The Rattle-Rat

\\\\\ 9 /////

"I won't have it," Mrs. Cardozo said. "You're not to clean your pistol on my kitchen table. The oil gets into the wood. That's expensive oak, I'll have you know, I polish the top daily."

"Please, Mother," Cardozo said. "Don't bother me now. You've no idea how tricky… look, see what you made me do? You know what I'm doing? I make the light reflect from my thumbnail, like this, and then I look through the barrel. I'm seeing spirals now, gleaming in blue steel. I can see that when the barrel is clean. When it isn't, I see some nasty grit."

"It'll go off. Stop that, Simon. There shouldn't be instruments of murder in the house."

"I've got it out," Cardozo said. "A detached barrel can't possibly fire. You're living in unreasonable fear. Like with the lamp the other day. I had pulled the cord out of the wall and you wouldn't let me fix it."

"Because there might still have been electricity in that lamp."

"Oh, Mother."

"And who lives under stress here?" Mrs. Cardozo said. "Do you ever hear me complain? Would you ever hear me complain if you stopped complaining yourself for a minute? Your whining wears me down. Chuck your job if you don't like it. You can help your Uncle Ezra in the market, he earns more in a day than you do in a month. Uncle Ezra has no kids, you can take over his stall when he retires to Mallorca. He wants you to have his business, you only have to learn for a year. Ezra said that to me the other day. 'Manya,' he said, 'your Simon isn't serious yet. He can pick up some seriousness from me, why don't you tell that to your Simon?'"

"Oh, Mother."

"And then maybe you can learn how to dress," Mrs. Cardozo said. "And have a haircut for a change. Do you have to show yourself as a ragamuffin?"

Cardozo reassembled his pistol and slipped it into its holster. He buttoned up his rumpled jacket. "Mother, I fight evil. I don't like the way Uncle Ezra evades taxes."

"Your Uncle Ezra is a serious man."

"He's a silly man," Cardozo said. "He refuses to develop. He's a capitalist during the day and a hedonist in his free time. Greed and luxury will get him nowhere."

"Oh, Simon."

"Egocentric," Cardozo said. "/ work for others. So that others may have a chance to develop and grow too. It isn't easy and I may occasionally be heard to complain. That's a weak trait in my character, and I'm sorry."

Cardozo dialed the telephone. "Not outside the city," Mrs. Cardozo said. "Your father doesn't like that. The bill is too high already."

"Sergeant?" Cardozo said. "It's me."

"You were dialing too long," Mrs. Cardozo said. "You're outside the city. Keep it short, Simon, or your father will be at me again."

"Do you have Douwe Scherjoen's photo?" Cardozo asked.

"Ask Grijpstra," de Gier said. "The commissaris went off with Grijpstra, but something must have gone wrong. They're presently being saved by the State Police, between Tzum and Tzummarum."

"Is that close to Dingjum?"

"It's in Friesland," de Gier said. "Fm not Frisian. I'm not in on this. I cook pea soup from a can and take care of a rat-and of a Frisian lady who'll be fetching me in a moment."

"I've got to have that photo," Cardozo said, "if I am to do my work. Shall I come and get it myself?"

"How?" de Gier asked. "Grijpstra has the car. The commissaris has lost his car, in a well between gardens. You can't declare expenses because you'd be moving outside your area."

"A train ticket will cost some money," Cardozo said.

"You're an idealist, aren't you?"

"Aren't you one too?"

"A nihilist," de Gier said. "Nihilists don't give a shit about anything-at that depth one has to be advanced. You aren't anywhere near there yet. Look here, why don't you cycle to Friesland tomorrow? I've just watched the news, the weather should be fine. It's only forty miles or so. Make it a holiday, watch the birds from the dike. Ever seen a cormorant land? They splash down and flop up. A great sight."

"You're really not in on this?" Cardozo asked.

