Outsider in Amsterdam (23 page)

“Here we go again,” Grijpstra said and then ran toward a public call box. An old lady had just opened the door of the call box to go inside and Grijpstra’s sudden action nearly knocked her off her feet. She was a tough old lady and jabbed at Grijpstra with her umbrella.

“Police,” Grijpstra said.

“They all say that,” the old lady said, and nipped into the box. “You wait,” she shouted and banged the door in his face.

Grijpstra waited. The old lady’s conversation took two minutes. Meanwhile the fight spread. Two bad men against two sporting gentlemen.

Grijpstra finally made his call.

“Fistfight. Corner Prinsengracht Runstraat. One black eye so far and worse to come.”

“Can’t you manage by yourself?” a sharp voice answered.

Grijpstra grinned, they had recognized his voice.

“I am a detective, mate,” he answered. “This is a little job for the uniformed police. They should do something too, once in a while.”

“We are on our way,” the sharp voice said.

Grijpstra joined the crowd. De Gier was close to the inner ring, not meaning to interfere. He was waiting for a police
siren, but the city was quiet, and the fight continued. One of the bad men caught a punch on the nose, grunted and fell.

“Enough,” de Gier shouted. “Police! Stop fighting.”

He kicked off his slippers, moved close to one of the sporting gentlemen and put a hand on his shoulder.

“You want something?” the sporting gentleman shouted and kicked. Grijpstra jumped forward and grabbed the foot that had missed de Gier. He pulled it up and the sporting gentlemen crashed into the street. De Gier had gone very pale, he supported himself on a parked car. His spine had touched a lamp post with some force and he felt paralyzed.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked and a helping arm circled de Gier’s shoulders from behind. De Gier turned his head and looked into a heavily bearded face, framed by a crash helmet.

“You stop that and come with us,” another voice said. A uniformed policeman was looking at the bearded face as well.

“No no, constable,” de Gier said, “this fellow is all right, he wanted to help me. You want those two chaps over there, and the fellow who is going to make a dash for it, there he is. And you can pick up the other one who is sitting against the wall over there, with the black eye. And that pink lady was the cause of it all, you can pick her up as a witness and give her a lecture on clothes. If she had worn some this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Right, Sergeant,” the constable said. “That’s five people in all. I’ll radio for a bus. Are you coming to the station to make a report?”

“In half an hour’s time,” de Grier said, and rubbed his back. Grijpstra had caught the sporting gentleman who had tried to get away and handed him over to the other constable.

“Are you all right?” he asked de Gier.

“Fine,” de Gier said. “I broke my spine, that’s all. There are too many lamp posts in Amsterdam.”

“Did it rush you?” Grijpstra asked.

The bearded man in the crash helmet grinned. “Can I offer
you a beer? I was just going to have one myself when I ran into all this.”

“Sure,” Grijpstra said.

They found a quiet pub and lined up at the bar.

“Three beers,” the bearded man said and took off his crash helmet. “Excuse me a minute, will you? I put my motorcycle against a tree. I’d like to have her in a place where I can see her and put her on her standard.”

They saw their newfound friend through the window, pushing a heavy motorcycle.

When he came into the pub again de Gier raised his beer.

“Your health! Nice motorbike you have there. That’s a Harley, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” the bearded man said, “a beauty. I love her. But she is getting old, poor thing. She was built in nineteen forty-three, you know, an old war machine. There are a lot of things wrong with her now and her sound is getting terrible. But I’ll keep her, spend some money and time on her again. She’ll be all right.”

“Are you looking after her yourself?” de Gier asked.

“Yes,” the man said.

“Another three beers,” Grijpstra said, and sat down, smiling pleasantly. “Must be heavy work.”

“Yes,” the man said. “First it’s this and then it’s that. I should really spend a thousand on her and do a good thorough job but I haven’t been saving lately. You know how it goes, wife wants a new dress, children go to holiday camps. I am working overtime as it is, almost every night.”

“What’s she worth now you think?” de Gier asked.

The man smacked his lips. “A lot of money. You wouldn’t think so but that model is antique. Even a wreck would cost you close to a thousand and then you have to spend a few thousand to get the wreck onto the road. A clever man would buy himself one of these small motorized bicycles, you can buy very good
ones for just over a thousand and they’ll be twice as fast in the city traffic. These Harleys are slow on the uptake. You can do over a hundred kilometers on the highroad, of course, but they are slow in town.”

“That’s a lot of money,” de Gier said, “but suppose you wanted an old machine like this in top condition, how much would you have to spend?”

“Six thousand at least,” the man said. “It would be worth the money. I have often thought about it. The dealers still have all the parts. For about four thousand you could buy a complete set, and then you’d have to pay a man another two thousand to put them together. I could do it myself perhaps, but I couldn’t do all of it. You need a real expert.”

“Are there still any Harley experts around?” Grijpstra asked.

De Gier was glad Grijpstra asked the question for the blood was throbbing in his veins and he might have sounded too eager if he had asked the question himself.

“Not many,” the man said.

