The Mind-Murders

2

"I regret that I have to state that the tradition of the police, born in a noble past, stretching to an enlightened future, does not allow…"

"Yes," Sergeant Jurriaans said softly.

"… for a shoddy present. Two of your men, dressed in the Queen's uniform, disgraced the force last night I'm here to complain."

"So I gather."

The two men leaned toward each other across a worn counter in the front office of the police station in the inner city. Grijpstra wore his usual crumpled three-piece pinstripe that now contrasted sadly with Sergeant Jurriaans's impeccable uniform. Grijpstra sighed and prepared to match the power of this tall and wide-shouldered colleague and to withstand the steady gaze directed at him from a heavily lined face under a wealth of cropped orange hair.

"Would you like some coffee?" a female constable 24 asked. Grijpstra now sighed with pleasure. He noted that the young constable was well shaped and looked back at him through unusually large and sparkling blue eyes. She was small and slender, but her breasts seemed to exert considerable pressure against the stiff material of her jacket. The intensity of her eyes disconcerted him, however, and he faced the sergeant again. The sergeant was rubbing his face. The stiff hairs on the back of his hand reminded Grijpstra of carrot scrapings.

"Please, dear," Jurriaans said, "and I don't mind if you serve the Revenging Angel too. He's a colleague, after all, and carries a superior rank, and he's probably been sent, he can't help himself."

The girl giggled. The adjutant attempted to ignore her. He couldn't. He saw more in her eyes than he wanted to see. Wise, Grijpstra thought, and lewd. She knows it all. How can she know it all? She's too young.

The constable left, gracefully wobbling her small tight bottom.

"Don't mind her," Sergeant Jurriaans said, "she's amused by older men. She likes them, too. She has a father complex. When you get through with your heavy words, I'll tell you a story about her. It's about time we exchanged the news of the day, we don't see each other much lately."

Grijpstra's eyes were on the girl again. Sergeant Jurriaans coughed politely.

"Ah yes," Grijpstra said. "She's as nice from the rear as the front. Why don't we ever get female assistants? Cardozo doesn't compare with… what's her name?"

"Asta."

"Asta. And I haven't been sent, Jurriaans, as you know."

"I know. What happened?"

"Two of your constables, Ketchup and Karate, threw an invalid into the Emperorscanal last night. A dangerous crowd had to be restrained by six uniformed colleagues, my sergeant, and myself. My sergeant even had to swim. An unnecessary and painful commotion. Unreasonable, too. Your constables provoked the trouble. There was no charge against the invalid. There'll probably be a charge against him now. If so, I demand that you withdraw it, apologize to the civilian, and take disciplinary action against the constables."

The sergeant nodded. "Right. But the blame is mine. Not just for this but for everything. I admit it freely so that we can continue on our various paths. Do you know why I should be blamed?"

"Tell me," Grijpstra said and stirred the coffee in his paper cup, handed to him by Asta whose attractiveness he didn't notice this rime. He removed the plastic spoon and stuck it into the sergeant's cup. The sergeant held Grijpstra's spoon together with his own and stirred too. Then he removed both spoons and inserted them in Grijpstra's cup. Grijpstra took them out, held them in his hand for a while, and dropped them into a trash can.

Jurriaans smiled. "I won that one. Your turn. But first I'll tell you why the guilt is mine for anything that goes wrong, here and everywhere. It has to do with my birth. I could have slipped back but I did not. By making that initial choice I became part of an unacceptable situation which, and not in my innocence I assure you, I accepted. On that fateful moment I became loaded with universal guilt."

"Quite."

"With that out of the way, I will leave the general for the particular. I am also responsible for the system that channels new blood into the force. You still follow me?"

Grijpstra smiled noncommittally.

"I'm with you."

"Do you know how the system works, now, I mean?"

Grijpstra's smile froze.

