Death of a Hawker

16

There weren't too many buyers around at four o'clock that afternoon and the street sellers began to clear their stalls, pleased with the day's results. The rain hadn't lasted long enough to spoil sales, the puddles had drained away and were dried by the hot sun, vegetables and flowers had sold well and the date was close enough to payday to create demand for durable goods. Even antiques and high-priced electrical appliances hadn't done badly. The hawkers were smiling as they loaded their minibuses, vans and trailers, and were feeling the weight of their wallets, tins and linen moneybags with some satisfaction.

"Right," Cardozo said and lifted the remnants of a bale of cloth with a gesture of exuberance, but he overdid it and the end of the bale knocked a glass of coffee over, spilling the foaming liquid into the tin till which de Gier was about to close, having counted its contents.

"No," de Gier said.

"Silly," Grijpstra said as he bent down to survey the damage. "There's close to two thousand guilders in small notes in there. I have counted it too. Police money."

"No," de Gier said again. "We'll never get it dry and if it sticks together too much the bank won't accept it. You're a fool, Cardozo."

"Yes," Cardozo said. "You are right. You are always right. It's very annoying for other people, you know. You should learn to be wrong sometimes."

"You did it, you fix it," Grijpstra said. "Take it home and dry it somehow. You're still living with your parents, aren't you?"

"What's that got to do with it, adjutant?"

"Your mother may know of a way to dry it. Hang it on a line maybe, in the kitchen, with clothes pins. Or she can put it in the dryer. You've got a dryer at home?"

"The dryer may shred it," Cardozo said and dug about in the mess with his fingers. "It's all soddy now, it's only paper, you know."

"Your problem," de Gier said cheerfully. "You take care of it, constable. You can go home now and take the tin. We'll take care of the van. See you tonight at the party. Off you go."

"But…" Cardozo said, using the whining voice which he reserved for desperate occasions.

"Off," Grijpstra said. "Shoo! You heard what the sergeant said."

"He's only one rank over me. I am a constable first class."

"An adjutant is telling you too," de Gier said, "and an adjutant is two ranks above you. Off!"

"Yes, sir," Cardozo said.

"Don't cringe," de Gier said.

"No, sir."

"He always overdoes everything," Grijpstra said as they watched Cardozo's small shape, the till clutched in his arm, strutting away into the crowd.

De Gier agreed. "He hasn't been in the police long enough. The police underdo things."

"As long as they are ruled by a democratic government."

De Gier turned around. "I thought you secretly preferred communism, Grijpstra."

"Ssh," Grijpstra said, looking around him stealthily. "I do, but the communism I like is very advanced. By the time society is ripe for it we won't need any police."

"You think the day will ever come?"

"No," Grijpstra said firmly, "but I can dream, can't I?"

"What will you do when the dream comes true?"

"I'll paint," Grijpstra said, and heaved the last bale of cloth into the gray van.

They were driving through Amsterdam's thick late-afternoon traffic when Grijpstra touched de Gier's forearm.

"Over there, on the right, near that lamppost."

A man was staggering about, trying to reach the wall. As de Gier watched he saw the man going down on his knees, crumpling up on the pavement. The man was well dressed, about fifty years old. They were close when the man's head hit the ground. They saw the top plate of his dentures fall out; they could almost hear the click when the plastic teeth touched the stone tile.

"Drunk?" de Gier asked.

"No," Grijpstra said. "He doesn't look drunk. Ill, I would say."

De Gier felt under the dashboard for the van's microphone and switched the radio on as Grijpstra put up its volume. The radio began to crackle.

"Headquarters," de Gier said.

"Headquarters," the radio voice said. "Come in, who are you, haven't you got a number?"

"No. We are in a special car, on special duty. Van Wou Street number 187. A man has collapsed in the street. Send an ambulance and a patrol car."

"Ambulance alerted. Is that you, de Gier?"

De Gier held the microphone away from his mouth.

"Stupid bugger," he said softly, "knows my name.

I've got nothing to do with this."

"Yes, de Gier here."

"You take care of it, sergeant. We don't have a patrol car available right now. The traffic lights in your area aren't working properly and all available men are directing traffic."

"O.K.," de Gier said sadly, "we'll take care of this."

They could hear the ambulance's siren as they double-parked the van, obstructing traffic and drawing shouts from bicyclists who had to try to get around it.

"Park the van somewhere else," Grijpstra said, opening his door. "I'll see to this and you can join me later."

The man was trying to get back to his feet as Grijpstra knelt down, supporting his shoulders.

"What's wrong with you?"

"Nothing," the man said, slurring his words. "Felt a bit faint, that's all. I'll be all right. Who are you?"

"Police."

"Leave me alone, I don't need the police."

The man picked up his teeth and put them back into his mouth. He was trying to focus his eyes but Grijpstra's bulky shape wasn't more than a blurr.

