"What's Van Meteren's new address?" Grijpstra asked as they were getting into their car in the courtyard of Headquarters.
"Don't know," de Gier said.
"What do you mean 'don't know'? You should know. It's in your notebook."
"Yes," de Gier said, "but my notebook is in my other jacket. It's Saturday today."
"What," Grijpstra asked, "has Saturday got to do with it?"
"On Saturday," de Gier explained, "I often wear another jacket. This jacket. My old corduroy jacket. And its pocket is too small for the notebook, so I leave the notebook behind, in my other jacket, at home."
"Ach no," Grijpstra said, "now what?"
"You look in your notebook," de Gier said, "simple."
Nothing happened for a while. They sat in the car. De Gier had started the engine. The engine turned over, quietly.
"Well?" de Gier asked.
"My notebook," Grijpstra said, "is at home. In my other jacket. I was fishing this morning. When I go fishing I put on this windbreaker. It hasn't got an inside pocket."
De Gier switched the engine off.
"I'll be right back," he said.
Constanze answered the phone herself.
"It's you! she said. "I was hoping you would call."
"Yes," de Gier said nervously. "I mean no."
"What do you mean?" Constanze asked.
"I don't know what I mean," de Gier said nervously, "but do you have van Meteren's new address? He gave it to us by telephone some time ago and I wrote it down in my notebook but I left my notebook at home. I remember that it was Brouwersgracht but I can't remember the number. I thought maybe he had told you?"
"Why should he tell me?" Constanze asked, an icy note creeping into her voice. "Are you cross-questioning me again? I have told you that there is nothing between him and me."
"No, no," de Gier said. "I am not cross-questioning you. Sorry I bothered you."
"Just a minute," Constanze said quickly, "you aren't ringing off are you? Don't you want to see me tonight? Shall I come to your flat?"
"No," de Gier said, "no, not tonight. I am busy. Work, you know."
"You don't have to see me," Constanze said, her voice now definitely icy.
"No," de Gier said. "I mean yes. Later maybe. Next week. Yes?"
"Find out what you mean first," Constanze said and hung up.
"Please…" de Gier said but the telephone gave its two-toned note.
He slammed down the phone.
He ran back to the car.
"You know it?" Grijpstra asked.
"No. Let's go to your house."
"So now we know the address," Grijpstra said. "Anything else we need? You have your pistol?"
"Yes," de Gier said, "but we won't need it."
Grijpstra didn't agree but he didn't say so. He remembered the Papuans who had fought in his unit in Java. They would never have surrendered without a fight. He shook his head. He thought of the evening they had played their jungle song together. Perhaps the personal relationship between them… Perhaps not.
"Do you know how a Papuan thinks?" he asked de Gier.
"No," de Gier said, "do you know how Japanese think?"
The car had stopped. They were on the Keizergracht and the road was blocked by a gigantic luxury bus that had stopped in front of a hotel, Japanese were pouring out of the bus. Very neat Japanese, the men dressed dressed in blue blazers and gray slacks and strapped into their cameras and light meters, the women dressed in many-colored kimonos with wide belts made of cloth.
De Gier's face reddened.
"A hundred thousand Japanese. Did you ever see so many Japanese in Amsterdam? They couldn't all have been in that bus, there must be a machine near the door, manufacturing them. Look at it now. Another one, and another one, and another two."
Grijpstra looked.
"Switch the engine off," he said. "You'll stink up the canal with your exhaust. We'll be here for hours."
A very pretty girl came out of the bus. De Gier smiled at her, a nasty smile, little more than a display of teeth. The girl smiled back and bowed slightly.
"That's nice," Grijpstra said, "a nice polite girl. If they are like that I don't mind waiting."
"Yes, she is nice," de Gier said.
"A kind smile, wasn't it?" Grijpstra asked.
De Gier agreed. "There is no defense against kindness."
Another five minutes and the bus had left.
They crossed a bridge and waited at a traffic light. They crossed another bridge and waited at another traffic light.
Then they were stuck again. A taxi driver had run into the back of a delivery van.
Grijpstra got out and argued with the two drivers.
They wouldn't listen to him.
He showed his police card.
"Ah," the cabdriver said, "then you can write a report. Write your report and we'll move."
Grijpstra wrote a report. It took six minutes.
De Gier had switched the engine off. He felt very calm. He lit a cigarette and watched the seagulls.