"No, because you and I started at the same time, but I'm of the uniformed branch and closer to ground level. I know what goes on now and remember what it used to be like. In our days, a commissaris blew some cigar smoke into your face and if you didn't drop-they weren't really corrupt as you'll recall, they smoked whatever the civilians gave them-you were accepted. It was a strong test, but honest. Now it's different. The aspiring cadet is faced by a psychologist, with a degree from a respected university and a violent facial tic, smoking a pipe that doesn't draw in a small room where flies crash into the window. He has to answer questions that the psychologist reads to him from a form that also lists the correct replies. Sometimes the psychologist also reads the replies."

"What sort of questions?"

"About hobbies. Does the young man have hobbies? The reply should be 'growing flowers' or 'jigsaw-puzzling,' but our fellow doesn't know that yet, so, in his ignorance, he states that he likes to beat people. The psychologist knows what to do. He says, 'Hee hee, I won't write that down, sir, you're joking, of course, but I'll mark down, further along, that you have a sense of humor, and that's something else that is needed in the police force today; the right answer is.. .' What did I say it was just now?"

"Composing poetry."

"Right. So the psychologist helps the fellow along and says, 'You do like making poems, don't you?' and the fellow says, 'I sure do,' and the psychologist says, "Let's hear some of your art, sir,' and the fellow recites,

Swishing swiftly through the sky for crown and church, I fly… and the psychologist says; 'Right, right, no more, sir, not in this dismal little room with the flies banging against the window and my pipe poisoning the already polluted air. My, you are a sensitive one, the police should be proud to welcome you. What sports do you prefer?'"

"Shooting dolls," Grijpstra said, "with poisoned arrows."

"Exactly, and the psychologist checks his form, shakes his head, chokes, and finally whispers, 'Balls, sir, balls!' and the fellow doesn't understand right away and shouts, "What do you mean, what do you mean?' and the psychologist gets up and begins to dribble across the room, pretending to catch and throw balls and in the end the new fellow says, after he has said just about everything, they can get really involved you know, sometimes there are fist fights or they break up the furniture, but in the end the fellow catches on and says that he plays a lot of football, badminton, rugby, pelota, jokari, volleyball, squash, tennis, and so on, and the psychologist puts a lot of v's on his form, for he's a mental cripple and can only work a few hours a day and it's time to go home. So they get to the final question and he asks if the fellow ever dreams about the Queen and the fellow gets that one and says he does."

"So he misses a lot of time at school, but he gets through the year, and they put him in uniform and send him to you," Grijpstra said.

"And what do I do with him? Shoot two holes in his body and file him? Or do I keep him in the refrigerator behind the beer?"

"No."

"I don't do that, I'm glad he came; and I'm glad you came too, adjutant, this is a bad day, and I need a friend. I take the young blighter and I send him on patrol, that's what I do, damn my rotten soul if I don't. I know that he's going to add to the mess, but never mind, out he goes. I've got to be grateful after all, the fellow could have gone on welfare, but he has those ideas about the crown and the church, and the sky, and so forth, and he does dream about the Queen. The colonial attitude, somewhat scarce these days. 'To work,' I say. 'Catch me an invalid and dump the useless son-of-a-whore in the Emperorscanal.' Karate and Ketchup, eh? Who else? I knew it straightaway. Even the marrow in their spines is bad, although they look okay in a way, the despicable little clowns. Asta, darling! See if you can find Karate and his mate. Tell them they are wanted at the counter and don't breathe a word about what has been going on here."

The girl rushed off.

"Morning, sergeant."

"Same to you, Ketchup, and yourself, Karate. Do you know who this officer is?"

Ketchup came to attention, Karate answered the question.

"Adjutant Grijpstra, sergeant. He assisted us last night when we were faced by a hostile gathering and engaged in arresting a troublesome suspect. He and Sergeant de Gier. Assistance to colleagues, sergeant. The operation was successful and the report is on your desk."

Jurriaans bowed so that he could look under Karate's cap.

