Hard Rain

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The Commissaris's silver Citroen slowly followed a narrow road on a dike separating low fields from a river. "Ah," the commissaris said, seeing a turn-off ahead. He parked the car and looked again at the map that lay on the passenger seat, grunting as his finger found a wavy red line, marked by Miss Antoinette's neat arrows. The river showed up on the map too. He had to be on the right track, close to his goal -too close, maybe. It was still early in the day, and Adjutant Guldemeester, cashing in on the recently instituted system that encouraged policemen to take time off rather than demand extra pay for working overtime, might be disgruntled if he was bothered before ten in the morning. The commissaris grimaced as he switched the engine off. This was not a pleasant call. He suspected an official of negligence, to frame the charge lightly. There might be more. Guldemeester's track record, never brilliant, had dipped sharply lately. The man worked sloppily, if he worked at all. The adjutant's life-style invited suspicion too. It was a pity that the police department no longer welcomed inquiries into the daily conduct of its members. The commissaris, as he left the car, briefly rethought his general opinion of the country's overall direction. Although he never admitted his socialist sympathies, he was ultimately in favor of a society that spread its wealth, giving to each citizen according to his needs, but the danger was idealization of the state of mind of the average person. "We are," the commissaris had said to his wife, "still egotists, forever looking out for number one. We shouldn't be, of course, but we may as well admit our ignorance. If we're not aware of our petty greed, we'll drag the whole thing down." She'd kissed him, for she thought he was cute when he held forth. Katrien is very practical, the commissaris reflected. I've got to think things out that she has known all along.

As he crossed the road, a low-slung sports car growled toward him at excessive speed. The Corvette squealed its tires as it suddenly slowed down. The driver waved him on. The commissaris dragged his painful leg to the strip of lush grass bordering the river. The car was menacing. He felt cold sweat inside the collar of his shirt, and a thin icy trickle running down his back. More proof to support his theory that socialism had taken a dangerous turn. Rob the energetic and intelligent citizens through high taxes in order to support stumbling efforts of the weaker sector of the population. All very well, but overtaxing interferes with people's sense of justice. Extreme taxation will be dodged. Hoodlums follow the example of their betters. The system corrupts, because of undeclared taxable income that has to be furtively spent. The criminal potential of the mind provides expensive and illegal pleasure. The two young men in the sports car would probably be pimps, exploiting a pleasure club, taking a break after a dark night of preying on their illegally rich clientele. Or they could be providers of unregistered labor, hiring officially unemployed energy, renting it out at a sizable profit, in cash transactions. The commissaris wondered why the Fraud Department hadn't managed yet to apprehend the two subjects. A mere check of the car's registration would lead to a house search revealing suspicious wealth. Both men were likely to declare no income. Their club, or company, would most certainly be unable to show necessary permits. A nest of vice could be immediately ripped apart. But the Fraud Department employed men who were like Guldemeester, untidy dodderers easily persuaded to take a bribe. And who was he criticizing, anyway? the commissaris thought. He himself was in charge of Guldemeester, allowing the adjutant to get away with petty condoning of irregularities. Was there anything the commissaris could do to clean up Homicide, if a chief constable presented him with a chief inspector like Halba, a much worse example of the self-serving public servant?

Well, the commissaris thought, so much for negative thinking. There was always something he could still do. He would do it a little later.

A little honesty, the commissaris thought, might be in order. He didn't care two hoots for Guldemeester's comfort. He wanted to spend some pleasurable time at the river now.

A fisherman on a folding chair, flanked by a lanky blue heron, waiting for any small catch the man might not care to take home, nodded a greeting. The commissaris raised a hand. The graceful bird, perched on one leg, had turned sideways to make sure that there wasn't any threat to its peace of mind, and disdainfully directed its plumed head back to contemplate the river's clear water.

The commissaris, not wanting to disturb the two friends, strolled the other way until he found a small pier jutting into the river. He sat on its low flat railing and admired the clouds, fluffy and white, floating lazily above the wide landscape. He grinned. The fisherman, sitting next to an expensive and what looked like a brand-new motorcycle, of a Japanese brand, of course (bless Japanese diligence, the commissaris thought), was probably unemployed too, making use of some imagined disability (a mysterious back complaint, perhaps) so that he could spend his time on what he really cared to do. Who wants to be the slave of a smelly machine in a foul workshop, to manufacture luxuries for others? If conditions can't be changed, their possibilities can be used. Maybe, the commissaris mused, he should accept the pleasant prospect of early retirement and move to some tax-exempt island in a tropical sea, with a climate sympathetic to his rheumatic complaint, and hang out on the beach thinking sly old man's thoughts.

