The Mind-Murders

8

"We visited the address officially," Karate said, "following orders as we always do. It was about a year ago; I can check the exact date if you like. We were sent by Headquarters, because of a fight, of sorts. It could have been anything, an exchange of words or missiles, but we didn't know what to make of it because of the address, which is good. Ketchup thought there might be a sex club, there are some around here. We'd been to one before; that was because of a fight too. We found naked ladies up to their ankles in broken glassware. So were some of the clients, and one had lost his eye. I found it for him and he lost it again. Amusing in a way, for the time being, that is. Later it turns to work when you have to write it down. We found a variety at that club, and all of it was bad. There was gambling, and liquor without a license, a bit of junk, some weapons, and a minor. AH of it to be reported on, but that would be later, as I said. There was a gentleman there who got away without his clothes in an Alfa Romeo. Nervous he was and he drove into the canal; not at once, for the car stuck on the railing. We watched it and thought maybe it wouldn't go all the way, but it did in the end, and the fire brigade got it out. Very nice."

"The damage," Ketchup said. "Unbelievable indeed. Another client in a Porsche, in a bit of a hurry too and didn't look where he was going. Hit a street full of cars on both sides and all the owners pouring out of their houses. You shouldn't laugh and I didn't. It cracked my jaw, it hurt for days. Endless damage!'*

"Right," Grijpstra said. "Well, we'll mosey along.'*

"Wait, adjutant, please, don't interrupt, Ketchup. As I said, we stood on the steps of thirty-three and the old gent opens up and acts all surprised and says, 'Good evening, constable, anything wrong or are you coming to visit the servant?' and I say, 'No sir, we came to ask you what is wrong because we hear there is a fight,' and he says, 'No, you must have been given the wrong number, there are some Negroes further along who play the trumpet,' and he wants to close the door, but his wife comes and holds it and tells us that she was expecting us and to please come in."

"So it gets difficult," Ketchup said. "She is pulling and he is pushing. There was a fight but they don't manhandle each other, they manhandle us. What to do? How to write it down? Do conflicting elements constitute a prosecutable misdemeanor or will it be the easy way out again? Are the officers harassed?"

"Just a moment, Ketchup. As I was saying, adjutant, the lady had phoned but it took half an hour before we found out what for. They served us coffee and a spot of cognac, they threw in cigars, although he said she shouldn't. We are busy, he said, and mentioned the trumpeting Negroes again. Then, in the end, she told us what it was. Would we arrest her husband and take him with us, for she was complaining about being threatened with appreciable physical injury. By him."

"Right," Ketchup said, "and that's unlawful. They were married, but even so. Rape is okay but they didn't do that so much anymore. They got to threatening, he threatening her. We were supposed to take action. I spent a while in the bathroom and checked the situation in my notes; I carry notes for special cases. It was right there, clear enough."

"A moment, Ketchup. See what happened, adjutant? He had threatened her and he had done it every night for years. The judge would like that, for it makes it worse. He'd ask for coffee and she wouldn't want to make it and he'd say, 'Right now, dear, away with you, to the kitchen, or I'll knock you down. I'll wring your neck. I'll batter you to death. Get up, dear, I'll count to three.' And he was serious, she said, he'd pull faces, and count and push himself out of his chair and she'd have to rush to the kitchen or he would do all that. But she wouldn't let him do that anymore because of equal rights, and so she phoned Headquarters and here we were."

"What?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes, adjutant. Thought you might want to know. Not quite what one would expect, although she was right in a way. Knew the correct terms too. If you don't do it, you aren't in the legal exercise of your service, she said. I wonder where she found the term, maybe she was hiding in the classroom when I went to police school. And that's what we would be, not in the legal exercise of our service, if we ignored her complaint."

"Go on, constable," de Gier said.

"We arranged matters in the end, sergeant. There was no way we could have arrested old Mr. Fortune. I don't believe you know our Sergeant Jurriaans. If we had brought that old bird in, he would have pulled our ears and there'd be ee-ee again. We couldn't refuse either, for she was out for his blood and would have written to Headquarters. The cognac saved us, and another two hours of patient listening. Disgraceful in a way, and Karate got drunk."

"And yourself?"

"Just a little," Ketchup said. "I drove him home. Karate was tired and he couldn't remember where he lived."

De Gier looked at Grijpstra.

"Would you care to go?"

Karate and Ketchup saluted. Grijpstra watched the patrol car drive off. He was whispering and de Gier leaned close to catch the words.

"Good luck comes to those who keep on trying," Grijpstra whispered. "A minor setback. Now I'll find the corpse." The whisper was fierce and de Gier stepped back. "I'll find that corpse, sergeant," Grijpstra shouted, "even if I have to lift the last brick in the last alley!"

De Gier led him away.

"That Sergeant Jurriaans," de Gier said, "maybe you're right. I don't think he's much good. He tortures his subordinates and rapes them when they're female. Didn't you tell me that he made that lovely young cop strip on a garden table and perform on a carpet with another lady?"

"You got that wrong."

"Tell me again then."

"It was the girl, Asta, who caused the trouble, not Sergeant Jurriaans who is a mature man who happened to be off balance that evening, because of his wife who is restless and who watches TV."

"Asta," de Gier said softly.

"Stay away, the girl is horse medicine. You might start smoking again and die peacefully of cancer at a ripe age. That would be better."

"Asta."

"You're not old enough for her," Grijpstra shouted. "She likes older men. Like Sergeant Jurriaans. Like me."

"Yes," de Gier said softly. "I'm sure you're right, adjutant. Maybe I shouldn't interfere."