"What do we have here?" the health officer was asking, bending down to sniff the man's breath. "Haven't been drinking, have we?"

"Don't drink," the man said. "Stopped years ago, only a glass of wine with my meals, now. Felt a bit faint, that's all. Want to go home."

The health officer felt the man's pulse, counting and looking at Grijpstra at the same time.

"Police," Grijpstra said. "We happened to see this man staggering about and then he fell. What's wrong with him, you think?"

The health officer pointed at his heart and shook his head.

"Serious?"

The health officer nodded.

"You'd better go into the ambulance, sir." Grijpstra said.

"Never. I want to go home."

"Can't take him if he doesn't want to go, you know."

"Hell," Grijpstra said. "He is ill, isn't he?"

"Very ill."

"Well, take him then."

"If you say so," the health officer said, "and I'll want to see your identification."

Grijpstra produced his wallet, searched about in it and found his card.

"Adjutant H. Grijpstra, Municipal Police," the health officer read.

"What happens if we leave him here?"

"He may die and he may not. Most probably he will die."

"As bad as that?"

"Yes."

The man was on his feet now, looking perfectly all right.

"You are sure?"

"I am sure he is in very bad shape."

"Into the ambulance with you," Grijpstra snapped at the man. "I am ordering you to go into the ambulance. I am a police officer. Hurry up."

The man glared. "Are you arresting me?"

"I am ordering you to get into the ambulance."

"You'll hear about this," the man snarled. "I'll lodge a protest. I am going into the ambulance against my will. You hear?"

Together with the health officer Grijpstra pushed the man into the car.

"You'd better follow us in case we have complications," the health officer said. "You have a car with you?"

"Yes. What hospital are you taking him to?"

"Wifoelmina."

"We'll be there."

De Gier turned up and together they walked to the van. They arrived at the hospital a quarter of an hour later. The man was sitting on a wooden bench in the outpatients' department. He looked healthy and angry.

"There you are. You'll hear about this. There's nothing wrong with me. Now will you let me go home or not?"

"When the doctor has examined you," Grijpstra said, sitting down next to the man.

The man turned around to say something but seemed to change his mind, grabbing the back of his neck with both hands and going pale.

"Doctor," Grijpstra shouted. "Help! Nurse! Doctor!"

The man had fallen over his lap. A man in a white coat came rushing through a pair of swinging doors. "Here," Grijpstra shouted. The man was pulled to his legs with a nurse supporting him. The shirt was ripped off his chest and he was thumped, with all the force the man in the white coat could muster. He was thumped again and again and life seemed to return briefly before it ebbed away completely.

"Too late," the white-coated man said, looking at the body, which now slumped in Grijpstra's arms.

"Dead?" de Gier asked from the other corner of the room. The white-coated man nodded.

But another attempt was made to revive him. The body was roughly lifted and dumped on a bed. A cumbersome apparatus appeared, pushed in on wheels.

The man's tatteredshirt was torn off completely and the machine's long rubber-lined arms connected with the man's chest. The white-coated man turned dials and the body jumped, flinging its limbs away and up and down. The face seemed alive again for a brief moment but when the dial was turned again the body fell back, the eyelids no longer fluttered and the mouth sagged.

"No good," the white-coated man said, looking at Grijpstra. He pointed at a door. "In there, please. There are some forms to be filled in, about where you located him and how and so on. I'll see if we can find them. You are police officers, I assume."

"Yes!"

"I won't be a minute."

But he was several minutes, close to half an hour in fact. De Gier paced the room and Grijpstra studied a poster showing a sailboat with two men in it. The photograph was taken from a helicopter or a plane for it showed the boat from above, a white boat in a vast expanse of water. De Gier came to look at the poster too.

"Some people sail boats," de Gier said. "Other people wait in rooms."

"Yes " Grijpstra said slowly. "Two men in a boat. It looks as if they are in the middle of the ocean. They must be good friends, very close. Depending on each other. The boat is too big for one man to handle. A schooner, I think it is."

"Yes?" de Gier asked. "Are you interested in boats?"

"I am interested in solving our case, " Grijpstra said. "Do you remember that painting in Abe Rogge's room? We saw it two days ago when we were taken by his sister to see the corpse. There were two men in that boat."

"So?"

The white-coated man came in with the forms and they filled them in carefully, signing them with a flourish. "The man was a lawyer," the white-coated man said. "We identified him from the papers he had in his wallet. A pretty famous lawyer, or infamous if you prefer because he handled nasty cases only, charging a lot of money."

"Died of natural causes, did he?" de Gier asked.

"Perfectly natural," the white-coated man said. "Weak heart. Started to fibrillate. May have lived a heavy life, overworked perhaps and too many rich meals and expensive wines."

"And callgirls," de Gier said.

"Could be," the white-coated man said.