The Streetbird (16 page)

"But aren't we among ourselves?" Cardozo asked.

"Also among ourselves," de Gier said.

\\\\ 18 ////

De Gier coughed. Karate looked up. "Morning, sergeant."

De Gier's tall body filled the open door of the small office. The buttons on his tunic gleamed, his gun belt shone, the creases of his blue-banded dark trousers were knife-sharp and parallel, his shoes sparkled, his cap stuck neatly between his chest and forearm. He stooped and studied the locket. "Quite a stately woman, isn't she?"

"Morning, sergeant," Ketchup said. Ketchup's hair and been slicked up and sprayed with green and purple paint. His leather jacket was covered with tin advertising pins, his embroidered purple jeans were stuck in yellow plastic boots.

"Party today?" de Gier asked. "Your chief has a birthday?"

Karate jumped up and poured coffee into paper mugs. "No, sergeant, these are our hunting clothes. Aren't we going to grab Gustav? You'll have to get out of uniform too, and we'd like to borrow your car. Ours is marked as a squad car."

De Gier looked at clotted milk powder floating in his cup. "Sneaking up on the poor fellow? Three against one?"

"Two," Ketchup said. "We tossed a coin, and I lost. I'll take a bicycle and spot him from between the cars parked in front of his house. You and Karate'll be in your car, around the corner. As soon as Gustav leaves, I'll pass the news."

"Then what? Trail the suspect until he commits a traffic offense? Kick him in the shins and arrest him when he defends himself on a charge of harassing us? What sort of policemen are you two?"

"Never," Karate said. "Whatever made you think all that? We have proper plans."

"A surprise," Ketchup said. "Aren't you temporarily attached to our patrol? We know what we're doing and you only have to tag along. It'll be a change for you and maybe we can help you some other time."

"Hello?" asked the walkie-talkie.

"Here," said Karate.

"Gustav is getting into a blue Peugeot 203,1 can't read the number plate from here. Not a new car, and a dent on the rear fender. Driving along Old Waal, direction Bent Waal."

"Good," grunted a deep voice.

"Who is that?" asked de Gier. "Who else is on that radio?"

"Going," Karate said.

"Good luck," said the walkie-talkie.

"Who was talking just now?" asked de Gier while the Volkswagen nosed around the comer.

"You see the Peugeot?"

De Gier increased speed. "Isn't Gustav driving a new Corvette?"

"Gustav has lots of cars," Karate said. "He drives a different one every day. Watch it, sergeant, that van is trying to slip between us." He spoke into the walkie-talkie. "Peugeot nearing Prince Hendrik Quay."

"I see him," the deep voice said. "He's in my mirror."

"Are you answering me or not?" de Gier asked. "Whose voice is that?"

"Orang Utan's, sergeant. He is riding ahead of us, on the East Dock Quay."

The Volkswagen followed the blue Peugeot along a curve. De Gier saw the white motorcycle ahead, ridden by the easily recognizable silhouette of the Ambonese motor cop. Orang Utan's almost square upper body made a ninety-degree angle with his rear mudguard. De Gier put his foot down to stay ahead of the pushy van. The Peugeot was driving faster too.

"Gustav saw Orang," Karate said. "Gustav smells blood. Did you see him sit up?"

"And now?"

"Just follow, sergeant. We're going to see something. Orang Utan is the best motor cop on the force."

The police Guzzi rode slowly, on the extreme right of the tarmac, almost touching the curb. Central Station came into view. A flight of pigeons slid down from one of the station's towers and landed on a barge in the river. The Peugeot braked and turned sharply to the right, making contact with Orang Utan's rear wheel. De Gier cursed. Karate cheered. The Volkswagen pulled to the left to stay away from the Peugeot. A bus klaxoned and cyclists rang their bells. The Peugeot shot forward. The police cycle roared onto the sidewalk, heeling over sharply. De Gier also drove onto the sidewalk. Orang Utan's gloved hand grabbed the brake on the cycle's handlebar. Orang Utan tried to readjust his machine's balance by leaning over to the left. The motorcyclist did straighten up and would have gotten back to the road if he hadn't had to change direction again to avoid a fat lady holding up her shopping bag to ward off disaster. Orang Utan applied both his brakes, but his machine rode on.

The cycle flew, seemingly aimed at a ship moored along the quay, but hit the water instead. De Gier wanted to get out of the car. "No," yelled Karate. "Get Gustav. I'll take care of this." He banged the door behind him. De Gier reversed around the screaming woman. The Volkswagen thumped off the sidewalk. The Peugeot was still visible, waiting between buses and trucks at Central Station's traffic lights. De Gier kept his hand on his klaxon while the car pushed its way through cyclists. He pulled the microphone toward him. "Headquarters, car three-fourteen."