"Yes, successful." The vein halving his forehead swelled and crinkled up to the hairline. "Is it true that the two of you dashed into cafe* Beelema last night? Nightsticks at the ready?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"And that you, without warning, engaged in a battle with civilians?"

"Yes, sergeant."

"And that you, in the aforementioned establishment, grabbed hold of an invalid, a man who moves along with the help of a crutch, dragged the said individual outside, and threw him into the canal?"

"Yes, sergeant."

Sergeant Jurriaans lifted part of the counter, walked through the opening, and carefully took hold of one ear of each constable. He pulled in opposing directions. The constables pulled back and squeaked. "Eee-ee-ee-ee."

"Louder."

"Eee-ee-ee-ee."

"I won't have this any longer. I won't warn you two again. The next bleeder you introduce into this station, the next suspect who has difficulty walking, the next civilian who doesn't look altogether healthy and happy-do you know what that arrest will do for you?"

"Eee-ee-ee-ee?"

"It will mean a transfer to a certain little village of fishermen that I won't mention, because the whole building may crash down on us if I do. And do you know what those God-fearing fishermen do with constables who haven't learned the meaning of the word proportion?"

"Eee?"

"How they treat those officials who have no idea of human relations?"

"Eee?"

"How they approach ignorant policemen who cannot weigh this against that?"

"Eee?"

"They grind them to dolls' shit. Ground, sieved, purified, refined dolls' shit."

Sergeant Jurriaans let go. The constables tumbled away#and came to rest against opposite walls.

"Did I hurt you?"

"Yes, sergeant!"

"Do you wish to apply for sick leave?"

"No, sergeant."

"You may go to the canteen. The brothel on the other side of the street delivered some apple pie, because we. haven't interfered with it for the last five years. Madame baked the pies with her own puffy hands. Sometimes all this becomes too much for me. She sent her two prize whores to carry the basket; the handle was decorated with a plastic rose."

"I want some pie too," Grijpstra said.

"Be my guest, and tell me more. Something jolly this time. Tell me about some nice murder."

"Yes," Grijpstra said a little later, before plunging his fork. "A murder, you said. But I can't tell you much about it yet. It's not the right sbrt of murder, you see."

"Is there a right sort of murder?"

"Oh yes."

"What's wrong with this one?"

"No corpse."

"No," Sergeant Jurriaans said when Grijpstra had finished his story and three helpings of pie. "A murder because some furniture disappeared? And some silly poodle? And a wayward wife? Don't you have anything better to do? You've got a whole weekend ahead of you and the weather happens to be fine. Go fishing. Or count tits on the beach. Another two miles of beach have been set aside for the naked. I can give you directions."

"No."

"You've been doing something wrong, or you are jumping to conclusions. Is superstar de Gier in this too? How is our hero? He caused a few laughs at the range the other night. I always thought he was supposed to be a reasonable shot."

"You fellows gave him a pistol with the sights out of whack. He's doing badly. Nervous, Jurriaans, very. Stopped smoking and lives in pure insanity. Of course he is in this with me, it's my duty to keep him busy. I'm not expecting him to be useful but he can look at Titania while I work. That's a nice girl, although your Asta is better. What's the use of beauty without invitation? Your Asta is friendlier. Do you ever go to cafe" Beelema?"

Jurriaans grinned. "Sure, and I know Titania. Did you happen to look at her sideways?"

Grijpstra ate his last crumb and scraped his plate. "Yes. That blouse must have been specially designed, and they placed the bottles on a high shelf so that she has to reach up all the time. Whoever cut the armholes in that blouse should be decorated. She does have perfect breasts, doesn't she? Never saw anything like it Sure, on photographs, but that's all tricks. They photograph them upside down or attach nylon threads to their nipples and pull. Titania doesn't need any of that De Gier thought so too. We changed places a few times so that we could check the other side. Perfect, Jurriaans, perfect."

