The Rattle-Rat

\\\\\ 15 /////

The Commissaris's Citroen slid past the veranda of Scherjoen's last known address. The Land Rover that had been leading the way parked, and the sergeant and his mate got out. The commissaris shook their hands. "They sort of smirked," the commissaris said, climbing the steps. "Did you notice? I don't really like that. Guides who pretend to know everything better, and this is my own land."

"How old were you when you left Joure?" Cardozo asked.

"I remember subconsciously," the commissaris said, "but I do remember. The landscape, the atmosphere, the way in which the locals think, even the language sounds familiar."

"I went to Israel last year," Cardozo said.

"Did you remember, too?"

"No," Cardozo said. He rang the bell. "Only the street market in Jerusalem, perhaps, but that was Arabic. I'm not an Arab. Even so, the stall owners reminded me of my Uncle Ezra."

They waited.

"Like in a dream," the commissaris said. "Last night I had a significant dream. I was a little boy and running after my mother. The house was enormous. Corridors everywhere, and doors, lots of doors. She kept closing them in my face, and I could hardly reach the handle."

"I really don't see much difference here in Friesland," Cardozo said. "Looks like the rest of the country. The language is funny, maybe. Samuel and I used to play 'funny language' when we were small. We would change all the words a bit and then pretend we understood each other. I think they do the same here. I don't think there's anybody home."

They walked around the stately mansion, admired the large bunches of grapes growing under the eaves, and sidestepped the attack of a multicolored rooster. Blue herons looked down from their nests in the poplars. The commis-saris found an herb garden dominated by rocks overgrown with silver thyme. They heard tires grinding the gravel of the driveway. Cardozo ran off and came back with a bald fat man. The man's cheeks trembled while he bowed to the commissaris. His gaze, through thick glasses rimmed by tortoiseshell, looked forbidding.

"This gentleman works for the Tax Department," Cardozo said.

"Verhulst," the man boomed. "I'm after the same suspect. Are you the chief of detectives?"

The commissaris showed his card. "Shall we sit down?" Verhulst asked. There were some garden chairs. Verhulst cleaned them by flapping his handkerchief over them. Car-dozo walked under the poplars.

"You'll be after money, mostly," the commissaris said.

"A hard task, sir." Verhulst folded his red hands on his waistcoat. "We're not as powerful as the police. The public detests us. You hunt, we patiently fish, but I do think I have a bite."

"You do?" the commissaris asked politely.

Verhulst pointed at the mansion. "Behold. Where did the money come from that bought this costly property?"

"Surely Scherjoen disclosed his income?"

Verhulst laughed loudly.

"He didn't?" the commissaris said. "It seems your job is easy. Confiscate the house and lands. Scherjoen's new car is at present parked in our lot. You can take his vehicle too."

Verhulst admired his well-polished boots. "Mortgage on the property and the car is leased."

The commissaris smiled.

"You're amused?" Verhulst asked. "The State is embezzled, sir. Scherjoen earned a daily fortune, by illegal means, in cash transactions. He collected exorbitant interest on unregistered loans. He fenced stolen goods. But on his tax forms, income was balanced by write-offs. Here"-Verhulst waved his hands-"at least two million was embezzled. Where did it go?"

"He hid it?" the commissaris asked.

"I count on your cooperation," Verhulst said heavily. "I suggest that you order a search of the house. I can do that too, but the locals are reputedly fierce, and I don't want to be attacked with pitchforks and scythes. Mrs. Scherjoen is a widow, always a delicate situation. If you step in, the Frisian attitude will be more accepting."

"You know," the commissaris said, "I detest being overtaxed."

"Who doesn't, sir?"

"The system your department is using these days," the commissaris said, "is no good. It provokes unrest. Take this Douwe Scherjoen, for instance. Would he ever have become quite that mean and irresponsible if he had been allowed to keep a reasonable share of his profits? And could he have practiced usury if you fellows hadn't squeezed the citizens to the point where they had to borrow at such ridiculous rates?"

"Well now," Verhulst said, "if you take that angle…"

"We're filling in time here anyway," the commissaris said. "We might have a little discussion. Do you ever think about your work, or do you merely do as you're told?"

"You wouldn't be Frisian?" Verhulst asked. "I've heard talk like this in these out-of-the-way regions before."

"I was born in Joure," the commissaris said.

"And you left," Verhulst said. "Very clever of you. The colonial life didn't suit you?"

"You're joking, aren't you?"

"Do you see any difference? We used to have our colonies in the Far East and exploit our plantations. Now we still have Friesland, same thing again. Reclaimed wastelands that supply us with crops. The backward tribes supply us with labor. I'm from The Hague, myself."

"Have you been suffering from mental troubles for a while now?" the commissaris asked.

