"Oliver," De Gier said as the cat strolled past the bed, "we'll tie your paws behind your back, march you to the park opposite, set you up against a stake, and shoot you, and it will be done at the crack of dawn."
Oliver looked over his shoulder and purred.
"No, no," Constanze's soft voice said and she nibbled de Gier's ear. "I don't mean that he has to be destroyed. He is a beautiful cat and I know some people who live on a farm and who would love to have a Siamese cat. And Oliver would be happier too, he could play on the farm and climb trees and chase mice. It would be a much more natural life for a cat."
"Yes," de Gier said and reached down to the floor, found his pack of cigarettes, took one out and lit it, using one hand, for his other was caressing Constanze.
"And you can get a bigger flat and I'll be working as well so the rent won't be any problem."
"Yes," de Gier said.
"And Yvette can go to school close by and she would spend a lot of time with my parents."
"Mmm," de Gier said.
"You don't want to, do you?" Constanze asked and put a leg over his.
De Gier twisted out of her embrace and got out of bed.
"It's time to have breakfast," he said.
"You haven't answered me," Constanze said.
"I don't know," de Gier said. "I'll have to think about
He shaved while Constanze prepared breakfast. Early morning wasn't the best time of the day for de Gier, not if he had to go to work, and he groaned while he scraped his face with a blunt blade.
"In fact, we could probably buy a nice flat." Con-stanze's voice came from the small kitchen.
"Flats are expensive," de Gier said, taking the toothbrush out of his mouth.
"I have fifty thousand," Constanze said. "The house at Haarlemmer Houttuinen was sold, you know, and the other little house that Fiet owned in the South was sold as well. Together they netted over a hundred thousand and with the mortgage and the solicitor's costs deducted I still have fifty thousand. Surely that would be enough for a deposit. We might even get a small house."
"I didn't know you were selling the property," de Gier said as he came out of the bathroom. "Who is the buyer?"
"Joachim de Kater," Constanze said, "our accountant. He was very helpful. It only took him a few days. We will sign the contracts at the solicitor's office at the end of this week, and then I'll have to make up my mind what to do. Return to Paris and buy an apartment for Yvette and myself or stay here."
"With me?" de Gier asked.
"With you," Constanze said softly, putting a dish of fried eggs and bacon on the table and switching the toaster on, "if you want me to stay with you."
"Joachim de Kater," the chief inspector said and stirred his coffee. "I remember the name. Didn't you write a report on a visit to an accountant of that name, Grijpstra?"
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said;
"But how do you know all this, de Gier?" the chief inspector asked. "You weren't supposed to question her. Grijpstra did, the night before last night I believe. How come you know who she sold her property to?"
De Gier didn't answer.
"I see," the chief inspector said. "But personal relationships with suspects…"
The commissaris shifted in his chair. "I think the sergeant is aware of what you are hinting at," he said.
"All right," the chief inspector said.
"It's really my fault, sir," Grijpstra said. "I suggested that de Gier should date her last Saturday. I thought she might talk a little more easily if he did."
"It's all right, adjutant," the chief inspector said. "We won't mention the matter again, or rather, I hope we won't have to mention the matter again. I believe you asked young Mrs. Verboom to stay in Amsterdam while the investigation lasts. Perhaps you can contact her and tell her that she can go now. Mr. de Gier will be able to concentrate a bit better when she is out of the way and we don't really suspect her anymore, do we?"
"No sir," de Gier said relieved, "we don't."
"Do you want her out of the way?" asked the chief inspector, surprised.
"She wants me to get rid of my cat," de Gier said in a small voice.
Grijpstra suddenly roared with laughter and the chief inspector and the commissaris joined him. De Gier shuffled his feet.
"Haha," the commissaris said, wiping his eyes, "you like your cat, huh? You don't have to feel silly about that. I like my cat too. It always snuggles up to me when I have rheumatism in my leg."
"I prefer dogs," the chief inspector said, "but we'd better get off the subject, we don't want to embarrass the sergeant. You say she sold the lot to her husband's accountant. That's strange. It looks as if he made use of an awkward situation. A widow needing money. Perhaps a hundred thousand is a low price for that large house on the Haarlemmer Houttuinen and another little house in the country thrown in. It doesn't sound much to me but I am no property expert. As an accountant he should protect his client's interests, not make use of them. Perhaps we should investigate this de Kater."
"We won't have a file on him," the commissaris said. "Accountants are pillars supporting society. If an accountant, a chartered accountant like this Mr. de Kater, ever comes into contact with the police, he loses his ticket, and that'll be the end of his career."