"Car three-fourteen," said the soft well-articulated voice of a female radio constable.

"Colleague in trouble," de Gier said. "A motor cop, known as Orang Utan. De Ruyterquay, Central Station. Colleague has been willfully pushed into the river by a blue Peugeot, which I'm following now. West Dock Quay, heading west."

"That is understood."

"I'm driving an unmarked white Volkswagen, detective branch, Sergeant de Gier." He let the microphone dangle on its cord. The Volkswagen was behind the Peugeot. Gustav looked into his rear mirror. De Gier drew his pistol and waved it to the right. The Peugeot increased speed. De Gier kept following the small blue car, his hand on the klaxon, cursing at Gustav's tanned crown, contrasting with a fringe of floppy thin curls bleached by a southern and expensive sun.

Gustav drove through an orange light, de Gier followed through red. Hunter and prey reached the western throughway and their speedometers veered to illegal numbers. The little engines whirred, the minute shock absorbers creaked.

What happened just now, de Gier thought as his knuckles whitened on the steering wheel, was both a mean and out-and-out attempt at murder of a uniformed policeman. Or was it mere manslaughter if we assume Gustav's ignorance of a possible meeting with Orang Utan? Murder involves some premeditation. How premeditated was Gustav's attempt?

A fresh set of traffic lights approached rapidly. Both drivers snarled as they ignored the forbidding colors. The Peugeot's brake lights came on as the car heeled over. An ugly little cloud burst from its exhaust as the car spurted to the right. The Volkswagen skidded but found its direction again, snorting and burbling through a short tunnel.

Wonderful, de Gier thought, hitting his accelerator and brake by turns. This is just what I like doing. I no longer have to be concerned about measuring my activity; no bothering with proportions now, no thought for the civilians I endanger while they go about their lawful business. I revenge an assault on the state itself, and my violence is justified. The sergeant sneered while the raging compacts kept changing directions, negotiating the twisting turns of alleys. He laughed while cyclists flattened against fences, cars against lampposts, pedestrians against walls. Relentless pursuit, de Gier thought, pursuit of the perverted fiend, to be run down and terminated in cold blood, to be squashed and spattered, but I do have to get hold of him first.

Gustav's car was elusive. It kept appearing and fading. The alleys twisted back into themselves and the small cars met head-on, but the Peugeot reversed, turned, smashed the doors of a workshop, and appeared again, hurrying away, its tires squealing. The Volkswagen lost time, waiting for a woman gathering her toddler and exploded grocery bags. The Peugeot lost time too, further along the street, for a delivery boy hit it with a milk bottle that broke on its hood and spattered its contents against the windshield. Gustav switched on his wipers, but he had braked and provided the boy with an opportunity to shove his bicycle into the car's path. The cycle crumpled under the Peugeot, raising its broken spokes so that they could penetrate the pursuing Volkswagen's tires. An old woman screamed in despair as she watched her umbrella-javelin miss the demonic vehicles. A sporting lady, de Gier thought. I've seen her before, scratching my fenders with that same umbrella. I keep hitting the same streets. A bald man, running for a doorway, seemed familiar too. The sergeant honked his horn at a menacing truck, growling slowly out of a side street, aiming for the diminishing space between Peugeot and Volkswagen. The driver shook his fist. Gustav was being threatened too, by huddled pedestrians, advancing slowly, holding on to each other for strength. He aimed his car at them, revving his engine. Once again there was a blur of red brick walls, spaced by gaping holes and scraggly trees, but the alley was a dead end terminating in a high fence partly obscured by stacked gray garbage bags.

The Peugeot dug into the flimsy mass and emerged flying a streamer of used sanitary napkins from its aerial before bumping posts and tearing boards. It bounced free, into a muddy field. Its wheels screamed before grabbing hold on clustered weeds. The car slithered about, missing the Volkswagen several times. Behind the field the river surface glistened, but de Gier couldn't see the sparkling water, for assorted rubbish covered his windshield. The sergeant cursed, got out, and listened to the last air hissing from his tires. He was out of luck now. Gustav would get away; the Peugeot was racing back to the broken fence.

Gustav couldn't see either. His wipers were smearing a greenish fluid on his windshield. The Peugeot hit a stack of moldy insulation material. Gustav jumped out and ran toward the river. De Gier ran too. Gustav stumbled and fell. De Gier wanted to jump on top of Gustav but stumbled himself, rolled over on his shoulder, and got back on his feet. Gustav crawled out of reach. "Hold it." De Gier shouted. "Or be shot."

The sergeant fired, aiming the ever-ready modern Walfher pistol at a shrub, which he hit, for the Walther, according to the instruction sheet, will hit any target at less than two hundred meters' distance. The bang of a cartridge filled with high-powered explosives should have stopped the fugitive, but Gustav never heard the crack; a freighter plowing the river noisily while hooting its powerful horn erased all other sounds.

