The Corpse on the Dike (25 page)

“Construction,” the commissaris said, “and you?”

“Secondhand clothes,” Sharif said. “A small but profitable line, and a trade reserved for my race. The Jews are my competitors but we are all of the same family although they deny the truth. It’s a pity. Acceptance of the truth would lead to harmony, harmony would lead to prosperity, prosperity would make more people discard their clothes quicker and my business would grow.”

The commissaris leaned back against the bar and extended an arm. Thsien-niu snuggled into the arm and the commissaris’ right hand rested lightly on her shoulder. She had an unlit cigarette in her mouth and as Sharif’s hand shot out, his heavy golden lighter spat a small flame.

“Construction is big business,” Sharif said modestly. “I imagine your company is responsible for the growth of this city and the large buildings that are rising in the south and that I admire from my window sometimes.”

“Construction is a big business,” the commissaris agreed, “but not always profitable. It makes for being busy and running about and…”

“And talk,” Sharif said. “Much talk. Here at the bar. They talk to one another and they drop their voices but the catchwords sound up. Mumble, mumble, mumble—one million guilders—mumble, mumble, mumble, mumble— one hundred thousand guilders.”

“There is no money in the secondhand clothes trade?” the commissaris asked.

Sharif laughed and made a gesture so that the barman unscrewed the top of his silver flask and the commissaris’ glass filled up again.

“No,” Sharif said. “Secondhand clothes are best kept in quietness.”

De Gier came back from the dance floor.

“Where’s Charlotte?” the commissaris asked.

“She is going to take her clothes off,” de Gier said and looked at Sharif. “She’ll be on stage soon.”

“Mehemed el Sharif,” Sharif said.

“Schol,” de Gier said. “Rinus Schol; glad to meet you, sir.”

“A schol,” Sharif said slowly. “A fish, I believe. A flat fish that swims about and suddenly, quicker than it knows the reason why, flaps its tail, dives and ducks into the sand. The pursuer goes on and never sees.”

“My assistant,” the commissaris said. “My right hand in the office. Schol has learned more about the construction business in ten years than I have learned in thirty.”

“The modest guide the clever,” Sharif said.

“Excuse me, sir,” the doorman said. “I have a call for you; will you take it in the hall?”

Sharif moved to the hall.

“Trouble,” the doorman said to the commissaris. “Watch it.”

The commissaris looked up. “How?”

“First door to the left. Turn right, go through the corridor and out through the garden door. Run to the car. You have a man in your car. Maybe he knows what’s going on. Sharif is talking to another Arab in the hall now, his driver. You talk to your driver.”

De Gier ran through the garden and swung himself over the stone wall. He dived into the back of the black Citroën.

“What did you see?” he asked the constable.

“That was quick,” the driver said. “I hardly recognized you when you jumped the wall. I thought you were a bat.”

“I was a fish just now,” de Gier said. “What did you see?”

“After you left—you and that doorman—and had given me the tape recorder,” the constable said, “I saw a man move in the garden opposite. A small man. He must have been there for some time.”

“He is the Arab’s driver—the Arab we are after,” de Gier said. “He has a white Lincoln, which must be parked close by.”

“Didn’t see it. But the driver must have seen you putting the recorder in the car. He waited and I pretended to be asleep in the car. Now he is in the house.”

“I am going back,” de Gier said.

“Will you be long?’

“Perhaps. There is a beautiful girl in there taking her clothes off. On a stage. I am going to smoke a cigar while I watch her. A big cigar.”

“Pfah!” the constable said.

“You go back to sleep. Maybe you’ll see another Arab.”

De Gier flitted back, as quickly as he had come. He was back at the bar when Sharif returned.

Charlotte had unzipped her gown and a trumpet player had joined the combo. He wailed as the zip came down, shrieked as the whiteness of her breasts shimmered in the pale light of the stage, and pulsated as the gown dropped to the floor. Charlotte danced and the muted trumpet became sad. The combo went back into its shuffle and the lights went out and on. The stage was empty. The dance had been the same dance that she had shared with de Gier twenty minutes before, but now she had been alone, alone with all the men in the bar.

“Very good,” Sharif said and clapped. “She is like a woman I saw in Port Said, long ago. I wasn’t supposed to watch her since I worked in the kitchen, but I always sneaked out when she was on stage.”