"Who was right?" de Gier asked when Grijpstra got back into the car.
"Don't know," Grijpstra said. "The van driver says the van cab smashed into him and the cab driver says the van backed into him. I wrote it all down."
"But what do you think?" de Gier asked.
"What's got into you?" Grijpstra asked. "Since when do the police think? The public prosecutor thinks and the judge thinks, all we ever do is report."
"All right," de Gier said, "but what are we going to report on van Meteren when we arrest him?"
"Depends on what he says, doesn't it?"
"He won't admit anything," said de Gier. "He has been with the police a long time. I don't think he'll say anything at all. He'll come with us and let himself be locked into a good cell, he knows we owe him a good cell at least, and that'll be the end of it."
"How is he going to explain the money he spent on the motorcycle?" Grijpstra said. "And the lie he told you about it? A few hundred guilders he had spent on it, didn't he say that? But he spent seven thousand. Where did he get it?"
"He found it," de Gier said.
"Yes. He found it in his pocket where Verboom had put it. They must have been dealing in drugs together."
"That's our suspicion, and that's all it is."
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "but the prosecutor will let us keep him in custody for a long time. And while van Meteren is in custody we'll go on searching. We are bound to find out that he has money somewhere, a lot of money."
"Seventy-five thousand?" de Gier asked.
"Brouwersgracht," Grijpstra said. "Number fifty-seven. Park the car."
They parked the car behind van Meteren's motorcycle, which gleamed quietly in the light of a street lamp.
Grijpstra looked up.
"It's a very high house," he said, "and our friend lives on the seventh floor. I remember he said so when he phoned. His light is on."
"Did you suspect him?" de Gier asked.
"I did, at first. But then I didn't know because there didn't seem to be any motive. And I liked him, I still like him. He must have been a good policeman. Very trustworthy, and efficient. I think the chief inspector suspected him as well. Did you?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "That girl Therese suggested that Verboom might have committed a Japanese style suicide but he was no Japanese Samurai, he was a Dutchman, with Dutch ideas. It wasn't suicide at all. He looked too neat. Combed hair, beautiful mustache. Clean. New shirt. A man who commits suicide has lost his routine. He stops shaving, doesn't look after himself. They live in a mess for a bit and then they kill themselves. The room was clean. Everything about Verboom was very neat."
"And you thought van Meteren had killed him?"
"You remember the noose?" de Gier asked.
"Yes, the noose," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. 'That noose gave him away. A very professional knot, made by a soldier or a sailor. And he had told us how he had tied up his prisoners, in New Guinea. Remember?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "He told us that story because he thought we were with him. Three policemen. And in a way I am with him. I don't really want to arrest van Meteren."
"I wonder how many Indonesian soldiers he has killed in New Guinea," Grijpstra said.
"He was exercising his duty, lawfully exercising his duty."
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "we have some marvelous laws. Let's go."
They stood on the narrow Brouwersgracht and looked up at the house again.
"Pretty shaky house," de Gier said. "We better go easy on the stairs. It may come down any minute."
De Gier slid a cartridge into the barrel of his pistol and Grijpstra, after some hesitation, followed his example.
He was muttering to himself.
"You ring the bell," he said.
"Like that time at the Haarlemmer Houttuinen?" de Gier asked.
"Yes. I am getting superstitious."
De Gier rang the bell and read the nameplates screwed into the mouldered doorpost. They were six nameplates, only van Meteren's looked tidy, the others were handwritten or typed, some of them stuck behind little pieces of cracked plastic. "Student couples," de Gier thought, "and some people, living on old-age pensions and waiting to go into homes. It'll be smelly in there."
It was. The door opened and they began to climb. Grijpstra rested on the fourth floor. They had attacked the fifth staircase when van Meteren met them.
"Ah, it's you two," he said pleasantly. "That's nice. You are in luck. I have plenty of cold beer. It's a hot evening for patrol duty."
"Evening," de Gier said. "Just thought we'd drop in a minute when we saw your light."
"Are you on duty?" van Meteren asked.
"Well," Grijpstra said, "no. Not really."
"Then I can offer you beer. Follow me, just two more flights."
Van Meteren pointed at a chair and Grijpstra sank into it immediately.
"Careful," van Meteren said, "that chair is old. It came with the place; it's comfortable all right. I prefer these rooms to the Haarlemmer Houttuinen really, I have a good view here, but seven floors is a lot of stairs."
