Death of a Hawker (9 page)

Grijpstra sighed and leaned a little further into the soft upholstery of the car. "It may be a simple case after all, sir. The man was a hawker, a street seller. They usually make a lot more money than the taxman should know about and they hide the difference in tins under the bed, or in a secret place behind the paneling, or under the floor somewhere. One of my informers told me that over a hundred thousand guilders were stolen from an old mate of his, a man selling cheese in the street. The cheese-man never reported the theft because he wasn't supposed to have that much money. If the taxman had heard about it he would have stung the poor fellow for at least half of it, so the poor sucker kept quiet and cried alone. But Abe Rogge may have wanted to defend his cache and he got killed."

"By a spiked ball swung at his face?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "why not? Maybe the killer is a man who is clever with his hands. A carpenter, a plumber. Maybe he made his own weapon, invented it."

"But he never took Abe's wallet," the commissaris said. "There was a lot of money in the wallet. If he came for money he wouldn't have left a few thousand right in his victim's pocket. He only had to reach for it. An inventive man, you said. Louis Zilver is inventive. Remember that figure he was trying to create out of beads and wire?"

"He threw it into a dustbin," Grijpstra said, "made a mess of it. But the idea was inventive, true."

Grijpstra looked out of the window of the car. They were in the southern part of Amsterdam now, and gigantic stone-and-steel structures blocked the sky, like enormous bricks dotted with small holes.

And they are full of people, Grijpstra thought. Little people. Little innocent people, preparing their Sunday lunch, lounging about, reading the paper, playing with their kids and with their animals, making plans for the rest of the day. He looked at his watch. Or having a late breakfast. Sunday morning, best time of the week.

The car stopped at a traffic tight and he found himself staring at a balcony, populated by a complete family. Father, mother, two small children. There was a dog on the balcony too. One of the children was making the dog stand up by dangling a biscuit just above its head. The toddler and the small dog made a pretty picture. The geraniums in the flower boxes attached to the balcony's railing were in full flower.

And we are chasing a killer, Grijpstra thought.

"Louis Zilver," the commissaris said, "not a very well-adjusted young man perhaps. I had him checked out last night. He has a previous conviction, for resisting arrest when caught making a drunken racket in the street. Happened a few years ago. He attacked the constables who tried to put him into a patrol car. The judge was very easy on him, a fine and a lecture. What do you think, adjutant? Do we put him on the list of prime suspects?"

Grijpstra's thoughts were still with the family on the balcony. The harmonious family. The happy family. He was wondering whether he himself, Adjutant Grijpstra, flat-footed sleuth, bogey-man of the underworld, restless wanderer of canals, alleyways, dark cul-de-sacs, would like to be happy, like the young healthy father enthroned on his geranium-decorated balcony on the second floor of a huge transparent brick, facing a main thoroughfare.

"Grijpstra?"

"Sir," Grijpstra said. "Yes, definitely. Prime suspect. Surely. It's all there. Motive and opportunity. Maybe he was greedy, wanted the business for himself. Or jealous of Rogge's interminable successes. Or he might have wanted Esther and Abe wouldn't let him. Or he was trying to get Esther through Abe. But I don't know."

"No?" the commissaris asked.

"No, sir. He's a bungler, that's what he is."

"A bungler?" the commissaris asked. "Why? His room seemed well-organized, didn't it? Bookkeeping all neatly stacked on a shelf. The bed was made, the floor was clean. I am sure Esther didn't look after the room for him; he must have done it himself. And his clothes were washed; he even had a crease in his trousers."

"Because of Abe," Grijpstra said. "Abe pulled him together. Before he started hanging on to Rogge he was nothing. Dropout from university, sleeping late, drinking, fooling around with beads. He functioned because Abe made him function. I am sure he can do nothing on his own."

"Can't make a weapon that shoots a spiked ball, you mean."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.

