The Streetbird (6 page)

"His sense of duty," the commissaris said. "The children, they need a father around the house."

"But aren't they growing up now?" Nellie fetched a chair from under the kitchen stairs and unfolded it energetically. She sat down at the other side of the table. "I don't want him to come and live with me, although that would be a good idea too. He wouldn't even have to work anymore, he could ask for early retirement. He always says he wants to paint but that his house is so full that he hasn't got the space. He could have my basement, or sit outside if the weather is like it is now."

The commissaris lit a cigar. "A most excellent meal, Nellie, I do thank you."

"Another drink?"

"No, thanks."

"Coffee? It should be done perking by now."

The commissaris looked at her slender well-cared-for-hands playing with each other on the tablecloth. "I'm working, Nellie, although you wouldn't think so. About Obrian, now, the man who was shot early this morning. Did you know him at all?"

"I'm glad," Nellie said, "I'll never have to know him again. It's a sin, of course, but if I think it, I may as well say it. I hope Luku Obrian goes to hell. He was worse than the worst types one sees around here. If that bastard looked at a woman with those large moist eyes he had, then she could forget her future, and everything else as well. All
he
wanted to do was have your guts and then throw away the skin."

"A pimp, wasn't he?"

Nellie's fingers cracked as she contorted them. "Right. I know all about pimps, had one myself when I started out. He talked nicely enough, but he was just like the others, after the money to spend it on others. Once you get into their hands, you'll never get out again, and when mine caught a knife in his lovely flat belly, I swore I would never have another one."

"Obrian was after you too?"

She looked up. "Whatever makes you think that?"

The commissaris crumpled his paper napkin. "Well, he was a pimp, wasn't he, and he knew you, and you're a very attractive woman. I'm just asking. Policemen ask. I didn't want to offend you."

Nellie laughed. "You're a cop, aren't you? Who would ever think so?" Her hand slid across the table and touched his.

The commissaris smiled. "Grijpstra is a cop too."

"Yes, I'll never believe it. Such a sweet man. The ideal father, and you would be the right grandfather."

"Now now."

"Only when you dress up funny. Old clothes make you look old, but without the coat you look much younger already."

The commissaris waited.

"And you're right," Nellie said. "Obrian was after me."

"Could you resist?"

"I had Henk."

"Of course," the commissaris said softly. "I hadn't thought of that."

"And Sergeant Jurriaans," Nellie said. "He's a very strong man and he sometimes drops in for coffee here, always in uniform."

She was holding his hand. The commissaris pulled it back and stretched. "So quiet here, and yet we're in the midst of the city."

"Shouldn't you take a nap now? Henk always rests after a meal."

"No," the commissaris said, "but you know what I would like to do? Have a hot bath. I'm somewhat rheumatic and hot water soaks the pain away."

"Go right ahead." Nellie began to clear the table.

Nellie's hand appeared, holding a silver tray."I thought you wouldn't mind another cup of coffee."

"Please."

"Do you mind if I come in a moment? I won't look."

She sat on a stool next to the tub, and the commissaris pushed himself up carefully, concerned about keeping his cigar dry.

"I'm lonely sometimes," Nellie said. "It's nice to know there's someone in the house. The guests don't count and there aren't any right now anyway. Is the water hot enough?"

"Cooling. Would you mind turning the faucet?"

Nellie reached to the tub's other end. "The tank is enormous, you can have baths all day."

"Good to know," the commissaris said. "Hot water is about the only thing the pain reacts to. I say, Nellie, I was thinking about Obrian again. He was shot with a machine pistol. Would you have any idea who might have used such an unusual weapon?"

Nellie rested her chin on her hand. "Another pimp, who else? Luku was taking it all, the others couldn't accept his grabbiness. To live and let live—Luku never heard about that idea."

"With a machine pistol," the commissaris said. "Strange, eh? Who would have a gun like that?"

"Hard to handle. They jump in your hands."

"You know about shooting?"

"Yes," Nellie said. "I'm a farmer's daughter. My brother and I had to shoot crows, to save Dad's chicks. And I have used a machine pistol too. We had German soldiers on the farm during the war. We were only little kids then, and I hardly remember the soldiers, but my brother found their gear, years and years later, where my father had hidden it. Rifles, hand grenades, ammo. The grenades were fun, we used them for fishing. You just throw them in and there's a fountain, that high"—she pointed at the ceiling—"and then the dead fish float. We used a machine pistol on a crow. There was nothing left of him afterward but broken feathers."

