The Corpse on the Dike (2 page)

The commissaris agreed but he didn’t pursue the subject. The commissaris was an old man, close to retirement. He had been in jail himself, during the war, when the Gestapo had wanted to learn about the way the Dutch Resistance worked. The commissaris had been a senior officer in the Resistance and he hadn’t felt like cooperating with the German investigators. The commissaris had been lodged in the same jail the bad burglar had now managed to escape from but the time had been different. A little blood dribbling down a prisoner’s chin hadn’t impressed the Germans much during those days. The commissaris remembered how he had eaten a piece of bread that one of his fellow prisoners, blinded by blood which ran into his eyes from a cut just above the eyebrow caused by the wedding ring of an interrogating German police officer, had accidentally dropped into the shitbucket. The commissaris had taken the bread out, wiped it clean, and eaten it. It had been a bad jail. It was, in spite of changed circumstances, still a bad jail. But the state needed jails. The commissaris grunted and rubbed his right leg, which was hurting him more that day than his left. The rheumatic pain lessened somewhat and didn’t bite as deeply into the bone as it had before. He went on rubbing his leg. He couldn’t remove the pain and he couldn’t do away with jails.

Grijpstra looked up from the file. “It says here, sir, that the man is close to his sister. Used to live with her. She never married and the man is a widower. So he’ll probably look her up. The address is on the dike, do you know the dike, sir?” Grijpstra had gone to the large map of Amsterdam on the commissaris’ wall. His thick forefinger traced a rapid course from Police Headquarters to the north, crossing the IJ River and veering off toward the left.

“There,” he said, “Landsburger dike.”

The commissaris followed Grijpstra’s finger and thought. “Yes,” he said after a while, “there is a wharf over there, a small wharf. I was called out there once, years ago now, because a laborer had broken his neck falling down a scaffolding. The doctor thought that he might have been pushed, and he very likely was but we couldn’t prove it.”

“There are some small old houses there,” Grijpstra said, “full of funny people. Asocials they are called nowadays. Unemployed. Drunks. Old age pensioners. Half-wits. Smalltime criminals. I have been there often, thefts mostly and drunken fistfights when they’ve had trouble dividing the loot. The man’s sister will be living in one of those houses. There was a council plan once to clear the dike and widen it and build blocks of apartments but the houses are old, three hundred years old maybe, and have been placed on the list of monuments. Evenutally they will be restored.”

The commissaris was behind his desk again, flipping the pages of a notebook. “We have an informer on the dike,” he said.

“I know, sir. He is called the Mouse.”

“Do you know him?” the commissaris asked.

Grijpstra pulled a face.

“You don’t like him?”

“Who likes an informer?” Grijpstra asked the ceiling of the commissaris’ office.

“But you pulled a
very
nasty face,” the commissaris said pleasantly.

“He is a nasty man, sir. Squeaky nasty little man. Too small to be called a rat. He gave me a tip last year, turned in his own friend—man he had been playing billiards with for years—and on a very small charge too. But the charge stuck.”

“Cheer up, Grijpstra,” the commissaris said, “cheer up. We have jails and we have informers. And we have criminals. And we are policemen. And it is raining. Cheer up.”

“Sir,” Grijpstra said.

Grijpstra shifted his weight and the dinghy moved.

“Easy,” de Gier whispered, “sit still. This is a small boat. If you tip it over we’ll be in the drink and we’ll drown. And if we don’t drown we’ll look silly. And we’ll be wet. Easy!”

“You are a sportsman, aren’t you?” Grijpstra asked.

“Not here. This water is bound to be very dirty.”

Grijpstra sighed. He started thinking about the exprisoner again. He’ll be having tea with his sister now, Grijpstra thought. He only came for the day but the Mouse saw him all right and he spent a quarter of a guilder on a telephone call. It’ll be on his bill afterward, together with the blood money. And now detectives Geurts and Sietsema will be in a car, parked close to his front door. They’ll be using the van watching the front door through slits. Soon they’ll be knocking on his door and if he is silly enough to run to the river and jump into one of the rowboats, he’ll be ours. De Gier will start the outboard and we may have him before he has got his oars out, and if de Gier fumbles the State Water Police will catch him. Their launch is right around the next corner and they have a constable under that tree over there, with a pair of binoculars and a radio. The poor silly blighter hasn’t got a chance. He’ll be back in jail tonight, for another year. They may put him in a special cell for a while. Jailers don’t like prisoners who get away. They may play tricks on him. Maybe I should call on him sometime, see that he is all right. Buy him a carton of cigarettes. Grijpstra nodded to himself. Yes. I’ll do that.

