Hard Rain

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The Commissaris, limping through an endless corridor on the top floor of the Police Headquarters Building, wondered whether anyone remembered that he could have been chief constable himself. When honors are turned down, they're usually forgotten. Many of the officers he had gotten close to in some way had retired during the last few years. The previous chief constable was a good older friend who was asked by the mayor to sound out the commissaris about the offered promotion. The commissaris hadn't given a reason for his refusal then, for he was talking to an officer he was asked to replace. To say that the job wasn't interesting enough might have sounded impolite. A chief constable doesn't hunt; a chief of detectives does. The commissaris preferred to remain out in the open. He found the door he was looking for, and knocked. A green light flashed on.

"Had a good holiday?" the chief constable asked. "Care to sit down? Coffee, perhaps?"

"No, thank you, sir, I haven't been to my office yet."

The commissaris looked at his superior, finding the man hard to define. Polite, smooth, well-dressed, of course, no characteristics that stood out. Maybe that was why he had climbed so high in little time. "To float upward because of lack of weight," the commissaris's father had been fond of saying when he discussed the careers of others. Perhaps. He had to be careful, the commissaris told himself. Jealousy always makes judgment murky.

"Whatever happened during your absence has been properly taken care of," the chief constable said. "Did you hear about the terrorist? That came off rather well."

"There was a victim on our side?" the commissaris asked.

"Unfortunately." The chief constable nodded sadly. "Not a life-threatening wound, but in the face, I'm afraid. Plastic surgery will be required."

"Anyone I know?"

"I forget his name. A young detective."

"Ah," the commissaris said. "See you later, sir."

He undertook the long walk back to the elevator, thinking that he should perhaps be using his cane again. The cane was too conspicuous, however. It might alert the authorities to his infirmity. The rheumatism was improving somewhat lately. The Austrian baths didn't help, of course, but his wife always had such a good time in Bad Gastein. She liked fashionable resorts. And the commissaris was supposed to like calling on his retired brother who lived peacefully in a luxurious chalet in the Austrian Alps. They would invariably discuss old times. The commissaris preferred discussing new times, but there weren't any for his older brother. Reminiscences. The commissaris scowled. Would he be analyzing the past too, soon? His retirement crept closer every day. He still enjoyed the present.

A uniformed officer walked by, saluting politely. "Glad to have you back, sir."

"Yes," said the commissaris. He stopped and turned. "Halba?"

The officer stopped and turned.

"I was reading the paper in the plane this morning. Seems you've been quite busy. Do you have time to see me later this afternoon? Bring me up to date?"

"Certainly, sir," Chief Inspector Halba said. "Will sometime around five be in order? The mayor wants to see me this afternoon, about the terrorists. Bit of a celebration. That's why I'm in uniform. The press is invited. Perhaps you might care to come, too."

"Awfully kind," the commissaris mumbled. "But not really, I think. Haven't seen my men yet, you know. Are they all back now?"

Halba's eyes glinted behind his rimless glasses. "Haven't seen them sir. They don't like to report to my office. I was meaning to mention that to you. Sergeant de Gier especially seems to be rather, ah, 'self-willed' is the word? I realize I'm new to the brigade, but a bit of respect for rank…"

"Quite," the commissaris said. "See you at five then, Halba. My regards to the mayor."

In the elevator down, the commissaris realized who Halba reminded him of. Memories of the war had flashed back. The commissaris, then a junior police officer unwilling to cooperate with the German occupation forces, had been jailed for a good while. He was rightly suspected of being a member of the resistance. Being somewhat skilled in the art of interrogation himself, he had managed to plead innocence, but one of the Gestapo officers didn't give up. Hen Leutnant visited his prey daily in a dank cell. The German officer had all furniture removed from his prisoner's quarters and the floor flooded with an inch of dirty water. The prisoner was given a bit of bread each day and nothing to drink, so he drank from the floor. He also lay on the floor. His rheumatism started up during that painful period. Physically, the German from the past and the chief inspector from the present had little in common, but there was something about the way they both talked, showing their front teeth when they smiled. Yes, the commissaris thought grimly, two smart rodents, each from a different species.

He reached his office. His secretary was already there and put herself in his way. Surprised, the commissaris extended a hand. She pecked him on the cheek.

