Tumbleweed

7

"Go on, hit him!" Grijpstra said.

De Gier stepped back, coolly eyed his opponent, and hit him. He rubbed his hand while the coffee machine obediently released a paper cup which had got stuck somewhere in its mysterious insides and filled it with a foaming thick liquid.

"Now it hasn't got enough water," Grijpstra said disgustedly. "Why can't we have a proper canteen like the one we used to have, with a nice elderly sergeant behind the bar who would forget to ask you for money sometimes?"

"We have run out of nice elderly sergeants," de Gier said. Grijpstra poured the contents of his paper cup into the plastic waste basket and began to look through his pockets.

"I have run out of cigarettes."

There's another machine," de Gier said. "Put two guilders into it and push the button of your choice."

Grijpstra snarled at the machine. "No," he said. "I did it yesterday and it ate my two guilders and gave me nothing."

"You should have looked for the man; he has a key."

"The man," Grijpstra said. "What man?"

"The little fellow with the goat beard and the gray dustcoat. He is always scuttling about in the corridors."

"Not when / need him. I am going out to the shop. What shall we do while we wait for our friend Holman? We have more than an hour."

De Gier was combing his curls and observing his face in a mirror. He didn't answer.

"Beautiful man," Grijpstra said. "I am talking to you. In fact I am asking you a question."

"More than an hour," de Gier repeated, "an hour full of opportunities. An hour which we can use for some real purpose. An hour which is part of today, the most wonderful day of our lives."

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "An hour. What shall we do with it?"

"Have a cigarette," de Gier said.

"Thank you." Grijpstra lit the cigarette, inhaled, and managed a smile. De Gier put his comb back and adjusted his scarf.

"Let's go to my flat," de Gier said. "We can take the car. It'll only take ten minutes. I'll make you some real coffee and put on a record I bought at a sale last week for three guilders. A man playing church music on a recorder."

"Modern church music?" Grijpstra asked. "With drums in it?"

"No," de Gier said.

Grijpstra considered the proposition. He shook his head.

"No," he said, "there isn't enough time. Some other day perhaps. I don't mind listening to church music but if we have to rush out there and rush back we won't have a chance to concentrate. Good music needs concentration. Besides, your cat will get at me again. He got me this morning while you were having your shower. You should give that cat away, you know."

De Gier jumped as if he had been stung. "Why don't you give your wife away?" he asked in a sudden loud voice.

"Nobody wants her," Grijpstra said. "But somebody will want your cat. He is a beautiful animal, I'll say that for him, but I would have loved to wring his splendid neck this morning. You know what he did?"

"I hope he scratched you," de Gier said.

"No. He is more subtle than that. He did a number of things. First he jumped on my lap and growled a little. He has got a lot of teeth and a lot of claws and I didn't know what the growl meant so I just waited. Then he put his snout into my armpit and sniffed. He sniffed for half a minute. It was a very funny feeling."

"Ha," de Gier said. "You were wondering what it would be like to be bitten in the armpit?"

"Exactly. I am sure Oliver wanted me to wonder about that. He likes to create a sensation. Why did you call him Oliver?"

"That's his name," de Gier said. "Oliver Kwong. He is a pedigreed cat. His father came from the Far East."

"Kwong," Grijpstra said. "I might have known. I suppose old Kwong was owned by a mountain chief who would boil people alive if they didn't kneel down in his presence."

"Go on," de Gier said. "What else did he do?"

"He finally finished sniffing and climbed on my shoulder. Then he jumped into your bookcase and disappeared so I forgot about him until a lot of books dropped on my head."

"Yes," de Gier said, "he does that. He wrings himself through a small hole somewhere and gets behind the books. Then he stretches out to his full length and shoves. He can move as many as twenty books in one shove. He does it to me too and then he looks down and grins."

"You should hit him when he does that."

"No," de Gier said. "I never hit him. I think he is an intelligent cat. I have never heard of cats shoving books onto people. Did he do anything else?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "He jumped on that antique cupboard you have and stalked about for a while, pretending he was a tiger, but he annoyed me so I suddenly clapped my hands and yelled and he got a fright and forgot his act. Haha, you should have seen him, he tried to jump in two directions at once and fell off the cupboard. He really fell and he looked bloody silly when he scrambled about on the floor."

"Frightening a poor little animal," de Gier said contemptuously.

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I frightened him out of his royal wits. About time somebody did."

"He'll bite you next time," de Gier said.

"If he bites me," Grijpstra said solemnly, and patted the large automatic pistol attached to his belt, "I will shoot him right between the eyes."

"If you shoot him," de Gier said solemnly, and patted the small automatic pistol stuck into a shoulder holster, "I will shoot you, right through the heart."

