The Rattle-Rat

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The Commissaris, who had only just got out into the new day, looked fresh in the early sunlight. His light gray three-piece summer suit contrasted pleasantly with the luscious colors of the begonia flowers in the windows. His small head, under the last few hairs neatly combed across his gleaming skull, rose energetically from the collar of a starched white shirt that held a bright blue tie clasped with a large pearl set in silver. He related his adventure with the barkeep Troelstra and the possibility of future charges against the criminal Bald Ary and his mate, Fritz with the Tuft.

Cardozo listened.

De Gier came in. "Moarn" he said.

The commissaris and Cardozo questioned the sergeant soundlessly, from under raised eyebrows.

"Moarn?" de Gier asked. "Haven't I fattened the vowels sufficiently? Is my accent blurring my meaning?"

The commissaris's and Cardozo's eyebrows were still up.

"Can I sit down?"

"We are accustomed here," the commissaris said, "to wishing each other a good morning first. After that we can sit down."

"But I did wish you a good morning," de Gier said. "In the Frisian language. You're Frisian, I believe?" He held up a small black book. "My dictionary, the word is listed." He held up a multicolored book. "And this is a novel, or rather a bundle of Frisian stories, called"-he read the title- "We're Out of Condiments at Home, and Other Stories, in Frisian, that is."

"Sit down," the commissaris said.

De Gier sat down. "Excellent stories, sir, and all connected. About a lady. A Frisian lady, about the suffering she gets herself into out there. In her stories she calls herself Martha. Literature is interesting, don't you think? Truthful and schizophrenic. We split ourselves, allow the split part to grow and change its name."

"Goinga?" Cardozo asked, taking the book away from de Gier. "Is that her real name? Sounds like Hungarian-Finnish to me."

"Frisian is very foreign," de Gier said, "but understandable to me. Even more, because the novel is female. I've been studying the female mind for a while, and she won't escape me, not even in a foreign language. Most of the words I can guess, and the few exceptions I've looked up. There's some confusion about the negative, which they express as positive, but once you've turned it around again, there's nothing to miss."

"Our linguistic wonderboy," the commissaris said, "and the eternal victim of his fantasies about the miracle of Woman. Did you return my car?"

"But sir," de Gier said, "there may be a female suspect. This book is filled with clues."

"My car? Is it here?"

"Yes sir. It was too late last night, and this morning I overslept a little. I didn't cause you any inconvenience, I hope?"

"You did," the commissaris said. "I'm not used to the streetcars anymore. They sell tickets in the cigar stores now, not on the cars. Without a ticket, I was caught twice and paid two fines. Twice a lady offered me her seat. I've been robbed and insulted."

"Good car," de Gier said. "I didn't see much on the way up, for Grypstra likes to speed, but when I came back, the Inland Sea was beautiful; there was this slow swell, touched up by moonlight, and everywhere the bobbing birds. I got out three times to try and take it all in. I had the feeling of being between nowhere and nowhere. I no longer belonged, but I was still around. Do you feel what I was feeling?"

'To be nowhere?"

"Free," de Gier said. "Aren't we served koffie? In Fries-land we were served koffie everywhere."

"KoffieT the commissaris said.

"It just means coffee," de Gier said. "As I knew. I bought these books yesterday, before we set out, in a store specializing in foreign languages. Swahili, North Borneo-ese, even a Blackfoot Indian grammar. Blackfoot Indians use only verbs. They conjugate a table. Not bad, eh? Seeing that even tables do constantly change. But I happened to need Frisian, which they stocked. They stock just about anything in that store."

The commissaris telephoned and ordered coffee.

"Grijpstra is a lout behind the wheel," de Gier said. "He kept twisting and turning, but perhaps that's the right thing to do, for Friesland twists and turns too. The alleys in Leeu-warden all bit their own tails. We got lost a lot, and the local police found us and rode ahead, to take us to their headquarters. The Leeuwarden Police are housed in a cube, and some distance from the city, so that they can drive into their hunting ground in a straight line, but once they're in, they'll be going round and round again."

"Did you enjoy the Belgian endives, sir?" Cardozo asked.