Jurriaans pursed his lips. "Not quite. Asta looks better."

"Yes? How do you know?"

"How do you think? I told you she has a father complex and I'm the right type for her. I live a strict life, of course, the police is housed in glass; but pressure is pressure, and there are limits, Grijpstra. I could tell you stories."

"Any more apple pie?" asked Grijpstra.

"No."

"Go ahead then."

"Just one story. Some weeks ago. My wife was watching a program I didn't like and we had an argument. I'm a pleasant man, but there are songs I have heard before, they're all the same anyway. So I left the house. There are evenings you're ready for anything and you should stay home. I couldn't stay home for there were those songs. I went to cafe" Beelema, it's the best place around here. I drank a bit but there was nobody there I wanted to be with, until Asta came in, she lives close by. She wears an old T-shirt and no bra when she is out of uniform. She's beautiful, Grijpstra, I tell you she's beautiful. I said hello and she came to sit at my table. I don't know what was the matter with the girl. She was stone cold sober, but she was all over me. Under the table mostly. Beelema is busy on Saturday nights and nobody noticed much but I wanted to get away. She wouldn't let me. She said she likes older men. I got so nervous I had more to drink. She got on my lap and got my hand under her shirt. Wow, Grijpstra, wow! I couldn't stand it and I left and she came with me. She has an old car and we went for a drive. She said she had a friend somewhere in the country, a rich divorced woman who gets lonely at times. Dame by the name of Magda. Good-looking, she said. Thirtyish or so. I didn't care, she was bending over and kissing me while she drove, didn't worry much about stoplights. I stopped worrying too. That car is the biggest mess you've ever seen, outside and inside. Half the stuff she owns must be in that car. She kept pushing it aside to reach for me. We got to some town, I can't remember which one, and it was a nice evening and there was a garden party. She stopped and we went inside, didn't know anybody there but it didn't seem to matter. Next thing she's stripping on a table, with a hundred men ogling her. Heavenly body, Grijpstra, moves right, too. She didn't have much on, so it didn't take long to take it ofi. Pity in a way. I thought I had lost her, but she came back to me and we were on our way again. She driving with her, shirt off, breaking the speed limit. We were drinking in the car; if the state cops had stopped us, well, never mind."

Jurriaans, overcome by memory and emotion, pushed at a crumb.

"Yes?"

"Where was I?"

"They didn't get you."

"Who?"

"The state cops."

"No. We got to this Magda, or whatever her name was. The lady was asleep but seemed overjoyed to see us. Broke out the champagne. Served us in a tight black dress that was mostly transparent. I saw it all, even when she wasn't standing with the light behind her. She suggested a game on the Oriental rug in the living room."

"So?" Grijpstra was whispering too. He was leaning across the table. Jurriaans straightened up. "So nothing. The game started, but I don't know how it finished. I woke up eight hours later on that damned rug. Asta and Magda were having breakfast on the porch. I was sick; Asta took me to the bathroom and home afterward. I missed it. Maybe they did it together."

Grijpstra gaped, then frowned, "Yes?"

"That's it."

"No ending?"

"I just told you the ending. You don't think I would go out with that girl again, do you? My wife only talks to me since yesterday. That particular evening spent itself a week ago."

"Tell me another story with a better ending."

Jurriaans raised his voice to a normal level. "No. These are working hours. You tell me about your possible murder, and about what you did since your theory got away with you."

"De Gier and I visited Beelema's last night as part of our preliminary investigation as to the whereabouts of Rea Fortune, wife of the suspect we found in the canal."

"Ha."

"She's missing, isn't she?" Grijpstra asked.

Jurriaans shrugged. "She is not. She isn't home but what does that mean? There have been some lifestyle changes you know; married women sometimes leave their homes without asking permission."

"While removing all household goods?"

"So what? Maybe it makes it special but not very special. You still haven't got a case. What does de Gier think about your theory?"