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "let's do that. I hope Sietsema and Geurts will be sent to investigate."

"They'll never catch me," de Gier said.

"Of course they will catch you," Grijpstra said.

They had walked back to their office and were now sitting down, each behind his own gray steel desk.

"They wouldn't, you know," de Gier said.

"You have thought of some brilliant strategy of escape?"

"Yes," de Gier said.

"Would you tell me?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I am your friend," Grijpstra said sweetly.

De Gier nodded. "Yes, you are my friend. I don't believe in friendship because, as Mr. IJsbrand Drachtsma explained this afternoon, nothing lasts and everything comes to an end and is, therefore, illusionary and without any real substance. But, for the time being anyway, you are my friend."

"So tell me how we wouldn't catch you."

"You would be dead," de Gier said.

"Ah, true. How Sietsema and Geurts wouldn't catch you."

"Because I know how the city computer works. I would put on a white coat and mix with the other white coats and press a few buttons and I would have a new name. And then I would hire another flat. And then I would get a job as a trashman and the city would give me one of those clever motorized carrier cycles and a broom and I would be out in the sun all day and loaf a lot and talk to people and I would be happy."

"And we would never spot you?"

"You would be dead," de Gier said reproachfully.

"I keep forgetting. So the police would never spot you?"

"Never," de Gier said.

"They probably wouldn't," Grijpstra said. "Good idea. Thank you."

"You are going to try it out?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra had picked up his drumsticks and sounded a hesitant roll.

"Good," de Gier said, and took out his flute. They played until the telephone rang.

"Mr. Holman has arrived," Grijpstra said, softly hitting the side of his drum. 'The commissaris is waiting for us; he had him taken to his own room."

"What's all this?" de Gier asked. "I thought we were supposed to work on this case."

"Allow an old man his pleasure," Grijpstra said.

Mr. Holman's hand was flabby and moist but he tried to put some power in his grip. He was putting on a brave show. The commissaris had placed his guest in a low chair and the three policemen were looking down at their victim, who squirmed.

Grijpstra felt sorry for the fat man. He sat down himself and smiled.

Mr. Holman smiled back; the smile hovered on his thick lips, disappearing as soon as it had come.

"I read about Mrs. van Buren's death in the newspaper," he said in a high voice. "I was very sorry to learn that she was killed. She was a nice lady."

De Gier remembered that he had read Mr. Holman's file that morning. Two convictions. One for embezzlement some ten years ago, and one for causing grievous injuries. He had also studied the details of the two cases. Mr. Holman had, when he still worked for a boss, failed to hand in a few thousand guilders which a customer had paid for goods received. There had been no invoice but Mr. Holman had signed a receipt. Three months in jail of which two were suspended. And a year later he had hit his neighbor's son. The boy had been trampling on some young plants in Mr. Holman's garden. The boy had fallen against a fence post and had been taken to hospital. A slightly cracked skull. Three months in jail.

"A shifty violent character," de Gier thought but what he saw didn't agree with the conclusion he had drawn from the file. Like many fat men Mr. Holman looked jolly. "A jolly chap," the commissaris was thinking. "Pity he is so nervous."

Grijpstra was also thinking but vaguely. He had remembered that Mr. Holman sold nuts. Grijpstra liked nuts, especially cashew nuts which he sometimes bought in small tins. But the nuts were expensive. "If I were corrupt," Grijpstra thought, "I would make him give me a whole jute bag full of cashew nuts and I would go home and eat them."

"What was your relationship to Mrs. van Buren, Mr. Holman?" the commissaris asked.

"I just knew her," Mr. Holman said. There was a squeak in his voice which he tried to hide by clearing his throat.

"Tell us about it," the commissaris said pleasantly. "We are interested. She was killed as you know, murdered, and the more we know about her the easier it will be for us to find her killer. If she was a friend of yours you would want us to find her killer, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Mr. Holman said, "yes, she was a friend of mine. But not a very good friend. It was all because of my little boy and his ball."

"Ball?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes. He dropped it into the Schinkel, into the river. He likes me to take him for a walk on Sunday mornings and we drive out to the Schinkel and park the car and then we walk. Sometimes we play with his ball. I don't like playing ball so usually he throws it about by himself, and one Sunday morning it went into the river. He is only four years old and he was very upset. I said I would buy him a new bait because it had floated out of reach but he began to howl so I knocked on Mrs. van Buren's door thinking I might reach the ball from her boat. I didn't know her then."

"And she asked you in?"

"Yes. She was very helpful."

"And did you get the ball?"

Mr. Holman suddenly giggled. "Yes, we got it in the end, but meanwhile my little son had managed to fall into the Schinkel. He fell out of the window."

