The Mind-Murders

7

Grijpstra danced. Two little steps ahead, a little step to the right, then to the left, to the rear, and repeat. He sang sidewards and backwards.

"Weedeeho. Weedeeha."

"Don't do that," de Gier said, "or do you want me to dance too? I will if you insist, although I see nothing but misery. What is the matter with you?"

"Good luck comes to those who keep on trying," Grijpstra said, performing a fresh set of steps with care, "and whoever insists will win in the end. I've been trying for a long time. So here it comes. A chance encounter, you will say, providing incidental information. In a way you are right, but I see more. Bull's-eye I see, thanking fate meanwhile, and you too. If you hadn't stopped last night… I don't want to think about what would have happened then. But you stopped the car, dear friend, and activated yourself and handed me the murderer, solemnly in your inimitable way. You raised him from the water for me to receive and appreciate your gift, decorated with weeds. "There you are,' you said, and 'thank you kindly/ I replied. And you made your gesture so naturally."

"Are you done?"

"Weedeeha. Weedeeha."

A patrol car rode by with a tall male constable at the wheel and a young female, impeccably uniformed, most of her long dark blond hair tucked away under a small round cap, in the observer's seat. She observed Grijpstra's dance and waved. De Gier waved back.

"Nice girl," de Gier said, "but very young for a constable. I think she knows you."

Grijpstra no longer sang and lowered his foot. He stood.

"Her name is Asta. She's not so nice. She seduces older men. Men like you, sergeant. From forty years old upward. She would even seduce me. Sergeant Jurriaans told me about her. He managed to escape her clutches, but she wounded him, I think."

"Ah."

"Ah what?"

"Interesting," de Gier said.

Grijpstra's heavy forefinger pressed against the sergeant's chest.

"For you perhaps, I will introduce you. If you won't smoke, you can still have Asta. She would be a minimal risk to you, and you would keep her away from others."

De Gier's large brown eyes dreamed away.

"Sparkly eyes," he whispered, "dominating an intellectual face, alive with sensual unfulfilled longing, A good mouth with the fullness of the lower lip restricted in the tight curve of the upper edge." He shrugged. "Too young."

Grijpstra's finger dropped away.

"Let me tell you what Jurriaans had to say about her."

De Gier listened, then nodded.

"Yes, I see. Drunken driving, indecent exposure, adultery, lesbian cavorting. Not all of it is punishable, but he should watch it all the same, arid he shouldn't tell you. The relationship still continues?"

"No," Grijpstra said. "She's all yours." The adjutant's voice trailed away. His feet shuffled.

"Please," de Gier said. "Not again." He pointed at a display window. "Look, adjutant, final sale. Just the store for you, elegant and expensive. See that cap? For ten guilders? A gift. But maybe your head is too fat, you think your head is too fat for that classy cap?"

Grijpstra danced into the store. He tried the cap. The fit was a little tight. He left a ten-guilder note near the register and danced out of the store.

"Weedeeho. Weedeeha."

"Please, Grijpstra, that'll be enough. Let's sit on that nice tree over there. You can't dance on it, for you'll fall into the canal. Let's go look at the geese. A moment of peace and quiet, Grijpstra."

De Gier guided the adjutant to the fallen tree. Grijpstra balanced carefully on the fairly wide trunk. De Gier followed. They sat down.

"What happened is clear," Grijpstra said.

"What happened?"

"You described it yourself when we visited the suspect. Frits and Rea are sitting down together, man and wife. Togetherness in the living room, without harmony. A conflict situation about to change into turmoil. Rea Fortune is a woman of fantasy. She pictures herself in a chauffeured Mercedes automatic, silver sheen finish."

De Gier looked up. "The driver is German."

"If you like."

"Fat? Bald? Rolls of bacon for a neck?"

"Whatever your choice, a chauffeur, may I continue?"

"Yes."

"Rea Fortune, she wants to go out. She wants to eat snails in a wine sauce, brought by waiters with Byzantine profiles. A Gypsy plays the violin, right into her ear. High notes, glassy, harp in the background. Fortune said so himself. A woman of fantasy, unfulfilled."

"He gave no details."