"I think the killer may be some connection at the street market, sir, and it seems to me you are thinking the same way, or you wouldn't be pushing de Gier and Cardozo into their masquerade tomorrow. They are going to be hawkers, didn't you say so?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, and smiled.

"This is the address, sir," the constable at the wheel said.

Grijpstra hissed admiringly as he looked at the bungalow spread on a low artificial hill, sitting in the middle of at least an acre of freshly mown grass, decorated with bushes and evergreens. The gate was open and the Citroen eased itself into the driveway.

The front door of the bungalow opened as they got out of the car. "Bezuur," the man said as he pumped the commissaris' hand. "I was waiting for you. Please come in."

A pudding, Grijpstra thought again. They have dropped a pudding on a human skull, a pudding of blubbery fat. The fat has oozed down, from the cranium downward. It covered the cheekbones and then it slowly dripped down to the jaws and clung to the chin.

Bezuur was sitting on the edge of his chair, straight up. His round belly hung over his belt and Grijpstra could see folds of flesh, hairy flesh, embedding the navel. The man was sweating. The sweat from his armpits was staining his striped tailor-made silk shirt.

Bezuur's face gleamed and drops were forming, joining each other in miniature streams, gliding down, hesitating near the small pudgy nose. It was very hot, of course. Grijpstra was sweating too.

A big man, Grijpstra thought. Over six feet, he must weigh a ton. He'll eat a hundred guilders a day, easily. Bowlsful of cashew nuts probably, and shrimps, and a bucket or two of potatoes, or spaghetti, and a loaf of bread thrown in, bread covered with fried mushrooms and smoked eel and thick slices of ham.

Bezuur reached out and grabbed a bottle of beer out of a carton placed near his chair. He broke off the cap and filled his glass. The thick foam rose quickly and flowed down the sides of the glass, spilling onto the thick rug.

"More beer, gentlemen?"

The commissaris shook his head. Grijpstra nodded. Bezuur tore the cap off another bottle. More foam was sucked into the rug. "Here you are, adjutant."

They looked at each other in the eye and raised their glasses, grunting simultaneously. Bezuur drained his glass. Grijpstra took a carefully measured sip; it was his third glass. Bezuur had had six since they came into the room. Grijpstra put the glass down gingerly.

"He is dead, the bastard," Bezuur said, and viciously replaced the glass on a marble-topped side table. It cracked and he looked at it dolefully. "The silly stupid bastard. Or perhaps he was clever. He always said that death is a trip and he liked traveling. He used to talk a lot about death, even when he was a boy. He talked a lot and he read a lot. Later he drank a lot too. He was an alcoholic when he was seventeen years old. Did anybody tell you?"

"No," Grijpstra said. "You tell us."

"An alcoholic," Bezuur said again. "Became one when we entered the university. We were always together, at school and at the university. We passed our high school examinations when we were sixteen. Wonderkids we were. We never worked but we always passed. I was good at mathematics and he was good at languages. When we did work we worked together. A deadly team we were; nobody and nothing could tear us apart. We only worked when we came to an examination and then we would only put in the bare minimum. It was pride, I think. Showing off. We would pretend we weren't listening at classes but we soaked it all up, and we remembered the stuff too. And we made secret notes, on scraps of paper; we didn't have notebooks like the other kids. And no homework, homework was for the birds. We read. But he read more than I did and at the university he began to drink."

"He did?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes."

Bezuur's hand shot out and another bottle lost its cap. He looked at the cracked glass, and turned around to look at the kitchen door. He must have had mote glasses in the kitchen but it was too far, and he drank from the bottle, tossing the cap on the floor. He looked at Grijpstra's glass but it was still half full.

"I think he was drinking a bottle a day. Jenever. He would drink any brand as long as it was cold. One day he couldn't get his pants on in the morning, his hands trembled too much. He thought it was runny but I worried and made him see a doctor who told him to layoff. He did too."

"Really?" Grijpstra asked. "He stopped drinking straight off? Just like that?"

