Death of a Hawker

13

"We are early," the Commissaris said to the constable. "You can drive about for half an hour if you like. There's a nature reserve close by. I've been there before, I even have a special pass. It isn't open to the public."

He fished around in his wallet and gave the pass to the driver. The constable turned it around and studied the little map on its reverse side.

"I can find it, sir. It shouldn't be more than a few kilometers from here."

Grijpstra was still exhausted and happy to let events take their course. The soft suspension of the car was lulling him to sleep and when he woke up because the commissaris touched his arm they were in the reserve. Once a graveyard, the place had lain untended for a hundred years or so; then the municipal authorities had discovered it again and promoted it into a special area, enlarging the land by buying the surrounding farms and a small estate, complete with the ruins of a castle and a moat leading into an artificial lake. The city had dipped into a wildlife fund for the money, and botanists and biologists now roamed the reserve, trying to find out what supposedly extinct flora and fauna they might run into.

"Untouched by filthy hands," the commissaris mumbled as he gazed at the landscape. The constable was driving slowly so that they could enjoy the sight of beeches and oaks grown to gigantic sizes, a glade, covered with the lush yellow of gorse, undergrowth bustling with rabbits and a lone pheasant standing on a rock. "Look," the commissaris said, and pointed at a spotted deer, watching them quietly from the cover of a broken gravestone.

"I could hit him easily from here," the constable said and touched the automatic pistol, resting in its holster under his blazer. "A perfect shot, sir."

"You're joking," Grijpstra said grumpily.

"A policeman is a hunter," the commissaris said good-naturedly. "Don't scold the constable, adjutant. The thought occurred to me too."

He pointed his index finger at the buck. "Bam," the commissaris said. "You are dead. We'll have venison for dinner tomorrow."

The car was moving again. They were getting close to the lake and at a turn of the path they saw a flock of coots landing. The fat black little birds came in with their flat webbed feet spread, clumsily hitting the lake's still surface and splashing heavily before they flopped down, like puddings thrown in a comic movie.

"Ha," the constable said, but he wasn't laughing a minute later when the wide tires of the Citroen were crushing the first toads.

"What now?" the constable asked, and stopped the car, alarmed by the squashing noise which suddenly burst on his eardrums. He got out and looked at the tarmac. Some ten flattened baby toads showed themselves on the hot tar of the path.

The commissaris and Grijpstra had got out too.

"You should have avoided them," Grijpstra said. "Toads are getting scarce nowadays."

"He couldn't have," the commissaris said. "He didn't see them, did you, constable?"

"No, sir. I heard them when they squashed. Bah. Horrible sound, wasn't it? Like popping balloons."

"There are lots of them," Grijpstra said.

The grass on both sides of the path was alive with toads. They were coming from the lake, and the car and the three men were in their way. The path became covered with their small slimy bodies and there seemed no way of avoiding their hopping progress. They were everywhere, crawling over the policemen's shoes, pushing against the car's tires. They could hear them too now, an oozing sound, as if thick wet sticky mud were being pumped through countless drainpipes.

"Let's get out of here," the commissaris said, shaking the animals off his shoes and inadvertently stepping on them.

The constable slipped and would have fallen if Grijpstra's heavy hand hadn't caught his elbow. They got back into the car.

"If we drive away I'll kill thousands of them," the constable said.

The commissaris looked at the lake. "They are still coming, they may be coming all day. This must be their hatching time. Perhaps there is a plague of toads. That damned gatekeeper shouldn't have let us in. Get us out of here, constable, we have an appointment to keep."

The toads crawled and sucked and squashed for hundreds of yards and the Citroen kept on crushing them. The constable was cursing, holding the wheel as if he wanted to wrench it out of its socket. The slime of the small corpses filled the grooves of the tires, forcing the car to slide crazily, and twice they slipped off the path with spinning wheels. Grijpstra felt sick and blocked his ears to drown the continuous slushing and squeezing. He was trying not to think of the snails, which he imagined sliding about in his stomach in a sea of whipped cream, and was breathing deeply. He could see the constable's wide staring eyes in the rearview mirror.