"You ever forget anything?" de Gier asked. "Climb all the stairs, I mean, and then you find you have left something downstairs?"
Van Meteren smiled.
"Yes. This afternoon. I bought a pack of tobacco but I forgot to buy cigarette paper. I went all the way down, walked to the shop and bought some. And then, when I was here again, I found I had no matches."
They all laughed. Van Meteren looked very pleased. He wouldn't have too many visitors in his new quarters.
"Beer," he said. "Just a minute. I'll get it from the fridge. Should be nice and cold by now; I bought it this afternoon."
They looked around the large room which, like the room van Meteren occupied at Piet Verboom's house, had been white-washed and hung with a number of strange objects. De Gier recognized the large animal skull, the map of the great inland lake, the strangely shaped stones. One of the walls featured a large slice of an old tree trunk. The grain of the wood stood out; it had been dabbed with red paint that contrasted with the white of the wall behind it. De Gier shuddered involuntarily. The wood looked natural enough but the red paint, sunk deeply into the grain, reminded him of blood, of a cannibal's feast, of the deep vibrations of van Meteren's wooden jungle drum. The drum stood in the corner.
"I must ask him if he still has his rifle," de Gier asked, and remembered that he hadn't checked with the armory. Van Meteren should have had the barrel filled with aluminum.
"He may still have the rifle," he said to Grijpstra.
"That's all right," Grijpstra said. "He can't use it here."
"What if he comes back with the rifle instead of the beer?"
"He won't," Grijpstra said.
De Gier moved toward the front door of the apartment. They would arrest him in a little while, after the beer. The front door was the only way out. He had already looked into the small bedroom. It had one door only, he had also been able to get a look at the kitchen as van Meteren went into it. The kitchen didn't have another door either.
"Can I help you?" Grijpstra asked and went into the kitchen where he found their host cutting slices of cheese.
"You take the tray," van Meteren said.
"Your health."
They raised their glasses.
Grijpstra put his glass down first. Van Meteren filled the glasses again. He had brought his glass to his lips when Grijpstra spoke.
"I am sorry, van Meteren," Grijpstra said. Perhaps I should have refused the beer but I was very thirsty. We haven't come as friends, you see, we have come to arrest you."
De Gier had moved a little closer to the door and his hand was under his jacket, an inch from his pistol's butt.
"Arrest me?" van Meteren asked, still smiling pleasantly but with the corners of his mouth sagging as an immense sadness seemed to overcome him.
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "We suspect you of having committed a murder."
"Why?" van Meteren asked softly.
"Seket," de Gier said.
"Ah," van Meteren said.
De Gier jumped aside but it was too late. He couldn't see anymore, the beer from van Meteren's glass had hit him in the eyes.
At the same moment Grijpstra's chair collapsed, due to a kick in its weakest spot. Grijpstra's hand, which was on its way to his pistol, now had to support his suddenly falling body.
When de Gier had wiped the beer out of his eyes and could, vaguely, see again, he was alone in the room with Grijpstra.
Grijpstra was looking out of the window. "Come and see," Grijpstra shouted.
De Gier pushed him aside and looked down. Van Meteren was three stories down, holding on to a thick rope.
"Your knife," de Gier shouted.
"No use," Grijpstra said. "I can't reach the rope. It was attached to the hoist above us, out of reach. He must have planned it all carefully. A perfect escape."
De Gier looked down again and saw van Meteren veering off the gable, very close to the street mow. "He is back in New Guinea," de Gier thought, "getting away from the Indonesian commandos."
But he was thinking it on the stairs. He was falling down the stairs, rather than running, and when he reached the street Grijpstra was still on the fifth floor.
De Gier reached the street in time to see the Harley ride off the sidewalk. Van Meteren didn't appear to be in a hurry.
De Gier didn't use his pistol. There were bicycles in the street and several cars. Students were coming from the pub opposite and a boat full of tourists was moving into the canal, having successfully maneuvered itself from underneath a bridge. The chance that he would have hit van Meteren or the Harley was small, the chance that he would have hit something else much larger.
He ran to the car. The key stuck in the lock. When the door finally opened the Harley had turned a corner. He switched the radio on and heard Sientje's voice giving instructions to a patrol car. He had to wait for her to pause.
"One-three to Headquarters," de Gier said.
"One-three come in."