"Miss Antoinette," the commissaris exclaimed, feeling the small moist spot her lips had left.

She smiled. "You can kiss me too." She bent down.

"Modern times," the commissaris grumbled.

"Mere politeness," Miss Antoinette said. "Working relationships have changed, you know. Go on, sir, it doesn't hurt."

He kissed her cheek quickly and escaped behind his desk.

"You don't find me distasteful?" Miss Antoinette asked.

The commissaris shook his head energetically.

"Don't I look like your wife?"

The commissaris thought.

"I do," Miss Antoinette said. "When she came here and when we walked downstairs together, the doorman thought I was her daughter."

"You're the same size," the commissaris agreed. He gave in and smiled. "I like your new outfit. Very businesslike, yet charming."

She turned around. "I bought it because I wanted to fit in. You have such a distinguished office. Did you notice I polished your desk and the cupboard? Don't the lions that support your table shine? All your furniture is sixteenth-century oak, isn't it?"

"The plants look good too," the commissaris said. "You must have taken good care of them. Have you seen Adjutant Grijpstra and the sergeant?"

"They were inquiring after you, sir. The sergeant is a nuisance."

The commissaris reached for the silver thermos flask on his desk. Miss Antoinette was quicker. "I'll pour your coffee, sir, It's special. I bought beans and ground them myself."

"Delicious," the commissaris said. "You're spoiling me, dear. The sergeant is after you?"

"He makes advances."

"You want me to speak to him? I thought he was still enamored of Constable First Class Jane."

"Jane says he's good," Miss Antoinette said. "Aren't you going to Chief Inspector Halba's press party this afternoon?"

The commissaris shook his head. "How's the wounded detective doing?"

She filled his cup again. "The poor man's jawbone is completely smashed. There's a lot of talk about the incident, sir. The men say Chief Inspector Rood should have been allowed to finish the case, and that Halba botched the arrest. He put in so many men that the suspect became suspicious."

The commissaris grinned. "A suspicious suspect?"

She blushed. "Am I not saying it right? I was only trying to phrase my report correctly, but I'm not really a policewoman, of course. I only type."

"I'm sorry," the commissaris said. "Go on, dear. I'm very interested. Suspect opened fire?"

"With a fully automatic weapon," Miss Antoinette said. "An Uzi, I believe. He had hidden it under his jacket. Then we-well, the cops I mean-started shooting back and a police bullet hit a detective behind the telephone booth. Sloppy strategy, the men are saying."

"So it seems," the commissaris said. "Halba, eh?"

"Nasty man," Miss Antoinette said. "He keeps bothering me too. I'm complaining now, sir. The sergeant I don't really mind."

"Yes," the commissaris sighed. "Halba is a present I think I could do without. I wish he had stayed with Narcotics. He was doing well there, I hear. Murder requires a different approach altogether."

"You should hear what the girls at Narcotics have to say about Halba, sir."

The commissaris waved a small hand. "Yes, dear, but that's just talk. I heard something too. Narcotics is slippery ground, a lot of money is involved. There are informers to be paid off, rival gangs to be played against each other. Halba would fit well into that scene. What interests me is why he would apply for a transfer to my deparment."

"Yes," Miss Antoinette said briskly.

"You're interested too?"

"Maybe I know."

"You do?" the commissaris asked. "Well, then, tell me."

"He's after your job, sir. Commissaris ranks higher than chief inspector, doesn't it?"

The commissaris sipped his coffee. "Well, he'll have to wait."

"Maybe he won't, sir." Miss Antoinette walked to the door. "Anything else? Can I send in Grijpstra and de Gier?"

"Yes. Please do."

The commissaris thought Miss Antoinette had attractive hips, and an even more attractive way of swinging them when she suddenly turned. He opened the file she had placed next to his cup, and grunted irritably as he read.

There was a knock on the door. "Yes?" His assistants walked in, in order of rank.

"Well," the commissaris said twenty minutes later, when the three of them were looking at a map that de Gier had unrolled on the paneled wall. "Reopen two closed cases? Are you sure now, Adjutant? Won't we be stepping on long toes?"

"But you are interested, sir," Grijpstra said. "Especially as you're sort of personally involved."

