Janwillem De Wetering - The Mind-Murders

But he can't be trusted, he thought, for he is without his drug. Perhaps Asta would look after him. He remembered that Asta couldn't be trusted either. He forgot his fears while he watched young girls crossing the street, with sharply outlined bodies dressed in tight jeans or in narrow frocks, not quite narrow enough for the wind not to play with.

The adjutant had either picked the wrong place or the wrong time, for suddenly the crossing girls were all fat. He looked at the surrounding buildings and didn't like them either, they were square and gray. The sky was gray too. He sipped his coffee, put the cup down, and closed his eyes. Once again he saw himself bestowing the divine gift on de Crier. He wondered how the sergeant would react to his new companion.

The vision faded, and he got up and found canals and narrow streets lined with old and stately gable houses that rested his mind. He stopped to scratch a cat, spoke to a dog which changed its snarl into a pathetic grin, and picked up a shopping bag dropped by an old lady. While he listened to her complaint about rising prices, he saw the dead face of Jim Boronski again. It hadn't been a pleasant face, although the man was undoubtedly handsome. A villain, Grijpstra thought, and forgot the definition as he had to jump for his life to avoid a careening truck.

The address where Asta lived turned out to be a boarding house. The landlady directed the sergeant to the top floor, but when he got there, he had forgotten on which door he should knock. The second, he thought. There was no answer, and he opened the door. He was in a large bathroom and Asta was in the bath on her knees adjusting the faucets, her small, round bottom faced him. She looked over her shoulder.

"Excuse me," de Gier said, "I'll wait downstairs."

He went down and waited awhile, constructing theories to pass the time. None of the possibilities would hold. Why would the fat German kill expatriate Boronski, temporarily back in the old country? Were they businessmen fighting over a deal? What sort of a deal warrants violent death? Were they lovers of the same woman? Why would the German dump his enemy's body in his own Mercedes and then report the car as stolen? The ulcer seemed to rule out all thought of murder, but there were still mysterious and accusing facts. He left the building, bought chewing gum, chewed for a while, spat the gum out, and rang the bell again.

"Third door on the left, sir, but the ladies in this house are not supposed to have male visitors."

"Yes," de Gier said and ran up the stairs. The painful need of nicotine made him forget to knock. He saw Asta in the middle of the room. She still had no clothes on. She was on her knees again, looking over her shoulder into a mirror.

"Excuse me," de Gier said.

The girl jumped up, snatched a towel from the bed, and wrapped her slight body in it.

"For heaven's sake, don't you ever knock?"

"I did the first time, but the water of the bath was running."

"Are you wondering about my strange position?"

"Yes."

"I wanted to know what I look like when I'm on my hands and knees and somebody looks at me from the rear."

"Oh."

"What do I look like from the rear?"

"Nice."

She sighed. "Nice? Is that all?"

"Very nice," de Gier said patiently. "Appetizing. Irresistible. Please dress. The adjutant is waiting at Headquarters for his new detective and we have to see that German. I'll wait outside."

"You'll wait right here. You've seen everything already, but I would prefer you to look out of the window while I dress. What should I put on? I've never worked out of uniform. A dress? Jeans and a blouse?"

"A dress, Hotel Oberon is a classy place."

"Shouldn't you be wearing a tie then?"

"I never wear a tie. Hurry up."

"I like the way you wear your clothes," Asta said while her cotton dress rustled. "A scarf is elegant, you're an elegant man; they are rare in the police, I've never seen one except you. Even Sergeant Jurriaans isn't elegant."

"You like him, do you?"

"Yes."

"Is it true that the two of you went out one night and got drunk and that you stripped on a table and played on an Oriental rug with a girlfriend?"

"What?"

"Is it true?"

"Who told you that?"

"I heard," de Gier said.

"Me and Sergeant Jurriaans?"

"That's right."

"I had a drink with him once; he came into Beelema's and was distraught. He had a fight with his wife. I know his wife, she's charming. Jurriaans can be grumpy at times. He shouldn't talk about his private life to another woman, but I didn't mind."

"You didn't go anywhere with him?"

"No."

"Would you have liked to?"

She held his shoulders and pushed him round. "Of course. I love him. I would do anything for him. Even dance on tables and play on rugs."

"With another lady?"

"If he wanted me to. Shall we go? I'm ready."

De Gier was uncomfortable, but the ride didn't take long. The German wasn't in the hotel but pushed his bulk through the revolving glass door as they were ready to leave an invitation for him to come to Headquarters.

"Police? I don't want to speak to the police. Or is it about my car? Did you find my car?"

De Gier's German was slow and painful; the fat man didn't understand until Asta helped out. Her German wasn't much better than the sergeant's, but her pronunciation was better.

"We found the car, but we have to speak with you. Take us to your room."

The room was spacious and well furnished. The German didn't offer them chairs, although he sat down himself. He opened a thermos flask and filled its cup with lemonade.

"You found my car, where is it?"

"Do you know Mr. Boronski, Jim Boronski?"

"Yes. No. What is that to you?"

"What is your name? Show us your passport." De Gier found it impossible to be polite to the man. He caught the passport the German threw at him and opened it. "Karl Muller. What is your profession?"

"My firm imports wood. I buy from Mr. Boronski. He ships me wood from Colombia and Peru. We are men who do business together, no more."

"Mr. Boronski was found dead in your car this morning."

"What?"

De Gier looked at Asta.

"Tot," Asta said, "in your car."

Herr Miiller's pudgy red hands trembled. He replaced the flask and cup on a side table.

"Tot, Herr Boronski tot?"

"Quite dead."

"How did he die? Was he murdered?"

"We don't know yet. We came to ask you if you knew anything."

Miiller's cheeks trembled. Sweat ran down his face. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat. De Gier pushed his chair closer.

"He died during the night. Where were you last night?"

"I was out. In a bar and a club. I came home late."

"How late?"

"Two o'clock maybe, or a little later."

"You remember where you were?"

"Yes."

"Write down the names of the establishments and the times you were there."

While Mtiller wrote, de Gier considered the next move. The man's answers were acceptable so far. There was no charge, for if the doctor was right, Boronski wasn't murdered. Muller's passport seemed to be in order. To attempt to arrest the man might cause all sorts of unpleasantness. He looked at the passport again. The man originated in Hamburg. They might check with the Hamburg police.

He took the slip of paper from the table and read the names of the bar and the club. He knew the bar, a fairly respectable place. The club was a sex club, expensive and supposedly high-class. He had never been there and couldn't remember if the place had ever figured in police reports. If Muller said that he'd been there, he was probably speaking the truth.

"I'll have to hold your passport, and I must ask you not to leave this hotel until you hear from us. Tell us all you know about Mr. Boronski."