"A white Harley Davidson, just turned off the Brouwersgracht toward the Haarlemmer Houttuinen. Going east by the sound of her, toward the new Single bridge and Central Station. The rider is suspected of murder. Dangerous, probably armed. Small man, colored. Registration Victory Ferdinand seventeen-seventy-two. Over."
"Understood. Out." Sientje's voice was very calm, and still slightly hoarse."
"Lovely voice," de Gier thought.
He heard her pass the message to all cars, and called her again.
"One-three come in."
"How many cars do you have to help us?" de Gier asked.
"One right now," Sientje said, "on the Prins Hendrikkade. All the other cars are busy but we have called the station on the other side of the river and they should have two cars on standby. We are also calling the motorcycles, they should be able to send two men at least, but that's all we have, I think."
"Maybe you should let the State Police know in case he leaves the city."
"We are letting them know now," Sientje said reproachfully. "It's standard procedure. "Out."
De Gier blushed.
Grijpstra had got into the car.
"Well?" Grijpstra asked.
"We are moving, aren't we?" de Gier snapped. "I think I heard him turn east. At least one car should be close to him and others are being alerted. But he may have turned back through the Haarlemmerstraat."
"No," Grijpstra said, "the Haarlemmerstraat is being taken apart by public works. New drains or something. He might be able to ride on the sidewalk. Is he in a panic?"
"Never," de Gier said. "He is a proper policeman. You should have seen him ride off, as if he was going to work."
"No panic," Grijpstra said to himself. "So he won't hit anything," he thought.
"Ha," he said aloud.
"What shall we do?" de Gier asked. "Go east or check the canals? He may be on a merry-go-round, trying to shake us off, or park the motorbike in a quiet place and have a beer."
"Go east," Grijpstra said. "He must leave the city. He knows everyone is watching for a white motorbike now. And he knows the country. He has been spending all his weekends riding around. If he leaves town he must either keep on going east or he must go through the tunnel. He'll take the tunnel, Amsterdam North isn't being patrolled as heavily as Amsterdam East."
De Gier shook his head.
"I wonder if they'll see him. He'll be riding slowly. I bet he is even stopping for orange traffic lights."
"No," Grijpstra said, "don't exaggerate. He knows how to handle himself under stress but he shouldn't be riding that motorbike. A white Harley is a white elephant, even in Amsterdam. Patrol cars aren't blind. They might have trouble spotting a white Volkswagen or a blue Fiat, but they are bound to spot a Harley."
Sientje's voice came through.
"Your motorcycle has just emerged at the other side of the tunnel. A patrol car is after him and its siren is going."
"You see?" Grijpstra asked.
"Pity we have no siren," de Gier said and put his foot down. The VW went through a red light. Two cars honked at them and a man on a bicycle shouted something and tapped a finger on his forehead.
"No race," Grijpstra said, "I have a lot of children."
"I have a cat," de Gier said.
"The VW dived into the tunnel and Grijpstra closed his eyes. De Gier was zigzagging through the tunnel's traffic. The radio had stopped crackling.
"You can open your eyes," de Gier said. "Sientje is calling us."
"One-three," Grijpstra croaked.
"Were you in the tunnel?" Sientje asked.
"Yes. Did they catch up with him?"
"No," Sientje said, "they've lost him."
"Where?"
"In that new housing development where all the streets have bird names," Sientje said. "They saw him last in the Hawkstreet and think he is riding about close by now. The patrol car is still looking for him, but I think they have run into a little trouble. They have dented a mudguard."
"We'll go there as well," Grijpstra said, and held on as de Gier made the little car scream through a corner.
"Ha," de Gier said. "Probably ran into something, got their mudguard right into a tire, had to stop, get out and pull the mudguard free, and meanwhile van Meteren smiled and got lost."
"He won't be lost," Grijpstra said. "This is the Gold-finchstreet."
De Gier stopped and switched the engine off.
"No use driving around in circles," he said. "Listen! Can you hear the Harley anywhere? It's quiet here and that motorbike has a very remarkable sound, a deep gurgle."
"No," Grijpstra said.
"The map," Grijpstra said suddenly, "that map in his room!"
"Map," de Gier repeated, "map in his room. The map of the Ussei-lake. You think he has a boat?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said.
"A boat," de Gier shouted, "of course! That map is a proper maritime map, indicating depths and so on. Only a sailor would have a map like that. A boat somewhere. But where is the boat?"
