Blond Baboon

\\\\\ 21 /////

De Giers balcony door was open and the Commissaris was sitting close to it, peering contentedly at his mug. De Gier faced him. He was coming to the end of his flute solo, a sixteenth-century drinking song, full of trills and quick runs and occasional short intervals of almost mathematical precision. Grijpstra, his bristly mustache white with beer from, was rubbing Tabriz’s belly, smiling at the cat’s droopy look of complete surrender. Cardozo was stretched out on the floor, his head resting on a small cushion propped on a stack of books.

De Gier lowered his flute. The commissaris inclined his head and applauded briefly. “Very good. Get him another beer, Grijpstra. Pity you couldn’t bring your drums, it’s been a long time since I heard you play together.”

Grijpstra lumbered into the kitchen and came back holding a fresh bottle. De Gier poured the beer, spilling a little. “I won’t be able to play anymore, sir, the neighbors will be at my throat tomorrow.”

Grijpstra had brought in another bottle but the commissaris shook his head. “I would like to, adjutant, but it’s getting late, my wife’ll be expecting me. Cardozo, how do you feel?”

Cardozo’s eyes opened. He seemed to be thinking. The commissaris smiled. “Go back to sleep. I don’t think either of us should drive.”

It was past midnight. The lights in the park behind de Gier’s apartment building had been switched on sometime before but the opaque white disks, spread among the willows and poplars, couldn’t compete with the moon. The apartments around had gone to rest, and there were no sounds except an occasional rumbling from the boulevard on the other side of the building and the confused squeaking of a group of starlings that hadn’t found the right tree for the night yet.

“We’ll take a taxi. You can drive the Citroen to headquarters tomorrow, sergeant,” the commissaris said firmly. “One of my colleagues got arrested for drunken driving last week. It reminded me how vulnerable we are.”

“A brandy, sir?”

De Gier had struggled to his feet and was groping about behind his books. His hand came back holding a crystal decanter. Grijpstra’s heavily lidded eyes were watching him.

“Just a nip, that would be very nice.”

“A bad case,” the commissaris said a little later. “But it’s over and done with now. I didn’t like it. There was too much pettiness in it.”

Grijpstra stirred. There was a vague note of admonition in his voice. “We did have the baboon in it, sir.”

The commissaris raised a finger. “Indeed. Its one ray of illumination, and he stayed true to type until the very end, you know…” He looked at the balcony. Cardozo had begun to snore softly, but his cushion slipped away, and he woke up and pushed it back.

The commissaris sipped his brandy thoughtfully. “You know, I thought he would give in and I didn’t want him to give in. The baboon was drifting into a perfect, happy ending.”

The commissaris giggled. “But he smartly stepped aside. Good for him. Happy endings are always so sad. I even thought so when I was a little boy and my mother would read fairy tales to me. I would cry when the princes married the princesses and settled down in the beautiful palaces. Whatever were they going to do forever after? Watch football or cartoons? Play cards? But the stories didn’t tell, they didn’t dare to, of course. Just suppose that the baboon would marry Gabrielle and move into mat splendid home on the Mierisstraat with the sheik’s tent upstairs. Just imagine.”

He put the brandy snifter down and brought out bis handkerchief, wheezing into it energetically. “Our baboon, spending his nights on Gabrielle’s couch while the young lady gradually sucks his soul away, wasting his days back in the furniture business, lodged safely in Bergen’s office, swiveling around on the president’s chair, taking care of things.”

“The Carnet Company will probably have to declare bankruptcy,” Grijpstra said tonelessly, as if he were reading from a report.

“Oh, yes. Unless they have somebody on their staff who can take over, but that’s rather doubtful. Or Gabrielle… no. I don’t mink she can do it. But the baboon can, easily. And he would be rich too, I don’t think he would need more than a few years to get the company back on its feet and the bank would be sure to back him. Remember what Bergen told us? The bank liked the baboon.”

“Why do you think the baboon refused to become the company’s president, sir?” De Gier’s voice was flat too.

“The opposite, dear boy.” the commissaris said. “The opposite. Surely you’ve noticed.” The commissaris blinked and took off his spectacles. “You must have noticed. You are leading an old man on. Or do you want me to confirm what you have already concluded yourself?”

“Please confirm it, sir.”

“What would the average man do if something frightened him? He would run away, wouldn’t he? He would prefer to get away from whatever was causing him pain or anxiety. And if he could get hold of it he would try to kill it, or hide it somewhere deep in his mind so that he couldn’t get close to it again, and so that it wouldn’t be able to get at him. But the baboon recreated what he feared and kept his enemies in easily accessible places, on the wall of his apartment and in the cupboard. He set up his fear in such a way that it could charge him. You saw the rat’s tail hanging out of that painting, de Gier. You must have, for you are frightened of rats yourself. Would you have a painting of a rat in here? And would you make it more gruesome by allowing the hellish fiend to let his tail hang out, right into the intimacy of your home?”

De Gier’s face didn’t move. His large eyes were staring at the commissaris.