“Where’s Schol?”

“There,” the commissaris said and grinned. There were three leather chairs facing the small stage. De Gier was in the middle chair, smoking the butt of a large cigar that the doorman had given him. He was still looking at the stage.

“Your assistant knows how to enjoy himself. He is sincere. The other men pretended they were not really watching. Those chairs are always empty. Why have I never seen you before?”

“I have been here before,” the commissaris said, “but we must have missed each other.”

“Possibly,” Sharif said.

“They suspect something,” de Gier said as he stood next to the commissaris in the lavatory. “Sharif’s driver saw me take the tape recorder to the car. He may not have seen that it was a tape recorder since it is dark outside and he was watching us from the other side of the street. I had it under my jacket but he must have seen that I gave something to the constable. And he reported on it.”

“Yes,” the commissaris said. “We’d better go. Or, rather, I will go. It’s a pity they suspect us but it can’t be helped. We may as well use the situation. Stay here and I’ll send two detectives. They’ll have to arrest the weakest of Sharif’s helpers. I was watching them at the bar. One of them wears a striped tie, dark blue and white. I think he is worried. He’s drinking a lot and he talks all the time—cracks jokes and laughs before the others laugh. He is the one who said that one of the wrong TV sets was left in his store. The detectives can play on that. I don’t think he’ll crack but the fact that he is arrested will shake Sharif. I’ll tell them to sit at the bar until you give them a sign. Point at the man with your cigar when Sharif isn’t watching.”

“And then, sir?”

“Catch a cab and come to Headquarters. I’ll see what I can find out about this Flyer they were talking about. The shadow who killed Tom Wernekink. We’ll have to find him quickly, tonight if possible. I’ll also get Grijpstra and Cardozo.”

Someone came into the lavatory. The commissaris went to the washstand and made a fuss with the tap, screwing it into exactly the right position so that the hot water would make his hands foam. He dried his hands briskly.

Sharif was still at the bar and the commissaris sat down next to him. The redhaired girl was on the stage now but Sharif was talking to Thsien-niu, who immediately moved away when she saw the commissaris and snuggled into his arm again.

“The lady from the Far East likes you,” Sharif said. “It shows good taste.”

“Do you like me?” the commissaris asked.

“Yes,” Thsien-niu said. “I would like to go upstairs with you.”

Sharif smiled. “An invitation hard to refuse.”

“I am an old man,” the commissaris said.

“I will sing for you.”

“In Chinese?” Sharif asked. He was leaning forward.

“I can only sing in Chinese,” the girl said, “and all the songs I know are about the sea. My father used to say that he could hear the sea when I sang to him. My country consists of islands; the sea is close.”

“Sometimes,” Sharif said, “I am glad I am no longer a young man. The mind of a young man is like the porno magazines mat stare at you from every sixth shop window nowadays. A young man’s thoughts, when he is with a woman he hasn’t made yet, make him see images of shrimps wriggling in a glass full of mayonnaise. He is so filled with the urge to make the human race continue that he can think of nothing but the desire to fill the hole, the moist mysterious hole that will suck him up and hold him. For a while. But the girl talks about singing and he doesn’t hear. Now that I am old I can hear.” Sharif drank a little more of his blackberry juice.

*  *  *

“Give,” de Gier said to the doorman.

The doorman held the cigar box and de Gier grabbed.

“Don’t grab,” the doorman said.

“Stand on one foot again,” de Gier said.

The doorman stood on one foot and lit a match.

“Thanks. Soon two detectives will come and arrest one of your clients. Not Sharif, but one of his friends. They’ll be very polite and take him away.”

“The boss won’t like it,” the doorman said.

“No. But it can’t be helped. You better see to it that the combo is going and that there’s a girl on the stage when they make the arrest.”

“You aren’t going to make a fuss about this place afterward, are you, sergeant?” the doorman said. “We’ve been in business for a long time and we’re used to it. I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if this place is closed down. I am too old to start another one.”

“No,” de Gier said, “at least not if 1 can help it. You have some sort of license, don’t you?”

“We are a club; we have a license for liquor and dancing and all that…”

“All that…?”