"Yes," the chief inspector said, "but we can ask around. Somebody will know something about him. I can ask some of the state accountants working for the Tax Department, and one of my friends is an accountant. They all belong to some society or other. I should have a report ready by tomorrow and I'll give it to you.
"Well, that's it," the chief inspector said, looking at the detectives. "If you have anything to report you can phone me at home tonight, but keep it short, I'll be watching football."
"An owl in a tree," de Gier said as they walked toward their car, "that's what he reminds me of. Sitting comfortably while he watches it ail and meanwhile we develop flat feet."
"You ought to be grateful," Grijpstra said. "I am going to telephone Constanze today and you'll be free again to live with your cat, happily and peacefully."
"True," de Gier said.
The young man didn't open up when they knocked on the door of the shabby houseboat and Grijpstra put his shoulder against the door and pushed it through its lock.
"Hey," the boy shouted, "who told you you could come in?"
"Police," Grijpstra said, "do you remember us?"
"You shouldn't force my door. This is my house. What you are doing is breaking and entering."
"Sorry," de Gier said, "my colleague stumbled, fell against your door and here we are. Your lock broke. Do you mind if we come in a minute?"
"I mind," the young man said. "Get out."
The detectives looked at him.
"Well, all right. I lose anyway. Nobody would listen to me if I lodged a complaint. You all cover each other. What do you want of me?"
It was eleven o'clock in the morning but he was still under his blankets on the floor. The room smelled of unwashed bodies and rotten food.
"Do you mind?" Grijpstra asked and opened two windows. Some fresh air came in, but there was little wind and it was hot outside. The heat wave hadn't broken yet and the detectives were sweating.
"What's your name again?" de Gier asked.
"Koopmetn."
He got up and put on his jeans and the same buttonless shirt he had worn when the detectives met him for the first time.
"Did you find out who that girl was?" Koopman asked.
"No," Grijpstra said, "did you?"
The young man shook his head and combed his hair back with his fingers.
"No. How could I? I had never met her before. Picked her up in the street, or maybe she picked me up. She didn't talk much when I was with her. I told you before, didn't I?"
"Sure," de Gier said. "How do you feel about it now?"
"Rotten," Koopman said. "How do you expect me to feel? Nobody likes the girl he is making love to to die. I am not an animal.
"She is dead," de Gier said. "Do you believe in the hereafter?"
"I believe in the here and now," Koopman said, "and believe me, I know what I am talking about. The needle has taught me many things you wouldn't know about. You couldn't know about it. Maybe you think you know something when you have a few drinks but to be drunk is different. Alcohol makes you talk and relax and you lose your fears and inhibitions but the drug is different. It teaches."
"Look at the mess you are in," de Gier said. "Aren't you sorry you became a pupil of the drug?"
"Perhaps," Koopman said, "perhaps. Perhaps not. Heroin gives a lot but it takes a lot in return. I used to have a comfortable student's flat and I lived what you chaps call a decent life. The drug has changed it all. Perhaps I am sorry, but it doesn't matter now. The drug's got me, there's nothing I can do about it."
"You feel better now than you did last time," Grijpstra said. "Did you have your fix today?"
"Of course," Koopman said, and walked past the detectives to wash his face in the sink. He dried himself with a dirty rag.
"Where do you get your heroin?" de Gier asked.
"At the institute," Koopman said, "free and for nothing. I was picked up in the street some time ago and the health service took me to the institute. They treated me for a while and now I am an out-patient. I get a free supply every day but they are decreasing the dose and it isn't enough anymore so I have to make up the difference."
"So where do you get the difference?" Grijpstra asked.
Koopman looked up as if he didn't believe what he heard. "You aren't serious," he said. "You want me to tell you where I get my fix?"
"Sure," Grijpstra said.
"You want me to end up in the canal? Like that boy they fished up last month? They had throttled him."
"Who are they?" Grijpstra asked.
"Ha," Koopman said.
"Look here," de Gier said. "We want to know. And you will tell us. If you don't we'll pick you up. Have you forgotten the dead girl? Maybe we aren't satisfied with your explanation. You were here, and we can take you with us for questioning. We can keep you twice twenty-four hours and the public prosecutor is sure to give us permission to keep you for a week, maybe longer. You'll be in a bare cell."
"No drugs in a bare cell," the youth said to himself.
"Exactly," de Gier said.