"No," de Gier said. He replaced the phone. The sergeant wandered past the flowery wallpaper, the imitation Gothic dining room table, the copy of a Louis XVI recliner, and then past a clothes chest modeled on an antique Eastern Dutch design. The novel by the Frisian woman author was on the table. On a shelf, Chinese knickknacks had been arranged: porcelain rice bowls, plastic soup spoons, stacked together. On another shelf, a foot-long model of a Chinese junk sailed toward a smiling fat god, with happily grinning toddlers climbing up his belly and shoulders. De Gier remembered the calendar in the neatly painted bathroom, with a dozen color photographs of places to see in Singapore.

A holiday in Singapore? Why not? An elderly adjutant of the Leeuwarden Municipal Police who, once in his life, takes his wife to the other side of the earth. Probably a special offer by the local travel agency, there and back for a couple of thousand, hotel included. By now the mortgage would be paid, the children married. "Dear, we'll be off!"

"Where to?" Mrs. Oppenhuyzen asks, not too sure whether she should be pleased.

The adjutant's eyes twinkle. 'To Singapore!"

She would rather have spent another holiday on one of the islands just off the Frisian coast, but if he really wants to surprise her, okay. She smiles. "Great!"

A subject that can be discussed on many an occasion, during birthday parties or while visiting neighbors. "You went to the Italian coast? That's nice. Yes, we were out of the country too. Where? Oh, we hopped over to Singapore." Detailed descriptions of assorted adventures. "You know, when we were in Singapore last month…"

"When I was in Friesland…" De Gier picked up the novel and flopped down on the couch. Then he was up again to look for the dictionary. She brushed her tosksl Is that what they call teeth? And mt amp;e would be 'mouth.' What a primitive way to describe a woman's intimate bathroom occupation. He tried to lose the image of a ghoulish shape poking between her fangs. It would be better to read on, and try to fit what he would later understand into the material he was now digesting. He plodded on, guessing, gleaning meaning from words that looked like Dutch or English or German, and gradually obtained glimpses of the heroine's insights and beliefs, her hatred of men and her attraction to those very same men; some of them seemed handsome to her, and she minded them less than others, but she still abhorred their presence until one of them, a laborer working with a dragline, picked her up, first with his machine, by accident, then in his arms on purpose. Close to his chest, she gave in, but he didn't notice her orgasm, he was only carrying her to a safe place.

Tragic, de Gier thought, and read on, slipping more easily into the next tale. Martha was married now, for some twenty years, to the same fathead, every new day another gray space. Fathead wanted nothing of her, right through the twenty years. Martha could do anything she liked, there was plenty of money, as long as Fathead didn't have to join in whatever activity she chose for herself. So now what does she do? She goes to Belgium, where firearms can be bought fairly easily, comes back with a pistol, blows a hole in Fathead, and devours him slowly.

De Gier frowned. He remembered struggling with the same tale earlier that day, when the words were still unclear. Now he grasped all the horror without having to grope for dubious meaning. The lady ate her murdered spouse because she didn't know what to do with the one hundred and seventyfive pounds he had left. Frisian women are practical; for ages they have lived off the land. They haven't forgotten tricks picked up in the past. Martha had bought just the right size freezer to fit Fathead's bulk. And she boiled him in her pressure cooker, in cuts of Twae pun-two pounds, of course-enough to serve breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Fathead weighed heavy in her stomach. The last sentence of the tale.

De Gier niminated. Mem Scherjoen? Gyske Sudema? Two intimate friends, two Frisian ladies, tough, practical, and frustrated. On the phone, Grupstra had been explaining the suspects' presence just now, not so much as a detective informing his colleague of developments in his quest, but rather in his role of complaining friend-how everything, once again, had turned for the worst and how he could in no way be blamed for any mishaps. First, he'd lost his way; second, he'd got stuck in marital problems; third, he'd slipped off a dike. Grupstra, through no fault of his own, caught in a web spun by fateful circumstances. Does nothing ever go right?

Think a little, de Gier thought, catch the hidden thread. And make use of helpful hints supplied by literature manufactured in this very country, showing images in a foreign language that, with a little trouble can be grasped. Literature exaggerates. Mem never ate Douwe. Reality exaggerates too, but with less use of symbolism.