"Yes. He was clever. He didn't want to be a drunk; it would complicate his routine."

"Stopped drinking straight off, hey," Grijpstra said, & airing his head.

"I told you he was clever," Bezuur said. "He knew it would be difficult to break the habit so he did something drastic. He disappeared for a while, three months I think it was. Went to work on a farm. When he came back he was off it. Later he began drinking again but then he knew when to stop. He would cut out at the third or fourth glass and drink soft stuff."

"Beer?"

"Beer is not so soft. No, lemonades, homemade. He would fuss about, squeezing the fruit, adding sugar. With Abe everything had to be dead right."

Bezuur tipped the bottle again but it was empty and he slammed it on the table. The bottle cracked. He glared at it.

"You seem a little upset," Grijpstra said.

Bezuur was staring at the wall behind Grijpstra's chair. "Yes," he said, "I am upset. So the bastard died.

How the hell did he manage that? I spoke to Zilver on the phone. He reckons they threw a ball at him, a metal ball, but nobody can find it. It that right?"

He was still staring at the wall behind Grijpstra's chair and Grijpstra turned around. There was a painting on the wall, a portrait of a lady. The lady was wearing a long skirt of some velvety material, a hat with a veil, an elaborate necklace, and nothing else. She had very full breasts with the nipples turned upward. The face was quiet, a delicate face with dreaming eyes and lips which opened in the beginning of a smile.

"Beautiful," Grijpstra said.

"My wife."

Grijpstra looked around the room.

Bezuur laughed, the laugh sounded bubbly and gushy, as if a pipe had suddenly burst and water was flowing down the wall.

"My ex-wife, I should say, perhaps, but the divorce isn't through yet. She left me some months ago now and her lawyers are squeezing me and my lawyers are having a lovely time, writing lots of little notes at a guilder a word."

"Any children?"

"One, but not mine. The fruit of a previous relationship. Some fruit, a little overripe apple, and stupid too—but what do I care, she went too."

"So you are alone."

Bezuur laughed again and the commissaris looked up. He wished the man wouldn't laugh. He had found a way of putting up with the pain in his legs but Bezuur's merriment shook his concentration and the pain attacked again.

"No," Bezuur said, and stretched his right arm. The arm swept in a half circle.

"Girlfriends," Grijpstra said, and nodded.

"Yes. Girls. I used to go to them but now they come here. It's easier. I am getting too heavy to run about."

He looked at the floor, stamping his foot on die sodden rug. "Bah. Beer. Something to do for the cleaning boys. You can't get charwomen anymore you know, not even if you pay them in gold bars. Some cleaning platoon comes here on weekdays, old men in white uniforms. They have a truck and the biggest vacuum cleaner you ever saw. Whip through the whole place in an hour. But the girls come on Fridays or Saturdays and they leave a mess and I sit in it. Bah."

His arm made a sweeping movement again and Grijpstra followed the movement. He counted five empty champagne bottles. Someone had forgotten her lipstick on the couch. There was a stain on the white wall, just below the painting of Bezuur's wife.

"Turtle soup," Bezuur said. "Silly bitch lost her balance and the soup hit the wall. Good thing it missed die painting."

"Who did the painting?"

"You like it?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "Yes. I think it is very well done. Like that picture of the two men in a small boat I saw on Abe Rogge's wall."

Bezuur looked at the carton next to his chair, took out a bottle but put it back again.

"Two men in a boat? You saw that painting too, eh? Same artist. Old Mend of ours, a Russian Jew born in Mexico, used to go boating with us and he came to the house. Interesting fellow, but he wandered off again. I think he is in Israel now."

"Who were the two men in the boat?"

"Abe and me," Bezuur said heavily. "Abe and me. Two friends. The Mexican fellow said that we belonged together, he saw it that night. We were on the big lake, the boat was anchored and we had taken the dinghy into the harbor. We came back late that night. The sea was fluorescent and the Mexican was wandering about on deck. He left the next day, he should have stayed a few more days, but he was so inspired by what he saw that night that he had to get back to his studio to paint it. Abe bought the painting and I commissioned this one later. That Mexican was very expensive, even if you were his friend, but he was pretty good."