Suck them if you can't join them. Who said that? Halba said that. Halba was always saying things like that, in private, during brief encounters in a corridor or an elevator, never at a meeting where methods of improving the city's welfare were solemnly discussed.

The commissaris admired the river's rippling surface until sharp pangs of conscience prodded him into activity again. He ordered his unwilling legs to carry his restless mind back to the car.

He drove on slowly, trying to read numbers on fences that shielded small cottages, each surrounded by its acre of garden. He turned the wheel when he recognized Guldemeester's late-model Mercedes, parked with its front bumper pushed into a row of cedars that might have been clipped into decorative shapes once, but hadn't been bothered with for a good while. The Citroen nosed along the narrow drive leading to the house, past wavy weeds rising from flowerbeds where individual tulips and daffodils still struggled bravely. A stone gnome pushed a toy wooden wheelbarrow along, from which sprouted more weeds. The gnome, grinning inanely, didn't seem to mind.

The commissaris rang the doorbell, then knocked and shouted. Guldemeester appeared at the side of the house, holding a beer can in a dangling hand. His shoes weren't laced. Bloodshot eyes gleamed above his unshaven cheeks. "Morning."

"How are you doing, Adjutant?"

"Just taking the day off," Guldemeester said, trying to push up his slipping eyeglasses but pressing his nose instead. "I had a hard night."

"Got a minute?" the commissaris asked. "Can we sit down somewhere?"

"In the back." Guldemeester turned and walked unsteadily ahead. Behind the house, a hammock had been strung between two thin poplars rising from clusters of dying rhododendrons. Empty cans were strewn about in the tall grass. The remains of two bicycles leaned against the house.

"A beer?" Guldemeester asked.

The commissaris looked around for somewhere to sit. "No, thank you."

"I'll get a chair from the house," Guldemeester said. The commissaris followed his host into the kitchen, where a stack of dirty plates, most of them still holding remnants of food, tottered in the sink. Guldemeester dropped his can on the floor and yanked a fresh one from a carton. "Sure you don't want a beer?"

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Why don't you go back to your hammock? I'll find a chair."

He walked into a room where furniture had fallen over, newspapers and empty cigarette packs littered the floor, and the TV set was partly covered by dirty clothes. Guldemeester came in too. "Why didn't you phone? I could have tidied up."

"Your line was busy."

"Right," Guldemeester said. He stepped aside as the commissaris carried out a chair.

Back in the garden, Guldemeester raised a leg and aimed it at the hammock. His heel caught in the hammock's ropes and he toppled over backward into a bush. "Are you all right now?" the commissaris asked, untangling the adjutant's leg. "Maybe you'd better sit on the ground. Here, lean against the tree."

Guldemeester groped about for his spectacles in the grass. He poked them at his face. "Drunk, you know."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "I do get the impression that you're a bit under the weather."

Guldemeester sat up. "You ever get drunk?"

"Not so much these days," the commissaris said. "Your wife isn't with you?"

"Celine is a whore!" Guldemeester yelled. He dropped his voice after he had smiled forgivingly. "That's okay. It's her vocation. Other women become nuns. More money in prostitution." He pointed at the house. "Helped with the payment. Freelansh work, but she's professional now. Livesh with her shishter in Amshterdam."

"I see," the commissaris said.

Guldemeester shook his head. "It didn't work out."

"No?"

The adjutant's head kept shaking. "No. She'll get her money back. I'm selling the place. Don't want the money. Maybe she needs it. Yesh?" He flailed both arms about and the beer can shot off into the bushes, trailing foam.

The commissaris retrieved the can. Guldemeester peered into its little hole. "Empty." The can fell and rolled down his leg.

"You'll be leaving this pleasant place, then?" the commissaris asked.

"Leaving the country," Guldemeester said, slumping against the poplar's trunk. "Haven't told you yet. Damn the job. Never liked it."

The commissaris nodded helpfully. "I understand."

"Going to Spain. Better out there. Nice job." The adjutant smiled craftily. "You came about the dead banker, eh?"

"Yes, Adjutant."

Guldemeester wagged a finger. "Naughty, naughty. The case ish closed."

He swept his hand edgewise through the air, cutting the top off all possible explanations.

"You didn't have too much to do with the case?" the commissaris asked.