The doorman had his hands on his back and was slowly moving backward and forward.

“Yes, yes, you have a point,” the doorman said. De Gier began to move toward the bar.

“Wait,” the doorman said. “Perhaps you would like to be a member. Come here once in a while. Get a few chips. Sit in the leather chair near the stage and watch the show. You were very decorative in there. The girls like a man to watch them with some concentration.”

“No,” de Gier said.

*  *  *

“No, dear,” the commissaris said. “Perhaps some other time but tonight I go home early. I am expecting some foreign visitors tomorrow and I’ll have to be awake when they march into my office. But thank you for the invitation; I appreciate it.”

“You are welcome,” Thsien-niu said.

“A pity,” Sharif said. “I enjoyed your company. Especially the story about the porridge you ate when you were a child.”

De Gier came in from the hall, the cigar between his teeth. Thsien-niu giggled.

“That cigar is too big for you, Rinus,” the commissaris said.

“It has a very nice taste, sir,” de Gier said and took the cigar out of his mouth.

“Talk to Mr. Sharif and Thsien-niu,” the commissaris said. “I have to go home. See you tomorrow.”

“Sir,” de Gier said.

The detectives came in twenty minutes later. The combo went into a session with the trumpet. The pianist’s body was rigid, his head bent right down to the keyboard. The drums and the trumpet were in an orgy of sound and the bass thumped away while a tall slim Negress was back in the native jungle of her forefathers, moving around the stage in a trance of rhythmical lust. As de Gier’s cigar pointed to the man with the striped tie, the detectives standing next to the man touched his arm and showed their police cards. Sharif’s eyes followed the three men walking toward the hall.

Outside an unmarked police car had found the white Lincoln. Sharif came out of the house and walked down the driveway. The young Arab opened the door. The white car turned a corner and the police car followed. De Gier telephoned for a cab.

Within twenty minutes he reported at Headquarters. Grijpstra was telephoning and Cardozo listening in.

“Where’s the commissaris?” de Gier asked.

“He’ll be right back. He is in the cell block talking to the Cat. Grijpstra is talking to the computer people; they’re trying the computer’s memory with the word ‘Flyer.'”

“That’s all we know,” de Gier said.

“It may be enough,” Cardozo said. “There can’t be too many Flyers about.”

“Thanks,” Grijpstra said, “I’ll wait. Phone Headquarters and ask for Adjutant Grijpstra. Don’t be too long.”

Grijpstra turned round. “There you are. You were in a brothel.” His voice was full of reproach.

“Yes,” de Gier said. “It was very nice. There was a naked Negress on the stage when I left and before her there were other women. I danced with one of them. She danced very well. And I have smoked two Cuban cigars and I have had a few drinks. And the music! Oh, Grijpstra, you should have heard the music.”

“What music?”

“Trumpet. And the piano! Blues, a blues that never stopped. Not too slow. But exact. None of this playing about. It all fitted. The place is a villa called Marshview and it’s run by a six-and-a-half-foot doorman. He oozes charm and he has trained the girls. Class. Real class.”

“Did you play your flute?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I was in the construction business. The commissaris too. Building. The commissaris had just come back from France and I was his right hand. We met by accident. Worked for the same company. He was one of the big bosses.”

“And you?”

“An executive. Promising material.”

“It wasn’t like that, was it?” Cardozo asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you said. I have been to brothels too. Horrible. They make you drink sweet champagne and the curtains are red velvet. There are mirrors and the women hang about on settees and the place stinks of perfume.”

“Yes,” Grijpstra said, “and the women call you ‘sweetie’ and ‘duckie’ and they talk to each other—right over your head—and they show porno films in a little room that smells of piss.”

“No, no,” de Gier said. “Like I said. A good place. Ask the commissaris.”

“Bull,” Cardozo said.

“Class,” de Gier said stubbornly. “You should have seen that Negress dance. You could feel the jungle behind her. The moon. Palm trees. Drums throbbing. The round huts of the village behind you, and the warriors standing in a half circle, jingling the shells on their feet. Short sounds, you know. And when they jingle their shells the woman moves. Slowly. And her breasts are glistening and her hips shake a little—just a little. Her arms are stretched out and the moon is rising, a full white disc filling the sky.”