The Rattle-Rat (3 page)

"The price?"

"A lot of money."

"But who do the teeth belong to?"

'To one of my clients."

"Scherjoen?" whispered Grypstra.

The dentist pulled an index card from his filing cabinet. "Douwe Scherjoen, yes indeed."

"Can you describe your client?"

"Smallish man," the dentist said. "Looked even smaller, for he stooped a bit. Energetic, however. Nasty little devil. Growled every time he had to pay, which was before each visit, for I rather mistrusted him. Unpleasant individual, with a mean little face."

"Paid cash?"

"Notes of maximum denomination, taken from a leather purse attached by a brass chain under his waistcoat. The man has been murdered?"

"Yes."

"Messy lives," the dentist said. "Don't pay attention. I give them my best work, I spend a hundred hours on their miserable jaws, and they rush out and get themselves killed."

"Would you have a look at my teeth?" Grijpstra asked.

The dentist looked. "You can close your mouth now."

"Can you fix that?" Grupstra asked.

"No."

"What about your superior talent?" Grijpstra asked.

"What about your miserable wages?" the dentist asked. "Any more questions? Will you be leaving now? I still have a few things to do."

\\\\\ 3 /////

"
B
UT, DEAR," THE COMMISSARIS SAID, SHAKING HIS PHONE. "Dear?"

The telephone said nothing.

"Are you still there?"

"I am," his wife said, "and so are the Belgian endives. You ordered them, remember? You absolutely had to eat baked Belgian endives tonight. Any idea about the
price
of Belgian endives?"

"We could eat them tomorrow," the commissaris said.

"Tonight. Once they're out of the freezer, they can't go back."

The commissaris looked for support in the glowing end of his cigar, and in the begonia flowers on the windowsills; he also glanced at the encouraging smiles on the lions' heads above his chair. He stood next to his desk and tried to skip airily onto its top. He didn't jump high enough and knocked his hip. "Ouch."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"And to think," the commissaris said, "that I was once a prizewinning gymnast. I flywheeled around the bar, and then swung onto the mat, and bowed, and straightened up to my full athletic length again, and didn't the audience applaud?"

'Does it still hurt?"

'No," the commissaris said, "but I do have to go to Friesland, really. It only takes two hours to drive there. A compatriot was shot there—can't have that, you know. I've got to find out what's what."

"You're coming home for dinner. Send Grijpstra."

"He's got something else to do, too."

"Send
somebody"
his wife said. "I'm hanging up now. You'll be home at seven. I'm not bending over a hot stove all day for nothing."

The telephone clicked. The commissaris sighed. He extended a small finger and dialed two numbers. "Dear?"

"Sir?"

"Have Grijpstra called. He should phone me." The commissaris waited. The phone was quiet. "Dear?"

"Sir?"

"Is that understood?"

"You didn't finish your request."

"My request is quite finished."

"No," the soft female voice said. "You never said 'please/ so I'm still waiting, as is customary these modern days."

"What are you?" the commissaris asked. "A communist? A feminist? I gave you an order. I don't have to say 'please.'"

"I'm not your slave."

"Please," the commissaris said, "dear."

"Thank you," the secretary said. "I won't insist that you call me 'miss.'"

"Is that so?" the commissaris asked. "The new rule allows for exceptions?"

"I think you're a dear, too," the soft voice said. The telephone clicked.

The commissaris watered his begonias, while reflecting. They were right, he thought in between his reflections. They were abused, yelled at, repressed, underpaid, and overworked. It had to come to an end, but why today? Today he wanted to go to Friesland. He looked out the window. A splendid day. And today he had his new car, he hadn't even driven the miracle yet, the silver car, delivered to Headquarters' yard only that morning, now gleaming in the sunlight. To take that car to the Great Dike, to make it whiz along twenty straight miles. How pleasurable that drive would be.

The telephone rang.

"Grijpstra here," the phone said. "The teeth belong to Douwe Scherjoen from Dingjum, so that subject is the corpse."

"Where are you now?"

"In a cafe\ sir."

"And de Gier?"

"I've just met him here."

"Go to Ding-whatever," the commissaris said. "There'll be State Police out there. Let them know you're around. It's our case, but they might give us a hand. You know where Ding-whatever is?"

"Not yet, sir."

"You might hurry a little," the commissaris said, "and you might take de Gier for company. Is that understood?"

The telephone was quiet.

"Are you still there, Adjutant?"

"Our car is malfunctioning," Grijpstra said.

"What's wrong with it now?"

