Tumbleweed (9 page)

"For frogs and officers," the sergeant said softly.

* * *

"Try the
police again," the commissaris said to the girl at the switchboard. "Chief Inspector da Silva in Willemstad."

Within ten minutes the phone rang.

The connection was bad and the commissaris had to shout a good deal. The chief inspector was very helpful. Yes, he had gone into the matter. Yes, Mrs. van Buren was a daughter of Mr. de Sousa of
. Yes, Mr. de Sousa was an important citizen. No, nothing was known on the island, nothing that could be a cause of Mrs. van Buren's untimely death in Amsterdam. Chief Inspector da Silva was sorry but that was all he could say.

The commissaris sighed and dialed a two-digit number. "The chief constable, please," he said politely.

He waited. "Morning, sir. The Secret Service knows nothing."

"It never does," the chief constable said.

"I think I should go to
."

There was a short silence and the commissaris found himself staring hard at his telephone.

"Well, if you think it is necessary."

9

"B
UTTON UP YOUR SHIRT, " GRIJPSTRA SAID. "I CAN SEE your undershirt. Your orange undershirt."

He sounded surprised.

"Have you never seen an orange undershirt?" de Gier asked.

"No. Don't want to either."

De Gier fumbled with his shirt.

"The button is gone," Grijpstra said, leaning closer. "Ha!"

"Ha what?"

"You are getting fat," Grijpstra said triumphantly.

De Gier jumped up and left the room. Grijpstra ran after him. He found de Gier staring at himself in the large mirror which had been placed in the corridor by a chief constable who wanted his men to look neat.

"Stand normally," Grijpstra said. "Breathe out! You'll choke if you breathe in only."

"Fat," de Gier said.

"A little fat," Grijpstra said. "It's your age. The muscles go soft and gradually the stomach begins to pop out. Don't worry."

"No."

"But it may get worse. I had an uncle who had a figure a little like yours. He had to wear a corset in the end."

"What happened to your uncle?" de Gier asked.

"Oh, he died, why?"

"What age?"

"Forty-eight, forty-nine, I believe."

"What of?"

"Vanity," Grijpstra said. "Plain vanity. Looking in the mirror. He got fatter and fatter and he kept on buying stronger corsets and one day the veins in his neck burst. But what do you care about my uncle? Did you read the commissaris' note on my desk?"

"Yes," de Gier said. "I read all the notes on your desk. He has gone to Curacao and he won't be back for a few days and we are to continue our investigations."

Grijpstra nodded.

"So what do you plan to do?"

"Follow me."

De Gier followed and they landed up near the coffee machine where Grijpstra waited until de Gier had found the right coins. The machine worked.

"I have followed you," de Gier said. "Now what?"

"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "We could telephone Mr. Holman again and ask him to come to see us."

"We did that yesterday."

"And the day before yesterday."

"If he comes today he'll cry again."

"He hasn't done it," de Gier said.

Grijpstra leaned against the whitewashed wall and sipped his coffee. "Why hasn't he done it? He has admitted that he has seen Mrs. van Buren by himself, hasn't he? First he said that he always took his little son but later he admitted mat he has been to the houseboat by himself."

"On Sunday mornings only."

"So he says but why shouldn't he have made love to her on Sunday mornings. What's wrong with Sunday mornings?"

"That fat fellow?"

"Come off it," Grijpstra said. "He isn't so fat, no fatter man you will be in a few years' time. And he has a nice pleasant face. Perhaps he gave her a feeling of security. Perhaps she cuddled him. She could never have cuddled her paying lovers. The colonel, the diplomat, and our friend Drachtsma are all over six feet and wide-shouldered and dynamic and handsome. Perhaps she got tired of their profiles and muscles. So jolly Mr. Holman became her true lover. On Sunday mornings.

"Right," de Gier said. "Wonderful. Romantic. They had coffee or hot cocoa or milk with honey and nutmeg and they made warm cozy love to each other and then he bounced home again."

"Yes. But he got tired of her and she threatened to tell his wife so he sweated for a day or two and made up his mind and practiced with his darts. And then he found that lovely wicked knife in a second-hand store in the inner city and he took it home and threw it for an hour or so and then he went to see her last Saturday night and threw it right into her back. Swish. Plop."

"No," de Gier said.

"Why not? He is a violent man. Some little boy steps on a plant in his garden and he gives the little fellow such a wallop that he lands up in hospital with a cracked skull. And he is untrustworthy. His boss trusted him and he stole a couple of thousand guilders when he thought nobody was looking. You have read his file, haven't you?"