Grijpstra gestured. "Not much, but de Gier is never impressed by subtle reasoning."

"He consents to going ahead?"

"Of course. He's a simple sergeant and I'm an adjutant. I'm telling him what to do. He wants to work, he can't sit still in his present predicament. That's why he wouldn't come in with me. He's outside somewhere, watching tobacconists' windows."

"A murder," Sergeant Jurriaans said. "All right. I'm a simple sergeant too and I can't see your view; you have an elevated position. But I would think that you need serious suspicions. I learned that when I still learned. Nobody can be designated as a suspect without serious suspicions that the person has committed a crime. You don't have any."

Grijpstra grunted. "No? If a lady disappears, suddenly and without leaving a note, while all household goods are removed-that's a nice clause, I'm keeping it for my report-then I have serious suspicions."

"No," Jurriaans said.

"No what?"

"It's not a nice clause. Household goods are pots and pans. You're talking about everything, including the tiling that keeps the door from slamming against the wall and the chromium nut that prevents the toilet-paper bar from slipping."

"You know better words?"

"All contents of the house."

"Thanks."

"See? I'm quite willing to help you. I can help you too, for I know the suspect."

"Because you've got him in your dungeon here?'* Grijpstra asked.

"No, I let him go this morning, with a sermon. But I've known him for years. I know the other actors on your stage too. I've been around for a while, adjutant, the environment is familiar to me and cafe" Beelema is where I go when the universal guilt becomes too much to carry."

"You know," Grijpstra said slowly, "when I hear that a woman has gone completely, and that nobody, except one particular person, has the slightest idea where she may have gone to, if such knowledge comes to me and I notice that the husband of the lady behaves in a most unusual manner…"

"What do you mean, unusual?"

"What? You weren't there. Frits Fortune didn't just behave strangely, he misbehaved. De Gier was trying to save his life… I mean, really… and the man was actually trying to brain my sergeant with his crutch."

"Man kills wife," said Jurriaans, "it has happened before in my practice. The other day, for instance. Man goes to his work, to some horrible daily drudge, and just before he leaves the apartment, his wife thrusts a verbal barbed dagger in his neck, liberally dipped in poison. The man wheels around, grabs the shrew by the neck, presses and shakes…"

"Dead? No!"

"As dead as a doornail. Man drops the body, telephones us and sits in a chair until my constables rush to him. Ketchup and Karate, of course, there happened to be nobody else available. They were throwing up when they came back. Ketchup had to visit the shrink a few times; he kept breaking into tears. That's odd behavior in a police station, I won't put up with it."

"Were you ever tempted to throttle your wife?" Grijpstra asked.

"Sure. Why?"

"Just thought I'd ask."

A slight tenderness moved the lines on Jurriaans's face. "She isn't too bad, and she's beautiful too, much younger than I am. She's been looking for a last fling lately, but she doesn't dare to make the break. Makes things awkward at times."

Grijpstra coughed.

"I don't help much," Jurriaans continued. "I have similar thoughts myself. As you know."

"Right," Grijpstra said. "Didn't mean to pry really. So you let Frits Fortune go. Pity, in a way. After a night in the drunks' cell, suspects interrogate easily."

"True, weakens their defenses. He didn't look in great shape, a little crumpled and his mouth was all dry and caked with filth."

"De Gier says he was blowing peculiar bubbles, like gum bubbles; they flew away."

"Because of the medication. He explained it to me. That's why I let him go. Extraordinary and extenuating circumstances. The doctor prescribed tranquilizers and they don't mix with alcohol. Probably explains his aggression, but this morning he was peaceful. He said he felt fine, wouldn't even take his crutch, didn't limp when he left."

Grijpstra's jaw hardened. "Really? There we go again, the man behaves in a suspicious manner. First he limps and the next morning he runs like a deer."

"That's correct; I watched him leave, nothing the matter with him."

"You said you knew him before. What's he like? Has he ever been in trouble?"

