Janwillem De Wetering - The Mind-Murders

"Shall I make notes?" Asta asked.

"Please do."

The girl crossed her legs and pointed her ball pen at a new notebook. De Gier smiled and looked away. She had slender legs and slim ankles.

Muller seemed to have come through his crisis and talked easily. He had corresponded with Boronski's firm in Bogotd, Colombia, for years and done regular business with him ever since he began importing wood from that part of the world. Gradually the shipments had grown to sizable proportions, and as even larger deals were envisaged, he had thought that he should meet his supplier. Boronski said that he would go to Amsterdam and they had agreed to stay at the same hotel.

"So you came here specially to meet him?"

No, Miiller also had other business in Amsterdam.

"What do you know about Boronski's private life?"

Not much. Boronski wasn't married, had no relatives in Holland, and hadn't been to Holland for many years. He drove a Porsche that he had just bought and meant to take back to Colombia.

Was there anything wrong with him physically?

Yes, he complained about stomachaches.

Did he drink a lot?

Yes, but not to the point of getting very drunk.

Girlfriends?

Not that Muller knew of.

Visiting sex clubs?

Yes.

Had he been seeing a doctor?

Muller didn't know.

Could Muller show any correspondence with Boronski's firm?

No, not here. Muller claimed that the correspondence was on file in his office in Hamburg.

"Where is my car?" Muller asked.

De Gier explained where the car was. "You can have it back. It was shorted and the lock of the trunk was forced, but the door lock wasn't. Did you forget?"

Muller nodded. "I forgot to lock the door. In Amsterdam they steal everything. Bad city, bad food, too expensive."

"You should have stayed home."

"Can I go and pick up my car?"

"Yes, you can move within the city as long as you leave a note at the hotel desk to say where we can find you."

"When do I get my passport back?"

"Soon."

"I was planning to leave. You'll have to pay for any extra time I have to stay at the hotel."

"Let's go," de Gier said and held the door open for Asta. He left without saying goodbye, closing the door behind him with a little too much force.

"A pig," Asta said. "Shall we make inquiries about Boronski at the desk?"

The hotel manager let them into his private office and ordered coffee. He was both polite and precise.

"Mr. Boronski? Dead? How unfortunate."

"Very. He lived in Colombia and had no relatives. It may be difficult for you to collect his bill."

"Perhaps, but it's a risk of the trade."

"Did he do anything that caused special notice?"

"Yes," the manager said, "on several occasions, he bothered us and I contemplated asking him to leave. There was that business with the girl and the trouble about his car. He seemed very upset, and in pain too. I suggested he should see a doctor. There was something wrong with his stomach."

De Gier sat up. "Trouble with a lady. Would you explain?"

"Of course. When was it? Last Thursday, I believe, or Wednesday. It'll be in the register. A lady checked in. I was at the desk that night, I remember her well, a rather lovely lady. She just wanted to stay the night, well dressed, good-quality suitcase, demure, didn't say much, didn't have a credit card, so she paid cash in advance. That night I wasn't on duty, I left shortly after she arrived. The night staff reported in the morning that there had been trouble with Mr. Boronski. A strange tale indeed. It seemed that he tried to get into her room, did get into her room, in fact, and somehow bothered her."

"Attempted rape?" de Gier asked.

"No, no. I tell you, it's a strange tale. He claimed that she was in his room, that he knew her, that he had arranged with her that she would stay the night with him, and the lady claimed that she had never set eyes on the man. She phoned the desk, my assistant went up. Boronski had lost all self-control, man was foaming at the mouth, I believe, and then my assistant discovered that Boronski's room was next door. Quite an upheaval. The lady was so upset that she packed her bag and left. My assistant tried to reassure her and offered excuses, free breakfast and so forth, drinks, anything she liked, but she insisted."

"Did she get her money back?"

"Oh yes."

"And Boronski?"

"He came to see me the next morning and stated that his room had been switched in some devilish manner, for all his belongings were arranged precisely as he had left them, but they were in the other room. I didn't believe him, of course. I even showed him the register. He had room 14, not 12, he had room 14 from the start. Boronski also told me that the lady had been in his room that afternoon. He had met her in the street somewhere, she was a prostitute. The, eh, meeting was most satisfactory and she had promised to come back in the evening at ten. He went to his room before ten and she was there all right but she didn't know him."

"Wouldn't somebody here have noticed her in the company of Mr. Boronski?"

The manager hid a yawn behind a dainty hand. De Gier noticed that he had polished fingernails.

"Excuse me, no, nobody noticed; we have sixty-four rooms here, there's a lot of coming and going."

"How could she have got into his room? Boronski had the key, didn't he?"

The manager yawned again. "Do excuse me, I haven't had much sleep lately. I wouldn't know."

"Amazing," de Gier said. "You also mentioned other trouble, something about a car?"

"Yes, another tall tale. He came to see me and said that his car, a brand new Porsche that he had just bought, tax-free, to take with him to South America suddenly had the steering wheel on the wrong side. I ask you. Fortunately, I knew by then that the man wasn't in his right mind; this was after the business with the lady, you see. I didn't want to listen to him, but he practically dragged me into the street. The car was there, a lovely job, silver color, red leather upholstery, must have cost him a fortune. The registration plates were special, Colombian, must have got them through the local consulate. The steering wheel was on the right side, and he said it was on the left when he bought the car the day before. Quite impossible. To change a steering wheel is a major operation, not the sort of thing somebody does with a screwdriver and a couple of wrenches in a few minutes. This was in the morning. He said he had parked the car in front of the hotel, had worked in his room for an hour, come out, and noticed the change. He had phoned the agent where he bought the car and the agent confirmed that the wheel was on the left side. So Boronski said he wanted me to phone the agent but I refused. I didn't want to listen to him. It was his car and his mind. We only provide rooms and meals." The manager laughed. "Anyway, the next day the wheel was back in its correct position so the mishap was taken care of."

De Gier gaped. Asta stopped writing.

"Did I hear you correctly?" de Gier asked. "Or am I going mad too?"

"You heard me correctly, but the man was mad."

"Did you see the car again?"

"No. He wanted to show it to me, but I refused to leave the desk. Damn it all, I'm not a psychiatrist, I'm a hotel manager. There had been all the other nonsense too. His watch disappeared from his bathroom and turned up an hour later in the spot where it should have been all the time. He sent his clothes for dry cleaning and the wrong clothes came back to his room. One of the girls checked, but by that time they had changed into the right clothes again. Mr. Boronski was suffering from some form of paranoia. He hallucinated. He was physically ill too, he complained of stomach cramps and we had to serve him porridge for dinner; he exhausted the room service waiter by phoning for milk every half hour. I'm glad he has left us."