"My, you were a dangerous girl. How old were you then?"

"Fourteen, I think. My father was all upset and the local cop came and took the guns. My father would have been fined, but he called the cop himself, so it was all right."

"Shouldn't have guns about."

Nellie smiled. "No? With all the mugging going on? In this neighborhood?"

"You have a gun?"

She handed him a towel. "Shouldn't you get out? If you stay in too long you get all wrinkled. Look at your fingers now."

"Yes," the commissaris said. He raised himself with difficulty and wrapped himself in the towel. Nellie looked away. "I'm all covered now," the commissaris said. "Tell me, do you have anyone in particular in mind?"

"Who could have shot Obrian? Lennie, I would think, or Gustav. They hated him most. Here, let me dry your back."

"No," the commissaris said, turning away. "What if Henk were to suddenly come in and see us like this?"

She grinned sadly. "I wish he would. It's his own fault. Staying away doesn't do much for our relationship." She followed him to his room and folded the sheets open. "Nap time, Uncle Jan."

"No. I'll lie down and think."

She walked to the door. "That's what Henk says he does too, and then he snores for hours."

"Not me," the commissaris said to himself. "It's a matter of self-discipline. Keep sleep back by force of will and enter the in-between dreamscape where all facts connect." He sighed, closed his eyes, and fell asleep.

\\\\ 6 ////

Whether he was dreaming was to remain unclear too. He saw a blade shape that he interpreted as a bird, a vulture. The vulture did not walk, but hopped. Each hop brought the bird closer to the couch. The vulture looked like the bird that he saw in the early morning, on the antenna in the Olofs-alley, but this vulture was considerably bigger, bigger also than the birds of prey in the zoo, hunched-up sad feathery bodies staring morosely at a hostile world.

The vulture wasn't in a hurry. The sergeant heard its claws scratch on the floor's linoleum. He saw its wings, flapping clumsily. He also noticed the sinister hooked beak and the evil eyes, surrounded by dry folds of skin.

The dream's backdrop changed. The sergeant was lying in a white-yellowish desert, under a scorching sun, and the vulture fluttered closer, bent over his prostrate body, and stared down curiously. Vultures don't wait until you're dead, the sergeant thought, they get right into you, chisel into your skull, tear out brains, hack away.

He was also thinking that the bird was an aspect of himself, representing his own evil, the solid poison that had accumulated because of wrong living and that now was strong enough to split away and take its own form.

That he was frightened was certain. The impulses emitted by his brain did not connect. Paralyzed by dread, he tried to concentrate on the wet sensation in the lower extremity of his mustache, the only part of his body he was still aware of. His fear was somewhat comical. It was funny that he could do nothing to protect himself. Here I am, the sergeant thought, judo champion of the Amsterdam Municipal Police, with the world's most deadly pistol tucked into my armpit, and I'm ready to be torn into slivers.

The dreadful bird stood next to him, stretched out, its head bent back in order to be able to strike down more forcefully. The sergeant wanted to scream but couldn't produce more than the weakest squeak, drowned immediately in the vulture's awful screech. The biting impact numbed his head. The furious bird shuffled away; the door banged closed.

The painful and, in spite of its lengthy introduction, still rather sudden attack broke his sleep-induced overall paralysis and the sergeant groaned, sat up, and even managed to force himself to his feet and stagger over to the windows to open the curtains. He saw that the couch was covered with soppy white worms, which were also stuck to his shoulders and slithered down his jacket. The worms burned his hands and he yelled as he tried to flip them away. The couch looked too disgusting and he staggered to a chair. He heard the door open again and tried to get up, to defend himself against the returning bird.

"What's all this?" Grijpstra asked.

"Adjutant," babbled de Gier. "Adjutant. To arms!"

"What on earth for?" Grijpstra was about to sit down on the couch.

"No!"

Grijpstra studied the white worms on the red vinyl. "What's the mess?"

"My brains."

"Looks more like spaghetti."

"Look, my blood too."

"Spaghetti with tomato sauce?" Grijpstra smeared a finger with the warm fluid. "Still hot. Tastes okay. Why did you throw it out?"

"Attacked. By a vulture. While I slept."

"You got sick," Grijpstra said. "Unwell. Puked, I imagine."

"No no no." De Gier grabbed his head. "I was hit.
Beaked.
By a bird." He knelt in front of the adjutant. "Feel my head."

