Death of a Hawker (3 page)

"Nice coffee," de Gier had been saying meanwhile. "Thank you very much. Drink some yourself, you need it. Please tell me what happened. Are you all right now?"

The woman sitting opposite him at the kitchen table tried to smile. A slender woman with dark hair, done up in a bun, and dressed in black slacks and a black blouse with a necklace of small red shells. She wore no rings.

"I am his sister," she said. "Esther Rogge. Call me Esther, please, everybody does. We have lived here for five years now. I used to have a flat but Abe bought this house and wanted me to move in with him."

"Looked after your brother," de Gier said. "I see."

"No. Abe didn't need anyone to look after him. We just shared the house. I have the first floor, he has the second. We hardly ever even ate together."

"Why not?" de Gier asked, lighting her cigarette. She had long hands, no lacquer on the nails, one nail was broken.

"We preferred not to fuss with each other. Abe kept the refrigerator stocked and he just ate what he liked. If we happened to be both in I might cook something for him but he would never ask me to. He often ate out. We lived our own lives."

"What did he do for a living?" de Gier asked.

Esther tried to smile again. Her face was still white and the shadows under her eyes showed up as dark purple stains but some life had returned to her mouth, which was no longer a slit in a mask.

"He was a hawker, sold things in the street. In the street market, the Albert Cuyp Market. You know the Albert Cuyp, of course?"

"Yes, miss."

"Please call me Esther. I sometimes went to see him in the Albert Cuyp. I have helped him too when I had a day off. He sold beads, and all types of cloth, and wool and colored string and braid. To people who like to make things themselves."

"Creative," de Gier said.

"Yes. It's fashionable to be creative now."

"You say your brother bought this house? Must have cost him some money or did he get a substantial mortgage?"

"No, it's all his. He made a lot of money. He wasn't just selling things in the street, you see, he dealt in a big way as well. He was always going to Czechoslovakia in a van and he would buy beads by the ton, directly from the factory, and he would sell to other hawkers and to the big stores too. And he bought and sold other things as well. The street market was for fun, he only went there on Mondays."

"And you, what do you do?"

"I work for the university, I have a degree in literature." De Gier looked impressed.

"What's your name?" Esther asked.

"De Gier. Detective-Sergeant de Gier. Rinus de Gier."

"May I call you Rinus?"

"Please," de Gier said, and poured himself more coffee. "Do you have any idea why this happened? Any connection with-the riots, you think?"

"No," she said. Her eyes filled with tears and de Gier reached out and held her hand.

"They threw something at him," the commissaris said, looking down at the corpse. "With force, considerable force. From the impact you would almost think they shot something at him. A stone perhaps. But where is it?"

Grijpstra explained what he had been able to deduct from his investigations so far.

"I see," the commissaris said pensively. "No stone, you say. And no bits of brick, I see. They were throwing bricks on the Newmarket Square, I am told. Red bricks. They break and pulverize when they hit something. There is no red dust on the floor here. Could have been a proper stone though and somebody may have found it and thrown it into the canal."

"There would have been a splash, sir, and the street has been patrolled all day."

The commissaris laughed. "Yes. Manslaughter and we are sitting right on top of it, have been sitting on it all day, and we never noticed. Peculiar, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"And he can't have been dead long. Hours, no more. A few hours, I would say. The doctor'll be here in a minute, the launch has gone back to pick him up. He'll know. Where's de Gier?"

"Downstairs, sir, talking to the man's sister."

"Couldn't stand the blood, could he? You think he'll ever get used to it?"

"No sir, not if he is forced to look at it for some time. We were in the middle of the riot and he put up a good fight and he didn't mind the blood on my hand but if blood is combined with death it seems to get him. Makes him vomit. I sent him down just in time."

"Every man has his own fear," the commissaris said softly. "But what caused all this, I wonder? Can't have been a bullet for there is no hole, but every bone in the face seems to have been smashed. Hey! Who are you?"

He had seen a man walking past the door in the corridor, a young man who now entered the room.

"Louis Zilver," the young man said.

"What are you doing here?"

"I live here, I have a room upstairs."

"We are policemen investigating the death of Mr. Rogge here. Can we come to your room? The photographers and print people will want to have a look at this room and we can use the opportunity to ask a few questions."

"Certainly," the young man said.

They followed Zilver up a flight of narrow stairs and were shown into a large room. The commissaris took the only easy chair, Grijpstra sat on the bed, the young man sat on the floor, facing them both.

"I am a friend of Abe and Esther," Louis said. "I have been living in this house for almost a year now."

"Go ahead," the commissaris said. "Tell us all you know. About the house, about what went on, about what everybody does. We know nothing. We have just come in. But first of all I would like you to tell me if you know how Abe died and where you were at the time.''

"I was here," Louis said. "I have been in the house all day. Abe was still alive at four o'clock this afternoon. He was here then, right here in this room. And I don't know how he died."

"Go on," the commissaris said pleasantly.

"Brr," Grijpstra said. "Some ashtray!''