Jurriaans removed a cigar from Grijpstra's breast pocket and lit it. "He owns a warehouse further along the Brewerscanal where he has his business, and he used to live in one of those concrete blocks in the south. He didn't like it there and bought some horizontal property in a remodeled mansion next to the Oberon. Spent a lot of money to get it right and just when he wanted to move in, a bum broke into the place. Fortune came to see me about it, but you know that there's little we can do. The city fathers are socialists and they feel that a bum who finds an empty living place has a right to grab it. Property is theft and all that. The law states that such an act is illegal, but the authorities who employ us feel differently. A ticklish situation and I do what the chief constable tells me to do. He tells me to do nothing, and besides I'm busy, for the police are corrupt and we spend all our time taking bribes from the drug dealers. Right?"

Grijpstra sucked his cigar.

"That's what the papers say we do," Jurriaans said, "and I've learned not to argue. So I tell Mr. Fortune that regretfully there is nothing I can do to get his bum out of his brand new apartment. But because I know the guy, as I've met him at Beelema's and we've bought each other drinks, I blow into his ear that Beelema is known to be God's other son."

"So Fortune goes to see Beelema."

"He does. Beelema ponders the matter and gives him the address of a certain little pub in a certain little alley where ex-prize fighters meet. But now the fine point of it all. Do you know who the bum was?"

"No."

"Zhaver, the barman at Beelema's. You must have met him last night."

"I met him; lovely looking gent."

"Gent is an understatement. Zhaver is nobility, a count filled with the bluest of bloods, born in a castle that now houses a state committee and its girlfriends."

"You're joking."

"I'm not joking. Xavier Michel d'Ablaing de Batagglia is a count. His father went under with something and didn't come up again, and Zhaver became a bum, a city bum, an Amsterdam city bum, the worst variety. I wouldn't mention what he hasn't done, for it wouldn't be worth the trouble mentioning. But we are the police and we understand that sort of thing."

"Let me see now," Grijpstra said, "pickpocket, drug, pushing, prostitution and blackmail, breaking into cars, what else?"

"What else too. He also broke into Fortune's apartment. The turning point in his career, for Zhaver came to see me too, to complain about the ex-prize fighters who threatened to do nasty things to him."

"I can see it," Grijpstra said. "Big lumpy gents with soft voices, one on each side. 'Nice teeth you have, Zhaver,' one of them says and 'Pity they are loose,' says the other, 'we could knock them out in a jiffy, couldn't we, mate?'"

"Those very words. Zhaver drops to his knees, prays and begs for mercy, his tears are cleaning the pavement. 'Please dear bad men, leave my teeth alone.' The teeth stay where they are; Zhaver moves out of the apartment."

"And visits you," Grijpstra said.

"And I see that Zhaver hides some good in his character, but that it won't come out by itself, and that he needs help. I help him."

"Do you help people?"

"Sure, often."

"Why?"

Jurriaans stopped smiling.

"Because it is the task of the police and because I work for the police. I refer you to article 28 of the Police Law. It is the duty of the police to assist those who are in need of help. I try to adhere to the law, insofar as the authorities do not restrict me."

"Boy boy boy!" Grijpstra said.

"You want to tell me that I didn't dig that up from the law?"

"You're leaving out the middle piece. I don't recall the exact wording, but that article also tells us that we should maintain order actively. And by help the law means that we should help those who have suffered because of some crime perpetrated by another."

"So? Wasn't Zhaver the subject of a crime? Didn't those two gorillas threaten him? And where was our friend supposed to sleep that night? Wouldn't he be stealing or even robbing to obtain the wherewithal to take care of his normal needs?"

"Certainly, but you do go on," Grijpstra said. "You referred the blighter to Beelema knowing that Beelema would refer him to the gorillas. I've never been accused of perspicacity but it does seem to me that you are twisting your argumentation."