"That's it," the commissaris said cheerfully. "We are through. Go forward and reverse a couple of times on that sandy spot over there, it'll clean out the tires."

"That girl will be our last suspect for the time being," the commissaris was saying, "but Abe Rogge must have had a lot of close relationships. We are facing a crowd, Grijpstra. Maybe we haven't even started yet."

Grijpstra didn't answer and the commissaris leaned forward to get a closer look. Grijpstra's state of nerves didn't seem improved at all; if anything it seemed worse. The adjutant's skin looked gray and he wasn't able to control his hands, which were fidgeting with the end of his tie.

"Sir," the constable said, and pointed at a small freshly painted houseboat.

Grijpstra grunted and got out of the car. The commissaris wanted to follow but checked himself. Grijpstra was hopping about on one foot on the quay, yelling.

"Now what?" the commissaris asked.

"Careful, sir," Grijpstra shouted. "The pavement is full of shit."

The commissaris looked. It must have been a large dog, a large sick dog perhaps. The turds, of greenish yellow color, covered several cobblestones and Grijpstra had stepped right in the middle. The constable closed his eyes, opened them again and forced his body to move. He walked around the car, opened the trunk and found a hard brush with a long handle. Grijpstra held on to a lamppost while the constable set to work.

"You are an excitable fellow," the commissaris said. "Haven't you ever stepped into dog turds before, adjutant?"

"Often," Grijpstra said irritably. "Every day of my life, I think. I attract dogshit. If there's one turd in a street I plow right through it. Some people think it's funny. I amuse them."

"I don't think it's funny," the commissaris said, "and neither does the constable."

"De Gier thinks it's funny. Yesterday, when we went to fetch the car in the police yard, I stepped into a turd and I was running so I slithered all over the pavement. He laughed, the bastard laughed! Tears in his eyes! Slapping his thighs! But dogshit is the same to me as a bleeding corpse to him. / don't laugh when he is leaning against walls and fainting and carrying on!^M

"Hmm," the commissaris said, "but you are clean now. Thank you, constable. Let's get into that boat before anything else happens."

The girl was waiting for them in the doorway.

"Anything wrong?" she asked the adjutant. "Why were you jumping about?"

"Stepped in some dog droppings, miss."

"The German shepherd next door did that. He hasn't been feeling well lately. I meant to clean it up today but I forgot. Take your shoes off, my boat is all spick and span for once."

Grijpstra knelt down obediently. The commissaris slipped past him, found a comfortable-looking chair and sat down. The girl stayed with Grijpstra until both shoes, upside down, were placed in a corner near the door.

"Are you police officers?" the girl asked. "I always thought they wore raincoats and felt hats."

"You've been watching old movies," the commissaris said.

"Coffee?" the girl asked.

"No, thanks, miss."

The commissaris approved of the girl. Large lively eyes in a freckled face. Stiff pigtails with blue ribbons to keep them together. A dress, reaching her ankles, made out of gaily printed cotton. Irregular but very white teeth, a strong mouth. A ray of sunshine, the commissaris thought happily, just what we need to finish off a day's work.

"You've come about Abe?" the girl asked and looked at Grijpstra, who was standing about forlornly. "Why don't you sit down?"

"Where?" Grijpstra asked.

"Right here." She pointed at a shapeless leather bag next to the commissaris' chair, got down on her haunches and thumped the bag. "It's quite comfortable, it's filled with pebbles. I bought it in Spain. Try it." Grijpstra sat down. "You see?"

"Yes, miss," Grijpstra said and screwed his wide bottom into the bag. Its back came up and supported his bulk; the pebbles were crunching inside.

"Yes," the commissaris said. "We've come about Abe. He was killed yesterday, as you know. We were told you were friendly with Mr. Rogge."

"Yes," the girl said. "Very friendly. We slept together."

"Yes, yes," the commissaris said.