The boy thought for a while.
"We have a fellow in a cell some time ago," Grijpstra said pleasantly. "He was scratching the walls. He got his three meals a day and his tea and his coffee but that wasn't enough for him. So he was scratching the walls all the time."
Koopman looked at him.
"What are you?" he asked "Gestapo?"
"The Gestapo wasn't interested in drugs," de Gier said, "but we are. Now make up your mind. Are you going to tell us or do you prefer to spend a couple of weeks in a cell, sitting on a chair that is screwed to the floor. You know that you can't lie down during the day, do you? The bed is fastened against the wall. There's just the chair and the four walls. And a day lasts twenty-four hours in jail. That's a long time."
"All right," Koopman said, "you win. I buy it from a little shop in the Merelsteeg. They sell Indian clothes and cheap stuff from the Far East."
"Take us there," Grijpstra said. "Go into the shop and buy. Then we come in and arrest the shopkeeper. We'll arrest you as well but we'll let you go in the street."
"No," Koopman said.
The detectives lit cigarettes. The conversation went on for another few minutes. At one stage Grijpstra had Koopman by the shoulders and was hissing at him. Koop-man trembled.
"All right?" de Gier asked.
Koopman nodded.
"They'll kill me," he said. "I'll be in the canal. Drug dealers never stay in jail long. They carry knives. You carry guns."
"We haven't pulled a gun on you have we?" Grijpstra asked.
"Let's go," Koopman said.
The Merelsteeg is a narrow lightless street dating back three hundred years. Its houses are on the verge of collapsing and are supported temporarily by thick beams jutting out into the street and put up by the Public Works Department. A few houses are being restored and the alley's inhabitants are encouraged to paint their woodwork. There are a few small trees and some creepers grow up the gables. The alley almost died and it's still sickly. Koopman went into the little shop, the detectives counted to five and rushed the door. The small plastic bag was halfway across the counter.
"Police," Grijpstra said. The tall thin man behind the counter looked resigned. A small child came from the back of the shop and looked at the policemen.
"Hello," de Gier said but the child didn't reply. A woman came down the stairs.
"I told you it would happen," the woman said. "It had to happen one day."
"Shut up," the man said. There was no anger in his voice.
"You," de Grier said to Koopman, "come with me."
"Can I go?" Koopman asked when they were back in the alley.
"Sure. Here is my card. Don't change your address without letting us know."
"This isn't my day," Koopman said. "Some people came to tell me last night that I have to shift my boat to another canal. If I don't it will sink within three days. They didn't like that business with the dead girl. And now this."
"Too bad," de Gier said and walked back to the shop.
"Why do you sell drugs?" Grijpstra asked.
"Why?" the man asked. "Why do you think? I'll give you three guesses. Because I like it? Wrong. Because I want to be arrested by the police? Wrong again. Because I want to make a little money to keep my family? Right."
"Can't you work?" Grijpstra asked.
"No," the woman answered, "he's been in a mental home. He can't get a job."
"Doesn't the state pay?"
"Sure," the woman said, "and I wanted to go out and do some work as well but he wants me to be here."
"Grovel about on your knees and mop floors," the man said.
"What's wrong with being a charwoman?" the woman asked. "I'd rather mop floors than have you in jail."
"We'll have to search the place," Grijpstra said. "You better give me what you have."
The man gave him a little tin containing a dozen little plastic bags filled with white powder.
"Any more?"
"No."
"Where did you get it?"
The man shook his head.
"Tell him," the woman said. "I am not afraid."
But the man was and they had to spend a little time on him. The woman helped. Finally the man gave in. He bought his supplies in a little bar in the red-light district.
"We'll have to take your husband with us," de Gier said to the woman.
"Be easy with him," the woman said. "His mind isn't right."
"We'll see what we can do," Grijpstra said.
That evening the bar was raided. It was raided very professionally and some drugs were found but there were no arrests. The drugs were in a dustbin in a small courtyard but nobody knew how they got there.
All week the police force worked. Detectives looking like hippies raided the sleep-ins and parks. The bars were combed. People were arrested in tram shelters and under bridges. The stations were full of suspects and the city's detectives worked overtime night after night. The uniformed police helped and the state police helped, even the military police followed up tracks and caught a few dealers in the armed forces. The net was dragged through several provinces and some echoes were heard in Germany and Belgium. Suspects were charged and taken into custody but no connection with either Beuzekom and Company or the Hindist Society was found.
