Blond Baboon (11 page)

Grijpstra leaned over and opened the passenger door.

“Shit,” de Gier said as the car leaped off. “The bastard! Did you see what he did? He pushed the boat’s gear forward and opened the throttle at the exact moment I jumped. I was lucky I fell free, I might have cracked my leg on his tiller.”

“I saw it.” Grijpstra grunted compassionately.

“And he was smiling, the bloody oaf. I know now why he is called the baboon. Did you see his face?”

Grijpstra had seen the face, split under the flat nose and the low forehead, split into a wide scowl of strong white teeth. The man did indeed look like an ape, a large powerful ape, but not a dangerous ape. Grijpstra’s first impression had been quite positive. Yet what the suspect had just done belied the friendliness that Grijpstra had seen in the man’s unusual, misshapen face.

The adjutant thought back as the Volkswagen careened through the Amsteldijk’s traffic, overtaking cars that veered to the side as the siren howled on. De Gier had found a parking place right in front of Vleuten’s house, a tall house, seven stories high, reaching for the overcast sky with the perfect double curve of its ornamental gable topped by a large plaster ball that in turn carried a spike. An ancient Rolls-Royce was parked half on the street, half on the sidewalk, and they had taken a minute to admire the vehicle before climbing the stone steps leading to the house’s green-lacquered front door. De Gier was about to press the top bell, which said “Jan Vleuten,” when a shout nailed them from the river and they had seen a man waving. The man stood on the cabin of an old-fashioned motor launch, painted bright white.

“I am Vleuten,” die baboon shouted. “Do you want me?”

When they got to the launch the baboon stood near his tiller, holding the boat’s painter, which had been swung around a large cleat on the quayside in a loose loop.

“Police,” de Gier had said, squatting down to show his identification.

And while the baboon read de Gier’s identification Grijpstra had formed his happy thoughts. A nice man, strange-looking for sure, but nice. And well dressed, in a thick white seaman’s jersey that set out his wide chest. Light blond glossy hair caught under a small cap, the visor bent up. Long hair still showing the marks of a comb. Large calm blue eyes, very long arms that contrasted with the short legs. The body of an ape harboring the soul of an intelligent, kindly man. What had struck Grijpstra most, apart from the man’s receding forehead and the absence of neck so that the head rested immediately on the potent torso, were Vleuten’s arms. He remembered the large apes he had seen in the zoo and in films and how they walked, swinging, resting not only on their feet but equally on the knuckles of their hands. It seemed to him that Vleuten would walk the same way, and he was waiting for an opportunity to confirm his thought when de Gier’s identification card was thrown onto the quay and the launch pulled away at full speed.

“Did you pick up your card?”

“Of course.”

He still couldn’t understand the suspect’s response to their polite approach.

“Police?” The baboon had a good voice, deep and quiet.

“Yes, Mr. Vleuten. I am a CID sergeant. My colleague and I would like to ask a few questions.”

The baboon had taken the card, a respectable weapon in their continuous warfare on crime—the police badge, the state’s authorization decorated with the red, white, and blue of the flag of the Netherlands, an authorization that legalizes police officers to bother citizens, for their own sake, the sake of peace, and the maintenance of the rules of peace. And the fellow had actually had the audacity to throw the card on the street.

“You aren’t worried about that damned card, are you?” de Gier asked. “What about me? Look at me!”

“You are wet,” Grijpstra said pleasantly.

“Wet! I am probably poisoned. I swallowed some of that liquid shit they keep in the canals these days. I could have got killed on some of that garbage that floats around. I could have got drowned! You didn’t even trouble yourself to see what had happened to me. All you were concerned about was your fucking radio.”

“Now, now.”

“But I still have my card, that’s all the adjutant wants to know.”

“You can swim,” Grijpstra said, “and I would have worried about you but I saw you climbing out. And here we are.”

“Wherer

“Here. I radioed a police boat. They’re supposed to meet us here. Good, they’re coming already, see?”

De Gier saw the gray speedboat pushing a fluffy bow wave but he didn’t seem interested. He looked down at his hands and began to wipe them. His right hand had bled a little; the left hand had a long gluey yellow weed stuck between the fingers. He pulled it out and threw it out of the window.

