The Corpse on the Dike (21 page)

“Never caught before?”

“Yes. They flew me back two years ago.”

“And you came straight back?”

The man smiled. “I was back before the military police who took me home got back to Schiphol airport. Came back on the next flight.”

“You are in trouble now,” de Gier said, “real trouble. You put a knife on a policeman’s throat. Assault and robbery. And we’ll get you for pimping as well. And drugs. There are detectives in the house now, tearing it apart. They’ll find drugs, don’t you think?”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll be in jail for a while, a long while.”

The man’s smile had gone. He was staring at the floor. “How long, sir? How long will I be in?”

De Gier gave the man a cigarette and lit it for him. They were in a small white-washed room, sitting in low easy chairs. Cardozo came in with three paper cups of coffee. A calendar on the wall opposite the window showed a color photograph of a forest.

“Don’t know,” de Gier said. ‘Two years, three maybe, depends on you and on the judge.”

“Let me go,” the man said. “I’ll go and I won’t come back this time, I promise. I haven’t harmed him.”

He pointed at Cardozo. Cardozo felt his throat.

“You almost did,” Cardozo said. “You were pressing that knife, you miserable sod. How many times did you use that knife on some fool that girl sucked into the house?”

The man didn’t answer.

“Well?” de Gier asked.

“A few times.”

“There have been complaints about the house, you know. We can find the people who complained and each victim will provide a separate charge. More time in jail.”

“Do you know a man called Sharif? Mehemed el Sharif?”

“Yes,” the man said.

“What do you know about him?”

“Very rich, very important, very powerful.”

“You work for him?”

“No.”

“Tell us about him.”

The man looked up. He was rubbing the side of his neck again.

“You want me to fall into the canal? What do you want to know? And what do you do if I tell you?”

“Where does he go at night? Who are his friends? Where do we find him when he is not at home and not in his office?”

“What will you do for me when I tell you?”

“I say,” Cardozo said, “the other men we caught in the house, are they Arabs?”

“Dutch,” the man said, “and Spanish—two Dutch, two Spanish.”

“You’re the only Arab, are you?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll forget about the knife,” de Gier said, “and that’s a big favor. We never saw a knife. This knife.”

He was holding up a stiletto and pressed the button. The long thin blade shot out.

“That’ll save you some time in jail.”

“Forget everything,” the man said, “and I’ll tell you how to catch Sharif. And give me money; I’ll need it. I can’t stay in Holland and I can’t go home. Sharif’s arm is too long. I’ll have to go to France and even in France I won’t be safe.”

“No,” de Gier said. “We’ll forget the knife, that’s all. And Sharif will never know.”

“He’ll know. I won’t tell.”

“All right,” de Gier said and got up.

“No,” the man said. “Wait!”

De Gier and Cardozo waited. The man swallowed a few times. “There’s a club, a brothel. There’s some gambling too. Sharif doesn’t own the club but he goes there once a week to meet some men who work for him. He’ll be there tomorrow night, at ten o’clock. They talk in a special room. Then the men drink and play with the whores and gamble. Sharif doesn’t drink but he plays with the women. He may stay until two o’clock.”

“The address.”

“Prince Alexander Street in South, number sixty-three; it’s a big house. Members only.”

“Did you ever meet him there?”

“No,” the man said. “I won’t say more. This is enough. If you tell Sharif I told you I am dead. Forget the knife and tell me your names. It’s a bad deal for me. I give more than I get.”

“Sergeant de Gier,” de Gier said, “and Constable First-Class Cardozo. Headquarters. We’ll forget the knife and lose it; it won’t be in the report on you. Ask the sergeant to phone if you need us.”

He got up and opened the door.

A constable came and took the Arab away with him. The Arab didn’t look up. He was stumbling.

“He’s scared,” de Gier said, “really scared.”

“So was I,” Cardozo said, “when he had that knife on my throat. You took your time, didn’t you. And he was breathing garlic at me as well.”

“Yes,” de Gier said. “I was telling the constables the story about your elephant. We laughed a lot and we almost forgot you.”

13

“T
HEY AREN’T HERE, SIR,
” G
RIIPSTRA SAID
. “D
E
G
IER
phoned in this morning to say that he would arrive at eleven and Cardozo would also be late. They had some adventures last night, sir.”

“What adventures?”

Grijpstra told him what he knew. De Gier’s sleepy voice hadn’t given him more than a general outline and Oliver, who hadn’t been fed yet and was standing on de Gier’s chest, yowled through the conversation.

“Hmm,” the commissaris said; “it sounds promising anyway. When they come in I’d like to see all of you.”

The three detectives looked worn out when they finally arrived in the commissaris’ office at eleven-thirty. Grijpstra looked worse than the others. The birthday party at his sister-in-law’s hadn’t been a success. He had drunk his way through half a crate of beer while he watched funny men on the TV and listened to the political ideas of his brother-in-law. There had been a rip-roaring fight with his wife afterward, all the way home and another hour in the bedroom. And he had been sick. When it was all over and he finally reached his bed his wife had begun to snore and he got up again to look for his cigars. He stumbled and hurt his leg on the open door of the night table. The shin bled and the wound still worried him now. He was rubbing it.

“Pain in your legs, Grijpstra?” the commissaris asked, his voice betraying a more than usual interest.

“Hurt my shin, sir.”

“But you weren’t in the fight last night, were you?”

“No, sir. Door of the night table.”