Jurriaans took a deep breath. Grijpstra jumped up. "All right, you're nice. Go on. I'm sorry I interrupted."

"And you won't interrupt me again?"

"No."

"You may sit down, adjutant. Zhaver needed help. Also because he is a nobleman. His grandfather burned native villages in the colonies and his father made a mint out of creating work for the unemployed during the depression. We have to respect good deeds performed in the past, and a son from a noble family cannot sleep in the gutter."

Grijpstra touched Jurriaans's hand. "How right you are."

"I am. And I thought of how I could save Zhaver. Again I happened to think of Beelema. I went to see him. I had to see him anyway, for a lady visited me here at the station and stated that she had been bothered by a gentleman late one evening in one of the alleys, and her description of the suspect's features and mode of dress reminded me somewhat of Beelema. Bony Beelema is a good man, of course, and God is his father, but he does tend to forget his manners when out for a stroll, and has been known to upset civilians, both male and female, by making certain propositions. The complaints are never too serious as he adheres to certain limits, so we can usually send the complainants home but…"

"Beelema, eh?"

"Beelema. And I was upset for another reason. He had given me a bad haircut. Too long. And I felt annoyed for a third reason; another lady had been complaining, bothering us, us the police, as if we don't have enough to do, about Beelema's oversexed dog's forceful behavior. All in all, I was in the proper mood to persuade Beelema…"

"The dog!" Grijpstra's hand whacked the table. "You should have seen that dog with de Gier last night. All over the poor sergeant, Hello, dog,' the sergeant says, and the animal jumps him and doesn't let go. As if de Gier was the whore of Babylon. The beast went easy at first, but he does know how to quicken his rhythm. Staring into de Gier's eyes too, slime dribbling off his jaws, disgusting, absolutely disgusting!"

Jurriaans grinned. "That's what he does. They say owners and their pets become alike after a while. True in this case, but Beelema isn't as strong as Kiran and the dog's teeth are bigger. Did you manage to liberate your sergeant or did he get the full dose? About half a liter, I would guess; that dog likes to finish what it starts."

"Is that his name? Kiran?"

"Named after a Russian prince, couldn't leave anybody alone either."

"We got him off the sergeant, but everybody had to help. Beelema kicked him out after that, for the dog kept watching the sergeant and slavering."

"So that's what I did," Jurriaans said and frowned impatiently. "Got myself worked up and saw Beelema. I knew he needed somebody to tend bar and Zhaver needed a job and a place to sleep. I'm always happy when the pieces fit. Two or three years ago that was. Zhaver still has the job and he gets on with Borry who has obtained more time to look after his hair salon. Fortune visits Beelema's cafe regularly; so does his wife, Rea. You want to know about Rea? Analysis of the victim, very important in murder cases it seems."

"Please."

Jurriaans shook his head. "Don't know much about her. I believe she used to be on the stage, long time ago, before she married. A quiet woman, arrogant, talks as if she has a mouthful of hot potatoes. Because she comes from The Hague, I believe they all talk like that out there, but they say that The Hague people are real too. I wouldn't know, I've never been there. You?"

"Once or twice. Attractive?"

"The Hague?" Jurriaans asked.

"No! Rea Fortune, an attractive lady?"

"I wouldn't say so. Not unattractive either. Wishy-washy. I preferred her poodle, a woolly rag with a silk collar, known as Babette. I'll say that for Babette, she knew how to deal with Kiran. One yap from Babette and Kiran was scratching at the door. Admirable behavior, even for an animated needlecraft kit."

"Love and friendship," Grijpstra said, "that's what we see when we want to see it. But in reality there's nothing but evil behind the rosy shades. Zhaver grateful to Beelema, what do we know? He probably hates the exploiter's guts and curses him daily from his cramped quarters above the bar."

Jurriaans nodded. "Possibly. He does have the smallest room ever, even smaller than Titania's who lives on the same floor."