"I've had it," de Gier said and climbed on a barstool in a small cafe. Grijpstra had been waiting for him.
"A beer, sergeant?" the barman asked in a loud voice.
"Please," de Gier said, "and keep your voice down. You've been working here long?"
"All right," the barman said, "calm down. I didn't mean any harm."
"Go and serve the other customers, mate," Grijpstra said. "Any luck?"
"Nothing," de Gier said. "Sure, I caught someone, very small fry. The charge will stick, I imagine. But not what we are looking for."
"We won't find what we are looking for," Grijpstra said, "not this way."
De Gier looked at Grijpstra over the rim of his glass.
"No? Why not?"
"The man we are looking for isn't known. He is probably new to the game, to this game I mean. He'll be a criminal but he won't have a record. He is a big fellow, quite detached from the known contacts. He has offered, or sold a bulk lot of drugs. My guess is that Piet Verboom was the only man who knew who our man was."
"So why didn't you tell the chief inspector?" de Gier asked.
Grijpstra smiled.
"Why should I? I would have spoiled his game. He was looking for an excuse to shake up the underworld. And he certainly has. The action hasn't been a flop you know, a lot of people have been caught, people we were looking for."
"We, the police, you mean," de Gier said, "not you and me."
"Not you and me," Grijpstra said, "but who are we?"
De Gier drank his beer and smacked his lips, holding up the glass. The barman filled it for him.
"You are very quiet all of a sudden," de Gier said.
"Lost my tongue," the barman said and smiled. De Gier smiled back.
"Pity Verboom was such a secretive little bastard," Grijpstra said. "He never told anyone anything. His own wife didn't really know what he was up to. His girlfriend didn't. The boys working in the Society didn't."
"And we don't either," said de Gier.
"It's all over," said the chief inspector.
"Yes sir, Grijpstra said.
"Well, it can't be helped. Your case is still stuck. You can go back on normal duty for the time being. I'll keep on working on the case from here and I'll let you know if something happens."
"Yes, sir," de Gier said. "Did you learn anything about Joachim de Kater, the accountant?"
"Yes," the chief inspector said, "quite a bit. I'll tell you."
The detectives relaxed and the chief inspector began to pace the floor, hesitating every time he passed his cactus.
"De Kater was a brilliant student," he said, "finished his studies just before the war. He couldn't get a job during the war but he went into business for himself, manufacturing talcum powder for the German army and mixing a little grit with it so that the soldiers would have bleeding feet. A true patriot. He was arrested but released again, probably bribed the German police. He worked for several well-known firms after the war but left them and went into partnership with an old colleague who died. So far everything is fine. But we investigated his present business a little and he doesn't seem to be working much. He has a few clients who pay him some fifty thousand a year, all added. That isn't much for a registered accountant. Usually they get at least four times as much. And he has an expensive office and lives in style, paying a fat alimony to his former wife. He doesn't have a girlfriend but he visits elegant sexclubs. We tried to work out what he spends and it's at least twice as much as he should be spending."
"May not be declaring his full income," Grijpstra said.
"Of course," the chief inspector said, "nobody does declare his true income anymore, except us officials and the poor blokes who work for others. It has gone out of fashion."
"So I expect you informed the tax inspector," de Gier said smiling.
"I did," the chief inspector said, "but they were already aware of his existence. They can't prove anything, however. They are watching him, that's all."
"Where did he get the money to pay for the two houses of Piet Verboom?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes," the chief inspector asked, "that's exactly what I asked him when I invited him to come and see me. He says it was given to him and he won't tell me who gave it. A professional secret he said. Some investment company wanting to buy a lot of houses in the Haarlemmer Houttuinen. To build a hotel, I imagine."
The detectives looked at the chief inspector.
"It could be," the chief inspector said.
"Perhaps you would like to look into this," the chief inspector said.
Within an hour the detectives were on the road again, on their way to visit a wholesale company dealing in electrical goods. Its owner suspected one of his directors of embezzlement.
Janwillem Van De Wetering
Outsider in Amsterdam
\\\\\ 13 /////
THREE WEEKS HAD PASSED SINCE THE DETECTIVES HAD found the neat corpse of Piet Verboom dangling from a hook screwed into a beam. The summer was approaching its end and another heat wave had started, laming the city's life. It was Saturday afternoon. The four policemen professionally interested in the Verboom case were off-duty. But they were still interested in the open file.