"That must have been a nice morning," Grijpstra said, thinking of the many walks his children had forced him to make on Sunday mornings.

"A very complicated morning," Mr. Holman was saying. "We had to get his clothes off and dry them and I couldn't leave."

"Did you mind?" the commissaris asked.

"You have seen Mrs. van Buren, haven't you?" Mr. Holman asked.

"I saw her corpse, in the mortuary."

"I see. Well, she was very beautiful when she was alive."

"Did you get to know her well?" de Gier asked.

Mr. Holman was sweating. He took out a large handkerchief and dried his face. "No. Not the way you mean."

"How do you know what I mean?" de Gier asked.

"I know what you mean. But it wasn't like that at all. I just went to see her again and again. Always on Sunday mornings, and my little son was with me. She used to give me a cup of coffee and my son had his lemonade. We would stay half an hour maybe."

"You just talked?" the commissaris asked.

Mr. Holman was silent.

"No intimate relationship?"

"No sir."

The room was very quiet.

"Did your wife know about your meetings with Mrs. van Buren?"

Mr. Holman giggled again. "Yes. My son was always telling her about the nice lady. My wife wanted to go and meet the nice lady."

"Did she meet her?"

"No."

"She was killed on Saturday night," Grijpstra said.

"Saturday night," Mr. Holman said. "That's bad.'

The policemen waited.

"I was in my office all Saturday afternoon and all Saturday evening. Only came home at eleven."

"Was there anyone with you at your office?"

"No," Mr. Holman said. "I was alone. I often work on Saturdays, best day of the week for me, no telephone, no visitors."

"Have you been in the army?" Grijpstra asked.

"No, I have a weak spine. Why?"

"I was just asking," Grijpstra said. "And you don't like sports, you were saying. You wouldn't play ball with your son."

Mr. Holman shook his head. "I am very fond of sports."

"Any particular sport?" the commissaris asked.

"Darts," Mr. Holman said. "I am good at darts. It isn't a popular sport in Holland but I like it. I have a special room in my house where we play. I am chairman of the society, you know."

"Darts is a throwing game," Grijpstra said slowly. "Can you throw this, you think?"

The stiletto gleamed in his hand; it had flicked open as he had pulled it out of his pocket.

"Sure," Mr. Holman said. "Where do you want me to throw it?"

"Into the cigar box," the commissaris said, "but wait a moment. I'll take the cigars out first."

The commissaris put the empty cigar box on a filing cabinet. "Right," he said.

Mr. Holman had got up and was balancing his feet. He half-closed his eyes, weighing the knife in his open hand. "There," he said.

The movement had been very quick. Grijpstra's stiletto had hit the cigar box squarely in the middle, and had pierced the flimsy wood. There wasn't much left of the box.

As Grijpstra began to walk toward the filing cabinet to retrieve his knife, Mr. Holman understood.

"The knife was thrown, wasn't it?" he asked in a whisper.

"It was," the commissaris said.

"I didn't kill her," Mr. Holman said, and began to cry.

The room was quiet again. Mr. Holman had left, loudly blowing his nose. He had been answering questions for more than an hour.

"Well?" the commissaris asked after a few minutes.

Grijpstra and de Gier stared at him.

"Well?" the commissaris asked again.

"Difficult," Grijpstra said.

The commissaris chose a cigar from the disorderly heap on his desk.

"Must get a new cigar box," he muttered to himself, and aloud, "You shouldn't have that stiletto, Grijpstra."

"No, sir," Grijpstra said.

"No motive," de Gier said loudly. "No motive at all. Why should he want to kill a woman who gave him cups of coffee and who gave his little boy glasses of lemonade? He wasn't a client of hers and she couldn't have blackmailed him."

"Why not?" the commissaris asked.

"He wouldn't be visiting her on Sunday morning if she was playing whore for him during the week."

"Quite," Grijpstra said.

"Perhaps he didn't have to pay," the commissaris said. "Perhaps they were lovers."

"That meatball?' de Gier said.

"Women," the commissaris said in a lecturing voice, "are not mainly attracted by a man's looks."

De Gier looked hurt and Grijpstra looked amused.

"Maybe he gave her flowers," Grijpstra said, "and recited poetry and paid her compliments."

"All right," de Gier said. "He was her lover. He sang songs to her. And then he threw a knife into her back."

"We'll have to see him again," the commissaris said. "Phone him at his office tomorrow morning and ask him to be here at three in the afternoon."

He got up and opened the door.

"He is liking this case," Grijpstra said as they walked back to their room.

"I am not," de Gier said. "Are you?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "It's a nice case, nice and complicated. Let's go to a cafe and have a drink and go through it again. We have a lot of information now."

"No," de Gier said.