the friend mumbled.

"You can come with us now," the commissaris said and got up. 'The skull is at Headquarters. Cardozo will give you the suit, and I'll make sure you have a room in the building where you won't be disturbed. Tomorrow afternoon I'll bring in my suspects. Four little meetings, and we're all done."

"I need help," Samuel's friend said. "And we need something bad that our creation can hold out to the audience. Can you think of something? Simon?"

Cardozo leered and rubbed his hands.

"My Symie," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Did I bring you up for this?"

"Hen heh," laughed Cardozo.