The commissaris had immersed his body into a very hot bath. Pain soared through his old thin legs, the hot water eased the mean slicing rays cutting through his nerves. He sweated and thought. He had served his community for a very long time now, too long to be frustrated. His mind was calm and orderly. He regathered the facts that the case had provided and sorted them out, fitting them into several patterns. Then he checked his suspicions with the clustered facts. He promised himself that he would go and see the chief inspector again.
The chief inspector ran, dressed in a sky blue training suit, through the Amsterdam forest, the city's largest park. The chief inspector was sweating as well. He was sorely tempted to sit down somewhere and light a cigarette. The temptation made him give in, almost. He argued with himself. He would run around the pond again, just once more, and then he would sit down and light that cigarette. He would think about the Verboom case while he ran around the pond. It would be easy to think about the case for it had began to obsess him.
Grijpstra was fishing, leant over a railing, standing on the bridge of the Looiersgracht, close to his house on the Lijnblaansgracht opposite Police Headquarters. His float bobbed up and down but he didn't notice it. His mind was on the case. It was lasting too long. He was quite convinced that he had all the facts, that he had gathered enough material enabling him to make the correct arrest. But he could not, by his own fault. He blamed himself easily for he knew his own shortcomings. He had been very slow at school and his years at the police school had been a continuous brainbreaking effort. He had studied every night to pass its examinations. But he had passed and he knew that he had learned a lot, at school and afterward, during the thousands and thousands of miles of walking the city's streets and canals. He also knew that he had a good memory and the gift to concentrate his mind. And, for the umpteenth time, he forced his mind to return to the door of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number 5 where he had waited for de Gier to ring the bell.
De Gier stood on his balcony, with Oliver cradled in his arms, and studied the geranium plants in his flower box. He debated with himself whether or not he should pull out the small weed growing in an open space in the middle of the box. He bent down to get a good look at the weed and Oliver, frightened that de Gier would drop him, protested with a yowl, and extended twenty recently sharpened claws.
De Gier dropped the cat, who landed with a thump on the balcony's tiled floor and stalked into the small living room, muttering to itself.
"No," de Gier thought, "I won't pull it out." He had discovered a dark green stripe on its stem. "Perhaps it will be a nice weed," he thought. "It may grow into a bush, that's what I need, a bush on the balcony." But the weed had only temporarily distracted his line of thought. He had forgotten it now and stared at the small park behind his block of flats.
The weed had been a new fact in his life, a small fact that would cause his lift to alter somewhat. He might have a new view because of the weed, its leaves bristling in the breeze.
The words "new fact," which had popped up in his mind, had taken him back to the Verboom case. They needed a new fact, to inspire them again, to make the case alive once more. A new fact might untie the hopelessly twisted knot of facts, theories, suspicions, and tracks leading nowhere.
He protested. He had wanted a quiet weekend. He had planned to visit the new maritime museum and make a trip on the IJ River in the recently restored steam tug that the municipality was exploiting at a loss, to make its citizens recapture the atmosphere of days long past, when there were still thick plumes of fat smoke on the river and life was slower and transport was powered by machines whose well-greased parts moved at a speed that could be followed and admired by the eye.
He swore, and lifted the telephone.
"He is out, Mr. de Gier," Mrs. Grijpstra said. "He has gone fishing but he can't be far for he didn't take his bicycle. Shall I find him for you?"
"No, thank you, Mrs. Grijpstra, I'll find him myself."
"Go away," Grijpstra said. But the silent shape of de Gier's body didn't move. It had been standing next to him for at least two minutes.
"What do you want of me?" Grijpstra said.
"Nothing," de Gier said. "I am watching the ducks on the canal, and the seagulls and that fat coot over there. Can't I watch the birds? Is nothing allowed in this city anymore? I am a free citizen you know, I can stand where I like. This is a public thoroughfare. You have no right to tell me to go away. There's nothing in the law that says you can order me to move. What's your name? I am going to lodge a complaint against you. It's about time…"
"All right," Grijpstra said, "you need me for something?"
De Gier didn't say anything.
"You must be needing me or you wouldn't be here. Did anyone send you?"
"No," de Gier said.
Grijpstra watched his float.
A minute passed.
"O.K.," Grijpstra said, "the last fish must have died of suffocation a long time ago. This water is dead. And I don't want to fish anyway."
He unscrewed his fishing rod and put the parts back into its plastic cover.
"Tell me, why are you here?"
"I am restless," de Gier said.
Grijpstra began to laugh, a deep friendly laugh coming from his wide chest.