"I like to be exact," the girl said brightly.

Why is she so damned cheerful? Grijpstra thought. The man is dead, isn't he? Can't she be upset? He moved and the pebbles crunched again.

"Don't look so worried. That bag won't break. Hundreds of people have sat on it."

"So Abe was your lover, eh?" he asked.

"He was my lover but I wasn't his mistress."

"I see," Grijpstra said doubtfully.

"I don't," the commissaris said. "If Mr. Rogge was your lover you were his mistress. Surely that's the right way of describing the relationship, isn't it?"

"No," the girl said, and smiled. "No, not at all. Abe slept with lots of girls; they came to him when he flicked his fingers-and wagged their tails. He didn't even have to seduce them, they just expected him to take his pants off and do the job. Not me. He came when / wanted him to come and he left me when / wanted him to leave and he had to talk to me and to listen to me. I never tried to fit into his schedule. I am a busy girl, I've got my own schedule. I study and the State is paying me to study; they gave me a nice grant. I intend to finish my studies in time, ahead of time preferably. I don't play around."

It was a long speech and she delivered it almost vehemently, standing in the middle of the small room. Grijpstra was impressed. The commissaris appeared not to be listening. He had been looking around him. The interior of the boat looked as neat as its outside. She hadn't cluttered the room; everything which it contained seemed to fulfill a function. A large low table, stacked with books and paper and a typewriter. A few plants and a vase filled with freshly cut flowers.

He got up, and walked to the end of the room, stopping at a work bench. "Are you working on something, miss?"

Tilda," the girl said. "Tilda van Andringa de Kempenaar. Just call me Tilda. That's a bird feeder, or, rather, it will be one day. I am having a little trouble with it."

"Van Andringa de Kempenaar," the commissaris said, and narrowed his eyes. The puckered forehead showed that he was thinking, trying to remember. "A noble name, it shows in our history books, doesn't it?"

"Yes," she said briskly, "a noble name, a noble family."

"I should address you as freule' perhaps."

"Not really," she said. "Tilda will do." She picked up her long dress, bent her knees and straightened up again. "We had estates once, and influence at court, and I don't think we paid taxes in those days, but my great-great-grandfather blew it all in Paris and ever since then we've been like the rest and worked for a living."

"I see," the commissaris said and bared his teeth mechanically. "A bird feeder, you said?"

"Yes. I like making things but this is more work than I anticipated. It still has to be covered with sheet metal and glass but I've got to get the inside right first. It's supposed to be ingenious you see. The bird has to sit on this little rod and then some feed will flow into that tray over there. There's a small trapdoor here connected to the rod. But it isn't working properly. There should be just enough feed going into the tray; I don't want to keep refilling the container. The whole thing will be hung outside when it's ready and the only way I can get at it will be via the roof. The windows on that side don't open."

"I see, I see," the commissaris said, replacing the structure. "Very clever. Did you design it yourself?"

"I had some help but not much. 1 like inventing. I was always making soap box carts when I was a child. One of them got a prize at school. I won a race in it Want to see it?"

"Please," the commissaris and Grijpstra said.

She brought it in and went into a long technical explanation. "Very clever," the commissaris said again.

"What do you study, Tilda?" Grijpstra asked.

"Medicine. I am in my third year. I want to be a surgeon."

"But you are still very young," Grijpstra said in an awed voice.

Twenty-one."

"You'll have your degree in four years' time." Grijpstra was almost whispering. He couldn't imagine the girl as a graduate in medicine. He suddenly saw himself tied to a table in a white room. The girl was bending over him. She had a knife, the knife would cut into his skin, slicing a deep wound. Her fingers were touching exposed muscles, nerves, vital organs. A shiver touched the hairs on his neck.

"Nothing special," the girl said. She had seen Grijpstra's reaction and grinned wickedly. "Anybody who isn't downright stupid and who is willing to work hard for eight or ten hours a day can become a doctor."

"But you want to be a surgeon," Grijpstra said.