"No." Guldemeester closed one eye. His head dropped and he raised it with some trouble, trying to focus the other eye on his visitor's face. "I'm sorry, but I'd razzer not discush the matter."

"Is that what the chief inspector told you to say?"

Guldemeester nodded solemnly. "Yesh." His head dropped on his chest. "I'd razzer not discush the chief inshpector eizzer."

"Did Halba get you the job?"

Guldemeester's eyes crossed.

"Did Halba get you that nice job in Spain?"

"I'd razzer not discush…"

"You should be in bed." The commissaris stepped foward. "On your feet, friend. I'll help you into the house."

"Not in the bed." Guldemeester said in a suddenly clear voice. "I sleep on the couch downstairs. The bed reminds me of Celine." He attempted to push aside dead leaves dangling in front of his face.

"Give me your hands, Adjutant." Guldemeester wasn't heavy, and the commissaris dragged him up without too much trouble.

"See that shed?" Guldemeester asked as he staggered to the house. "Built it myshelf. For the goatsh. My little friendsh. I'd let them out when I came home and they'd gambol about."

"I've got a turtle," the commissaris said.

"Good." Guldemeester patted the commissaris's arm. "Good."

"To the couch?" the commissaris asked.

They passed the staircase. Guldemeester pointed at empty bottles lying on the steps. "AH ashleep, the little fellers."

"The bottles are your friends?"

"Yes," Guldemeester said clearly again. "The goats are dead."

The adjutant, steered along by the commissaris, flopped down on the couch. The commissaris picked up Guldemeester1 s legs and lifted them onto the couch too. "Comfortable? Maybe you can have goats again in Spain."

"Don't know," Guldemeester said. "Should have asked him."

"Who?" the commissaris asked.

"Fernandush," Guldemeester said sleepily, turning on his side.

The chief constable was waiting at the elevator when the commissaris walked through the lobby. "Morning," the commissaris said. He looked at his watch. "Afternoon, rather." He turned away. "Maybe I should get something to eat."

"Why don't you come up to my office for a minute?" the chief constable asked. "I missed you at the meeting."

The door slid open and they both got in. Two constables stepped into the elevator too, pointing at their caps, pushed to the backs of their heads. "Good day, gentlemen." The chief constable smiled. The commissaris mentioned the unusually good weather lately. He mentioned it again when they walked through the long corridor to the chief constable's office. "Very pleasant spring, good time of the year to be about."

The chief constable indicated a chair. "You were out all morning, I couldn't reach you on the phone. Working on something?"

"The IJsbreker case," the commissaris said, shaking immaculate white cuffs from his shantung sleeves. "I think I'm getting somewhere."

"That case has been taken care of." The chief constable pushed a box of cigars across the top of his desk.

"No, thank you," the commissaris said. "Closed?"

The chief constable nodded. "We discussed the matter again this morning. There's sufficient evidence to believe that Martin IJsbreker shot himself in a despondent mood. All conditions point to a conclusive supposition."

"Maybe I will have a cigar," the commissaris said.

The chief constable waited until the commissaris's cigar burned properly. "I think the missing gun and that nonsense about a second bullet can be ignored. Powder burns on the corpse's face, the letter, testimony by employees of the Banque du Credit-we have more than enough to stop wasting time and turn to something else."

"To what, sir?" the commissaris asked.

"To the terrorists. There may be others about."

"Halba can work on the terrorists," the commissaris said airily. "He already had one shot. You approved of his method, I hear."

The chief constable's fingers drummed on his desk. "I'm serious. The IJsbreker case is closed."

The commissaris got up. "Well, that's that, then. I'll be off to lunch." He walked to the door.

"Commissaris?"

"Sir?" The commissaris looked over his shoulder.

"What will you work on now?"

The commissaris stopped and turned. "Oh, there's always something. The old lady, I think."

"Which old lady would that be?"

"The old lady who is being drummed out of her cozy apartment, sir."

"I'm not familiar with that complaint," the chief constable said, waving cigar smoke away.

"It's in the daily file, sir, several times in fact." "I thought you were in charge of Homicide?" "A drumstick," the commissaris said, "could be a dangerous weapon."

The chief constable nodded. "I didn't know." He smiled. "But then I've never been a member of the Murder Brigade. By the way, my name is Henri, I should have mentioned that before."

"I know, sir," the commissaris said. "Chief Inspector Halba told me so the other day." He hesitated. "Am I excused?" The chief constable looked away. "Yes."