Janwillem De Wetering - The Mind-Murders

Then his mood changed again. He no longer saw the smooth lines the shaver traced through bubbly foam but the pond that had been in his vision when he was an angel, giving Asta away. The pond was filled with murky water now and sinister tiny animals tore at each other in the greenish slime. The sight unnerved him, the shaver caught his skin and a thick trickle of blood formed a fat drop and stained his shirt.

Managers are all the same, Asta thought as she sat opposite the man in an office that could have been any office. The man was still looking at her police card. His face was blank.

"I'm a police officer, as you can see. The photograph is of my face, right? I'm not here to apply for a position in this establishment, I'm here to find out whether a certain Mr. Karl Mttller, a fat German businessman, came here last night and I want you to tell me at what time he arrived and at what time he left."

"Yes," the man said.

They make them in a machine, she thought. The other one ran a hotel, this one runs a brothel. They are employees, there are others behind them who may be alive. This man isn't. He either came out of the metal mouth of some fantastic gadget or he grew in a big bowl of warm fluid. When he was done they fished him out, dried him, put him on his legs, slipped him into a plastic 161 envelope, and brought him here. He was already programmed so nothing could go wrong. All he has to do is greet the visiting lechers, take their money, pour them full of alcohol, and steer them to the right girl. I don't fit his formula, and he doesn't know what to do now.

"Are you alone?" the man asked.

"Yes, but don't get any ideas. If you touch me, I'll tie you into a knot with both your feet in your mouth."

The man smiled. "Really?"

Asta smiled too. "Really. Now will you tell me about that German or do you want me to get help? I trust your license is in order. If it is, I could still charge you with living on the profit of prostitution of another person or persons, that article hasn't been revoked, you know. We still use it occasionally."

"Quite," the man said. "I'm sorry, officer. I have been trying to remember that German you mentioned. We had a busy night yesterday, there's a convention in the hotel across the street, of politicians. We were a bit crowded. Quite a few of the gentlemen were fat, and some of them were German. Muller, you said the name was?"

"Karl Muller, man in his forties, obese, bald on top and a long fringe below, a lot of gold teeth, a heavy gold watch, light-color suit and a red tie."

"Ah. Yes. I remember the tie. Red is my favorite color. Let me check the credit card slips."

He opened a neat file and turned small rectangular slips, wetting his finger.

"Here we are, Karl Muller, the address is in Hamburg. Yes, I remember him. He complained, the girl hadn't been cooperative, he wanted a discount. I asked the girl what was wrong and she said she refused to get into the bath with him. The more expensive rooms have baths, you see, with gold-plated faucets, special feature of the house. The baths are king size; even so, there was little room left for the girl. He also complained about the quality of our snacks, we serve free snacks with the drinks. They're good. I've never had anybody criticizing them before."

"What time did he leave?"

The manager closed the file and placed it on the right corner of his desk, tapping it with his finger so that it was parallel to one side and perpendicular to the other.

"He left early. He wanted another girl, but we had so many clients that the girls could make their own choice, and nobody wanted him. Sometimes I'm able to obtain free-lance help but usually not on Mondays; the ladies are resting then after the weekend. I made a few unsuccessful phone calls and the gentleman left."

"What time?"

"Hard to say, there was so much coming and going. Around midnight, I would think."

"You'll have to sign a statement to that effect, and I also need a statement from the girl who wouldn't get into the bath. She'll have to confirm the time he left."

The manager puffed on his cigarette. His eyes evaded the demon that was pestering him.

"I'm afraid that will be impossible."

"As you like," Asta said. "Let me use your phone. I don't care how many sex clubs there are in Amsterdam, they're still illegal. I'm going to get my sergeant and some uniformed cops and we'll go through the place. Don't leave this room until my colleagues have arrived."

There were two telephones on the desk; the smaller model was pseudoantique. He picked it up.

"Ask Willemine to come into my office, will you? It's urgent, I don't care if she is busy."

The knife flashed past Asta and hit the center of the circle that had been painted on the cupboard door. De Gier walked from the other side of the room to retrieve it.

"You might have hit me," Asta said.

"No, I missed you by a foot. I'm accurate within an inch, and I've been practicing for a year. I've always been bad with knives. Grijpstra is better, he's never more than a centimeter off, but he is slow on the draw. That part I've got right, I think, you didn't see me draw the knife, did you?"

"No."

"Good, but not good enough. Your results aren't good enough either. So MuIIer left the club at midnight, two hours earlier than he told us. The difference doesn't constitute a crime. He had been drinking, didn't know what the time was. We still can't arrest the slob. What happened to Grijpstra?"

"Here," Grijpstra said. The knife came again. Grijpstra took off his jacket and hung it on the knife. "I've been to the hotel; the girl we're looking for gave a false name. It isn't in the computer. The address she gave is in Rotterdam. I telephoned the police there, and a patrol car drove to the street; the street exists but the number doesn't."

"Harassment," de Gier said, "and she had help inside the hotel. Boronski must have stayed in room 12. Did you check the register?"

"Yes. The entries are made with pencil. The pencil hadn't been pressed down and the handwriting wasn't too clear. It's easy to change a 2 into a 4. I took the register with me and the lab looked at it. They say that the 2 of 12 may have been erased and replaced by a 4, but they won't swear to it."

De Gier took Grijpstra's jacket off the knife and hung it on a hook. He replaced the knife in a sheath that had been sewn to the lining of his jacket.

"Inside help, probably the same person who changed Boronski's dry-cleaned clothes and then changed them again; he or she must also have lifted his watch from the bathroom and replaced it."

Grijpstra walked over to a battered set of drums and picked up two tapered sticks. He played on the side of the largest drum, lightly bitting the center in the middle and at the end of each bar.

"No," Asta said. "Do you often do that here, play drums?"

"Ever since the lost and found department gave him the drums," de Gier said. "Grijpstra gets everything free, I had to pay for this flute." He had taken the flute from his desk and blew a single note. Grijpstra sat up and started a fairly complicated rhythm. Asta couldn't hear who followed whom. The music seemed to become more intricate. The two men played for no more than five minutes. De Gier dropped the flute back into his desk, Grijpstra finished the way he had begun, with slowing taps on the side of the main drum.

"Wow! What was it? An improvisation?"

"Of course," Grijpstra said. "Ibaniz composed this for piano. He never thought of us, we can't play the piano."

Asta shook her head. "Sergeant Jurriaans told me that you two are musicians, but I never believed him. Most of what he says isn't connected with daily life."

"I should hope so," de Gier said. The telephone rang. "Right, I'll come and pick it up."