De Gier, barely awake on the couch, surrendered to hellish scenes. He saw local witches, degenerated from abuse and neglect, feeding ferocious flames of revenge emerging from the darkness of each other's souls. Their fury takes on different forms: one changes her home into a trap and lures a hapless male into her cupboard, where she humiliates her prey on a shelf; the other ventures out into the damnation of die Amsterdam night, and Douwe crumbles and floats away in a burning dory.

Both scenes were equally terrifying. De Gier preferred to wake up, to drag his body off the soft couch to a hard chair at the table, where he returned to the study of literature. What conclusions could the female author offer? A sentence stuck out. The male can never be a true source of pleasure.

Well now, that would hardly be a good reason to dust off an antique German pistol left over from the war. Just because there was no pleasure in the beast? He read on. A dialogue emerged between two women-between Mem and Gyske?

Gyske: 'Tell me, why did you get married?"

Mem: "It was just a vague hopeful feeling."

Vague. Too vague. So Mem had married because she thought there was some slight hope in Douwe's company. Hope for the better, of course. And the opposite came up. Even the Amsterdam dentist had seen the devil in Douwe. How devilish had the poor bugger been? Had Douwe, evilly and by premeditation, sucked Mem of her strength? Had he bedeviled her daily? Had she slowly begun to believe in a possible revolt? Had she used the courage that had served her so well in her struggle with the German army? Was her motivation clear now? Had opportunity been available? Mem knew Amsterdam, where she often stayed with her sister.

How would Grijpstra plan his attack? By himself, he wouldn't have a chance, of course, but the commissaris was sly, subtle, a more dangerous sleuth than even the sergeant himself. Once the commissaris got hold of this case…

De Gier turned pages, eager to discover another phrase that might fill a gap. What else was the literary woman think- ing? In no way will I ever be satisfied… here I am, left to my own resources… How boring… I could climb the walls… alone…

Clear enough. Mem, unsatisfied, hollow in her soul, locked in a solitude created by her willful and often absent husband, was ready to jump through her restraining walls. Egged on by the equally unhappy Gyske to find a solution, no matter how painful. But was Mem wrong?

Where did the finger of justice point? de Gier thought theoretically, for he himself couldn't care less. If order had been disturbed, it wasn't his order. He was quite content to heat pea soup from cans and bathe a rat.

He strolled through the room, circled the Louis XVI chair, and counted a row of roses on the wallpaper.

Was order disturbed? Shouldn't someone like Douwe be deftly removed? Hadn't Mem been kind enough to do society a favor? The commissaris, once on her trail, would corner her and interrogate the woman politely. Then what? Lead her on to an institute for the elderly insane? Mem wasn't quite that old.

De Gier picked up a scrap of paper left by Grypstra on the other side of the table. He read the names of the sheep exporters who had been stripped of their profits by Douwe. He read the names of the men and their towns:

Pry Wydema, Mummerwoods

Tyark Tamminga, Blya

Yelte Pryk, Acklum

Weird names-he wondered if there was a proper pronunciation. So far the names meant little. What if the unused Mauser had been used after all, and later cleaned and reloaded, slipped back into the door pocket of Douwe's Citroen? Too much effort in too little time? The shot might have attracted attention. The caliber was wrong too. A ninemillimeter bullet might have smashed Douwe's skull. Could Mem, like the freedom fighter in the book, have risked a trip to Belgium to buy a more suitable weapon that would make less noise?

He could leave it at that for now. Since when had minding someone else's job been profitable to him?

The doorbell rang. The sergeant, deep in thought, opened the door. "Yes? Good evening, miss."

"Hi," Miss said brightly.

"Hi," de Gier said. He checked his watch. Eleven, a little late for a visit. "Miss," the sergeant said, "Adjutant and Mrs. Oppenhuyzen are on holiday in their summer house in Engwierum, at the coast I believe. I'm looking after the house in their absence. De Gier is my name."

"Hi."