Cardozo charged out of the poplar grove. "Now what?" the commissaris asked. "What's that mess on your head? Don't rub it, it's dripping into your eyes already."

Cardozo stamped his foot. "Heron shit."

"I did have a problem," Verhulst said. "Aboriginal-related. It comes back to me when the government sends me here. I've always served the State. I majored in colonial law, but when I was given my papers, our only foreign colony was New Guinea, populated by wild men. I became a district officer out there, and as soon as I arrived the villagers wanted to hunt some heads. Their grinning top pieces flew all around me. My pith helmet got smudged by their blood. I needed intensive treatment for some years, but eventually I was cured."

Fluid heron droppings had reached Cardozo's delicately shaped nose.

Verhulst jumped up and covered his mouth with his handkerchief. He ran away. His car was heard to start up. "Good," the commissaris said. "That was one way to get rid of the boorish lout. Nice job, Cardozo."

Cardozo was tearing at his hair. "Help. This shit burns."

The commissaris dragged him to a pump and energetically worked the handle. Cardozo kept his head in the spouting water. Mem Scherjoen put her bicycle against a fence. "What happened to the poor lad?" She came closer. "Oh, I see. Douwe once had that trouble too. He immediately wanted to shoot the herons, but I wouldn't let him. Come along, dear, there's a shower inside."

Cardozo disappeared into the bathroom. The commissaris was given tea in the kitchen. Mem Scherjoen fetched a suit that had belonged to her husband. Cardozo showed up again, in a black corduroy outfit with silver buttons and a collarless striped shirt. The commissaris applauded. "A living portrait by Rembrandt, Cardozo. Very striking. "The Jewish Poet.' It's in the Rijksmuseum. He's pictured standing on red tiles, with the light coming in from behind, just like you now. Oh, perfect."

"You look great," Mem Scherjoen said. "And don't you have nice hair!"

"I used all your shampoo," Cardozo said.

"Splendid." Mrs. Scherjoen buttered slices of spiced cake. She poured more tea. Cardozo sat on a stool.

"About your husband," the commissaris said. "We're police officers. We're very sorry about what happened, but please excuse us, we do have to ask questions."

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said, "was not a good man."

Hie commissaris waited.

"But I will miss him," she said.

"You married early?"

"Oh, yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "We were together for ever and ever. When I dream about Douwe now, he's my child or my friend, and I'm his, and not always his girlfriend either. Such strange dreams, but they're all real, and Douwe always makes trouble. I take the good side and he tries to keep us down, but we're always connected, that part does not change."

"Do your dreams end well?" the commissaris asked.

"Not what I saw last night," Mem Scherjoen said. "I was his mother again, but I got sick and died and he tried to crawl after me, but I couldn't take him with me."

"And in the other dreams?"

"We're walking somewhere, holding hands, or we're yelling at each other in some kitchen."

"Not this kitchen?"

"No, in a log cabin it seemed, on a hilltop. We were poor at that time."

"Who started the trouble?"

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said. "He broke my last plate."

"You were yelling too?"

"Not so much," Mem Scherjoen said. "I always loved him and he always wanted to make sure I did."

"He made you sad?"

"Yes."

"Did you want to punish him?"

"No," Mem Scherjoen said. "I only wanted to make up for the misery he caused others, but he was too active. I didn't want him to drag us down so much."

The commissaris waited.

Mem Scherjoen's silver-gray hair changed into a halo, speckled with the glowing light that poured through the kitchen windows. Are we really being taken back, the com-missaris thought, to the images of the Golden Age? He rubbed his hands with pleasure, but then a cloud interfered and Mem Scherjoen was just another old lady and Cardozo was an actor, getting used to a costume that didn't quite suit him.

"Now that I have Douwe's gold…" Mem Scherjoen said. She was interrupted by the commissaris's cough. "Gold?" the commissaris asked in a strange, high voice.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "It must be in the house here. Douwe always waited until I had gone to bed, and then he rummaged about. He was always bringing in gold."

"Gold?" the commissaris asked again, in the same surprised voice.

"Little slices," Mem Scherjoen said, extending her index and little fingers to indicate the size of little gold bars.

"Are you a good shot?" Cardozo asked.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said proudly. "I learned to shoot during the war. The British dropped an instructor who lived in our loft, on my parents' farm. He put up a range for us. With a rifle you had to pull the bolt, but the pistol was easier. You just cocked it once. We were close to a sawmill, and the howling of the saw blocked all the noise."

"The Mauser was yours?"

"The Germans left it," Mem Scherjoen said. "Some German troops later camped in our field. They got away just before the liberation. I found the Mauser in one of their tents."

"Shouldn't you have handed it in?"

Mem Scherjoen smiled and shrugged.

"Did Douwe fight the Germans too?" the commissaris asked.