“No. Don’t answer me, you don’t have to. We are discussing the baboon. He likes to do the opposite of what seems to be expected of him, and perhaps he evades the trap that way. He accepted neither Elaine’s nor Gabrielle’s offer. And yet he had worked for the Carnet ladies for ten years, had been their chief salesman and their close friend, their lover even. They were offering him the whole caboodle, lock, stock, and barrel, with themselves thrown in. And Gabrielle’s offer was even better than her mother’s had been, for she is an attractive young woman.”

Cardozo had woken and had pushed himself up against the bookcase.

“A most reasonable offer. The intimate pleasures Gabrielle can dispense plus a firm that, if properly managed, should yield half a million profit a year over and above a director’s salary.”

The commissaris coughed as if he had said too much. His eyes strayed back to the balcony. De Gier had replaced the plants that had been either torn or swept right out by the gale. A profusion of begonias covered the balcony’s cast-iron railing and their top leaves shimmered in the moonlight like small, succulent, live coins.

“Another brandy, sir?”

“Just a nip, a small nip, I must really be on my way.”

The crystal decanter appeared once more, and the commissaris sniffed the fragrance of the thick liquid pouring into his glass.

“Your health, sergeant. Yes, the baboon was worm meeting. We won’t meet him again. He was sucked into the case by a lonely woman’s desires, a woman he might not have liked very much once he got to know her too well. I didn’t like Elaine Camet either. Fortunately I didn’t have to, she was dead when we began. Bergen was worse. I should have liked him for he needed our help, but I couldn’t make the effort. A fool, sergeant, of the worst variety.” He looked into his glass. “Perhaps because he lived on the surface, doing what he thought was proper, following the stream without ever bothering to consider where it was taking him. Well…”

“Has Mr. Pullini gone back to Italy, sir?”

The commissaris brightened up again. “Oh, yes, I took him to the airport this morning, after we had breakfast in the Pulitzer, a very enjoyable breakfast. You haven’t met him, sergeant, have you?”

“No, sir.”

“Pity. A dangerous man in a way but good to be with. We had a marvelous time in his hometown together. Papa Pullini visited Francesco in jail last night. Francesco isn’t comfortable but he is reasonably contented. Nobody in Italy should ever find out what happened to him here. He is supposed to have gone on an extended business trip and will be back at the end of the year.”

“He will only get a few months, sir?”

The commissaris nodded. “Yes, the prosecutor wasn’t too impressed with our charges, fortunately. The charges will stick, of course, they are well documented. Mr. de Bree’s statement, Gabrielle’s statement, Francesco’s own confession, Cardozo’s report about the cigars. The defense hasn’t got a chance, but even so, just a few months, I would say, and we’ll be able to escort Francesco to the airport before the year is over. A beautiful case in a way, a textbook example of provoked manslaughter. It will probably be known as ‘the Italian furniture dealer’s case’ and will be used in examinations.”

“And Dr. Havink, sir?”

“Dr. Havink? I thought you would ask me about Mr. de Bree. I would think mat de Bree’s crime was worse than Dr. Havink’s. I find it very difficult to feel compassion for a man who tries to kill an animal by poisoning. But he did it out of love for another animal, our good friend Tobias. Interesting, very. I hope the judge will probe the case deeply and I’ll be in the court listening. Yes, that would be most interesting. I hope he’ll get that elderly female judge, she has a brilliant mind.”

“I would like to hear more about Dr. Havink, sir,” de Gier said slowly. “I read your reports, but you didn’t waste too many words and you made the arrest on your own.”

The commissaris drained the rest of his brandy and smacked bis lips. De Gier reached for the flask. “No, sergeant, very kind of you, but no more. Well, what can I tell you? A greedy man. It’s amazing mat medical specialists with high incomes can be mat greedy and also that stupid. They can’t see their own motivation in spite of all the intelligence they are undoubtedly equipped with. He told me mat he practiced his little tricks because he had to pay for his equipment, all mat computerized electronic gear he needs for his brain tests. He assured me that the equipment was benefiting humanity. Nonsense. The city doesn’t need Dr. Havink’s gadgets, our hospitals ate over-equipped already, and our crippling taxes are partly due to our paranoid fear of death. Why should we have private clinics where already available equipment is duplicated?”

“Yes, sir, but how did you get him?”

The commissaris waved at the begonias. “Ah, the good doctor was so easy to trap. I couldn’t use Bergen’s skull anymore, it was too badly damaged, so I used my own. I have a friend who is a neurologist and I asked him to arrange for an X-ray of my head. Easy as pie, sergeant, easy as pie. My skull showed no calcifications. Oh, sure, it showed some, but nothing abnormal. Nothing behind which a nasty little tumor could hide. Then I went to Dr. Havink, who had never met me, and registered as a patient suffering from intolerable and chronic headaches. He hemmed and hawed and told me mat he would need to photograph my skull. Very well. He did and showed me the photograph. Sure enough, a white spot. And the whole rigamarole about the tumor. Of course it might be nothing, and if it was something it might be harmless, but still, one never knows. Better to be on the safe side. Surely. So would I undergo further tests? Yes, yes, yes. Please. The results of the tests were negative and I was sent on my way again. No mention of money, for I had told him I worked for the municipality and had given him my insurance policy’s number. No trouble there.”