"And Zhaver hates Frits Fortune because Frits threatened him through the gorillas," Grijpstra said. "And Zhaver has an affair with Rea Fortune, so has Beelema. Fortune and Titania carry on too."

"Who carries on now? Although you're right that Zhaver isn't gay, he only looks gay. I've given you facts, the rest you can imagine and try to prove. Jealousy is a fact of life, but it isn't always everywhere. I wouldn't follow you in any of your accusations. Fortune, for one, is a fine upstanding specimen. All he ever does is work and when he drinks he only has one or two. Last night was an exception. Personally, I like them all, except Rea. She can stay away for all I care and I won't miss Babette either."

Grijpstra got up. "People are no good, Jurriaans. I don't have to stress the point. If you haven't found out by now, you should leave the police. I suspect Fortune of having murdered his wife. Maybe he should have, but that's the court's business. I plan to pursue the man. If only I knew what he did with the corpse. So far, I move in empty space. I don't like that much. All that emptiness, it's eerie. Bah!" He brought out his wallet.

"On the house," Jurriaans said. "Come again. Don't forget to say goodbye to Asta when you leave."

De Gier waited in the street; he was talking to a small black boy. The boy smoked a cigarette.

"I knew it," the boy said, "but I forgot for a moment. Thank you." He dropped his cigarette stub and walked away.

Grijpstra touched de Gier's shoulder. "Weren't preaching, were you? What did that boy know? That smoking is bad for the health?"

"Wrong conclusion, adjutant. I just managed to pull that boy from under an oncoming truck and probably saved his life. Whereupon I said, 'Don't you know that you should look before you cross?' He answered politely. A nice little boy, even if he happens to be pitch black."

"You discriminate," Grijpstra said. "So did your colleague inside, but he was referring to people from The Hague."

"It's impossible to discriminate against people from The Hague," de Gier said when they walked to the car. "Are we going anywhere?"

"To Headquarters. I telephoned the commissaris. He's making a special trip to his office to hear us. He's got the weekend off."

"I don't want to go. The two of you will be smoking."

"You could smoke too."

"I can't, you know I can't." There was agony in the sergeant's voice and Grijpstra took pity.

"So why did you stop, Rinus?"

"For you."

"Hondecoeter."

"What?"

"Hondecoeter," Grijpstra said. "If you answer out of context, I can do the same. I say Hondecoeter and you can find out what I mean."

De Gier drove on silently. He parked in the courtyard of the gray forbidding police building.

When Grijpstra wanted to enter the elevator, de Gier restrained him.

"Now what?"

"I know what you mean by Hondecoeter," de Gier said. "Melchior Hondecoeter was a not-too-well-known painter who liked to portray birds. You took me to see his pictures once, in the municipal museum. They all looked as if they had been painted in the evening. You thought of him last night, when you saw the exotic geese in the canal. I thought of him too. And you mentioned his name because you wanted to draw my attention to the essential beauty of…"

"Restrain yourself, sergeant."

"Never mind, don't withdraw at the crucial point. I know exactly what you meant, Grijpstra. You wanted to share your perception with me. Very sweet of you. Really, I'm serious. You're right too, we live in a wonderful world, but we busy ourselves and don't notice."

"I didn't mean anything of the kind."

"Subconsciously," de Gier said. "The true feeling that only comes out in some children and a few artists. I appreciate your true intentions."

"A brothel," Grijpstra said.

"Hey?"

"Apple pie, very tasty. But I would like to know who gets sent to the brothel when there is trouble. There's always trouble in brothels. If he sends Karate and Ketchup, they'll tear the joint apart and he won't get apple pie that way. But he does. So…"

De Gier gaped.

"So he sends himself," Grijpstra said triumphantly.

De Gier touched the breast pocket of bis shirt. "I forgot to buy cigarettes. I always have cigarettes. Now why did I forget?"

"Sergeant Jurriaans is no good either," Grijpstra said.