Gustav was up, jogging frantically, and de Gier knelt, took aim carefully, and squeezed the trigger gently. Now, he thought, another thousandth of an inch, and
wham.
No wham; the trigger clicked back into its original position. The sergeant's nail ticked against the trigger's guard. Why? de Gier thought while he got up. Why wound the bastard? I know who he is. I'll catch him some other time. He's not attacking me; on the contrary, he's running away. He's running nowhere; there's only the field, and the river beyond. A bit of sport; let's honor the rules. He reholstered his gun.

Gustav fell and disappeared.

De Gier looked down the decline of the dike. "Gustav?"

Gustav rolled on. His falling body hit an iron rod stuck between cobblestones. Splendid fellow, the sergeant thought; your identity and address are known, you can be arrested later, but I want to do it right now.

Gustav bounced off the rod and hit a rock farther below. De Gier followed slowly, holding on to cracks between the stones. He grabbed Gustav by the collar and yanked carefully.

It took ten minutes of pulling and slithering, hoisting and finding the right leverage before Gustav was back on the field, lying on his back, between yellow flowers on high stems swaying in the breeze. De Gier knelt next to his prisoner.

"Asshole," said de Gier.

"Pain," said Gustav.

"Pain where?"

"My leg. I broke it on that rod."

De Gier stuck his finger in a tear of Gustav's trousers and ripped. He looked at a bloody bone sticking through pale pimply skin.

"You won't run away, now," de Gier asked, "while I get back to my car and order the care you don't deserve?"

Gustav whimpered. The sergeant patted Gustav's shoulder. "Do you know that I'm sorry for you? I must be crazy." He got up and walked to the Volkswagen. The car's engine was still running and its engaged gear made it shuffle forward in a wide circle, dragging on its flat tires. De Gier turned the key and pressed the microphone's button.

"Headquarters? Car three-fourteen."

"Car three-fourteen," said the soft female voice.

"An ambulance, please," said de Gier. "Somewhere beyond the end of Woodman's Alley, on a field with yellow wildflowers. And colleagues, lots of them, for my car is done for and I should have a mob after me soon; we may have caused some accidents."

"The suspect?"

"Wounded."

"Are you all right?"

De Gier sighed.

"Three-fourteen?"

"Right here," the sergeant said. "I think that I'll leave you now and throw up for a few minutes."

"My name is Marike," the gentle voice said. "Telephone me when you have time. Over and out."

\\\\ 19 ////

"Hurrah," shouted the constable.

"That happy?" asked Cardozo.

"Yes, sir," the constable said. "What can we do for you today? Have you been mugged? Did anyone sell you cowshit instead of hashish? Do you want to know where the healthy whores live? Are you drunk and do you want to be driven home? State your request. We'll take care of everything."

"It's me," said Cardozo.

The constable stepped out of Cardozo's embrace. "Ah, so it is. I didn't recognize you. How good to see you again."

"I want coffee," said Cardozo, "and cake."

"Be my guest, Simon, for today is a great day once again."

"I thought you were going somewhere," Cardozo said in the canteen. "You were running out of the station, remember?"

"I wanted to spread the good news. Here's your coffee. Here's your cake."

"Arrested," the constable said, "and wounded. Caught by your Sergeant de Gier, our hero. Hurrah."

"And why?"

"Haha," said the constable. He whispered, "You want to know why? Because that superpimp, our perverted fiend Gustav himself, attacked a colleague without the slightest provocation. Could it be better?"

"Tell me everything exactly."

The constable supplied details. "Well?"

"I see," Cardozo said.

"Well? Well? Well?"

"Would Sergeant Jurriaans happen to be in the station?" asked Cardozo.

"Upstairs. In his private office."

"Thanks for the coffee and cake." Cardozo got up.

Jurriaans indicated a chair.

Cardozo sat down. "Congratulations."

"You've heard the latest news?"

"Yes," Cardozo said. "And I heard more. May I tell you about it? And could I ask you a question afterward?"

"Anything you like." Jurriaans picked up the phone. "Coffee perhaps? Some cake?"

"No, thank you, sergeant." Cardozo took the offered cigarette. "I just visited the arms room at headquarters and was told by the sergeant that the bullets I handed in yesterday, that originated from the Schmeisser we were firing here on the shooting range, are identical to the bullets which were taken from Obrian's corpse."

Jurriaans nodded. "All Schmeissers take nine-millimeter bullets."

"No," Cardozo said. "Some scratches. Indentations, I think the sergeant said. My bullets and the killer's bullets came from the same weapon."

"Amazing."