De Gier scratched his buttocks, first the left, then the right. "You don't understand? You speak only Frisian?" He paused. "I can read some now, but I don't speak it yet. Can you read Dutch? Shall I write it down for you? Wait, I'll speak slowly. Listen, miss. The adjutant, right? Adjutant Oppenhuyzen? With his, uh, wyfe? Gone away?" He waved widely.

"It's me," the young woman said. "Hylkje. Hylkje Hilarius? Corporal? Motorcycle brigade? Now dressed in civilian clothes? Come to fetch you for a beer? You're still following so far?"

"Right," de Gier said gratefully. "Skinned. Stripped out of your leather. You're even more attractive than I had dared hope. How delightful life can be if, for once, disappointment is taken away for a moment. Do come in."

"Five minutes," Hylkje said. She curled up in the Louis XVI chair, her long denim-clad legs twined loosely, her breasts tightly outlined in a velvet T-shirt, her perfect teeth displayed in a warm smile between stiff blond ponytails, innocently standing away from her cheekbones daubed with rouge, her sparkling blue eyes shadowed cleverly to maximum provocative effect.

"Where is that rat?" Hylkje asked.

De Gier ran upstairs and came back with Eddy. "You can hold on to him. I'll fetch his cheese."

Hylkje withdrew into the embrace of the chair, but Eddy stood against her shirt, his pointed pink nose trembling between her breasts.

"Bah," Hylkje squeaked.

"Harmless little chap," de Gier said. "Smells nice too. Just washed him with lemon-scented dishwash detergent. Here, Eddy, have some cheese."

Hylkje held the morsel between her fingertips. Eddy snatched at it with darting little paws. His yellow teeth sank into the cheese.

"Now who would ever keep a rat?" Hylkje asked. "I've got a rabbit. Durk looks better, and feels nice and flurry. Makes me itch a little at times, but otherwise he's the sweetest thing."

"I've got a cat," de Grier said.

Hylkje grabbed hold of Eddy and gave him back. De Gier took the rat upstairs. He came back in two bounds. Hylkje observed the sergeant's movements with approval. "You wanted to upset me, right? Thought I would scream the ceiling down? Frighten the little woman? Missed out again?"

"Men are weaker," de Gier said. "I've known it for some time. I keep trying, but women always floor me. Doesn't take them long either. Now that I know it doesn't make me feel so bad."

"What else do you have except a cat? A wyf? Bern"

"Don't know all the words yet," de Gier said. "Haven't met any bern yet in the local literature. Some Frisian animal that hasn't yet crossed the dike?"

"Frisian children."

"Never had any," de Gier said, "of any source. I would really rather have nothing at all, but that's hard to get. There are the necessities. Got to live somewhere, and once you have an apartment, there's furniture that flies in, and plants on the balcony, and the cat sneaking about. There are always the complications. I've got neighbors, too, to look after the cat when I'm away."

"You never have visitors?"

"Grijpstra drops in. Not too often. Too bulky. The apartment is small."

"The adjutant is your friend?" Hylkje stared at the sergeant's chest.

"Yes." De Gier analyzed Hylkje's steady gaze. "Oh, you mean it that way? No, no, are you crazy?"

Hylkje jumped off the low seat and walked around de Gier. "You sure, now? I hate to start off wrong. Last week I was shopping in the Gardens here, and there was this man, as handsome as you are, dressed well too, the very same type, a most attractive male. I smiled a bit and he didn't even see me, and then there were suddenly two of them. The other had been looking at a window display."

"There's only one of me."

"Not an uncommon variety," Hylkje said. "They pop up on the screen and on magazine covers. Wide shoulders and fall mustaches. Strong bones covered with firm flesh."

"I'm a normal male," de Gier said, "at your service."

"It'd be easier if you were married," Hylkje said. "You came up the dike, you're around for a few days, and then you're gone again, forever. No problems, if you can see what I mean. Durk and I have a good life, but a change… at times… variety… a dream…"

"Aren't you going a little far?" de Gier asked. "I'm sorry I was silly enough to try and frighten you with Eddy. You've evened things out now, don't overdo it. I'm normal. I adore and cherish women."