"Close by," Grijpstra said.
"So we hope." De Gier lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and coughed.
"In Monnikendam," Grijpstra said, "closest IJssellake's port to Amsterdam."
De Gier shrugged. "Could be Horn as well, or Enkhuizen, or Medemblik."
"No," Grijpstra said, "too far. We have a. lot of rain here and it must be damn uncomfortable on that motorcycle. He bought it because it satisfied some need, made him think of his New Guinea days. But this is a cold wet country. He had plenty of money, so he bought a boat and kept it in a harbor close to Amsterdam. He would ride out there, park the Harley, and get on his boat. A nice comfortable boat with a cabin and a little stove. Could make himself a hot cup of coffee and soup and stew, much nicer than going into a restaurant and being stared at. New Guinea is an island, he may have had a boat out there as well. I think the boat is in Monnikendam."
"We can ask Sientje," de Gier said. "She can phone the chief inspector's house. The chief inspector had van Meteren shadowed for a while."
"No use," Grijpstra said and shivered. "Let's get back into the car."
De Gier got into the car.
"No use perhaps. Van Meteren knew he was being followed, ever since Verboom died. So he wouldn't have gone near his boat. You are probably right. His boat was his escape, he wouldn't show us where he kept her. In any case, he couldn't let us know that he owned a boat. He wasn't supposed to have any money. If we could have proved that he had money we would have arrested him on suspicion of murder. He jumped out of the window when I mentioned the name of Seket."
Grijpstra nodded thoughtfully.
"But where is that boat? He must be on her now and the IJssel-lake is big. If he had stuck to the Harley we would catch him easily enough. Every policeman in Holland will be watching for that Harley by tomorrow. He may stick to his boat now, he may have enough food on her to last him for months and we don't know what the boat looks like."
De Gier called Sientje.
"Headquarters," Sientje said, "come in, one-three."
"We think he has a boat and may be on the IJssel-lake by now. We will be leaving the city soon in the direction of Monnikendam. Please alert the State Water Police."
"I will," Sientje said. "Have a pleasant time. Out."
"And that," Grijpstra said, "is the end of Sientje. Another few minutes and she won't be able to hear us."
'Two little men in a biscuit tin," de Gier thought, "and the biscuit tin is going into nowhere." He started the car.
They found nothing in Monnikendam's little port. They left the small city and followed the dikes, keeping close to the lake. Half an hour passed. They met no one.
"There's somebody," Grijpstra said and pointed into the direction of the lake. A small yacht was moored to a jetty.
De Gier put his pistol back into its holster when he got close to the man. The man was tall and had very blond hair.
"Evening."
"Evening," the man said.
"We are policemen," said De Gier, "and we are looking for a small colored man who rides a big white motorcycle. A Harley-Davidson. We thought you might have seen him."
"I have," the man said. "The motorbike is over there, parked behind that hedge. And your man is on the lake, in his boat, a flat-bottom, a hotter with brown sails. But he isn't sailing, he is using his diesel engine. He left about an hour ago."
"Beautiful," Grijpstra said.
"Did he know you were after him?" the man asked.
"He did," de Gier said.
The man shook his head.
"Strange. He seemed quite calm. He even talked to me for a minute. Said he couldn't sleep and was going to spend the night on the water."
"Do you know him at all?" Grijpstra asked.
"Not very well, but his boat has been here for about a year now, we share the jetty, it belongs to a retired fisherman. I have often talked to your man, he is a Papuan isn't he? I always thought he was a very likable fellow, I even asked him to come to dinner once but he refused and I didn't try again."
"Oh, he is a likable fellow all right," de Gier said, "but he is suspected of having committed a murder. We'll have to go after him. Can we use your boat?"
The man smiled.
"Why ask?" he said. "I couldn't refuse anyway. A civilian has to assist a policeman at the first request. That's the law, isn't it?"
Grijpstra smiled as well.
"That's the law. But a civilian can refuse if there is any risk to the safety of his person. So we are only asking for the boat. You don't have to come with us. Just explain to us how we should handle your yacht."
"That's all right," the man said, "I'll come with you. I may be of use. I can handle the boat and I used to be an officer in the commandos. My name is Runau."
They shook hands.
De Gier had gone back to the car, grinning to himself. He brought out the carbine and its six spare magazines, the searchlight and a rope with a heavy metal hook attached to one end.
