The Mind-Murders

6

"There," Grijpstra said.

They moved simultaneously, each taking a side of the man, keeping well back. Mtiller waddled ahead, carrying a flat case. It was dark by now and the ornamental street lights, spaced far apart, played with the fat man's shadow. They also played with another shadow, slim and sharp, darting in and out of the lights. The shadow was attached to a girl, dressed in faded jeans and a trim jacket, bouncing on high-heeled sneakers. De Gier, on the waterside, and Grijpstra, inconspicuously merging with the walls of small and narrow houses, lagged even farther behind. Two more shadows joined the procession; they had sneaked from a side alley. They moved as gracefully as the girl. They were tall and thin, as black as their owners, who were both in their late teens or early twenties, with shaved skulls, sporting leather jackets and tapered dungarees.

Rapists, Grijpstra thought.

Robbers, de Gier thought.

Can't have that, they both thought. Neither man was concerned about the girl's safety at that moment. They were hunting and Miiller was the prey. If the boys caught up with the girl, there would be a scuffle, some noise, a scream maybe. Miiller would be distracted and not do what he was supposed to do, or do it in a different manner, adding complications to the simple situation that now faced the original pursuers. One of the muggers followed the line of trees bordering the canal, the other adopted Grijpstra's tactics. Neither of them was aware of the danger behind. De Gier ran, Grijpstra lumbered. De Gier drew his knife faster than Grijpstra.

"Hey."

The boys stopped and turned. They were well trained. They did the right thing, their knives were out too, but they were at a disadvantage.

"Drop it."

The knives fell. They were light and didn't clatter much on the cobblestones.

Grijpstra's catch muttered four-letter words, the other stared at de Gier. Of the two, the adjutant's prey was the most surprised. Grijpstra could not be in the same profession as the boy, yet he was. This well-dressed elderly man with the kind face, complete with tie, cuff links and neatly folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket, was asking a black street mugger for his money. The boy's deepest mind was disturbed. Facts no longer fitted reality. There was the stiletto, its cruel point pressing against his throat, there was the hand on the shoulder of his leather jacket, there was the pleasant voice, asking for money.

The other boy could accept his particular set of circumstances more easily. The tall man in the round cotton hat looked somewhat odd. He could, if the imagination were stretched just short of the breaking point, perhaps be lurking in dark streets, prowling for loot.

"Give," Grijpstra said.

De Gier didn't speak. He hissed. He supported the boy's bare skull with his left hand, pressed the knife with the other. The skin on the boy's throat was about to break. The boy fumbled in his pocket and came out with crumpled bills. De Gier grabbed the money and swung the boy round. The boy held on to a tree while de Gier patted him down. The sergeant's foot pushed the boy's knife into the water, it splashed softly. Grijpstra picked up the other boy's knife.

"Give!"

The boy gave.

"Off with you, that way!" Grijpstra pointed over his shoulder. The other boy was running already.

There was a second splash as the other knife hit the canal's calm surface.

The detectives waited for the boys to slip into the alley that had emitted them a few moments ago and turned.

They should have kept the knives. Muller, alerted by the splashes, looked around. Asta stopped short.

"You?" Muller asked. The arm that carried his case swung back. The girl ducked and pulled her gun, aiming the pistol as it came out of her pocketbook. The pistol's click immobilized Muller.

"You're under arrest; drop your case, turn round, and hold your arms behind your back."

Asta shifted the gun to her left hand and produced her handcuffs. She had some trouble trying to fit them around Muller's fat wrists. He kicked twice, forward and backward. The case shot into the canal and Asta staggered.

When Muller turned, clawing at the a, ir separating him from the girl, de Gier jumped. The sergeant's flat hand came down, hitting Mtiller in the neck. The man's thick skin and spongy blubbery tissue absorbed the impact, but de Gier hit again in a blur of vindictive fury. Mtiller's breath escaped in a burst of foul air; after that he sobbed. Then he fell, taking his time, spreading his monstrous body between a tree trunk and de Gier's feet. The sergeant stepped back.

Grijpstra was on his knees, holding Asta's leg.

"I'm all right," she said. "He caught me on the side. It hurts but the knee'U still work. Help me up please."

She held on to Grijpstra and hobbled over to de Gier.