"Your nerves are bothering you, aren't they? You are too highstrung, you know. Well, you know the recipe. Go and see the city's psychiatrist and get some pills. If you give him the right answers he may give you a month's rest and you can wither in the Spanish sun. There must be a beach full of policemen from Amsterdam at Torremolinos."
They were walking toward Grijpstra's house and de Gier carried the fishing rod.
"Would you like to come in a minute?" Grijpstra asked. "You can have some coffee. It'll be cold and there'll be a nice thick skin on it."
"Yagh."
"Why are you restless?" Grijpstra said as he put his fishing rod in the corridor and closed the door again behind him.
"I just want to know who hung Piet Verboom. Is that too much to ask?"
"You should know by now," Grijpstra said.
"So should you."
"So should I, but I don't know. And yet the indication must have been staring us in the face somewhere along the line. We can't have been very attentive. It blew right past us."
"Where are we going?" Grijpstra asked.
"For a walk," de Gier said. "We could have another look at Haarlemmer Houttuinen number five; the house may give us an inspiration."
They walked along the Prinsengracht, against the traffic, giving themselves a reasonable chance to stay alive. A woman was cycling against the traffic as well, a clear offense. The lady's lawlessness irritated de Gier. He could remember the time that policemen would write tickets for simple traffic offenses. He remembered how he, himself, some twelve years ago, on his first day on the street, neatly uniformed and complete with the police brooch on the left side of his tunic, had raised his hand to stop a lady cyclist who was ignoring a one-way traffic sign.
The lady had stopped. De Gier had been almost speechless with surprise. The lady had stopped because he, de Gier, a mere youth fresh from police school, had raised his hand. She had been a rather beautiful lady. He had given her a ticket and ordered her to walk back, and push the bicycle. "Yes, officer," she had said and she had walked back, pushing the bike. What exquisite power!
De Gier didn't feel so powerful now. He was walking with some difficulty. The heat had made his feet swell and he hadn't been able to wear proper shoes for some days. He was wearing heavy leather slippers instead and he had to watch where he was walking. The slippers tended to stick on the heavy cobblestones.
Grijpstra, on the other hand, was enjoying himself. Anything rather than being home, he was thinking. He liked the architecture of the Prisengracht and he chuckled to himself when he saw some little boys playing in the canal on a homemade raft. But then his face clouded. He had remembered his own son, who used to play in the canals as well. His son was growing up now and he wasn't doing well at school. He also seemed to be spending more money than he should. Grijpstra was suspecting him of stealing motorized bicycles and selling their parts. He had warned the boy.
"Isn't that the house where we discovered a stock of stolen motorbike parts?" de Gier asked, pointing at an expensive corner house, an elegant structure belonging to one of the richest men in town."
"Yes," Grijpstra said grumpily.
"Why would that boy had gone to all that trouble?" de Gier asked. "Surely his father must have given him a lot of pocket money. Adventure, I suppose. Got bored, and saw a good film with plenty of action in it and thought he was missing something."
Grijpstra didn't answer.
"He won't have much action now," de Gier said. "The judge gave him a good stretch in the reform school."
"Yes," Grijpstra said grumpily.
"Hey," de Gier said.
Grijpstra looked.
The woman who had been cycling ahead of them wasn't overdressed. A pair of very short pants and a sort of scarf wound tightly around large springy breasts. Two men, working overtime, and offloading a truck, had noticed the wheeled goddess approaching and had staged a mock attack, rushing at the bicycle with outstretched hungry hands. The woman, suddenly startled, lost her balance when her front wheel struck a bad patch of cobblestones. The bicycle skidded and the woman fell off. The scarf came off and the men, overjoyed by their success, pretended to help her on her feet using the opportunity to squeeze her breasts and pat her bottom. The woman screamed. The. ever present passers-by circled the miniature stage and gave their comments. The woman scrambled onto her feet, covered her breasts with her hands, and began to cry.
A sporting gentleman understood what was expected of him and hit one of the bad men. It was a good straight punch and the bad man went down. The other bad man, irritated by the smile on the sporting gentleman's face, revenged his mate.
"Here we go again," Grijpstra said and the ran toward a public call box. An old lady had just opened the door of the call box to go inside and Grijpstra's sudden action nearly knocked her off her feet. She was a tough old lady and jabbed at Grijpstra with her umbrella.
"Police," Grijpstra said.
"They all say that," the old lady said, and nipped into the box. "You wait," she shouted and banged the door in his face.