"You knew the dead banker," de Gier said. "How was that now? Martin IJsbreker's father and your father were partners?"

"I don't think Martin was born then," the commissaris said. "All this goes back a long way, Sergeant. There were four partners in the Banque du Credit, but my father backed out. That left three. IJsbreker Senior, Baron de la Faille, and old Mr. Fernandus. I knew them all, since we moved in the same circles. Willem, old Mr. Fernandus's son, went to school with me.

"But you aren't friends with Willem Fernandus, the bank's current president, anymore?"

"Please," the commissaris said. "I don't even greet Willem when we meet in the street. That bank's reputation has gone down even further, Sergeant. Fernandus has been in a lot of scandals. His practice as an attorney is infamous, as you know if you've been reading the papers."

"The Society for Help Abroad?" Grijpstra asked.

"Started by Willem Fernandus," the commissaris said, "and very likely linked with his bank. That bank has never had a good aura about it; that's why my father got rid of his shares. It only has one office, situated fairly close to the prostitution quarter. The bank reputedly helped the German occupation. Fernandus was a double agent who somehow managed to jump clear when the war was over."

"Willem Fernandus," Grijsptra said, "not his dad."

"Yes, Willem," the commissaris said. "Let me see now. I think my father and the others all had equal shares. My father sold out, and old Fernandus may then have had half. Willem inherited half of that, so he only got a quarter, but his brother Ernst was never interested in business, so Willem may effectively control Ernst's shares as well. Then Willem married the Baroness de la Faille, whom I also know; she's an old lady now, and divorced. Fleur's share probably went to Willem. But Fleur only inherited half of her father's stake, for he married again and had a son. The son I met once, when he was still a child. I wonder how young Bart fits in now."

"And then there was IJsbreker Senior," Grijpstra said. "Father of the subject who shot himself. The report says IJsbreker Senior was a banker, so maybe he ran the bank. Willem Fernandus doesn't run the Banque du Credit, sir?"

"Willem is the president, Adjutant. He probably doesn't handle the day-to-day business, because he's still an attorney with an office on Prince Hendrik Quay, quite an impressive building."

"With nasty-looking gargoyles sitting on the steps," de Gier said. "I pass that place often. The mansion has recently been restored. The gable was sandblasted and all the ornaments repaired."

"We could find out," the commissaris said. "Prince Hendrik Quay is only a stone's throw from the Binnenkant, where IJsbreker Junior lived and died. The Banque du Credit is also on the quay, two blocks east of Willem's office."

"A stone's throw away from a houseboat where Adjutant Guldemeester found three dead junkies," Grijpstra said.

"So you were saying." The commissaris shook the thermos flask. "Maybe we can squeeze three small cups out of this smart invention. Miss Antoinette has been improving things here. Oh, by the way, Sergeant, you find my secretary to your liking?"

"Sir?" de Gier asked.

The commissaris found two more cups. "Yes."

De Gier scratched his buttock. "Well… eh… sort of cool. Not very responsive."

"Ah," the commissaris said. "You're answering the question behind my question. So Cardozo actually met one of the junkies. Adjutant, when you have a minute, I'd like you to check the reports from ballistics and pathology on Martin IJsbreker. I don't imagine there has been a proper autopsy on the junkies, but you might find something there too. Pathology must have checked on the overdose supposition. And you, Sergeant, send a routine message to all personnel about the American student of Chinese, saying that we'd welcome any data at all. Subject interests me because of the information he didn't give after all."

"Would you like us to visit the premises where IJsbreker died?" de Gier asked.

"Yes, tonight, maybe." The commissaris rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. "I'd like to come along. We'll need a key. Maybe Guldemeester has the IJsbreker key."

"Adjutant Guldemeester won't like this, sir."

"No?" the commissaris asked. "No. Perhaps you're right. So you'd better see him straightaway. Sergeant. Yes, I think that would be best."

"He might refuse, sir."

"Then bring him in here, Sergeant."

Grijpstra laughed.

The commissaris frowned. "You're not enjoying the discomfort of a colleague, I hope."

"No," Grijsptra said. "I was thinking of Guldemeester's birthday party, earlier this year. De Gier and Cardozo were invited, too. Bit of a disaster that was."