"No," the commissaris said. "Then what happened, de Gier?"

"Douwe was no good," de Gier said. "His wife is a nice lady. Her name is Mem, meaning 'mother' in Frisian. She poured a good cup of koffie"

The coffee was brought in. De Gier accepted the tray and served the commissaris and Cardozo. "There you are. Did you make some progress, Cardozo?"

"Found Scherjoen's car, on Prince Henry Quay. Same brand as the commissaris's, but probably in better shape, for you two must have ruined the commissaris's Citroen already. Scherjoen's car has been towed in. A pistol was found in the driver's door pocket. Old-model Mauser. Not recently fired."

"Was Douwe rich?" the commissaris asked.

"Owned a country estate, which is now Mem's. There are no children." De Gier described the hawthorns, the evening lowing of a cow (a plaintive but beautiful stretched sound, suspended above a wide meadow), and the superior architecture of Frisian country buildings.

"Rich," the commissaris said. "And you liked his wife?"

"Her true name is Krista," de Gier said, "and she does have Christ's eyes, and a crown of thorns. Maybe she has lost the thorns now, because of Douwe's death."

"Details," the commissaris said. "Give us more."

"It's so otherwise out there," de Gier said. "Beautiful, detached; the colors, sir, the shades are so subtle. Remember the Jehovah's Witnesses, when they come to the door? Resurrection? Heaven on future earth? Heaven is there now. No crime, unfortunately-very little for the likes of us to do. The nobleman Lasius of Burmania acts as the chief constable of the capital-only acting, of course; maybe heaven is a stage too-what a wonderful man he is, truly civilized, correct in every situation. He wanted to know what Grjjpstra might be doing there. Frisians don't go wrong, and if they do, they slide down the dike first, so if we look for misbehavior, we should watch them here. Not that we were unwelcome- that noble man Lasius of Burmania didn't give me that impression. Grupstra was even given a house. For free. The house belongs to a Frisian adjutant who's on holiday at present."

"So you really know nothing," Cardozo said.

"Should I know more?" de Gier asked. "Grypstra won't allow me to do any work. I'm on paid leave, I understand. There's no need for me. Okay, maybe to do some shopping. I'll be going back in a minute. It's handy, Grypstra said, to have me around, perhaps. But there's nothing I'm supposed to do. That's why I observed all that exceptional beauty. If you're not involved in the activity, you sort of float, and while looking down much can be seen. You follow, Cardozo?"

"No," Cardozo said. "Ary and Fritz, sir?"

The commissaris collected his assembled facts. "Mere suspicions so far," the commissaris said, "but Jelle Troelstra is a reliable informant. Let's see what our electronic equipment, activated by the simple pressing of a few well-placed buttons, can do for us by way of confirmation." He picked up his phone. "Dear? Here are die names of two suspects, bank robbers. Please have them checked by the computer. The suspects are from the south. Will you do that for me? Please?"

"The south?" Cardozo asked. "Exiled Frisians?"

"The tip came from a Frisian," the commissaris said.

The phone rang. "Down?" the commissaris asked. "Thank you, dear." He replaced the phone.

"We do have some old files stored in the loft," Cardozo said, "due to be destroyed, but die shredder has been down. Shall I have a look?"

When Cardozo returned he was carrying dented file drawers and folded cards. He also produced some photos. "This is Ary, this is Fritz, both of them known to be violent and armed, but recently freed after serving long stretches."

They read the cards, de Gier and Cardozo standing at either side of the commissaris. "Bad boys," de Gier said, "but what are they to us? They'll be operating well beyond our limits. Douwe is fine; his corpse got into our hands here, and there's a hot trail to be followed. Ary and Fritz drank Frisian jenever at chez Troelstra. Their thoughts were bad, but we can't catch their thoughts."

"I'll have to pass it on," the commissaris said. "Pity. Why don't they commit their crimes in Amsterdam, like everybody else?"

"At a cattle market," de Gier said. "Just imagine." He read a little more. "Armed robbers." He shrugged. "Can't even catch them if they operated here. The new instructions state that in the case of armed robbery, an Arrest Team has to be alerted. The team will rush in with machine guns, and use sharpshooters peering through telescopes placed on cranes. They'll rumble about in armored vehicles. They'll be dressed in bulletproof vests. Their movements will be controlled from a mobile command post. Strategy. Tactics."

