Isaac Asimov - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, Vol. 73, No. 3. Whole No. 424, March 1979

“How is your wife, sir?”

“Conscious and in pain. The doctors think they can save her, but she will have to be on a stringent diet for years and she’ll be very weak for months. I won’t have her back for a while.”

Grijpstra coughed. “We visited your wife’s, ah, previous lover, sir.” The word “previous” came out awkwardly and he coughed again to take away the bad taste.

“Did you arrest him?”

“No, sir.”

“Any strong reasons to suspect the man?”

“Are you a criminal lawyer, sir?”

Moozen kicked the last surviving crocus, turned on his heels, and led his visitors into the house. “No, I specialize in civil cases. Sometimes I do divorces, but I don’t have enough experience to point a finger in this personal case. Divorce is a messy business, but with a little tact and patience reason usually prevails. To try and poison somebody is unreasonable behavior. I can’t visualize Ann provoking that type of action — she is a gentle woman, sensuous but gentle. If she did break her relationship with the engineer she would have done it diplomatically.”

“He seemed upset, sir, genuinely upset.”

“Quite. I had hoped as much. So where are we now?”

“With you, sir. Do you have any enemies? Anybody who hated you so badly that he wanted you to die a grotesque death, handed to you by a roaring rabbit? You did find the rabbit on the garden path this morning, didn’t you, sir?”

Moozen pointed. “Yes, out there, sitting in between the crocuses, leering, and as you say, roaring. Giving me the egg.”

“Now, which demented mind might have thought of shaping that apparition, sir? Are you dealing with any particularly unpleasant cases at this moment? Any cases that have a badly twisted undercurrent? Is anyone blaming you for something bad that is happening to them?”

Moozen brushed his hair with both hands. “No. I am working on a bad case having to do with a truckdriver who got involved in a complicated accident; his truck caught fire and it was loaded with expensive cargo. Both his legs were crushed. His firm is suing the firm that owned the other truck. A lot of money in claims is involved and the parties are becoming impatient, with me mostly. The case is dragging on and on. But if they kill me the case will become even more complicated, with no hope of settlement in sight.”

“Anything else, sir?”

“The usual. I collect bad debts, so sometimes I have to get nasty. I write threatening letters, sometimes I telephone people or even visit them. I act tough — it’s got to be done in my profession. Usually they pay but they don’t like me for bothering them.”

“Any pastry shops?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Pastry shops,” Grijpstra said, “people who make and sell confectionery. That rabbit was a work of art in a way, made by a professional. Are you suing anybody who would have the ability to create the roaring rabbit?”

“ Ornaments! ” de Gier shouted. His shout tore at the quiet room. Moozen and Grijpstra looked up, startled.

“Ornaments! Brass ornaments. Ornaments are made from molds. We’ve got to check his shop.”

“Whose shop?” Grijpstra frowned irritably. “Keep your voice down, Sergeant. What shop? What ornaments?”

“Marchant!” de Gier shouted. “Marchant’s shop.”

“Marchant?” Moozen was shouting too. “Where did you get that name? Emil Marchant?”

Grijpstra’s cigar fell on the carpet. He tried to pick it up and it burned his hand, sparks finding their way into the carpet’s strands. He stamped them out roughly.

“You know a Mr. Marchant, sir?” de Gier asked quietly.

“No, I haven’t met him. But I have written several letters to a man named Emil Marchant. On behalf of clients who are hindered by the noise he makes in his shop. He works with brass, and it isn’t only the noise but there seems to be a stink as well. My clients want him to move out and are prepared to take him to court if necessary. Mr. Marchant telephoned me a few times, pleading for mercy. He said he owed money to the tax department and wanted time to make the money, that he would move out later; but my clients have lost patience. I didn’t give in to him — in fact, I just pushed harder. He will have to go to court next week and he is sure to lose out.”

“Do you know what line of business he is in, sir?”

“Doorknobs, I believe, and knockers for doors, in the shape of lions’ heads — that sort of thing. And weathervanes. He told me on the phone. All handmade. He is a craftsman.”

Grijpstra got up. “We’ll be on our way, sir. We found Mr. Marchant this morning, dead, hanging from a tree in the Amsterdam Forest. He probably hanged himself around seven A.M., and at some time before he must have delivered the rabbit and its egg. According to his landlady he has been behaving strangely lately. He must have blamed you for his troubles and tried to take his revenge. He didn’t mean to kill your wife, he meant to kill you. He didn’t know that you don’t eat chocolate and he probably didn’t even know you were married. We’ll check further and make a report. The rabbit’s mold is probably still in his shop, and if not we’ll find traces of the chocolate. We’ll have the rabbit checked for fingerprints. It won’t be difficult to come up with irrefutable proof. If we do, we’ll let you know, sir, a little later today. I am very sorry all this has happened.”

“Nothing ever happens in Amsterdam,” de Gier said as he yanked the door of the Volkswagen open, “and when it does it all fits in immediately.”

But Grijpstra didn’t agree.

“We would never have solved the case, or rather I wouldn’t have if you hadn’t thought of the rabbit as an ornament.”

“No, Grijpstra, we would have found Marchant’s name in Moozen’s files.”

The adjutant shook his heavy grizzled head. “No, we wouldn’t have checked the files. If he had kept on saying that he wasn’t working on any bad cases I wouldn’t have pursued that line of thought. I’d have reverted to trying to find an enemy of his wife. We might have worked for weeks and called in all sorts of help and wasted everybody’s time. You are clever, Sergeant.”

De Gier was studying a redheaded girl waiting for a streetcar.

“Am I?”

“Yes. But not as clever as I am,” Grijpstra said and grinned. “You work for me. I personally selected you as my assistant. You are a tool in my expert hands.”

De Gier winked at the redheaded girl and the girl smiled back. The traffic had jammed up ahead and the car was blocked. De Gier opened his door.

“Hey! Where are you going?”

“It’s a holiday, Adjutant, and you can drive this wreck for a change. I am going home. That girl is waiting for a streetcar that goes to my side of the city. Maybe she hasn’t had lunch yet. I am going to invite her to go to a Chinese restaurant.”

“But we have reports to make, and we’ve got to check out Marchant’s shop; it’ll be locked, we have to find the key in his room, and we have to telephone the engineer to let him off the hook.”

“I am taking the streetcar,” de Gier said. “You do all that. You ate my roll.”

Charlie rides again! — the overweight, overage, but never over-eager counterespionage agent is assigned another tough and ticklish problem — and expected to work another miracle...

Streaks of falling gray rain slanted across the silhouette of Sydney Harbour Bridge and when the taxi decanted me under the shelter of the porte-cochere canopy my poplin suit was still steamy from the dash at the airport. I carried my traveling bag inside the high-rise, found my way to the elevators, and rode one up to the ninth floor.