Louis smiled. The smile was arrogant, condescending. "Friend of mine made it. He is a sculptor. Silly thing really, but it's useful so I kept it. And the meaning is obvious. Memento mori."

"Why do you have it if you think it's silly," the commissaris asked. "You could have thrown it out and used a saucer instead." The commissaris, who had spent the day in bed to ease the pain in his legs which had almost lamed him during the last few weeks, was rubbing his right leg. The hot needle pricks of his acute chronic rheumatism made his bloodless lips twitch. The commissaris looked very innocent. His shantung suit, complete with waistcoat and watch chain, seemed a little too large for his small dry body, and his wizened face with the carefully brushed, thin colorless hair expressed a gentle exactness.

"The man is a friend of mine, he often comes here. I think it would hurt him if I wasn't using his work of art. Besides, I don't mind having it around. The message of the skull may be obvious but it's true nevertheless. Life is short, seize the day and all that."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "There is a dead man in the house to prove the saying's worth."

The commissaris stopped to listen to the noises downstairs. Feet were clomping up and down the bare steps. The photographers would be setting up their equipment and the doctor would be getting ready to start his examination. A uniformed chief inspector, his jacket soaked and caked with soapstone powder, stomped his way into the room. The commissaris got up.

"Sir," the chief inspector said. "Anything we can do for you?"

"You have done enough today it seems," the commissaris said mildly.

"We haven't had any dead men outside," the chief inspector said. "Not so far, anyway."

"We have one here, one floor below. Got his face bashed in, hit by a stone or something, but we can't find the stone or whatever it was in his room."

"So my constables were telling me. Maybe your man was a reactionary, somebody the red mob outside may have disliked."

"Was he?" the commissaris asked Louis Zilver.

Louis grinned.

"Was he?"

"No," Louis said, carefully stubbing out his cigarette in the skull's silver cranium. "Abe didn't know what politics were. He was an adventurer."

"Adventurers get killed for a number of reasons," the chief inspector said, impatiently tapping his boot with his truncheon. "Do you have any use for me, sir?"

"No," the commissaris said, "no, you go ahead, I hope the situation is getting a bit better on the square."

"It isn't," the officer said. "It's getting worse. We are getting fresh crowds now, young idiots who come in screaming and dancing. I better get back."

Grijpstra watched Louis's face as the officer left the room. Louis was showing his teeth in the way a baboon does when he feels threatened. "It seems you are enjoying yourself," Grijpstra said.

"It's always nice to see the police get a beating,'' Louis said in a low voice.

Grijpstra bristled. The commissaris made a gesture. "Let's forget the Newmarket for a while. Tell us about the incident in this house. What do you know about it?"

Louis had lit a new cigarette and puffed industriously. "Esther found the body close to five o'clock this afternoon. She screamed. I was here, in my room. I ran downstairs. I told her to phone the police. Abe had been in my room an hour before Esther found him. He was right here, talking to me. There was nothing wrong with him then."

"What's your connection with Abe and Esther?"

"I am a friend. I got to know him on the market, the Albert Cuyp Market. I bought a lot of beads from him once, kept on going back for more. I was trying to make a structure, an abstract figure which I was planning to hang from the ceiling. Abe was interested in what I was doing and came to see me where I lived. I had an uncomfortable room, small, no conveniences, no proper light. He was buying this house and suggested I move in with him. And we used to go sailing together. His boat is outside, moored next to that big houseboat you can see from the window. A clapped-out little yacht. He would take it out when there was a good wind but he found it difficult to handle by himself."

The commissaris and Grijpstra got up to look out of the window. They saw the sixteen-foot plastic sailboat.

"It's half full of water," Grijpstra said.

"Yes. Rainwater. He never bothered, just hosed it out when he wanted to go sailing. The sails are downstairs; it only takes a few minutes to rig the boat."

"What about that houseboat?"

"It's empty," Louis said. "Been for sale for a long time. They want too much money for it and it's rotten."

"Somebody could have stood on the roof and thrown whatever it was that hit Abe," the commissaris said thoughtfully. "Why don't you go down, Grijpstra? Perhaps the police in the street saw somebody on the houseboat."

"What was that nasty remark you made about the police just now?" the commissaris asked when Grijpstra had left the room. "You told Esther to telephone us when the body was found, didn't you? So we must be useful, why sneer at something which is useful?"

"The body had to be taken care of, hadn't it?" Louis asked, and his eyes sparkled. "We couldn't dump it into the canal, it would foul the water."

"I see. So you called the garbage men?" Louis dropped his eyes.

"But your friend is dead, his face is bashed in. Don't you want us to apprehend the killer?" Louis' face changed. It lost its sparkle and suddenly looked worn and tired. The sensitive face became a study in sadness only kept alive by the luster of the large eyes.

"Yes," Louis said softly. "He is dead, and we are alone."

"We?"

"Esther, me, others, the people he inspired."

"Did he have enemies?"

"No. Friends. Friends and admirers. A lot of people used to come and see him here. He threw parties and they would do anything to be invited. He had lots of friends."