"Unattached males are often hard to handle," Hylkje said. "They make for heavy going. If they're married, there's something to pull them back and I'll be rid of them again."

"Who's being hard to handle here?" de Gier asked. "Did I throw myself at you? I thought we were going out for a beer?"

"Asshole," Hylkje said, smiling politely.

De Gier grinned. He gave her his arm. They walked to the door together. He pulled his arm back and opened the door.

"Are you usually so well mannered?" Hylkje asked. "Or is this an act for the occasion?"

"No," de Gier said. "I was taught to be civil, by my mother. If I wasn't, I was hit. Conditioned behavior. Pavlov's dog. Ring the bell and the animal slavers."

"Is your mother still alive?"

"I take flowers to her grave," de Gier said, "every other Sunday. We hated each other, when we didn't share some love. I have her engagement photo above my bed. My father is in it too. He wears a bowler hat."

Hylkje's car was a Deux Chevaux, high on its wheels and colored bright orange. She maneuvered it cleverly through winding alleys. A passing church tower pointed the hands of its clock straight up. "Isn't it getting late?" de Gier asked. "Surely provincial pubs close early?"

"Our beer house goes on until one, and later, for the likes of us."

"The police?"

"And the other powers," Hylkje said, "as you will see."

"And the ordinary folks? Common pleasure is cut off by midnight?"

Hylkje pointed at a square house straddling two canals. "A sex club, open until four. Soft drugs are sold downstairs, and hard drugs in the loft."

"With police protection?"

"The Municipal Police ignore the house somewhat. It's known as 'channeling the tension.' When they close everything down, they don't know where it goes. It's also a hangout for colonial types and citizens from the province next door. The foreign element, their private niche."

The little car reached a square surrounded by impressive buildings. Hylkje defined their plastered gables. "Provincial Government, the mayor's office, the Queen's representation. All the powers that lead us, and the pub in between, for when the pressure depresses."

De Gier stopped to look at the stately stone shapes. High windows stared back, arrogantly sedate. Flowing walls ended in slowly rising gable tops holding up a golden lion stepping out of a sky-blue plaster frame. Downstairs, wide pavements led, step by slow step, to very large doors painted in lush greens offset by copper ornaments. From the square rose huge trees with overhanging branches, rustling their loads of leaves.

"Nice and quiet," de Gier asked.*The law lives here?"

"We don't care for being told what to do," Hylkje said. "We have better ideas ourselves; the law knows that and hardly interferes. The result is peace, not the clamor you're used to in the nether parts."

"Do you ever visit the other end of the dike?"

"I've been there. I was a cop in Amsterdam for a year. Some police like to swagger down there, and it invites reaction. Some motorcyclists rode me down one night. Hurt my leg, couldn't wear a dress for years. Scar tissue-the cylinder of my own bike burned my shin. They pushed me over from the side and were off again."

"Revenge burns in your gentle soul?"

"A little less every day. A beer, Sergeant?"

The pub spread out under low, heavy beams. Hylkje was greeted by an aged bartender, hopping about spryly behind the weathered shelves and counters in the back. The glasses were foaming already, waiting to be beheaded by the wooden skimmer in the old man's bony hand.

"Working for the same boss?" the bartender asked, pointing his scraggly beard and gleaming sharp nose at de Gier.

"He's ours," Hylkje said. "But from down below. Maybe you can trust him, Doris."

"Rinus," de Gier said. "All yours, forever after."

"Don't stay long," Doris cackled. "Keep the bad elements down on your end. We've got it good here, and it may still last for a while." The wrinkles around his eyes folded in and out. The dark beady eyes glinted. "Meanwhile, enjoy what we can offer. Have her and strong beer."

"He's here to work," Hylkje said.

"I can recommend her," Doris said loudly.

"That's enough," Hylkje said, "or we'll go to another pub."

"Still have your cold?" Doris asked.

"It's my voice," Hylkje said. "If you weren't so decrepit and a little more male, you might find the low pitch exciting. Do your job, Doris, there are customers waiting."

Doris was off, carrying a tray, shouting insults at clients in the rear. "I quite like your voice," de Gier said.