"Never," said Grijpstra, in the bathroom watching de Gier shower, trying to follow the sergeant's stuttered explanations. "All that happened is that someone knocked you on the noggin with a pot." He made a fist. "Clear case of assault. Shall I contact the station? We need a fingerprint man."

"No."

"And how is your head now? Want me to take you to a hospital?"

De Gier dived into a clean shirt. "No." He followed the adjutant into the living room.

"Let me clean up at least, before Cardozo comes back, or we'll have that again. Get a bucket with hot water and I'll handle the rag."

Grijpstra mopped. De Gier sat at the table and tried to roll a cigarette. His hands trembled. "I must have been dreaming."

"Yes, but the actual violence was no dream or you wouldn't have a lump on top of your head. Where did you get the vulture idea?"

"It was a vulture."

Grijpstra carried the bucket out and came back. He sat down next to the sergeant, placed his notebook on his knee, and drew a bird.

"That's him," de Gier said. "How did you know?"

"Because I saw a bird like this, in the Olofs-alley, just after the drunken seamen lost the war. I looked up and saw a vulture fly above the rooftops. But as there are no vultures in this country, and never have been any, I assumed I was mistaken. A falcon maybe—there are falcons in the city, hunting pigeons."

"A vulture, with yellow legs and a yellow beak."

"Quite. But vultures have never been seen here."

"This one was seen," de Gier said. "Very much so, and he came after me too, and waited on the roof until I was asleep, and sneaked in and beaked into my head with his infested mouthpiece."

"Why not?" Grijpstra said. "After all, anything is possible. I've seen camels in town too, advertising trips to North Africa, and elephants trumpeting about a circus. But why would the vulture be carrying a pot of spaghetti?"

De Gier tried to roll another cigarette. Grijpstra took the paper and tobacco out of his hands. "Let me do it for you." He inserted the cigarette between de Gier's lips and flicked his lighter. "Here you are." De Gier inhaled and coughed. Grijpstra patted his back. "You're still not all there. Poor Rinus. Quietly asleep, minding your own business, and look what happens. How about a nice cup of nice coffee?"

Grijpstra brought the mug. "Here, half a spoon of sugar, seven drops of milk, just as sir likes it. Stirred lightly from the wrist."

De Gier stared at the coffee.

"But you have to drink it yourself. Shall I steady your hand?"

Cardozo came in. "Is the sergeant being fed?"

"I always say hello when I enter a room," Grijpstra said.

"Hello," Cardozo said. "I have news. I found Crazy Chris, pushing a cart filled with eels and radishes. Crazy Chris did see the suspect, but his memory is a bit faulty, due to intake of alcohol, which, as we know, does not stimulate the intelligence. I shook him a bit and he managed to remember."

"What did he remember?"

"That the suspect was large, black, shapeless, and creepy. He wore a black cape and a floppy hat. He walked west, following the Seadike, away from the station. Gait somewhat jumpy, and he almost stepped out of his shoes."

De Gier lowered his mug.

"You're spilling," Cardozo said. "Please. We try to keep it clean here."

"Did the suspect resemble a bird?" de Gier asked.

Cardozo looked at Grijpstra. "He must have carried the Schmeisser under his cape, and he certainly looked odd. I do think we should try to catch him. A mad murderer, in the possession of an automatic weapon." He nodded at de Gier. "What
is
the matter with the sergeant?"

"The sergeant dreamed that he was attacked by a large bird, right here in the room, while he was napping on the couch."

"Are you sure he didn't happen to be awake?" Cardozo asked. "Earlier on he saw three roller-skating gentlemen. I'm sure the psychiatrist can recommend suitable therapy."

"Come here," de Gier said. "Feel my head."

Cardozo felt. "A lump." He felt again. "Biggish."

"Hit on the head," Grijpstra said, "with a potful of spaghetti and tomato sauce. Someone's hot dinner. I cleaned up the mess and
you
will find out who harassed the sergeant."

Cardozo sat on the couch, elbows on knees, chin on hands. His head nodded violently. Grijpstra looked at Cardozo's bobbing curls. "What are you doing?"

"I'm concentrating, adjutant. If the spaghetti was still warm, the perpetrator of the crime came from close by. He also had a key."

"Very likely true."

"Neighbor?"

"Possible," Grijpstra said. "The previous occupant lived by himself. He could have given the neighbor a duplicate key."

Cardozo pointed at the floor. "There are only neighbors downstairs. The house has cafes on each side, nobody lives above the cafes."

"Think more."

"Shall I visit the neighbor?"

Grijpstra smiled encouragingly.

Cardozo jumped off the couch.