“He took a risk,” the adjutant said, forcing the car to take a short turn to the right and to dive under a large bridge, Amsterdam’s main thoroughfare, connecting its center to the eastern part of the city. They could hear the bridge’s rumble as a convoy of trucks passed overhead. “I could have shot him easily, but only in the chest or the head. His legs were covered by his boat’s gunwale. Maybe he knows that we only aim for the legs, provided they are not actually attacking us.”

De Gier was wringing out his trouser legs. “That’s my second suit today, got it from the dry cleaner’s this morning. We’ll have to catch him, Grijpstra. I want him in a cell, a bad cell, the corner cell.” The police launch was waiting and they jumped in, ignoring the water sergeant’s helpful arm.

“CID, sergeant, go south, we are after a white motorboat, one man in it, man with a white jersey and a cap. A good-looking boat, old but well kept. A wooden boat.”

The constable in the launch’s cabin shifted a small lever next to the steering wheel. The boat roared and began to cut through the river’s short bright waves, lifting its nose as it gathered speed. Grijpstra stumbled, but the water sergeant caught him by the shoulders.

“Hold on, your Mend took a bath, did he?”

“He did. The suspect removed his boat as my colleague jumped.”

Hands were shaken as the policemen introduced themselves.

“What’s the chase, Grijpstra? Is your suspect dangerous? Armed?”

Grijpstra explained. De Gier had gone into the cabin and was checking his pistol, breaking it into parts and drying it with a rag. The constable gave him a fresh clip and de Gier inserted it. “It’ll work,” the constable said, “but you’d better take it to the arms room, there are a lot of little bits and pieces that’ll rust eventually. You plan to shoot your man, sergeant?”

“I’d love to but I wouldn’t be thanked if I did. I don’t even know why he got away.”

“You have a charge against him?”

“He used to sleep with a lady we know.”

The constable wasn’t listening anymore. A towboat had appeared, tugging asthmatically at a line of three gigantic barges. The barges were following unsteadily and the racing police-launch seemed to be attracted by the last vessel’s looming, rusty hull. The little lever on the dashboard was pushed further and the boat’s engines roared a shade deeper.

“Missed her,” the constable said. “That’s a charge, sergeant? Sleeping with a lady you know?”

“The lady is dead. We’re going around asking questions.”

“And you land up in the river. Happened to me too. I was shoved off an ocean liner’s gangway last week. Part of the job. We keep dry clothes in that cupboard. Maybe they’ll fit you. A sergeant’s uniform. It’ll fit your rank if not your body.”

The river was clear, and the constable relaxed and watched de Gier strip. “There’s a towel in there too, and underwear, and I have a pair of rubber boots here somewhere. We keep everything, even a small machine gun I can mount on the foredeck. There’s something wrong with the gun’s breech but it looks most impressive.” De Gier stepped into the boots. “No, thanks, 1 don’t think our man is armed. How do I look, constable?”

The water sergeant and Grijpstra had come into the cabin and de Gier was admired. The uniform fitted.

“Stunning,” Grijpstra said. “I prefer the gold trim to our silver. Why do the water police have gold trim anyway?”

“Because gold is noble and so are we,” the water sergeant said. “The water may be polluted these days, but it can never be as dirty as the shore.”

The sun had found an opening in the low clouds above the city and the river’s wide expanse, dotted here and there by the spotless white of floating sea gulls spread all around them. The launch was skimming over the short waves. The water sergeant unscrewed the top of a large thermos. “Fresh coffee, made less than half an hour ago.” The four men were grinning as the baboon’s boat showed up as a speck near the next bend of the river. “Not a bad life, this,” the water sergeant said, pouring the coffee. “I don’t know why you chaps prefer to work in the city. Narrow streets, no air, people everywhere. The people are the worst, they always want something.”

“Don’t you deal with people?” Grijpstra asked.

“Sometimes, but I usually manage to avoid them. I prefer fish. We do a fair bit of fishing, you know. And there are always the birds. Some of the birds are stupid, especially the ducks, but I would still rather deal with ducks than with people. People, bah!”

Grijpstra looked up. “What happened to that boat? It was right in front of us just now.”