De Gier was also thinking. He had sucked in his lips and narrowed his eyes. I am a small-time policeman, de Gier was thinking, catching small-time criminals. I should have slipped him a note. De Gier stared at his float, which had moved again although he hadn’t seen it move. There would be rain soon, rain and thunder and lightning. The heat was getting oppressive and the color of the clouds had darkened. A great blue heron that had been close to their dinghy, partly hidden by the half-sunk wreck of a river launch, rose slowly into the sky, flapping its large wings. The plume on its thin delicate head moved up as the stately bird started its slow ponderous flight. But he will be caught anyway, de Gier went on thinking. It’s a small country and he isn’t very intelligent. Can’t get away. We know his routine and he can’t change his routine. Always the same thing. Find out which way they walk and put a trap on their path. They won’t change their paths.

The portable two-way radio that Grijpstra held between his feet squeaked.

“Hello,” said Grijpstra.

“Now,” the radio said.

“Right.”

The detectives pulled in their fishing rods and unscrewed the parts. De Gier pulled the string on the small outboard engine. It came to life immediately. De Gier allowed it to idle; it made very little noise, puttering gently in the heavy atmosphere of the sultry evening. De Gier smiled. He had expected trouble but the Water Police sergeant who had lent them the boat hadn’t exaggerated when he had praised the qualities of the machine.

“Check your pistol,” Grijpstra said.

The two pistols—Grijpstra’s large model, which he carried in a holster on his belt, and de Gier’s light model, which he carried in a special holster in his armpit—clicked as cartridges slid into their barrels.

I won’t hit him, de Gier thought. Not even if he runs. I’ll outrun him rather.

De Gier will outrun him, Grijpstra thought. He’s got long legs.

“There,” Grijpstra said.

The man was running through the garden at the back of the house. He jumped into a rowboat moored at the small landing stage.

“Police,” Grijpstra shouted. The dinghy was picking up speed. The man was sliding his oars into position.

“Stop,” Grijpstra boomed, “you can’t get away; there’s a launch waiting for you as well. Put up your hands.”

The ugly snout of the Water Police launch was edging round the bend in the river.

The man put up his hands. His oars were sliding into the river. Grijpstra lifted one of them out of the water with his left hand.

“Thank you,” the man said. “This is my sister’s boat. She doesn’t want me to lose her oars.”

*  *  *

Geurts and Sietsema were waiting for them in the garden.

“Handcuffs?” Geurts asked.

“No,” the man said, “I’ll come quietly. I am not armed.”

“Let me check,” de Gier said, and ran his hands along the man’s sides and trouser legs.

“Something in your right pocket,” de Gier said. “Show it.” It was a clasp knife and de Gier transferred it to his own pocket.

“Thanks, he is yours, Adjutant Geurts.”

“Thanks, sergeant.”

“Thanks, thanks,” the man said. “To you it’s work, to me it’s a year in jail.” He said it pleasantly and Grijpstra smiled.

“Sorry.”

“All right, adjutant,” the man said. “No hard feelings. But a year is a long time.”

“I’ll visit you in about a week’s time. Anything you want except cigarettes?” Grijpstra said.

The man’s eyes grew round. “Are you serious?”

“Of course.”

“Some cigars,” the man said. “Small cigars. I have an old friend in jail who likes to smoke them.”

Grijpstra nodded and waved at the launch of the Water Police, which immediately began to back up, preparing for a U-turn.

De Gier put his pistol back into its holster.

“You always keep your gun in your armpit, sergeant?” the man asked.

“Yes, it doesn’t make a bulge that way.”

“Very smart,” the man said.

“De Gier is a smart cop,” Adjutant Geurts said. “Best dressed man on the Force.”

There was an awkward silence and Geurts put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” Geurts said.

De Gier looked into the man’s eyes, smiled and touched his arm lightly before turning around. Grijpstra was waiting for him near the van that Adjutant Geurts and Sergeant Sietsema had used to spy on the man’s house and that would now transport the prisoner. Grijpstra walked away as de Gier followed him and de Gier had to run to catch up.