“And then you asked him for the photograph with the white spot?”

“Yes. And I whipped it off his desk and ran off with it He was shouting at me, but by that time I was out the door. My neurologist friend compared the two photographs, which were altogether different, of course.”

“Falsification and embezzlement.”

“Yes, sergeant. And I went back the next day to arrest him. You read my charges, I’m throwing everything at him. He, and some of his colleagues, are manipulating the ignorant by playing on their fears. An old game of the medical profession, it’s been with us since the first medicine man went into his trance. They used to charge two pigs and a goat. Now they clean out the insurance companies and the insurance companies grin and raise their premiums. A very old game, sergeant. Cardozo! Rise and shine.”

De Cher telephoned for a taxi, which arrived within minutes, and walked his guests to the elevator.

Grijpstra was on the balcony when de Gier came back.

“Closed,” de Gier said as he began to gather the debris of the little party.

“What? The bar?’

“Never. No, the Carnet case.”

“I’ll have a brandy. I saw where you hid that decanter, mere’s still a good deal left.”

“But, of course. But first you can help me wash up and I’ll vacuum mis room. Cardozo has been sitting on his cheese and crackers and you must have walked mat sausage into die carpet.”

“You know,” Grijpstra said half an hour later when the decanter had appeared again, “that case will still give us a lot of work. Paper shifting. Court sessions. The bloody thing has managed to split itself into three and Bergen’s suicide is another inquiry. We’ll be running about like ants.”

De Gier looked at Grijpstra through the top of his glass. “Yes. And we’ll probably be having our skulls photographed. I mink the commissaris is all set to attack die doctors, that’ll be fun. I wonder how many X-rays my head can stand.”

Grijpstra had taken off his jacket and was loosening his tie. “Perhaps. The commissaris seemed very pleased with himself, but I hope the Havink business didn’t go the way he described it. He was provoking the doctor, and the judge will throw the case out of court.”

De Gier sat up. “Hey. You aren’t planning to stay here, are you?”

“Of course. I’m drunk. I’ll sleep in that nice big bed of yours and you can bring out the old sleeping bag. Athletes shouldn’t sleep in beds anyway.”

De Gier poured the rest of the brandy into his glass. “O.K., stay if you like, as long as you fix breakfast in the morning. It’s a strange night, I can’t get drunk, I’m as sober as when we started. And the commissaris isn’t silly. I mink I know exactly what he did. He had another X-ray taken after he had been to see Dr. Havink, by a third neurologist. He won’t mention the first photograph in court. He’ll say that he really suffered from headaches and that he went to Dr. Havink for a diagnosis and, if possible, treatment. But somehow he became suspicious of Dr. Havink’s methods and had the results of the tests checked. That first photograph was only to assure himself that there was nothing wrong with his head to start with. He is clever, our chief ant.”

The conversation flowed on in bursts and spurts while they had their showers and coffee. De Gier had arranged his sleeping bag so that he could see Grijpstra’s face through the open bedroom door.

“Didn’t you mink the commissaris was rather callous about that Bergen fellow?”

Grijpstra was talking to Tabriz, who had jumped on the bed, and de Gier had to ask again.

“No. He didn’t like Bergen, why should he? I didn’t like him either. But the slob was dealt with correctly. Shit, we took a hell of a risk in mat cemetery when we were drawing his fire, especially you with your thousand-guilder weed.”

“I took some home,” de Gier said. ‘It’s in a pot on die balcony now. I wonder if it will take; weeds are hard to transplant sometimes, especially rare weeds.”

“Bah. You’re a detective, not a botanist. You’re getting worse all the time. But Bergen can’t complain. The commissaris lost all interest once he was dead, but there isn’t much we can do for a corpse, especially in the case of suicide. We can’t avenge his own stupidity.”

“So the commissaris didn’t like Bergen,” de Gier said.

“Sure.”

“So there are people he doesn’t like.”

Tabriz had put a furry paw into Grijpstra’s hand and the adjutant was scratching the cat’s chin with the other.

“Sure, sergeant. The commissaris doesn’t like fools, certain types of fools. Especially fools who never try. There was a time when he didn’t like me and he made my life so hard that I was tempted to ask for a transfer, but that is a little while back now.”

“You didn’t ask for a transfer, what happened?”

“I started trying again.”

Grijpstra switched the light in the bedroom off. They woke up a few hours later with a start.

“What was that?” Grijpstra asked sleepily.

“Tabriz. She has got at the marmalade jar again. It broke and there’ll be a mess on the kitchen floor. You better watch your step tomorrow or you’ll have ten bleeding toes.”

“Why does she do it?”

But de Gier had sunk away again, far beyond the boundaries of his sleeping bag, which curved on the living room floor like a gigantic banana.

“Why?” Grijpstra asked the ceiling. “Why, why, why?

There’ll never be an end to it, and even when you find the answers they invariably lead to more questions.”

He sighed. Tabriz came out of the kitchen, jumped over the sleeping bag, and leaped onto the bed. Grijpstra’s hand reached out and the cat put her paw into it. It was sticky.

“Yagh,” Grijpstra said.