"Friends," the commissaris said. "Close friends. You were close friends with Abe, weren't you, Mr. Bezuur?"

"Was," Bezuur said, and there was the same blubbery note in his voice again, but now he seemed close to tears. "The bastard is dead."

"You were close friends right up to yesterday?"

"No," Bezuur said. "Lost touch. Went his way, I went my way. I have a big business now and no time to play about on the street market, but I enjoyed it while it lasted."

"When did you each go your own way?"

"Wasshit matter?" Bezuur said, and that was all they could get out of him for a while. He was crying now, and had opened another bottle, slopping half of it on the floor. The fit took a few minutes.

"Shorry," Beznur said.

"That's all right," the commissaris said, and rubbed his legs. "We understand. And I am sorry we are bothering you."

"What did Mr. Rogge and yourself study at the university?" Grijpstra asked. Bezuur looked up, there seemed to be some strength in him again and he was no longer slurring words.

"French. We studied French."

"But you weren't so good at languages. Didn't you say so before?" the commissaris asked.

"Not too bad either," Bezuur said. "Good enough. French is a logical language, very exact. Maybe I would have preferred science but it would have meant breaking from Abe, I wasn't ready for that then."

"Did you study hard?"

"Same way we got through high school, in my case anyway. Abe was more enthusiastic. He read everything he could find at the university library, starting at the top shelf on the left and finishing on the bottom shelf on the right. If the books didn't interest him he would flip the pages, reading a little here and there but often he would read the whole book. I just read what he selected for me, books he talked about."

"And what else did you two do?"

Bezuur was staring at the portrait and the commissaris had to ask again.

"What else? Oh, we ran about. And I had a big boat in those days; we'd go sailing on the lakes. And we traveled. Abe had a little truck and we went to France and North Africa and once I talked my father into buying us tickets on an old tramp which went to Haiti in the Caribbean. The language is French over there and I said we needed the experience for our study."

"Your father paid for Abe's ticket as well? Didn't Abe have any money himself?"

"He had some. German love-money. The Germans paid up after the war, you know, and they had killed both his parents. He got quite a bit; so did Esther. Abe knew how to handle money. He was doing a little business on the side. He was buying and selling antique weapons in those days."

"Weapons?" the commissaris asked. "He didn't happen to have a good-day, did he?"

"No," Bezuur said, when the question had got through to him. "No, no, cavalry sabers and bayonets, that sort of stuff. You think he was killed with a good-day?"

"Never mind," the commissaris said. "Did he ever live out of your pocket?"

Bezuur shook his head. "No, not really. He accepted that ticket to Haiti but he made up for it in other ways. He only relied on himself. He would borrow money sometimes but he always paid up on time and later, when I was lending him big money, he paid full bank interest. The interest was his idea, I never asked for it but he said I had a right to it."

"Why didn't he borrow from the bank?"

"He didn't want his transactions on record. He borrowed cash and he paid cash. He was pretending to be a small hawker, a fellow who lived off his stall."

The commissaris looked at Grijpstra and Grijpstra asked the next question.

"Why did you both drop out of the university?"

Bezuur looked at his beer bottle and shook it. "Yes, we dropped out, right at the end. Abe's idea, that was. He said the degree would be pure silliness, it would qualify us to become schoolteachers. We had learned all we wanted to learn anyway. We went into business instead."

"The street market?"

"Yes. I started importing from the communist countries. In Rumania a lot of people speak French and we went there to see what we could find. The East Bloc started exporting cheaply in those days, to get hard currency. You could pick up all sorts of bargains. They offered wool and buttons and zippers, so we found ourselves in the street market. The big stores wouldn't buy at first and we had to unload the goods. We made good money, but then my dad died and left the road-working machinery business so I had to switch."