"It's mainly the clutch, sir," Grijpstra said. "It's got a click in it, and the second gear seems to have gone altogether, and the exhaust isn't attached properly—it sort of bangs about—and the brake doesn't brake."

The commissaris sighed.

"Sir?"

"In the lot here," the commissaris said, "you'll find a new silver Citroen. Brand-new, Adjutant. Don't let de Gier drive it. You can come here and take my new car."

"But you haven't even driven it yet, sir."

"The key'll be with the doorman," the commissaris said shrilly. "I'll tell him it's all right. I'll be ringing off now, Adjutant. I'll back you from here."

"Upset, was he?" de Gier asked.

"He seemed a little unhappy," Grijpstra said. "Rheumatism in the legs again, perhaps."

"Did he complain about pains?"

"No, but he sounded that way."

"As long as he doesn't retire ahead of time," de Gier said. "We musn't strain him."

"We're supposed to be in a hurry now," Grypstra said, "and the Volkswagen has to be fixed. Maybe it can still get back to Headquarters. There's a lot the matter with it these days. You think it can still be repaired?"

"What do you mean?" de Gier asked. "Our trusted steed?"

"The garage sergeant keeps wanting to throw the car away."

"Never," de Gier said. "I'll have Jane work on the fellow again."

"Jane doesn't want to know you anymore."

"She shares our duties."

"You're asking too much from Jane," Grijpstra said, "and you give her too little. You've got to entertain that girl in town first, and then try to get her to your apartment. Not the other way around. And don't make her pay for the entertainment."

"The pathetic whiner hasn't been crying on your shoulder, has she?"

"Whiner?" Grijpstra asked threateningly. "You didn't really use that expression, did you?"

"Pathetic female," de Gier said, "and she didn't even fall for my proposition. She never went to my apartment and she never bought me dinner. It was raining that day. My apartment is nice and dry. It was the end of the month. I was short on money."

De Gier was allowed to pay for the coffee. Grijpstra left the cafe and waited in the car. De Gier scowled as he got into the Volkswagen. "Listen," Grijpstra said, "if we want to keep this car, you have to be nice to Jane. You have to change your egocentric attitude—before we take off to Dingjum."

"I've no idea where that could be."

"I'll try to find out, while you prepare Jane for the garage sergeant's perverted desires. Is that understood?"

"May your bowels swell up with smelly vapors," de Gier said.

"Please?"

"Don't get polite on me."

"I'm always polite," Grijpstra said. "And when I am, I can order you around. Yes? Please?"

"Some vehicle," de Gier said. "At what speed is the super Citroën traveling now?"

Grijpstra glanced at the speedometer. "Maximum legal speed."

"Might she be capable of traveling at twice the maximum legal speed?"

"Easily. According to the numbers on the speedometer, she could get close to multiplying the restriction by three."

"That's hard to believe," de Gier said.

"Do you believe me now?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier leaned over. "You sure that gadget is accurate? I hardly hear the engine. Kick that gas pedal a little more, will you?"

"Like this?"

"Better," de Gier said. 'The commissaris did say that a bit of a hurry would be in order. This nice straight dike goes on forever. Scherjoen's eye sockets are still staring at me. Get me away from that terror. He'll keep disturbing my thoughts until we crack the case. We still don't know anything. The sooner we get to Friesland, the sooner we'll know. There's a killer about."

"But why was the subject killed in Amsterdam?" Grijpstra asked. "I can understand that the corpse bought his watch there, and he might select the capital to have his teeth replaced, but why should he get himself shot in Amsterdam? Frisians are strong, pure people, from a free and clean environment. How did get our corpse get involved in the capital's mental and physical pollution? What's behind all this, eh?"

"Aren't you Frisian yourself?" de Gier asked.

"I am," Grijpstra said.

"You're neither strong nor pure nor free nor clean."

"I grew up in Amsterdam," Grijpstra said. "Only the core of my being is still untouched, but Scherjoen stayed within the freshness of a blessed country, and he still got shot and was burned as well."

"I don't want to talk to his widow," de Gier said. "That's not my thing at all. You can talk to her."

"I'll take care of the whole case," Grijpstra said. "I don't want you to get involved in any way at all. I don't even want you to drive this car."

"Do you hear something?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra heard a siren. The siren screamed closer.

"That's a good motorcycle," de Gier said, looking over his shoulder. "Just look at her go. A Guzzi. I used to ride BMWs. They never went that fast."

Grijpstra slowed down and aimed for the breakdown lane. The motorcycle parked and the cop walked toward the car, slowly and at ease, pulling a notebook from the side pocket of his white leather coat.