He had to make another trip to fetch the large tin marked with a Red Cross.
"I hope we won't have to use the tin," he thought.
"You didn't have to bring all that," Runau said when de Gier clambered aboard. "I've got everything on this boat. Everything except the carbine of course." He took the weapon from de Gier and handled it lovingly. "Long time since I've had one in my hands. Much nicer than a rifle but not as deadly. I used to be pretty good with a carbine."
"Give it here," de Gier said. "We shouldn't lead you into temptation."
Runau laughed. "You aren't tempting me. I wouldn't aim it at a man, not even at a bird. I may have been a commando but I respect life."
"So do we," Grijpstra said. "You wouldn't have any coffee aboard, would you?"
"Plenty of coffee," Runau said, and started the yacht's engine. De Gier untied the mooring rope and the slender vessel nosed its way toward the lake.
"Were you going to spend the night on the water as well?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes," Runau said grimly. "My wife and I don't get on very well lately. I don't always go home after work. It's peaceful out here."
"I see," Grijpstra said.
They watched de Gier rummaging about on the yacht's deck. De Gier was still grinning to himself.
"Your colleague seems to be enjoying himself," Runau said.
"He does. He is an adventurer. This is different to patrolling the streets. He is still a little boy at heart and he reads too many books."
Runau moved the throttle and the yacht increased her speed noticeably. "We all are little boys at heart," he said.
"Hmm," Grijpstra said. "Will you be divorcing your wife?"
Runau was looking straight ahead. He looked suddenly tired.
"I think so."
"Any children?"
"No," Runau said. "We haven't been married very long. She is very young, we were going to wait."
"I see," Grijpstra said.
"Nice night, isn't it?" de Gier asked, sticking his head into the cabin. He was rubbing his hands. "Show me where the coffee is and I'll make it."
De Gier busied herself with the small paraffin burner. When the coffee was ready Runau switched the engine off and they listened.
"Can't hear anything," Runau said. "He must have gone the other way. His engine is noisy and the sound carries far on the lake. We'll bear north for a while, he won't have gone south toward Amsterdam, not if he wants to get away. Has he really murdered somebody?"
"We think he has," de Gier said. "He may have been dealing in drugs and we think he has killed his partner. Hung him, making it look like suicide."
"Hung him?" Runau asked. "That's a nasty way to kill somebody. I thought a Papuan would prefer a knife, or a bow and arrows, or a blowpipe."
"He stunned him before he hung him," Grijpstra said.
"That hotter he is sailing, is she fast?" de Gier asked.
Runau shook his head.
"Not very fast. This boat is much faster, but the botter is nicer. She has a lot of character, that boat. Must have cost him money too. A restored boat, some sixty or eighty years old, but the engine is brand new."
"This is a nice boat too," Grijpstra said.
"She is all right," Runau said, "but I would prefer the botter. This is just a little thing for pleasure. I work for the municipality and I don't earn very much. I had to save for years to buy this one but I should have bought a bigger boat. "I'd like to cross the ocean one day; this boat will never make it. The botter could make it, if her deck is sealed properly."
Grijpstra laughed. "Van Meteren may be on his way to New Guinea. We better warn the Water Police to watch the locks in the dike."
"He won't make the dike," Runau said. "We'll find him before he does. Pity I don't have a radio on board."
"That's all right," de Gier said. "The Water Police have been alerted. We'll catch him on the lake, unless, of course, he makes for another port and gets off his boat."
"He won't," Grijpstra said.
Runau had switched the engine off again and raised a finger. They listened.
"You hear?"
"Yes," they said. The heavy plof plof plof of the diesel engine was clearly audible.
"Bah," Grijpstra said, "we need a radio now. The Water Police are watching but they don't know what they are watching."
"There she is," Runau said.
The boat was no more than a black dot on the horizon. Runau got his binoculars and the dot became a little bigger.
"He has a rifle," de Gier said suddenly.
"A what?"
"A rifle," de Gier repeated, "a Lee Enfield rifle. He must be a crack shot with it and I am sure he has hundreds of cartridges."
"But how…?"
"Smuggled it from New Guinea," Grijpstra explained. "We knew he had it but he said it was a souvenir and we let him keep it. Never be kind to anyone. Now he'll kill us with his souvenir."
"We have the carbine," de Gier said.