"Yes. I'll have to work in a hospital somewhere for another seven years or so. But it'll be worth it."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Do you have any idea who killed your friend, Tilda?"

The grin froze on her face. She suddenly seemed to become aware of herself, standing halfway between her interrogators. "No. No, I have no idea. He was always so happy and full of life. I am sure nobody disliked him. Esther said that he was killed in some mysterious way? Is that right?"

"That's right," the commissaris said. "You wouldn't have any photographs, would you? We only saw him dead."

Her eyes were moist now. "Yes, holiday snapshots. I'll get them."

They looked at the album. Abe Rogge at the helm of his boat, and running in the surf, and leaning over the railing of a ferry, and at the wheel of an antique motorcar. Louis Zilver was in some of the photographs, and Tilda herself, looking healthy and attractive.

"Fishing," the commissaris said. "Did he fish a lot?" He pointed at a photo showing Abe struggling with a fishing rod, bent backward, pulling with all his might.

"That was in North Africa," the girl said, "last year. Just the two of us went. He had some gamefish on the hook, took him all afternoon to bring it in. It was such a lovely fish that I made him throw it back. It must have weighed a hundred kilos."

"Where were you yesterday afternoon and last night?" Grijpstra asked.

"Here."

"Anyone with you?"

"No, several people knocked on the door and the telephone rang but I didn't answer. I am working on a test. I should be working at it now too. They didn't give me much time and it's an important credit."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "We must be going."

"Hard boiled little thing," Grijpstra said in the car. "It won't be easy to shake her. She almost broke down when you asked her to show the photographs but that was the only time she weakened. I bet she is the local chairman of some red women's organization."

"Yes, and a proper freule too," the commissaris said. "I think one of her ancestors was a general who fought Napoleon. I forget what he did now but it was something brave and original. She'll be a good surgeon. Maybe she'll invent a way to cut hemorrhoids painlessly."

Grijpstra looked up. "Do you have hemorrhoids, sir?"

"Not anymore, but it hurt when they took them out. Did you see that bird feeder?"

"Yes, sir. A well-designed construction. Do you think she could manufacture a deadly weapon, sir? Something which can shoot a spiked ball?"

"I am sure she can," the commissaris said. "It would work with a powerful spring. I counted six springs in her bird thing."

"It's a thought," Grijpstra said, "but that's all it is. Whatever she had going with Rogge must have been going well, so why would she go to a lot of trouble to kill him?"

"The female mind," the commissaris said. "A great mystery. My wife went to a lot of trouble because she didn't like the man who delivered oil for our central heating. She phoned his boss and said that if they couldn't send someone else she would close the account. I was never able to find out what she had against the man; he seemed a pleasant rather witless fellow to me. But now we are buying oil from some other company. And my wife hardly ever gets upset. This girl would fly into a rage at the slightest provocation. Made that great hulking fellow throw back a fish he had fought with for hours. Made you take off your shoes. Knows exactly what she wants. Studies like mad. Builds involved gadgets just for fun. Has her sex life arranged all her way."

"A nasty bundle of energy," Grijpstra said. "Perhaps we should go back tomorrow, sir, take her to the morgue and confront her with the corpse. Interrogate her for a few hours. She has no alibi, she could easily have sneaked out to the Rogge house. She is a small girl. The riot police would have let her through. Maybe she was carrying a parcel containing the device that shot the ball. She climbed onto the roof of that old ship lying opposite her house, called Abe…"

"Could be," the commissaris said, "but I am taking you home now. We'll see tomorrow. Maybe de Gier and Cardozo will pick up a clue at the street market. You and I can sit and think for a day, or you can go out to the market too."

The car stopped in front of Grijpstra's house. The constable looked back as he drove away.

"He isn't going home, sir," the constable said. "He hesitated at the door and walked away."

"Really?" the commissaris asked.

"Well, he's right, I think," the constable said. "Some wife the adjutant has. Did you see that woman popping her head out of the window this morning, sir?"

"I did," the commissaris said.