“I have a friend,” Grijpstra said, “who likes old motorcycles and he has some money as well. He was telling me he would like to have a Harley. I wonder where he should go.”

“Seket,” the man said. “He is the best man I know. And he is in Amsterdam. There’s another fellow in Rotterdam and there’s one in Gouda I believe but maybe this man is better. Lou Seket. His workshop is on the Bloemgracht, you can’t miss it. It has a big sign on the door and he has a nice poster in his shopwindow, two naked girls sitting on a green Harley. I wouldn’t know the street number but it is close to the end of the gracht, near the Marnixstraat.”

“Thanks,” Grijpstra said. “I’ll remember it. We’ll have to be on our way now.”

He asked for the bill.

“No, no,” the man said. “You police fellows can’t make a guilder on the sly. Let me pay. I’ve just done a nice little job,
built a kitchen for somebody I know. Couple of hundred tax free.”

He winked and paid. The detectives thanked him.

“Doesn’t declare his full income,” de Gier said in the street.

“Who cares?” Grijpstra said. “Let’s go and see this Seket. Right now.”

“I have to go to the station first to write a report on the fight.”

“Never mind that report. I’ll phone. If they want a report, they can have it tomorrow. They may not even need one. Come.”

“This Seket fellow’s probably spending the weekend in the country somewhere,” de Gier said.

“Don’t fuss,”
Grijpstra said. “He’ll be somewhere and we’ll find him. We only want to ask him one question. Just one.”

It didn’t take long to find the shop. De Gier admired the poster. Two attractive girls, both naked, faced each other. Their legs straddled the heavy frame of an old Harley. One girl was leaning back on the handlebars, the other leered lustfully at her inviting friend.

“Nice,” de Gier said. “Two lesbians taking a sharp corner.”

“They aren’t lesbians,” Grijpstra said. “They are just trying to do what the dirty photographer tells them to do. Stop ogling.”

The shop was closed.

“You see,” said de Gier, “he is spending the weekend in the country. On an island in the North, I bet.”

“If he is, we’ll go there.”

“There’s only one ferry a day.”

“We’ll get a helicopter from the Air Force,” Grijpstra said.

“Ah, here,” de Gier said, “look. He is living above his shop. There’s his name on the door.”

He pressed the bell and the door opened.

A short fat man in his early sixties with a mane of white hair was looking at them from the staircase.

“Mr. Seket?” Grijpstra asked.

“I am. But if you want anything done to a motorbike you’ll have to come back on Monday. I have locked up for the day.”

“Police,” Grijpstra said. “Can we see you a minute?”

“I have nothing to do with the police,” Seket said and came down the stairs. He stopped in front of the detectives and glared at them.

“Well, what is it? Not a stolen Harley-Davidson I am sure. Nobody steals a Harley.”

“Why not?” de Gier asked.

“Too hard to start.”

Grijpstra didn’t understand.

“Too hard to start? But what if you know how to start a Harley, then you could steal one couldn’t you?”

Seket smiled, showing broken dirty teeth, as dirty as his overalls.

“No mate, I see you don’t know about Harleys. If you know how to start one, you would be a member of the brotherhood. Harley owners stick together, they would never steal from each other.”

“How nice,” de Gier said.

“So what do you want to know, friend?” Seket asked and glared again.

“All I want to know,” de Gier said, “is if you ever built a motorcycle for a man called van Meteren.”

“I did,” Seket said promptly, “the best I ever built. Brand new parts, new accessories, the lot. A riding advertisement. A beauty. About a year and a half ago. I still service the machine, there’s nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong with her. But that van Meteren fellow knows how to look after her. Polishes her up like a baby.”

“One more question,” Grijpstra said. “How much did he pay?”

“A lot of money. A hell of a lot of money. Close to seven thousand it was, but she is worth it. I didn’t overcharge him. In fact I undercharged him, for I liked the man.”

“Cash?” de Gier asked.

“With me everything is cash. I wouldn’t even take a bank check.”

“No bookkeeping, hey?” Grijpstra asked.

“You aren’t from the Tax Department?” Seket asked and stepped back.

“No,” Grijpstra said. “Don’t worry.”

“Shit,” Seket said. “I shouldn’t have told you nothing. Fuzz. Bah. Now van Meteren will be in trouble, I suppose. I was wondering where he got the money, but I didn’t ask. I never ask.”

“He is in trouble,” Grijpstra said, “and you will be, too, if you warn him.”

Seket closed the door in his face.

“Let’s go,” de Gier said.

“We need a car,” Grijpstra said.

“What for?”

“We need a car,” Grijpstra said stubbornly. “Headquarters is close. We’ll get it and then we’ll go and see him.”

“W
HAT
’
S VAN
M
ETEREN
’
S
new address?” Grupstra 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 has Saturday got to do with it?” Grijpstra asked.

“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 is at home,” Grijpstra said. “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 the 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, and Japanese were pouring out of the bus. Very neat Japanese, the men dressed in blue blazers and grey slacks and strapped into their cameras and light meters, the women dressed in many-colored kimonos with wide belts made of cloth.