Grijpstra dropped a window.

"Would you please get out?" the cop asked. "On the other side? The lane is rather narrow. Any idea how fast you were going?"

De Gier had gotten out already. Grijpstra slid across the front seats and joined the sergeant. Together they looked down on the cop, who seemed rather slender and had painted lips, mascaraed eyelashes, and varnished fingernails.

"You're a woman," Grijpstra said.

The cop studied the adjutant's identification.

"Adjutant?" the cop asked, and offered Grijpstra her hand. "Corporal Hilarius. What's your hurry?"

Grijpstra looked out over the Inland Sea, where swans bobbed on the waves, fluffing their feathers and slowly moving their slender necks. Beyond the birds floated a fishing boat with a yellow-coated crew bending over the railing, lifting an eel trap. "How nice," Grypstra said. "I could watch this forever."

"But we're hard at work," de Gier said helpfully. "Destination Dingjum, a most serious matter. Murder, I'll have you know. We're hot on the trail."

"Murder in Friesland?" Corporal Hilarius asked, pulling off her helmet and freeing flowing golden curls. The helmet was orange. Grijpstra began to tremble. The yellow of the fishermen's coats, the helmet's bright orange, and the resplendent shade of the girl's hair—were they not contrasts, completing each other? The corporal's low, hoarse voice became a part of the moment. Moments sometimes inspired Grypstra. He wondered whether he would be able to show the sudden abstract harmony in one of his Sunday paintings. Can a sound be shown in color?

"The murder was at our end," de Gier said, "but the corpse lived on yours. We follow indications that will take us to your province. We're about to interview the dead man's wife."

Policewoman Hilarius knew about the burning dory, that was front-page news. So was cattle plague.

"The dike is blocked farther along, you can't see it from here. There's a line of traffic, stalled for a few miles. The disease is rampant in the south, and we're trying to keep it from killing our cows. All trucks and vans are being checked to make sure they don't transport animals. You'll never get through."

"We are in a hurry," de Gier said. "Maybe you can guide us along."

A black dot buzzed down out of a cloud. The motorcycle's radio came alive. "Seventeen? Over."

The corporal grabbed the microphone from the Guzzi. "Seventeen here."

"What are you doing there?" the helicopter asked. "Give the Citroen a ticket and make your way to the north end of the dike. Maybe you can get something moving. Please?"

"We're in a bit of a hurry," de Gier said, smiling with perfect strong white teeth. His soft brown eyes glowed pleadingly. His muscular torso bent toward the girl. "Our commissaris's instructions. He wants us to get through with this, the quicker the better."

The commissaris," Grijpstra said, "who was interviewed
"
in the
Police Gazette
last week. The top sleuth who never fails. That's
our
commissaris."

The corporal stepped aside and spoke into her microphone.

"Understood," the loudspeaker on the Guzzi answered. "Park the Citroen against the dike, beyond the bicycle path. Over and out."

Corporal Hilarius stopped the traffic with an imperative gesture, and de Gier drove across four lanes and parked in the manner requested from above. The helicopter grew in size. Grijpstra and de Gier ran toward the blue-and-white egg, now setting down gently. A little door slid aside, and a leather-clad arm beckoned invitingly.

"Heights frighten me," Grijpstra said, "and we aren't really in all that much of a hurry."

But the pilot's arm pulled, and de Gier and the corporal pushed. De Gier thanked the lovely biker. The corporal answered hoarsely that the sergeant was welcome. De Gier jumped up, the little door snapped shut, and the chopper lifted away and cut through low clouds. The pilot pushed a handle and the machine fell through the next hole in the vapors. The pilot pointed down, shaking his head in disgust at the crawling mess below. Traffic at the end of the dike had tied itself into a snarl. "Dingjum?" the pilot yelled. Grijpstra and de Gier nodded and grinned, the adjutant fearfully, the sergeant cheerfully. The dike ended underneath them. The blues of the North and Inland seas gave way to fertile greens, changing again to the pink and brownish red of dwellings. "Franeker," the pilot yelled. "The most rusti- cally beautiful village in all of our land." The helicopter vibrated into a muddle of dark gray shreds of clouds. Grijpstra no longer looked; he felt he was dying in dirty cotton wool. He did look after a while, because even fear has its limitations. Was he reborn? He was, in the clear emptiness of an uncluttered sky, and there below—hurray!—waited the beloved earth, and the helicopter touched that earth softly with the metal tubes that protruded from its little belly, set itself down, and rested.