"Dear?" the commissaris asked through his phone. "Chief Constable Lasius of Burmania, Municipal Police, Leeuwar-den. Please?"

"In the old days," the commissaris said, "we'd just follow a robber. We'd tap him on the shoulder. We'd address him in a polite way. Then we'd take him along."

"Was it really like that?" Cardozo asked. "But the robber would be carrying a pistol, surely. We can't do anything if we don't outnumber him twenty to one. With an Uzi submachine gun. Or an HK-33 SG/L rifle with infrared light. Or an MP-5 automatic pistol with shortened barrel. Or a bat-ttecar-type Shorland, an armored UR-416, or at least the modern Sankey minitank. Scout cars placed around the corner, ready to start, all weaponry aimed, backed up by squads of the Military Police, special lads, Red Beret training, pushed slowly forward and backed up again by a SWAT team of the State Police. Sharpshooters on all rooftops."

The commissaris answered his phone. "Can't be reached? Get me the State Police, please. The commander, if possible. Yes, Leeuwarden again, I imagine that their headquarters will be in the capital too. If you please, my dear."

"You can't remember that far back, Cardozo," the commissaris said, "but in the past we were quite peaceful. The idea was not to disturb the peace even further. When we made an arrest, we never employed more than a few police; we believed in small numbers."

"Colonel Kopinie is out of his office?" the commissaris asked. "Do try the Military Police there, dear. If you please."

"I could perhaps take a look," de Gier said. "A cattle market is open to the public. You think that Ary and Fritz will case the location soon? Cattle markets are on Friday, right? So they'll hit the dealers the Friday after. I might be there, an interested spectator. In Friesland I can be a civilian again."

"Your police card is nationally valid," Cardozo said.

"Sure," de Gier said, "but you haven't been there yet. Friesland is so otherwise.''''

"You can grab anyone when you see a crime being committed," Cardozo said. "Just suppose that you happened to be strolling about in the market and Ary and Fritz robbed the dealers and I happened to be there too because, say, I was staying with you. You do have a house out there, there'll be a spare room."

"Not at all," de Gier said. "Grijpstra is the only one who'll be working. He doesn't need the disturbance that you'll bring along. Do something here, Simon, and don't get in the adjutant's way out there. If he sees you around, you'll be in real trouble."

Cardozo coughed and sneezed.

"No one there?" the commissaris asked his phone. "The Military Police commander is Major Singelsma? They'll all phone me back? Thank you, my dear."

"Now what's this with the sheep?" the commissaris asked. "Douwe dealt in sheep. Where did he sell them? Was he exporting them to Amsterdam?"

"You'd have to ask Grijpstra, sir." De Gier wrote down a number and handed it to the commissaris.

The number didn't answer. "I'm asking you now," the commissaris said to de Gier.

"I'm not in on this," de Gier said.

"Rinus," the commissaris said.

"Are you asking me in my function as an outside observer? Yes," de Gier said, "that'll be different, then. Grijpstra took care of the inquiry, but I was with him a lot and I happened to hear this and that. Dealing in sheep appears to be an unregistered and therefore tax-free and therefore illegal commerce. As all sheep look alike, their descriptions do not fit into the memory of a computer."

"Beg pardon," the commissaris said from behind his hand. "Had to laugh. Computer. Ha ha. Carry on, de Gier."

"Cows fit into a computer's memory because their spots are different. Sheep have no spots. Births of lambs are not registered. The nonexistent lamb turns into a nonexistent sheep and is sold and nobody knows anything. No sales tax, no income tax, nothing.

"Sheep are visible," Cardozo said.

"You register a few," de Gier said, "but they run about all the time. The Dingjum corporal explained the procedure to me. The average sheep has three lambs, but not in Fries-land. Frisian lambs drown in moats a lot, or the fierce neighbor dogs maul them to death, or they die young of tuberculosis. You have a hundred lambs and you register maybe nine. The other ninety-one are hidden during checks."