"Not at first," Mem Scherjoen said. "He was selling them supplies, but they beat him up because of some rotten potatoes, and talcum powder mixed with gravel to put into their shoes."

"Did he revenge himself?"

"He was never too courageous."

"That night," Cardozo said, "the night your husband was murdered, you were in Amsterdam."

Mem Scherjoen was still smiling. "Yes, I stayed with my sister, but I didn't shoot him. How could I have done that? I never shot anyone. During the war I transported contraband. All the killing was for the men."

"Times have changed," the commissaris said. "Women are active now, they're motorcycle cops and jet pilots and submarine captains."

"I'd rather take care of retarded men," Mem Scherjoen said. "Douwe was a little backward too. He never wanted to learn. I thought of taking them into the house here. Wouldn't that be nicer than some cold institution? They could play in the garden and I'd cook for them. Douwe was quite fond of my cooking."

"Would you have a photograph of your husband?" Car-dozo asked.

Mem brought out an album. "Snapshots. I took them when he wasn't looking."

Cardozo and the commissaris saw Scherjoen wandering about the rocks in the herb garden, feeding ducks in the pond, digging in the vegetable garden. Mem Scherjoen looked over their shoulders. "He did have his moments."

"May I borrow this?" Cardozo asked. 'Til return the album soon."

"Certainly." She cut more cake. The commissaris and Cardozo chewed slowly. Mem said that an inspector from the Tax Department had been around, but that she hadn't looked for the gold yet and wouldn't hand it over once she found it. "I was thinking of taking it to Switzerland. Change it for money. Then maybe bring the money back? Surely I could get around this Mr. Verhulst?"

"Did you tell him there was gold here?" the commissaris asked.

"No, I didn't."

"If you bring it in as cash and keep it out of your bank account," the commissaris said, "the tax hounds will never know. You might have a meeting with your accountant. Was Douwe's life insured?"

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "Amazing, I never thought he would have bothered. The check will be enormous."

"Will it cover the mortgage?"

"There'll be a good bit left over."

"Your accountant will advise you to invest the difference and live off the income. If you do that, the gold will be extra."

"Isn't that nice?" Mem Scherjoen asked. "I can take care of a lot of retarded men."

"But how will you take the gold out of the country?" Cardozo asked.

"Gyske will help me. She has a good car."

Mem walked her visitors to the Citroen, and waved as they drove away. "Mem has the same eyes as you," Cardozo said. "A soft shade of blue, very rare, I never saw it in another person. She could be your sister. Same character, I imagine. The dove and the serpent."

"What's that?" the commissaris asked.

"Innocence of the dove? The devilish insight of the serpent?"

"Please," the commissaris said. "You can spare me your callous observations." He sucked on his cigar. "But let's see now. Devilish, eh? Shoot down her own man, burn the poor fellow, and ask us for advice about how to save the spoils. Suspect may be suffering from a mother complex. Wants to assuage her guilt by taking care of surviving suckers."

"She isn't stupid," Cardozo said. "And she's got guts. Motivation, opportunity, ruthless goal-setting, it all fits better and better. Will we be searching the house soon? The gold should be found. When we dump a load of gold on the judge's table, he'll be impressed by our charges."

"We'll give her a little time," the commissaris said. "And then I'll phone. I'll have to obtain her sister's number, check out the alibi, see what I can turn up next."

"Won't the Tax Department be happy?" Cardozo asked. "We'll all be delighted. Once again the State will win."

"But a delightful lady," the commissaris said. "Don't you agree? Such a dear woman. What do you think?"

"That I'm hungry," Cardozo said.

"Are we going the right way?" the commissaris said. "All the signs are pointing east. Isn't Leeuwarden to the north?"

"There's an officer on a motorcycle following us," Car-dozo said.

The motorcycle cut off the Citroen. A corporal got off and saluted.

"We're headed for Leeuwarden," the commissaris said.

The motorcycle showed them the way. It stopped again."Can't take you any farther, sir," the corporal said. "I'm State, and we're getting into the territory of the city. If you have a moment I'll radio for assistance." He detached the microphone from his radio. "Municipal Headquarters? Over."

The corporal spoke Frisian. He seemed to have trouble making himself understood.

"Don't they all speak the language here?" the commissaris asked.

"Some don't," the corporal said. "We have our traitors. They insist on using Dutch. Some of us believe there are too many languages in the world. They'll have us all speaking Russian soon." He bellowed into the microphone again.

"Now what?" the radio asked in Dutch.

The corporal sighed. "Very well. The silver Citroen. On the ringway, milepost twelve. Send out a car and pick up colleagues from the Netherlands."

"You are in the Netherlands," the radio said curtly.

"Will you send a car?" the corporal shouted, getting red in the face.

"Understood," the radio said, and chuckled.