"The case, it's floating away, we've got to get it. You can lower me down and I'll pick it up. Here, hold my gun."

De Gier lay down and Grijpstra held his feet. Asta grabbed the low railing at the end of the cobblestones and lowered her body gently. She touched the case with the point of her shoe and maneuvered it toward her.

"Don't drop me, sergeant." The case was between her feet. "Pull me up now."

Grijpstra handcuffed Mtiller while de Gier and Asta opened the case; it contained sixteen small plastic bags. Asta undid one and sniffed at the powder; she passed the bag to de Gier.

"Probably cocaine, the laboratory'll know. You did well, Asta."

She looked round. Grijpstra was slapping Muller's cheeks slowly and methodically with both hands.

"Is he coming to?"

"In a minute, not yet."

She kissed de Gier, just touching his lips. "Did I really do well? I wasn't sure. The connection between Mtiller and Boronski was drugs. There would be drugs in the hotel. Mtiller knew we were after him. He had to get rid of the evidence; he didn't want to leave it in the hotel, for we might have traced it back to him. He thought he would dump it into the canal, a little bag at a time. He would wait until dark. If I could catch him with the drug in his possession, I could arrest him. Right?"

"Wrong, you wanted to do it on your own. We never work by ourselves, not if we can help it. You should have asked me or the adjutant to assist you. We're supposed to work as a team."

"Yes, I'm sorry."

"It's a long road," de Gier whispered, "and there's nothing at the end, but we can have company on the way."

"Yes."

He saw her lower lip tremble and embraced her. She was talking, but her face pressed against his chest, and he couldn't hear what she said. He held her at arm's length. "Say that again?"

She was crying now. "Please don't think I wanted the credit of the arrest. It was that you looked so happy on your balcony with Tabriz. I thought the two of you should rest for a while. Please tell the commissaris you made the arrest."

"That's all right." He gave her her gun and his handkerchief. "Cops don't cry, not much anyway. How's he doing, Grijpstra?"

"Awake, and he wants to get up."

Together they pushed and pulled until Mtiller was in balance. They led him back, and Grijpstra telephoned for a car at Cafe Beelema. De Gier parked the wheezing Miiller against the bridge railing while he bought Asta a herring. The car, a minibus driven by Karate, arrived within minutes.

"Where to, sergeant?"

"To Headquarters. Tell the turnkeys to make him comfortable. We'll interrogate him later tonight."

"Right. If you have a minute, you and the adjutant might go over to our station. Sergeant Jurriaans wants to talk to you."

"No," de Gier said, "I've had enough for tonight. Some other time."

"You'd better go, sergeant, me and the chief did a little work for you tonight."

"Tell me what you did."

"No. The chief wants to tell you himself."

The bus drove off.

Grijpstra came out of the cafe, wiping beer froth off his mouth.

"Why did you let that bus go? I don't want to walk back to Headquarters."

"I have my bicycle," de Gier said, "but Asta wants to go with me and it won't carry two passengers. There's also a proposition from the station here, which is around the corner. Jurriaans wants to see us."

"Good. He can have us driven home."

They walked slowly, Asta in the middle.

"See?" Asta said, pointing at a disorderly heap of feathers. "This is where the Chinese throws out his garbage, and there's nothing we can do about it. It isn't just feathers, there's blood and meat too."

"Good for rats," Grijpstra said, steering her around a temporary fence. "This part of town'll never get organized. What are they blacktopping this area for? What's wrong with cobblestones?"

Asta tried not to limp. De Gier supported her elbow.

"You realize that we are still nowhere," Grijpstra said. "So Herr Miiller is a drug dealer and we can prove it. That's nice. But drugs is not our department. That the Hamburg police will be pleased has nothing to do with us either. First we had a murder and no corpse, it added up to zero. Now we have a corpse and no murder. Zero equals zero."

De Gier grinned. His arm slipped around Asta's shoulders. "There's nothing more glorious than zero, adjutant. You can multiply it at will, you can divide it at will, and it will always be the same. We can lose ourselves in nothing and go as far as we like; we'll never hit the other end of it."

The adjutant hadn't thought of a reply yet when Sergeant Jurriaans welcomed his guests with outstretched arms, beaming at the bedraggled group that reluctantly entered his small office.