"You too? It isn't nice to criticize the voice of your hostess. People used to say I lowed."

"Like a cow."

"A what?"

"Don't keep taking what I say the wrong way," de Gier said. "Here in Friesland, the sound is romantic. Yesterday, in Dingjum, I heard how lovely the sound can be. We landed in a meadow, and once the chopper was gone, the silence was audible and the cow chanted through it, softly. She sang, the way you do when you talk."

"A cow," Hylkje said, "swinging her udders. I don't do that. A cow chews, burps, and chews again-I don't do that either. A cow digests everything five times. A cow is gross. A cow has diarrhea."

"I didn't get a good look at her," de Gier said. "She was behind us and we had to go ahead, but she was, of course, a small good-tempered beast, on slender legs, with a dainty body and tender eyes."

"You should watch your approach," Hylkje said. "You won't get far with me this way."

De Gier asked for more beer.

"Closing time," Doris shouted. "Away with you. I don't care for your company. Out. Maybe I'll fill you up tomorrow again. There's the door. Go on. The police are due any second now."

He passed Hylkje and de Gier their beers. "You're doing okay, son. Keep pushing now, you hear? Or are you planning to be around for a while and hoping for something better?"

The police entered, but there was only one of them. He moved next to Hylkje. "Meet my friend," Hylkje said. "This is Officer First-Class Eldor Janssen. Sergeant de Gier. Colleagues and subjects of the same queen."

Customers squeezed out through the door, harassed by Doris's shouts and waving fists. The constable had finished his coffee and moved along. Here and there a customer still slumped behind a table. Doris closed the curtains. "Right, now what will it be?" He filled the slurred orders. The door opened. "All closed up," Doris shouted. "Out, or I'll call the cops."

The trespassing customer aimed for the bar. "So open up again. I work for the boss. Hi, Hylkje." Lieutenant Sudema covered one eye with an unsteady hand. "Hi, you too."

De Gier straightened. "Evening, sir."

Doris locked the door and supported the lieutenant simultaneously, for Sudema was losing ground. "Whoa!" Then he was back on his feet, flapping both hands. Doris withdrew behind the counter. The lieutenant slipped again, swinging his arms in desperation. Hylkje pushed, de Gier pulled, and the lieutenant found a stool.

"Now what?" Hylkje asked. "Got yourself sozzled?"

"Completely and helplessly intoxicated," the lieutenant said. "Been everywhere already. Mixed the local brew with all available imports. I'm still not quite where I'd like to be. Does anyone know why?" He held on to the bartop while Doris poured beer. Lieutenant Sudema raised his glass. "Your very good health. Nobody knows why? Because tomorrow I have to take my kitchen cupboard down. My wife fucks in there. Not with me, you know. I sleep in my father's antique bed." The lieutenant closed both eyes and drank to his father's image, mumbling devoutly. "There you go, old boy. Thanks indeed. I don't want this life at all. A lot of hard work and I'm busy already. Insufficient staff and a station deluged with complaints and charges. Tons of tomatoes in die greenhouse. Will it ever end? When I destroy that cupboard, the wall will fall out of the house. I'll have to place posts." He opened an eye and tried to wipe the foam off his mouth. "One more." He looked about in triumph. "For everyone."

Doris filled glasses and delivered. The officials shouted toasts.

"Why does your wife copulate in a cupboard?" Hylkje asked.

"So that she may debauch herself in secret." One of the lieutenant's eyes focused on de Gier, the other wandered. "You have a wife?"

"No," de Gier said.

"Help yourself to Hylkje," Lieutenant Sudema said. "She's all yours." He lurched toward Hylkje, kept back by de Gier's suddenly extended arm. "You like cupboards too?"

"I don't mind where I do it," Hylkje said.

"Didn't even know it could be done," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Stupid, eh?" He nodded upward while he sucked more foam. "Couldn't you tell me, Sir? Why don't You ever fill in gaps?"

"He guides us into suffering," Doris said softly.

"Doris," Hylkje said softly.