"So Scherjoen bought the ninety-one sheep and sold them to the Middle East?"

"For cash," de Gier said. "Cash isn't registered either."

Cardozo blew the remnants of his influenza into his handkerchief and smiled at the sergeant. 'That's where I caught on. There are ships moored in the Inner Harbor here. Scher-joen pushed a thousand unregistered sheep onto a ship. What's the price of a sheep?"

"Three hundred guilders."*

That's a three-hundred thousand-guilder load. To be paid for in cash. Now the Moroccan, a buyer, doesn't pay. There are no invoices, no bills of lading, no proof of any sort. The Moroccan says he has paid already. Scherjoen loses his temper. The Moroccan loses his temper too. He whips out a gun. Bang. No more Scherjoen asking for money. The Moroccan, a dangerous Arabian freedom fighter, isn't satisfied yet and burns Scherjoen's corpse. Oh, they're wicked in the Middle East. Beirut!" *One guilder is equal to about thirty cents in U.S. currency.

The phone rang. "For you," the commissaris said.

"Jane?" de Gier asked. "The Volkswagen is repaired? You arranged it not for me, but because you serve the Service? You're such a wonderful woman, Jane. No? Well, I think you are." He observed the buzzing phone. He put it down.

"Something is bothering Jane," Cardozo said. "She's making everybody nervous. Some dissatisfied vibration oozes out of her and puts the colleagues on edge. Do you have plans with her or don't you?"

"I never have any plans," de Gier said. "Things just happen to me in spite of my defenses, or not, as in the case of Jane."

"I'll be looking for a Moroccan sheik," Cardozo said. "And once I have a photograph of Scherjoen, I could show it around along Prince Henry Quay. The woman in the health-food store recognized him as some sort of farmer, and others must have seen him too."

"You do that," de Gier said. "That'll keep you out of trouble."

"Will you get me a photo?" Cardozo asked. "Of Douwe? Please?"

"Ah," the commissaris said, "I keep forgetting to tell you, Sergeant. Tell Grypstra that the chief constable here gave permission for you two to operate in Friesland, but you can't declare costs. The administration is tightening up. Since you have to eat anyway, you pay for your own meals, and any extras are at your own expense too."

"The photo," Cardozo said.

"Theoretically you couldn't even take the Volkswagen," the commissaris said, "but the vehicle was written off a long time ago and is no longer recognized by the administration, so take it along."

"That's understood, sir."

"I won't be declaring costs, either," the commissaris said. "I haven't declared anything for a while. Officers of my rank are considered to be a useless weight these days."

"But you will be around?"

"Of course," the commissaris said. "As a Frisian, I'm supporting the cause. I was born in Joure. A good opportunity to return to the land of my birth. What matters these days is to be able to combine circumstances in a propitious manner. I'm supposed to be home at night, so I can drive up and down the dike."

"Living well is the best revenge," de Gier said.

"You want to get even?"

"Me?" de Gier asked.

"You're not in this," Cardozo interrupted. "I am. I'll be doing something. I'll be doing something now. Don't forget the photo."

"I'll be going now," de Gier said.

"I'll be going later," the commissaris said, "once the Frisian authorities have contacted this office."

"A truly splendid country, sir," de Gier said. "I kept meeting you out there. You have something that I thought to be quite rare, but in your country it is offered from all sides."

"What something, Sergeant?"

"It's all so oars" de Gier said. "Beg pardon, that's Frisian, sir. So otherwise, I meant to say. How shall I express that exotic feeling?"

The commissaris pointed at the books under de Gier's arm. "You really managed to make sense of Frisian literature?"

"I did."

"Read me a little."

De Gier opened the novel and cleared his throat. "Are you ready?"

"Go ahead."

"Female thought, sir, thought by a certain Martha."

"Go ahead, Sergeant."

De Gier read in Frisian. "'I have to go to the bathroom now/"

"Translate."

De Gier translated.

"A deep thought," the commissaris said. "And well expressed. Very different. Exceptional, are they?"

De Gier looked for a better quote.

"Never mind," the commissaris said. "Go join Grijpstra, he'll be needing the car. I'm quite sure he won't be needing you"