"Ah?"

Grijpstra looked at de Gier. "Leave me out of it," de Gier said. "I had a terrible time."

"Let's hear this," the commissaris said. "Or shouldn't I?"

De Gier sat down on the edge of a chair. "May I tell it, sir? Grijpstra will exaggerate. Have you met Guldemeester's wife, Celine?"

"Perhaps I have, Sergeant. Pretty? Long blond hair?"

"A most attractive young lady," Grijpstra said.

"Guldemeester must be your age, Adjutant. Fifty or so?"

"Celine isaround thirty," deGiersaid. "They haven't been married long, and they won't be married long, either, I would guess. Guldemeester likes to drink- as we all do, of course-but I felt rather uncomfortable, so I only had a few."

The commissaris looked at Grijpstra. Grijpstra nodded.

"I hate birthday parties," de Gier said. "I don't particularly like Guldemeester, either. I should never have gone, but he invited me and I thought it would be rude to refuse."

"I always refuse," the commissaris said.

"Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at me," de Gier said. "Everyone was quite drunk by then. Except me, as I mentioned."

"You got drunk?" the commissaris asked Grijpstra.

"Grijpstra threw up on the goats," de Gier said. "But that was afterward. Guldemeester keeps goats. Mini-goats, strange-looking specimens, from Mongolia, I believe."

"They all died," Grijpstra said.

"Probably a rare breed," the commissaris said. "Couldn't stand your treatment."

"No, no," Grijpstra said, "nothing to do with me. Some disease, it must have been. I got drunk because that household made me unhappy. De Gier and I are different that way. He won't drink when he's unhappy."

"So Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at you, Sergeant?" the commissaris asked. "And that upset you? You should be used to that sort of thing by now."

"Our hero," Grijpstra said. "It's because of that ridiculous mustache. It makes women curious, they want to lift it up."

"It's my high cheekbones," de Gier said. "Anyway, I didn't respond, so Celine stripped on the table."

"She what?" asked the commissaris.

"She did, sir," Grijpstra said. "Cardozo liked that. He gave her the idea. He kept talking about how he would like to infiltrate that nightclub, or gambling joint, or whatever one would like to call it, that belongs to the Society for Help Abroad and gets written up in the papers a lot. Best striptease in town. Guldemeester said he'd been there several times in the line of duty and the the show was truly excellent. Meanwhile, his wife had been making up to the sergeant, who just sat there and called her 'ma'am' and-"

"Well, what did she expect?" de Gier asked. "She is Guldemeester's wife."

"More, probably," the commissaris said. "Perhaps she expected more. Go on, Adjutant, you've made me curious."

"Well, sir," Grijpstra said, "so Celine said that Cardozo could see a striptease right then and there, but she kept looking at de Gier."

"Then what happened?"

"We went home," de Gier said. "After Grijpstra threw up on the goats."

"Oh," the commissaris said, "so Mrs. Guldemeester didn't really perform?"

"She did," de Gier said. "It took forever, too. She must have practiced. She had special music for her act. 'Pyramid' by the Modern Jazz Quartet. You know the piece? It takes quite a while."

"Good composition," Grijpstra said. "We should try that sometime. Some very tricky passages, though; maybe you won't be able to follow."

"No," de Gier said. "I'll be thinking of that party again."

"From what I hear," the commissaris said, "the experience might have had some pleasant aspects. De Gier, you've been here from time to time while we were away. Have you heard anything about reorganization at Headquarters here?"

"I hope there won't be," Grijpstra said. "Reorganization makes the mess worse."

"There'll be an investigation, sir," de Gier said. "State detectives have been called in by the mayor. They're supposed to concentrate on corruption and on cases that have been recently handled in an unprofessional way."

"I hope they won't ask for my cooperation," the commissaris said. "I wouldn't like to intrigue against colleagues."

De Gier stared at the commissaris.

"Yes, Sergeant?"

"No, sir." De Gier shook his head. "I was just thinking. Anything else you have in mind? I'd like to send that message off and see what Halba and Guldemeester have done, exactly. Shall we meet here tonight?"

"I'll meet you at Martin IJsbreker's house," the commissaris said. "At seven. No, make that eight. I'd like to look around the area a bit first, I think."