Grijpstra waited. The old lady's conversation took two minutes. Meanwhile the fight spread. Two bad men against two sporting gentlemen.
Grijpstra finally made his call.
"Fistfight. Corner Prinsengracht Runstraat. One black eye so far and worse to come."
"Can't you manage by yourself?" a sharp voice answered.
Grijpstra grinned, they had recognized his voice.
"I am a detective, mate," he answered. "This is a little job for the uniformed police. They should do something too, once in a while."
"We are on our way," the sharp voice said.
Grijpstra joined the crowd. De Gier was close to the inner ring, not meaning to interfere. He was waiting for a police siren, but the city was quiet, and the fight continued. One of the bad men caught a punch on the nose, grunted and fell.
"Enough," de Gier shouted. "Police! Stop fighting."
He kicked off his slippers, moved close to one of the sporting gentlemen and put a hand on his shoulder.
"You want something?" the sporting gentleman shouted and kicked. Grijpstra jumped forward and grabbed the foot that had missed de Gier. He pulled it up and the sporting gentlemen crashed into the street. De Gier had gone very pale, he supported himself on a parked car. His spine had touched a lamp post with some force and he felt paralyzed.
"Are you all right?" a voice asked and a helping arm circled de Gier's shoulders from behind. De Gier turned his head and looked into a heavily bearded face, framed by a crash helmet.
"You stop that and come with us,^v another voice said. A uniformed policeman was looking at the bearded face as well.
"No no, constable," de Gier said, "this fellow is all right, he wanted to help me. You want those two chaps over there, and the fellow who is going to make a dash for it, there he is. And you can pick up the other one who is sitting against the wall over there, with the black eye. And that pink lady was the cause of it all, you can pick her up as a witness and give her a lecture on clothes. If she had worn some this wouldn't have happened."
"Right, sergeant," the constable said. "That's five people in all. I'll radio for a bus. Are you coming to the station to make a report?"
"In half an hour's time," de Grier said, and rubbed his back. Grijpstra had caught the sporting gentleman who had tried to get away and handed him over to the other constable.
"Are you all right?" he asked de Gier.
"Fine," de Gier said. "I broke my spine, that's all. There are too many lamp posts in Amsterdam."
"Did it rush you?" Grijpstra asked.
The bearded man in the crash helmet grinned. "Can I offer you a beer? I was just going to have one myself when I ran into all this."
"Sure," Grijpstra said.
They found a quiet pub and lined up at the bar.
"Three beers," the bearded man said and took off his crash helmet. "Excuse me a minute, will you? I put my motorcycle against a tree. I'd like to have her in a place where I can see her and put her on her standard."
They saw their newfound friend through the window, pushing a heavy motorcycle.
When he came into the pub again de Gier raised his beer.
"Your health! Nice motorbike you have there. That's a Harley, isn't it?"
"Yes," the bearded man said, "a beauty. I love her. But she is getting old, poor thing. She was built in 1943, you know, an old war machine. There are a lot of things wrong with her now and her sound is getting terrible. But I'll keep her, spend some money and time on her again. She'll be all right."
"Are you looking after her yourself?" de Gier asked.
"Yes," the man said.
"Another three beers," Grijpstra said, and sat down, smiling pleasantly.
"Must be heavy work," Grijpstra said.
"Yes," the man said. "First it's this and then it's that. I should really spend a thousand on her and do good thorough job but I haven't been saving lately. You know how it goes, wife wants a new dress, children go to holiday camps. I am working overtime as it is, almost every night."
"What's she worth now you think," de Gier asked.
The man smacked his lips. "A lot of money. You wouldn't think so but that model is antique. Even a wreck would cost you close to a thousand and then you have to spend a few thousand to get the wreck onto the road. A clever man would buy himself one of these small motorized bicycles, you can buy very good ones for just over a thousand and they'll be twice as fast in the city traffic. These Harleys are slow on the uptake. You can do over a hundred kilometers on the highroad of course but they are slow in town."
"That's a lot of money," de Gier said, "but suppose you wanted an old machine like this in top condition, how much would you have to spend?"
"Six thousand at least," the man said. "It would be worth the money. I have often thought about it. The dealers still have all the parts. For about four thousand you could buy a complete set, and then you'd have to pay a man another two thousand to put them together. I could do it myself perhaps, but I couldn't do all of it. You need a real expert."
"Are there still any Harley experts around?" Grijpstra asked.
De Gier was glad Grijpstra asked the question for the blood was throbbing in his veins and he might have sounded too eager if he had asked the question himself.