"Isn't it?" Carodozo lit his cigarette. "Now, would you perhaps know how we managed to locate a Schmeisser when we happened to be looking for one?"

Jurriaans smiled helpfully.

"And never paid attention to the coincidence? Never wondered whether the Schmeisser we found was the Schmeisser we wanted?"

Jurriaans closed his eyes. "Absolutely amazing."

"You think it's just amazing?"

Jurriaans opened his eyes. "You wouldn't want to wait until your Sergeant de Gier returns?"

"No, I would not." Cardozo said. "And Sergeant de Gier isn't mine."

Jurriaans spread his hands on the blotter that lay in the exact center of his desk. He pushed his hands toward each other with some force. The soft green paper rose and cracked on the folds. "Right. Well. Where did the weapon come from? Hadn't Sergeant de Gier found it in the street?"

"No," said Cardozo. "That's what I told the arms room, but I was asked to lie on the sergeant's behalf."

"Now I know," Jurriaans said. "The Schmeisser had been found in a room occupied by Mr. Jacobs,
our
Mr. Jacobs, chief of the morgue. Didn't de Gier say that Jacobs wasn't right in the head and that society had to be defended against the madness that forced our Jacobs to keep an automatic gun in bis room?"

"True," Cardozo said. "But can't we ask now whether society should also be protected against Sergeant de Gier's insanity? Can we really live quietly if the sergeant is allowed to create situations in which this fellow has to ride his motorcycle into the river and that fellow breaks his leg? Must we put up with a mind that is so deranged that it forces its owner to race his car through dense traffic, forces innocent civilians to climb lampposts and trees, old ladies to walk through store windows, insurance companies to pay out a fortune to cover dents?"

"Don't carry on," Jurriaans said. "Who cares about insurance companies except themselves? No one was wounded except Gustav, and Gustav is a perverted fiend and his leg has meanwhile been set."

Cardozo took a pencil from a mug placed on Jurriaans' desk.

Jurriaans took the other pencil from the mug and pointed it at Cardozo's chest. "Sergeant de Gier is an experienced detective who has proved himself so often that we know he'll make the right decisions. He came, he looked, he won."

"Ha," Cardozo said.

"You don't believe me?"

"I believe that Sergeant de Gier was set up, saw nonsense, and lost."

"You're burrowing," Jurriaans said. "Just like a mole. Blindly. Without considering either personalities or facts."

Cardozo broke the second pencil. "Sergeant?"

"Let's hear it."

"Do you think Jacobs shot Obrian?"

"I do not," Jurriaans said. "Jacobs only shoots the Gestapo, and the Gestapo hasn't been near him for years. If evil doesn't wear a German uniform, Jacobs won't shoot. I know as much because I've often listened to Jacobs. You know where he lives?"

"I know him personally," Cardozo said. "He lives at the end of the Straight-Tree-Ditch." He threw the halves of the second pencil into the wastebasket. Jurriaans opened a drawer and gave him a third pencil.

"You know the house," Jurriaans said. "Jacobs lives in a room. There are more people staying there, including some young women who work for Gustav. They display themselves in the windows around here but they live in that house. Gustav visits those women at home. He knows Jacobs. He knows Jacobs owns a Schmeisser. He knows that Jacobs often gets drunk and passes out on his bed. Gustav borrows Jacobs' Schmeisser."

"Did Gustav say so?"

"Maybe he did," Jurriaans said. "All I know so far is that de Gier arrested Gustav. I doubt whether Gustav will ever confess to the Obrian murder, but we do have him for attempted manslaughter of Orang Utan. The charge will stick. What does it matter if other charges won't?"

Cardozo got up.

"Where are you going?"

"To Jacobs' house," Cardozo said. "He isn't at the morgue, so he's probably at home."

"But why? Jacobs knows nothing."

"I'll go anyway, to make quite sure."

The pencil creaked in Cardozo's hands.

"You're still burrowing," Jurriaans said.

The pencil creaked again. "A superior brand," Jurriaans said. "The wood is stronger."

The pencil broke. "Sergeant?" asked Cardozo.

"Yes, colleague?"

"It can't be."

"What can't be, colleague?"

"It can't be," Cardozo said, "that de Gier was following Gustav when Gustav assaulted Orang Utan."

A large fly landed on the ruin of Jurriaans' blotter. Jurriaans' flat hand smashed the fly. "You saw that, colleague?"

"You killed a fly."

"Exactly. That fly has been irritating me for an hour and I was hunting him for an hour too but he managed to escape me. I kept my eye on him, however. Patience and luck, the ideas are interchangeable."

"Really, sergeant."

Jurriaans smiled hopefully.

"Good-bye sergeant," Cardozo said, and pulled the door closed behind him.