"I have read his file."

"So?"

De Gier walked over to the window and looked down into the courtyard where four stolen cars, found by the night patrol, were waiting for their rightful owners. He thoughtfully scratched his bottom.

"So?"

"Maybe. But I don't think so. Perhaps you are right. He is in a terrible state. Every time we ask him a question he wipes his face with that large handkerchief and he gets tears in his eyes and finally he cries. He hasn't got an alibi. But he threw that stiletto of yours into the commissaris' cigar box. That was really silly, wasn't it?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "that was silly. But we would have found out about his darts anyway. He knew we would, so perhaps it was very clever to play along with us."

"A lover and a genius," de Gier said.

"He deals in nuts, remember? He set himself up in business after he had been in jail twice. He runs his own business so well that he owns a nice house in a good area and a brand-new red Rover. A Rover is a pretty posh car. I have spoken to two of his clients pretending I wanted some information about his commercial reliability. They spoke very highly of him. He does all his own selling and buying and he has only one employee, an old spinster who answers his phone when he isn't there. I am convinced that he is an intelligent man; to build up a good business in a few years' time takes brains. And discipline."

"You think we should arrest him?"

"No," Grijpstra said, "we can only hold him for a few days. There is no evidence at all. We'll have to make him confess."

"Play cat and mouse? Make him come every day, and men give him a break, and then make him come every day again? Phone him at his house with odd questions?"

Grijpstra didn't answer.

"It's a nasty game, you know. Last time we did it the man had a nervous breakdown and his wife nearly divorced him and he was innocent."

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "I won't forget that case."

"To hell with it," de Gier said, and jumped up. "The boss is away and we have no real plans for today. Let's go."

"Where? It's raining."

"To my flat," de Gier said.

They got to the flat within a quarter of an hour and de Gier put on a record for Grijpstra and took Oliver with him into the kitchen. Oliver growled and scratched at the door.

"You can have him later. Let me make some pancakes."

"Pancakes," he said a little later. "You like pancakes. You can have them with ham, with honey, or with syrup. And this is good coffee. You can have a good cigar as well. Put your feet on that chair."

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "I'll do all that. Put jam on the pancakes. And watch your cat."

Oliver was growling in a corner and sharpening his nails on the carpet while he was fixing Grijpstra with his clear blue slanting eyes.

"Shit," Grijpstra said. "There must be something wrong with you that you like that cat."

"He is called Oliver. And he sleeps in my arm."

"Frrrooo," Grijpstra said softly.

He ate his pancakes, burped, and lit his cigar.

De Gier put on another record and together they listened to church music, an organ playing Bach. Oliver jumped on Grijpstra's lap, purred, and fell asleep. De Gier was stretched out on the floor, his head cradled in his arms. The record came to an end.

"Beautiful," Grijpstra said, and opened his eyes. He scratched Oliver behind the ears. The cat began to purr again.

"You see," de Gier said.

"Perhaps."

"If the commissaris thought Holman had done it he wouldn't have gone to
."

"No," Grijpstra said. "
is a warm island. The commissaris has an eternal pain in his legs. He wanted to warm his legs. He'll be on a deck chair somewhere now, on the terrace of a hotel. He took the opportunity when it presented itself. The case is stuck and the lady comes from
. He has to investigate her background. It takes only eight hours to fly there and the State is paying for his ticket."

"We can't solve the case while he is away," de Gier said, rolling over on his back, "it'll make him look silly."

"She didn't blackmail the diplomat."

"Why not?"

"She couldn't have. He isn't married."

De Gier sat up. "You are forgetting the Secret Service. They are in this too. She may have known secrets the diplomat shouldn't have told her about."

"Ha," Grijpstra said. "What secrets? Belgium isn't at war. They are like us. Belgium is a small comfortable country spending its time manufacturing things and selling them."

"Exactly. Commercial secrets or secrets involving the economy. Certain nations (he was dropping his voice) are very interested in ruining the economy of the Common Market. Diplomats always know too much and beautiful women are sent to lure them to their houseboats. The diplomats boast."

"No," Grijpstra interrupted, "not our diplomat. He wouldn't have wasted his time boasting. He went to her boat to sleep with her. He made her perform. He played with her or he made her play with him. And then he got into his clothes and into his black Citroen and he drove home."

"You don't suspect the diplomat?"