"Not many," the man said.
"I have a friend," Grijpstra said, "who likes old motorcycles and he has some money as well. He was telling me he would like to have a Harley. I wonder where he should go."
"Seket," the man said. "He is the best man I know. And he is in Amsterdam. There's another fellow in Rotterdam and there's one in Gouda I believe but maybe this man is better. Lou Seket. His workshop is on the Bloemgracht, you can't miss it. It has a big sign on the door and he has a nice poster in his shopwindow, two naked girls sitting on a green Harley. I wouldn't know the street number but it is close to the end of the gracht, near the Marnixstraat."
"Thanks," Grijpstra said. "I'll remember it. We'll have to be on our way now."
He asked for the bill.
"No, no," the man said. "You police fellows can't make a guilder on the sly. Let me pay. I've just done a nice little job, built a kitchen for somebody I know. Couple of hundred tax free."
He winked and paid. The detectives thanked him.
"Doesn't declare his full income," de Gier said in the street.
"Who cares?" Grijpstra said. "Let's go and see this Seket. Right now."
"I have to go to the station first to write a report on the fight."
"Never mind that report. I'll phone. If they want a report they can have it tomorrow. They may not even need one. Come."
"This Seket fellow's probably spending the weekend in the country somewhere," de Gier said.
"Doa'tfiiss," Grijpstra said. "He'll be somewhere and we'll find him. We only want to ask him one question. Just one."
It didn't take long to find the shop. De Gier admired the poster. Two attractive girls, both naked, faced each other. Their legs straddled the heavy frame of an old Harley. One girl was leaning back on the handlebars, the other leered lustfully at her inviting friend.
"Nice," de Gier said. "Two lesbians taking a sharp corner."
"They aren't lesbians," Grijpstra said, "they are just trying to do what the dirty photographer tells them to do. Stop ogling."
The shop was closed.
"You see," said de Gier, "he is spending the weekend in the country. On an island in the North I bet."
"If he is we'll go there."
"There's only one ferry a day."
"We'll get a helicopter from the air force," Grijpstra said.
"Ah here," de Gier said, "look. He is living above his shop. There's his name on the door."
He pressed the bell and the door opened.
A short fat man, in his early sixties, with a mane of white hair, was looking at them from the staircase.
"Mr. Seket?" Grijpstra asked.
"I am. But if you want anything done to a motorbike you'll have to come back on Monday. I have locked up for the day."
"Police," Grijpstra said. "Can we see you a minute?"
"I have nothing to do with the police," Seket said and came down the stairs. He stopped in front of the detectives and glared at them.
"Well, what is it? Not a stolen Harley-Davidson I am sure. Nobody steals a Harley."
"Why not?" de Gier asked.
"Too hard to start."
Grijpstra didn't understand.
"Too hard to start? But what if you know how to start a Harley, then you could steal one couldn't you?"
Seket smiled, showing broken dirty teeth, as dirty as his overalls.
"No mate, I see you don't know about Harleys. If you know how to start one you would be a member of the brotherhood. Harley owners stick together, they would never steal from each other."
"How nice," de Gier said.
"So what do you want to know, friend?" Seket asked and glared again.
"All I want to know," de Gier said, "is if you ever built a motorcycle for a man called van Meteren."
"I did," Seket said promptly, "the best I ever built. Brand new parts, new accessories, the lot. A riding advertisement. A beauty. About a year and a half ago. I still service the machine, there's nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with her. But that van Meteren fellow knows how to look after her. Polishes her up like a baby."
"One more question," Grijpstra said. "How much did he pay?"
"A lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. Close to seven thousand it was, but she is worth it. I didn't overcharge him, in fact I undercharged him for I liked the man."
"Cash? de Gier asked.
"With me everything is cash. I wouldn't even take a bank check."
"No bookkeeping, hey?" Grijpstra asked.
"You aren't from the Tax Department?" Seket asked and stepped back.
"No," Grijpstra said. "Don't worry."
"Shit," Seket said. "I shouldn't have told you nothing. Fuzz. Bah. Now van Meteren will be in trouble, I suppose. I was wondering where he got the money, but I didn't ask. I never ask."
"He is in trouble," Grijpstra said, "and so you will be if you warn him."
Seket closed the door in his face.
"Let's go," de Gier said.
"We need a car," Grijpstra said.
"What for?"
"We need a car," Grijpstra said stubbornly. "Headquarters is close. We'll get it and then we'll go and see him."