Hard Rain

\\\\\ 24 /////

"What will it be?" Fernandus asked.

The commissaris looked around the old-fashioned cafS and greeted the waiter. "Just coffee, please. Separate checks."

"Petty," Fernandus said, holding his index finger and thumb close together. "Real small-minded."

"Yes," the commissaris said brightly, rubbing his hands. "I'm here, Willem. Let's hear the next temptation. Every time we meet, I feel like the protagonist in 'The Temptation of Saint Jan.' Your presence flatters me. I never thought that the denizens of the dark would seek me out-me, a petty official in a small-sized city on a minor planet in an unimportant solar system of a negligible galaxy

…"

"… of a piddling universe," Fernandus said.

The waiter brought the coffee, and a gin and tonic for Fernandus. He smiled at the commissaris. "Glad to see you, sir. I read about you in the paper. I wish you strength, we're all with you, sir."

"Thank you," the commissaris said. "I'll survive, Tom. Do you know this man, Mr. Fernandus, the attorney?"

The waiter frowned. "Yes. Friend of yours, sir?" He looked down at Fernandus. "You're not my friend. My useless son gets his dope from one of the canteens that your Society supports. The miserable monkey has to steal bicycles to support his habit. I kicked him out, but my wife feeds him behind my back." He turned back to the commissaris. "This damned welfare system, sir, and there's so much to do."

"Mr. Fernandus is no friend of mine, Tom." The commissaris frowned too. "I met him here because I won't invite him to my home."

"I see," the waiter said. "Anything else, sir? Piece of apple pie on the house?"

"Why not?" the commissaris asked. "Shouldn't, really." He patted his stomach. "My wife'll have my scalp."

The waiter brought the apple pie.

Fernandus, in an impeccable dark suit and a red silk tie, watched the commissaris eat. "Still hobnobbing with the lower classes, eh? Amazing how habits stick. You used to do that when we were students. Such an unnecessary act, they despise us anyway. Jealousy is a fact of life. What do you think that waiter thinks when he bicycles home and you splash him with mud from your steel-belted radials whizzing under your luxury car? He'd like nothing better than to hang you from the nearest lamppost."

"I like waiters," the commissaris said. "Wouldn't mind being one myself. The profession has possibilities, I think. I read an interesting novel once in which Christ was a waiter, in a railway station restaurant. He changed water into any wine the customer preferred."

"You knocked some of my waiters over, I hear," Fernandus said. "Did that give you pleasure too? Another petty performance. Why go to so much trouble to dent my show? That's all you did." He held his finger close to his thumb again. "Just a little dent, easily repaired."

"It wasn't a lot of trouble at all," the commissaris said. "Easy. Anyone can raid you. You have no defense."

Fernandus waved his glass at the waiter. "No defense? Remember Newton? Every action produces a reaction? I could have popped you this afternoon, or Katrien, or any of those so-called witnesses you're sheltering in your ruin."

"Yes?" the waiter asked.

"Another, please."

"The bar is closed," the waiter said, turning away.

"Bring him a glass of water," the commissaris said. "Poor man is sweating." He ate his last crumbs. "Excellent apple pie, Tom. Your wife made this, I'll bet."

"Yes, sir, she's in the kitchen. Still comes in most days."

"Good," the commissaris said. "Good. Now…" He swallowed. "… now, Willem, you wouldn't do that. You can't shoot up the home of a chief of detectives, even if I'm not functioning on an official level just now. You could arrange an accident, as you did with Grijpstra and de Gier, but accidents don't fly from the barrel of a rifle. That little incident this afternoon I'll accept as a sick joke. Don't do that again. It upset Katrien."

" 'It upset Katrien,' " Willem said, mimicking the commissaris's high voice. "Do I care about Katrien? I love to play pranks on Katrien. What did she do? Cry? Beg you to give in?"

"No," the commissaris said. "So let's have it, Willem."

"Lay off," Willem said. "I'm tired of this game, you're like a gadfly buzzing about. Buzz off."

The commissaris's eyes twinkled. "What if I do?"

"I talked to your chief," Fernandus said. "He's prepared to reinstate you, not in Homicide, but in something else. I forget what he said now-internal reorganization, I believe. You can keep your rank. Just a few more years and you'll retire anyway."