"And in business? Was he popular in business as well?"

"Yes," Louis said, staring at the plastic skull in front of him. "King of the Albert Cuyp street market. Very popular. All the street sellers knew him. Bought from him too. He was a big businessman you know. We used to bring in cargoes from Eastern Europe and a lot of it was sold to the market. Lately we were doing wool, tons of wool, for knitting and rug making. Wool is expensive stuff nowadays.'"

"We?" the commissaris asked.

"Well, Abe mostly. I just helped."

"Tell us about yourself."

"Why?"

"It may help us to understand the situation."

Louis grinned. "Yes, you are the police. I had almost forgotten. But why should I help the police?"

Grijpstra had slipped into the room and taken his place on the bed again. "You should help the police because you are a citizen," Grijpstra boomed suddenly, "because you are a member of society. Society can only function when there is public order. When order has been disturbed it has to be maintained again. It can only be maintained if the citizens assist the police. The task of the police is to protect the citizens against themselves."

Louis looked up and laughed.

"You think that's funny?" Grijpstra asked indignantly.

"Yes. Very funny. Textbook phrases. And untrue. Why should I, a citizen, benefit by what you, in your stupidity, in your refusal to think, call public order? Couldn't it be that public order is sheer boredom, a heavy weight which throttles the citizens?"

"Your friend is dead downstairs, with a bashed-in face. Does that make you happy?"

Louis stopped laughing.

"You are a student, aren't you?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes. I studied law but I gave it up when I saw how sickening our laws are. I passed my candidate's examinations but that was as far as I could go, I haven't been near the university since."

"What a pity," the commissaris said. "I studied law too and I found it a fascinating discipline. You only have a few years to go. You don't want to finish your studies?"

The boy shrugged. "Why should I? If I become a master at law I may find myself in a concrete office somewhere working for some large company or perhaps even the State. I don't particularly want to join the establishment. It's more fun shouting at the street market or driving a truck through the snow in Czechoslovakia. And I am not after money."

"What would you do," Grijpstra asked, "if somebody rolled your wallet?"

"I wouldn't go to the police if that's what you mean."

"And if someone murdered your friend? Didn't you tell Ester to phone us?"

Louis sat up. "Listen," he said loudly. "Don't philosophize with me, will you? I am not used to arguing. I accept your power and your attempt to maintain order in a madhouse and I'll answer any questions you may ask as long as they relate to the murder."

"You mean that humanity consists of mindless forms groping about?" the commissaris asked dreamily as if he hadn't really been listening. He was looking at the trees outside the window.

"Yes, you've put it very well. We don't do anything, things happen to us. Abe has found his death just now, like a few million black people have found their death in Central Africa because the water ran out. There's nothing anybody can do about it. My grandparents were thrown in a cattle truck during the war and dumped into some camp and gassed. Or maybe they just starved to death, or some SS man bashed their heads in for fun. Same thing happened to Abe and Esther's family. The Rogges stayed alive because they happened to survive; their lives weren't planned, like the deaths of the others weren't planned. And the police are pawns in the game. My grandparents were arrested by the police because they were Jews. By the Amsterdam municipal police, not the German police. They were told to maintain order, like you are now told to maintain order. That officer who was here a minute ago is merrily bashing heads now, on the New-market Square, half a kilometer from here."

"Really," Grijpstra said.

"What do you mean,
really?"
Louis shouted. "Are you going to tell me that only part of the police worked for the Germans during the war? And that most of your colleagues were on the queen's side? And what about 4he queen? Didn't she send troops to Indonesia to bash villagers on the head? What will you do if there's another war? Or a famine? It may happen any minute now." He coughed and looked at Grijpstra's face, ominously, as if he wanted the adjutant to agree with him.

"Or the Russians may invade us and impose communism. They will take over the government in The Hague and some minister will tell you to arrest all dissidents. And you will maintain order. You will send blue-uniformed constables armed with rubber truncheons and automatic pistols, helmeted perhaps, and carrying carbines. You'll have proper razzias with armored trucks blocking the street on each side. It's not unlikely you know. Just go outside and have a look at what's happening on the Newmarket Square right now."

"Who are you blaming?" the commissaris asked, tipping the ash of his cigar into the plastic skull.

"No one," Louis said quietly. "Not even the Germans, not even the Dutch police who took my grandparents away. Things happen, I told you already. I am not blaming things either, it's just that this idealizing, this reasoning, sickens me. If you want to do your job, if you consider your activity to be a job, do it, but don't ask me to clap my hands when you make your arrest. I don't care either way."

"It seems you are disproving your own theory," the commissaris said. "You refuse to do as you are told, don't you? You don't want to fit in. You should perhaps be finishing your studies so that you can join society on the right level, but you are working on the street market instead and driving a truck in some faraway country. But you are still doing something, working toward some goal. If you really believe what you say you believe, it seems to me you should be doing nothing at all. You should be drifting, pushed by circumstances of the moment."