"No match for a Lee Enfield," Grijpstra said. 'Tell you what-let's just follow him, keeping out of range. It may take a long time but the Water Police will come eventually."
"You could go back to the coast," Runau said, "and make contact with the Water Police. They have some small planes as well."
"No," de Gier said, "I prefer to catch up with him and tell him to surrender. He is a reasonable man and he will have to give himself up. If he starts shooting we can always duck."
R'unau laughed. "That's commando talk. I am with you."
They were both looking at Grijpstra.
"All right," Grijpstra said.
"More coffee," Runau said and filled their cups. "I am beginning to enjoy this. Better than filling in forms at the office."
The hotter was visible now. They saw the thick line of its single mast and a thin short line at the rudder.
"That's him," de Gier said and lifted the carbine. "He must know that it's us."
He aimed the carbine's barrel at the moon and fired. "We are in range already," Grijpstra said. "If he knows how to handle his rifle he can have us with three bullets."
They heard the shot, van Meteren's bullet wined past them."
"That's a warning shot as well," Runau said. "Two meters off at least."
"We'll impress him," Grijpstra said.
De Gier gave Runau his pistol and together they fired a ragged salvo at the moon. The crack of the carbine swallowed the small explosions of the pistol cartridges.
They were close now, sixty meters at the most, going into the same direction.
"Careful," de Gier said and ducked.
Van Meteren fired three times, the bullets just missed.
"He is serious now," Runau said.
"Not really serious," Grijpstra answered. "He missed us didn't he?"
"Hello," van Meteren called.
"Yes?" Grijpstra's voice was very pleasant.
"You can stand up," van Meteren shouted. "I want to talk to you. I won't fire."
"That's all right, friend," Grijpstra shouted, he got up, de Gier and Runau following his example.
"I can hit you easily from here," van Meteren shouted. "I have enough ammunition on board to keep it up all day, far more than you have. But I don't want to kill you. Go away and let me go."
"We can't," Grijpstra said, his deep voice being carried by the still air above the water.
"You are suspected of having committed a murder, van Meteren. It's the most serious crime our law knows. You have to surrender or we'll be following you until the Water Police catch up with you. We would prefer you to surrender now. If you hit or wound us you'll be in worse trouble than you are now."
Van Meteren looked at him. He was holding the rifle. De Gier was holding the carbine.
"You are crazy," van Meteren shouted. "I am a better shot than any of you. This rifle is powerful, I can shoot holes in your boat."
"Surrender," de Gier shouted. "Put your rifle down."
"No. I want you to go into the cabin and sit on the table. I am going to approach from behind and sink your boat. Then I'll drop my rubber dinghy and sail away. I'll phone the Water Police and tell them where you are."
"You'll be caught anyway," de Gier shouted.
"Not necessarily," van Meteren said. "Please go into your cabin. Sit on the table. I'll aim as low as I can."
Grijpstra and Runau went into the cabin. De Gier pretended to follow but he turned at the last moment. Van Meteren had been expecting the shot. The bullet missed him by at least a foot.
De Gier wanted to fire again but Grijpstra pulled him into the cabin.
"Idiot," Grijpstra said.
"De Gier breathed deeply and got onto the table. They heard the hotter turn around and the Lee Enfield began to fire, slowly and methodically. Five holes appeared near the yacht's rudder, a few inches above the waterline.
Van Meteren wasn't satisfied.
The next five holes were lower.
"Good work," Runau said. "We'll sink for sure. I hope the dinghy isn't too small."
The hotter's diesel accelerated. De Gier jumped off the table, aimed and emptied his carbine's clip. He had been so quick that Grijpstra's hand hit his shoulder when the last bullet had left the carbine's barrel.
"Fool," Grijpstra roared.
"I hit him," de Gier said. "The first shot got him. In the shoulder. I saw him go down."
"Not very nice," Runau said. "He was aiming at the boat. You aimed at his body."
De Gier didn't answer. His face was very pale, he was staring at the hotter.
"Are you hurt, van Meteren?" Grijpstra shouted. There was no answer.
"Are you hurt?"
"I am," van Meteren's voice came back.
"We are coming," de Gier shouted. "Don't move."
"I'll swim to the hotter," Runau said and stripped. Within five minutes they were all in the hotter. Van Meteren was stretched out on the floor of his cabin. His sheepskin-lined windbreaker was soaked with blood.