“A nice job well done,” Grijpstra said heavily.

“What the hell,” de Gier said.

“And no fish either,” Grijpstra said grumpily. “We were in the boat for more than an hour. I had the right bait and there’s plenty of fish out there.”

“Bad day,” de Gier said.

Their car was parked right at the end of the dike and they had another ten minutes to go. They passed a sleazy café, hidden in a corner of the dike—a shed rather—its crumbly timber badly in need of a coat of paint. Even the metal sign advertising beer was cracked.

“Coffee?” de Gier asked brightly.

Grijpstra nodded. They went inside and sat down at a small table, partly covered by a dirty red and white checked cloth. A teen-age boy was watching them from behind the counter. “Two coffees,” de Gier said.

The boy filled two mugs from an archaic machine, which hadn’t been polished for years, and spilled some of the sickly looking brownish white fluid as he banged the mugs on the table.

“Why don’t you serve it in a bucket?” Grijpstra asked.

The boy shrugged his shoulders and went back to the counter where he picked up a telephone. He had just finished dialing his number when a young woman came rushing into the café and ran straight up to the counter.

“Please let me use the telephone,” she said to the boy. “It’s an emergency. I want to phone the police.”

“Just a minute,” the boy said.

“Please, please,” the girl shrieked.

De Gier had jumped up. He walked over to the girl and touched her shoulder. “Can I help you, miss? I am a policeman.” He showed her his identification but the girl didn’t seem to understand.

“Please,” she said to the boy. “Give me the telephone.”

“What happened, miss?” de Gier asked and tried to show her his identification again but she wasn’t paying attention. Grijpstra was amused. The old act, Grijpstra thought, but it’ll misfire for once. Watch the wide shoulders, the strong teeth and the charming smile. And the nose, let’s not forget the nose. Pity he hasn’t had time to comb his hair but perhaps the hair is better in its attractive wild state. It’s curling over his ears and there are the little locks on the noble forehead, of course. Pity the lady isn’t in the right mood to appreciate it all.

The boy finally put down the phone and the girl frantically dialed the six times two that connects any nervous citizen with the Keepers of the Peace.

De Gier put his hand on the phone. “Miss!” de Gier shouted, “the police are standing right next to you. Detective-Sergeant de Gier, at your service. Now will you tell me what’s the matter with you?”

The girl understood. “You are a policeman,” she said softly.

“That’s right, miss,” de Gier said, “and at that little table over there is another policeman: Adjutant-Detective Grijpstra. Come sit with us and tell us what is wrong.”

The young woman was pretty and her breathless way of talking and general shyness made her even prettier. She was dressed in a tight pair of faded jeans and a blouse that seemed a little too small to hold her aggressive bouncy breasts. She allowed herself to be led to the table and shook Grijpstra’s heavy hand.

“Now,” Grijpstra said kindly, “what can we do for you, miss?”

“It’s my neighbor,” the girl said. “He hasn’t been around for a few days and I have been worrying about him.” She began to cry.

“Now, now,” de Gier said and gave her his handkerchief. The girl sobbed and wiped her eyes.

“And?” Grijpstra asked.

“He never goes out, you see,” the girl said. “Only shopping sometimes. He is always back in an hour. And he is always working in his garden. The garden next door to where I live. But I haven’t seen him in the garden either and his car is outside, where it always is. Just now I really began to worry and I climbed the fence.”

She was sobbing again and Grijpstra patted her on the back. “Yes, miss. Tell us what happened.”

“And the door of the kitchen was open and I went upstairs. I had never been in his house before, and there he was.”

“He wasn’t dead was he?” de Gier asked.

“Yes,” the girl shrieked, “he is dead. He’s been killed. They’ve killed him.”

“Let’s go see,” Grijpstra said.

They walked back, almost as far as the house where the escaped prisoner had been caught. The girl stopped in front of a two-storied cottage.

“Is this the house where you found your friend?” Grijpstra asked.

“No,” the girl said. “This is where I have a room. We can go through here and then out into the garden.”

She opened the door with her key but the two policemen found their way blocked by a short fat woman. “What’s all this?” the short woman asked.