The constable pointed and turned the wheel at the same time, making the police boat knife through the river’s curve. “Over there, moored to the jetty. That’s the baboon’s launch, I thought I recognized it before but I wasn’t sure. Is the baboon your suspect?”

“Yes. You know him evidently.”

The water sergeant had stepped to the dashboard and turned the key, cutting the boat’s engines so that it settled back into the water. “Yes, Grijpstra, we know the baboon, everybody on the water does. But he doesn’t seem to be on board.”

“Never mind, go back a little and drop us off on the dike, out of sight of the jetty if possible. It could be that he hasn’t spotted us. We can sniff around a little. If we don’t catch him today we’ll catch him tomorrow.”

“Sleuths,” the water sergeant said to his constable. “Intelligent hunting hounds. I hope you are observing and learning. We would just go away and take that old boat with us but we don’t have brains. Sure, the suspect will come back to his boat and walk into our friends’ arms.” He turned back to Grijpstra. “Are you certain he’s your man?”

“Shouldn’t he be?”

“No. Tell me again why you’re after him.”

Grijpstra wrinkled his nose; he appeared to be lifting something heavy on his flat hands. “We know we are after him but we don’t know why exactly. He made my sergeant leap into the river, that’s one reason. And he used to sleep with a lady named Elaine Carnet and the lady died under suspicious circumstances. We went after him to ask some questions, routine questions, and he didn’t give us a chance to ask them. He took off.”

“He’s a good man.” The water sergeant’s eyes seemed to be pleading. “I’ve known him for a few years now, on the water and in a few pubs. He is an artist in a way, restoring our part of the world. The baboon finds old boats, wrecks, there are plenty of them around, rotting and forgotten. He buys and repairs them. Some old men are working with him, retired men who have nothing to do. The baboon got them interested in living again. The municipality is interested in what he’s trying to do They’ve given him the use of a small city wharf up north. The old men are very proud of their work. They don’t work for money, but the baboon sees to it that they get something, and when a boat is in good order again he will sell it at a fair price to somebody he thinks will appreciate a good boat.”

“He does? Does he own that old Rolls we saw parked in front of his address?”

“Yes. Same story. Bought as a wreck, taken apart, and reassembled. Same with his house too. I believe he inherited the house, but it was in poor shape, and he remodeled it completely and lets the six lower stories at reasonable rents. He could be a shark, most house owners are, but he isn’t.”

Grijpstra was listening intently, softly scratching around in his bristly short hair. De Gier, resplendent in his dark blue uniform, was listening too.

“You hear that?” Grijpstra asked.

“I heard, but I still have some weeds in my ears, so maybe I didn’t hear it all. A latter-day saint, eh? So why did this lovable gentleman who looks like an ape make me take a flying leap at the river? I wasn’t hustling him, was I? He barely gave me time to state my purpose, then whoosh … him away and me … In fact, I may have a charge for attempted manslaughter against him, or trying to cause serious injury. What else do you know about him? Nothing bad at all?”

“No. I have no idea why he took off, but I know mat if you bother him you’ll have everybody against you, everybody out here, the people of the waterways.”

The launch rubbed itself against the quayside and Grijpstra held on to a tree stump.

“Give us a push, sergeant. We won’t harm your hero, unless we can prove you wrong, and even then we wouldn’t be too nasty.”

De Gier jumped out too. “Thanks for the assistance, you’ll have your uniform back in the morning. I’ll try to keep it clean, but maybe your friend will have me in the river again.”

The water sergeant grinned. “Not in that uniform, he’ll respect the gold.”

The launch backed away and the two officers waved. It took the detectives a few minutes to walk to the jetty. The baboon had tied up his launch neatly but he wasn’t around.

“You want to snoop around here a bit?”

“May as well.”

But they were ready to give up and catch a tram back to their car when Grijpstra suddenly whistled. “Over there, on the terrace.”

The baboon was peacefully drinking tea. They stopped in front of his table.

“Afternoon, Mr. Vleuten.”

The baboon smiled as if welcoming old friends. “Well, I never. And in a water cop’s uniform too. Would you join me?”

They sat down but they didn’t say anything, and the silence, awkward at first, lost its tension as the three men gazed at the river. De Gier took off his cap and put it on die table and a girl came and took their order.

“I hope you didn’t hurt yourself,” the baboon said and offered a cigarette.