De Gier grinned. “How was the birthday parry, Grijpstra?”

Grijpstra glared.

“Went to a party, Grijpstra?” the commissaris asked.

“Yes, sir, my sister-in-law’s.”

“Nice party?”

“No, sir.”

The commissaris nodded. He had stopped going to parties ten years ago, when his rheumatism had begun to change from an occasional twitch of pain to a worsening and continuous feeling of hot needle pricks. He had never regretted his decision.

“I never go to birthday parties,” de Gier said. ‘To hell with their birthdays and whipped cream cakes and lukewarm jenever. I’d rather have a quiet evening with Oliver.”

“And you, Cardozo?” the commissaris asked.

“I’m from a big family, sir, and we are very close. I can’t stay away.”

“Do you ever want to stay away?”

“No, sir, not really. I get bored sometimes but I like my family and the food is always excellent.”

“Good,” the commissaris said. “The family is the core of our society. A happy family makes for a quiet country.”

De Gier was looking at the old man’s face. The commissaris looked sincere but de Gier didn’t trust the innocent and genial expression on his superior’s face.

“Well, let’s have it,” the commissaris said, rubbing his hands energetically. “What happened last night, de Gier?” De Gier reported fully and left out nothing except the confusion of the Northern and Southern Lions. The commissaris was leaning forward in his chair. “Good,” he said at the end, “but we are going to have a little trouble with the chief inspector of the old city. I am sure he doesn’t like us hunting in his territory. I’d better phone him before he phones me. I hope we didn’t upset any of his plans. I know they are meaning to raid some of their trouble spots. Public Works should do something about that house, brick it up or get the restoration people on to it. Once it is repaired it can be let to decent people.”

“Decent people don’t like that area much, sir,” Cardozo said.

“Yes. Maybe we should put some pressure on the city government. They have plans for a big state sex center somewhere, but so far they are only talking about it. It would make our job a lot easier. Put a high wall round it and post police at the entrances. Keep a lid on the kettle. But it’s still too early for that.”

“Would be a pity,” Grijpstra said heavily.

“You like the whores’ quarter, don’t you?”

“It’s been in the city for seven hundred years, sir. So far we have always been able to control it reasonably well.”

“They do look pretty behind their windows,” said de Gier. “I can’t imagine half-naked women in a concrete box, and behind barbed wire. Would be horrible.”

“Yes, perhaps. Anyway, we’ll wait and see. The police always wait and see. We are seeing something now. What are your plans, gentlemen?”

He was looking at Grijpstra.

Grijpstra cleared his throat and felt his pockets for his tin of cigars. The commissaris offered him one from the box on his desk. De Gier, with a show of servility, lit a match and Cardozo’s young face brightened with a flashing smile as he concentrated on Grijpstra.

Grijpstra looked suspicious.

“Grrm, grrm, let’s not overdo it,” he muttered.

“Overdo what, adjutant?” de Gier asked. “We are listening.”

“Yes,” Grijpstra said. “Well, I think two of us should go to the brothel tonight, or one of us, while the other waits in the car. He should go to the doorman, show his police card and stay with him while he phones or calls the boss. Then he should take the boss to the car and tell him that we are after Sharif and that we know he will be there tonight. We can put in a bit about the illegal gambling and other illegal activities of the place so that the boss is quiet and helpful. Then we go in, pretending to be clients. We should be carrying money; the place won’t be cheap and we don’t want to be served free drinks.”

“Yes,” the commissaris said. “Who goes?”

“Not me,” Grijpstra said. “Sharif knows me. And he may remember Cardozo’s face since Cardozo went to see him last year about that burglary in his house. So I would suggest Geurts or Sietsema and de Gier.”

“I think I would like to go,” the commissaris said.

“That would be even better, sir. The clients of the place won’t be young men; there’ll be older gentlemen and you would be just right.”

“Thanks,” the commissaris said. “Thank you kindly. I look like an old whoremonger, do I? Now that’s really charming of you.”

Grijpstra blushed and de Gier and Cardozo looked amused.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t mean that at all, sir.”

The commissaris smiled. “Never mind, Grijpstra; I’m only joking. I think you’re right. A place like that will attract people who look like me. Go on.”

“So you and de Gier, sir. You’ll be at the bar and you can look about. The boss will let you know when Sharif gets to the special room where he meets his men. Then you will have to find a place where you can listen in. Perhaps there is a peephole. Whorehouses always have peepholes, I believe. And you could use a tape recorder.”

“Yes. We’ll have to check that with the boss. Perhaps we can hide in a cupboard.”

“What next, Grijpstra?”

“Depends on what they say. You may find Wernekink’s killer too.”

“That’s de Gier’s thought, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me on the phone this morning that de Gier was thinking that Sharif or one of his men killed Wernekink?”

“Yes, sir.”

The commissaris got up and walked around his desk. He leaned against the front of the desk and watched his assistants.

“I think de Gier is right. Wernekink’s death must have been a silly mistake. But understandable perhaps. It’s hard to understand that there are men who live for nothing, who have no goals, no ideas, no purpose. I had some suspicions about Tom Wernekink but the letter you brought from Rotterdam convinced me. Did you all read the letter?’

“Yes, sir,” de Gier and Cardozo replied at the same time.

“A strange document. What did you think about it, de Gier?”

De Gier laughed. “I thought it was a good letter, sir.”

“Why?”

De Gier was looking out the window.