"Doesn't He?" Doris unfolded both his beady eyes. "And don't only drunks know what He is up to?" He snarled. "Enough of this, I'll sweep you out." The broom swishing in Doris's hands drove protesting customers to the door.

"I'll do some fancy driving now," Lieutenant Sudema said cheerfully. "To the neighbor lady. She has a cupboard too."

"He can't drive," Hylkje said to de Gier.

"Amazing," de Gier said. "Yesterday I was at his house. I thought he was everything that I should have been. My mother's dream for my future that kept missing me. An upstanding gentleman, sane in body and mind, completed by just the right sort of spouse. When I saw them together I was almost ready to change my ideas. And now look at this."

The lieutenant had fallen off his stool and knelt toward the counter. He talked. Doris hung over the bartop. "A devout social worker qualified in psychiatry?" Doris asked.

"In the cupboard," Lieutenant Sudema said. 'They shared their togetherness in there, and their joy, and inner longings."

"On a shelf?" Doris asked.

"I'm not going to drive all the way to Dingjum now," Hylkje said. "I'm working early tomorrow."

"Dump him in a motel."

"In his condition? They'll never accept him," Hylkje decided. She knelt next to the lieutenant. "Darling?"

"Beloved?" Lieutenant Sudema asked.

"Doris is closing up. Are you coming with me?"

The lieutenant sneered. "You stock no liquor."

"But I do, I do. A choice. Anything you care to name."

"I'm going all the way, do you have communist vodka?"

"With the label that falls off?"

"That and no other."

"I have it," Hylkje said. "The worst kind. All yours."

"The foulest," Lieutenant Sudema said. "The wickedest. The shortest path to hell. You sure you have that now?"

"A cupboardful," Hylkje said, narrowing her eyes.

"But that's where they did it." The lieutenant began to cry.

"No, not in a cupboard, on a shelf under my sink. Come along, my dearest."

De Gier pulled the lieutenant up. "You don't have to join us," Lieutenant Sudema said.

"Never. I'm just taking you there. I'll say good-bye at the door. She loves you. I swear."

"He'll rape you," de Gier whispered into Hylkje's ear.

"Promise?" Hylkje asked.

"I don't really mind you," Lieutenant Sudema said to de Gier. "I'll make sure you get more tomatoes. Come fetch them tomorrow." He grabbed hold of de Gier's arm. "And then you should plan a trip to the island of Ameland. Just the place for you. Speak to the Military Police and ask for my nephew. Same name. Hey-ho!" He didn't have to find his legs again, for de Gier's hold was firm.

"Nephew?" de Gier asked.

"Private Sudema. The copper deal. The AWOL fellow. Hey-ho!"

Lieutenant Sudema was lowered into the back seat of Hylkje's car.

"In exchange for sole," the lieutenant said. "Don't forget now. Bring the sole back. The Water Police or whoever is around, no need for the ferry. You got all that now?"

Halfway up the stairs to Hylkje's apartment, the lieutenant fell asleep. When he woke up on her bed, he wasn't feeling too well. He wondered if there might be a bucket around. De Gier greeted a passing rabbit. He picked it up. "Don't," Hylkje said. "That rabbit is loaded."

Small hard pellets ricocheted off the floor and twanged against the lieutenant's bucket. "Messy," de Gier said, "both of them. Yachf He swept up the pellets while Hylkje mopped the floor.

"Never shake Durk," Hylkje said. "He manufactures them so fast, and his tube is always full. If you touch him they'll shake free."

Lieutenant Sudema sat on the bed. "Coming, darling?" He dropped backward and stretched, rumbling into a snore. "You undress him," Hylkje said. "I don't know about suspenders and such."

De Gier tucked the stripped lieutenant in.

"I'll take the couch," Hylkje said. "Consider yourself thanked."

"Am I welcome some other time?" de Gier asked, putting the broom away in the cupboard where Hylkje arranged her mop. Hylkje pushed him away.

"No kiss?"

"Whatever for?" Hylkje asked. "Why did I get into this mess? Let's try again, call me tomorrow."