"And the investigation of Commissaris Voort?"

Fernandus drank his water. "That'll be terminated, of course. Voort came up with a few items that might bother you a bit, but we'll forget about that too."

"We?" the commissaris asked. "You and the Queen?"

"I'm a member of the ruling party," Fernandus said. "I preside over several committees. I whisper into the mayor's ear."

The commissaris brought out a folded handkerchief and shook it out. He carefully blew his nose. "You know what Voort found? Voort found absolutely nothing. He's going back to The Hague. I've produced a lot of nothing during my career, I have no wealth and no important connections. I collect nothing. I'm transparent, you can look right through me. I fade away. Prod me and you stick your finger in thin air. Voort overreached himself constantly. That whole investigation was a mere tumble through clouds. How can he get me if there's nothing there?"

"So now we boast?" Fernandus asked. "Are we starting up our old argument about negativity again? The infinite enters the finite and ultimately there's nothing there and in nothingness everything exists? Wasn't that David Hume? You kept reading those passages to me. But you forgot his conclusions." Fernandus raised a finger. "David Hume, renowned eighteenth-century philosopher who started out as a lawyer and should never have slithered into the unanswerable questions. What did our brilliant thinker come up with in the end?" Fernandus's fist thumped the table. "That he'd rather play backgammon any day than waste any more time on his undeniable conclusion that this creation is empty. He preferred a good time to a logical analysis pointing to the senselessness of life. I quite agree. I'm a better follower of Hume than you are. I provide good times."

"You don't have a good time yourself," the commissaris said. "I refuse to believe it. You repress your true nature. It must burp up all the time. Do you see a psychiatrist at all?"

Fernandus stared, biting his finger.

"See?" the commissaris asked. "What's your complaint? Can't sleep? Short of breath? Feel like you're suffocating at times? You're not really a devil, Willem, you're a good man hiding behind a demonic mask."

"Have you seen your secretary lately?" Fernandus asked.

The commissaris shook his head. "I don't go to the office."

"I see her."

"Good for you."

"Maybe I'll do away with her," Fernandus said. "I do kill people, you know."

"Right," the commissaris said. "My offer still stands. I'm about to grab you, Willem. I may have boasted a little when I spoke to you earlier, but now that I'm in pursuit, I'm surprised how easy it all is. Criminals are always careless. There are so many holes around you that I'm surprised you're still around. Do away with the Society and the Banque du Credit-I mean total liquidation, with your share of the funds transferred to some needy foreign organization-and confess to some misdeed that will get you into jail for three years. If you do that, I don't go any further. I won't say this again. Refuse and you'll be destroyed. Ruthlessly, I'm afraid. There's no way I can protect you if you won't surrender now."

A spasm, starting at the corners of his mouth, made Fernandus's cheeks tremble. His hands shook. "Tom?" the commissaris called. "Could you bring another glass of water, please?"

Fernandus drank the water. The glass rattled against his teeth.

"Feel better now?" the commissaris asked. "Oh, by the way, I brought you something." He looked through his wallet. "Hope I didn't leave it home… no, here it is, you can keep it."

Fernandus pushed the piece of paper away. His hand still shook. "I'll tell you what it is," the commissaris said. "Remember the money that was taken from your club? This is proof that all that cash-a bit more, actually, I included the winnings of my men; after all, we did have a pleasant time at your establishment- now then, this document proves that all the money was transferred to a fund in Calcutta, run by a nun. I hope that organization is honest; we never know, of course, but Katrien thinks it is. The nun, apparently, is concerned with the poor, starving in the streets of her city. She provides housing, food, medical care, and spiritual comfort. I don't know about spiritual comfort, not being religious myself, but I don't think your donation can hurt."

"Listen," Fernandus said, "listen…"

"No," the commissaris said. "Your Society was set up to provide help abroad. Now don't bother me any further, Willem. I don't enjoy your company in your present state, and don't blame me if the process of destroying you will be painful to you." He got up. The waiter opened the door. " 'Bye, Tom," the commissaris said, handing him money. "Thank your wife for the pie."