"I give you details so that you can see how it happened. Unfulfilled fantasy leads to frustration, frustration leads to tension, tension translates itself into deeds. Misdeeds. She attacks the suspect, sucks the blood from under his fingernails, chips at the last shred of his discipline. I understand both sides. I'll write some of this into my report. A horrifying circle; woman irritates man, man hides in his habits, he works even harder, reads even more, talks even less, irritates her even more. They'll never go on holidays, they'll never have any fun. She becomes more aggressive. Tension increases, becomes unbearable. The woman shrieks her insults. The poodle yaps. The man's nerves snap. Bam! Sometime earlier this week. The poodle escapes into the street, while Fortune gets rid of the household goods, beg pardon, the contents of the house, in a hired van, with the help of a couple of illegal migrants, Pakistanis maybe, Turks maybe. The poodle returns. Fortune is pleased; he takes the animal into the house, tries to enjoy its company, but the dog is whining, it looks for Rea. Again, bam! Babette gets chucked onto the roof and becomes dinner for the birds. Bear Brom got buried. Habitual behavioral patterns repeat themselves. But where did Rea go? Oh nor!"

Grijpstra groaned. He looked about him but didn't seem to„ recognize the sergeant or the familiar surroundings.

"Now what?"

"But of course I know where she went. How stupid of me. Of you too. We could have known it all along. Amsterdam is a city of holes, fenced-in holes. They're always tearing at the street bricks, taking them out, stacking them, digging, fencing, taking the fences down, filling the holes. Aren't they?"

"He buried her in the street?"

"Where else? He didn't have a car and he couldn't give her to the Pakistanis or the Turks. Had to keep her in the house. He looked out of the window and saw the street workers had been at it again. Holes everywhere. He picked up the corpse, nipped outside, buried her, removed the fence. You think the street workers remember where their holes were? Never. They just come in the morning and dig and cover up, whatever comes first. But I've got to get that corpse, Rinus, no corpse, no case. They'll have to tear it all up again."

"You do carry on."

"Hmm?"

"You chatter and prattle. If the commissaris could hear you, he'd water your neck with his little plastic can."

"The commissaris would listen politely," Grijpstra said. "Politely and approvingly."

"Would he now? Think of the base your construction rests on. You're building a tottering tower on the unconfirmed and hearsay gossip that Frits Fortune, in the remote past, as a toddler, whopped a teddy bear. He is, you state, a bear-whopper. I was a smoker. I no longer am. If somebody asks me, 'Do you smoke?' I say, 'No, I do not,' and I speak the truth. If somebody asks Fortune if he is in the habit of whopping bears, he will reply, 'No, I do not whop bears,' and that can be the truth too. It doesn't have to be true, but it could be true."

"You carry on," Grijpstra said. "You're suffering withdrawal effects. You're a bit out of your head. Not that it matters. I will do this job alone. Stay with me so you'll be safe. I'll provide distraction by keeping you busy."

"There's Kiran."

The dog stood on the quayside and chewed on a cap.

"Haha," Grijpstra said, "he got hold of somebody's cap. Probably took it from one of the fellows in the sandwich shop. Look at that, he's tearing off the rim."

"That's your cap."

Grijpstra felt his head.

"Where's my cap?"

"Probably fell off when you danced onto the tree. Kiran found it He's got strong teeth, hasn't he?"

"Miserable hound! Hellish mongrel! Is nothing holy in the city of Sodom? Get away, Rinus, Tve got to get by you."

De Gier got up. He tried to turn around Grijpstra's bulk. Grijpstra held on to him.

"What goes on there?" two harsh voices inquired. "Get off that tree, you two."

"Sorry, adjutant," Karate said. "Ketchup thought you were fighting. I thought you were fighting too. You weren't fighting, were you?"

"No. There goes Kiran, Rinus. Escaping into Cafe" Beelema. I'm going there too, to ask for immediate compensation. Coming with me?"

"Adjutant," asked Karate, "are we correct in assuming that you left number 33, Emperorscanal, just now?"

"You are," Grijpstra said.

"Were you visiting Mr. and Mrs. Fortune?"

"I was."

"And the man who happened to fall into the canal last night, by accident so to speak, wasn't his name Fortune too?"

"It was."

"Curious," Karate said. "It's a small world. A while ago, maybe a year ago, Ketchup and I also visited the Fortunes."

"Pleasant people," Grijpstra said, "and reliable too. They supplied me with welcome information. And now I will go to Cafe Beelema. I want you to arrest that dog. That dog robbed me of my cap and subsequently destroyed it."

"Did you say reliable, adjutant? Did you say that Mr. and Mrs. Fortune supplied you with reliable information?"

"Yes."

"That couple is not reliable, adjutant. That couple is mad."

"Why do you think so, constable?" de Gier asked. "Please explain your reasoning to the adjutant. Don't bother to explain it to me because Fm mad too. But the adjutant's mind is in perfect order and he has to know everything. Especially as he is now working on his own."