Janwillem De Wetering - Blond Baboon

“So you think Mr. Bergen will pay you?”

“Sure. Now he screw me but…”

“Good. I am glad to hear it, Mr. Pullini. Do you know where Madame and Gabrielle Carnet live?”

“Yes, before, I pick up Gabrielle. I remember street, Mierisstraat, nice street, big trees, maybe I can find street

“And you didn’t find it last night?”

“No.” Francesco coughed. The cough tore through his chest and he doubled up, holding his mouth into a handkerchief.

The commissaris waited for the attack to finish. They shook hands.

De Gier turned around in the corridor and caught die expression on Francesco’s face as he closed the door.

“Well?” the commissaris asked in the elevator.

“A sad little man, sir, sad and worried, but he has a sense of humor.”

“The sort of man who will push a lady down her own garden stairs?”

“No.” De Gier was watching the little red-orange light of the elevator, jumping down, humming every time it hit file next glass button. “But a push doesn’t take long. He is an excitable man and he wants his money. We may safely assume that the eighty thousand guilders are to be his, cash that he is lifting from his father’s till. So he may be a little nervous about it.”

“Sufficiently nervous to have pushed Mrs. Camet last night?”

The commissaris shook his head, answering his own question. “No, I wouldn’t think so. The amount may seem vast to us but to a businessman of Pullini’s caliber it isn’t all that much. Businessmen are usually very concerned about the continuation of their trade. Francesco will get his eighty thousand, now or later, but he won’t get anything if he pushes his client into her death. No I can’t see it. Still…”

“Sir?”

The elevator’s sliding door opened and they stepped into the hall and into a crowd of American tourists who had just been delivered by a bus and who were jockeying for position at the hotel’s counter.

“You were saying, sir?” de Gier asked again as they found each other under the striped awning of the hotel’s entrance.

“Well, he might be lying. Or giving his version of the truth, which would also be lying. The truth is hard to catch. He has no alibi. He visited some bars. He walked around. So he says.”

De Gier mumbled agreeably.

“Next!” The commissaris rubbed his hands. “The baboon’s turn. This Mr. Vleuten may be a more interesting suspect. Had an affair with the lady and stepped out of it. Also stepped out of his job. He doesn’t have to worry about any continuations for he broke his connection. He isn’t expecting us, is he?”

“No, sir. I have his address, that’s all. We can jump him the way we jumped Francesco just now.”

They got into the car. “Jump him,” the commissaris said. “I never know which attack is most effective. Sometimes it may be better to set up an appointment and let them work themselves into a cold sweat. But when we jump them they can’t lie so easily.” He picked up the microphone.

“CID here, headquarters?”

“Headquarters, sir.”

“Any messages for me?”

“Yes, sir. Would you phone your secretary, please?”

The commissaris pushed the microphone back into its clip and got out again. De Gier waited behind the wheel.

“Yes, dear?”

“There was a call just now from Carnet and Company, sir, Miss Gabrielle Carnet, she left two messages. Mr. Bergen has become ill and went to see his doctor. It seems he has some facial paralysis that may be serious and he has gone to a hospital to see a specialist.”

“That’s bad, dear, but it was very nice of Miss Carnet to let us know. What else?”

“She said that her mother took out eighty thousand guilders in cash from the company’s bank account yesterday, sir. Mr. Bergen found out this morning, after you and the sergeant left the Carnet office. He was very upset. Apparently it wasn’t customary for Mrs. Carnet to deal with the bank directly. If she wanted anything Mr. Bergen would do the necessary. And Mr. Bergen remembered your saying that you had only found a few hundred guilders in Mrs. Camet’s safe last night.”

“Thank you, dear. How did Gabrielle Carnet sound?”

“Cool, sir. A businesslike sort of voice.”

“Well, well, well. How are Cardozo and Grijpstra doing? Weren’t they supposed to visit Gabrielle? That won’t be necessary now for Miss Carnet is at her office, they’ll have to wait until this evening.”

“They are both out, sir. Cardozo has found witnesses to the dog poisoning and is now on street patrol, and Grijpstra is checking whether Mrs. Camet’s ring fits her finger tightly or not. He’ll be in the morgue but he should be back shortly.”

“Ha.” The commissaris rubbed his nose. “Ha. I think I’ll be coming back to headquarters. Grijpstra can take over from me.” As he walked back to the car he put out his left hand and said “Eighty thousand,” then he put out his right hand and repeated the amount.

“Very simple,” he added as he told his findings to de Gier. “Too simple, of course. But murder cases are simple sometimes. So suppose that Francesco went to see Elaine last night after all, and suppose he pushed her down the stairs and took her key from her purse and opened her safe. He did leave the household money, that was very decent of him.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t sound very convinced, sergeant?”

“No, sir. We know now that Mrs. Camet took out an amount identical to what her firm owed Francesco. Perhaps she took it out to give it to him. She may have taken it for a reason altogether detached from the case. The amount is big enough to buy a house, for instance, and I believe solicitors transacting real estate always demand payment in cash. According to Mr. Bergen, Mrs. Camet wasn’t interested in the day-to-day management of her company, maybe she didn’t even know what her firm owed Francesco. But if she did know she must have taken the money to pay him, and if she meant to pay him there was no reason to kill and rob her.”

'True.”

“But why would Mr. Bergen be suddenly suffering a facial paralysis, sir? Is he going to pieces because the police are questioning him?”

The commissaris grinned. “I knew you would say mat, sergeant, and the conclusion isn’t so far-fetched, but I think I know what is wrong with Mr. Bergen. I suffered from the same affliction some years ago. It is called Bell’s palsy. I thought I had had a stroke and fussed and ran to a specialist, but it wasn’t serious at all. An infection of the facial nerve: if the nerve doesn’t work half the face becomes paralyzed, the eyelid won’t close anymore, it becomes difficult to chew, and half the mouth droops, the way it does when you’ve been to the dentist. The paralysis wears off by itself, however, and the face becomes normal within a matter of weeks.”

“And what causes this palsy, sir? A nervous shock?”

“No, sergeant. A draft. I had been driving with an open window. Did you think the man was having a stroke?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Maybe you were hoping that, eh, sergeant? Because you wanted to think that we had found our man.”

De Gier smiled apologetically.

They met Grijpstra in one of headquarters’ corridors. The adjutant held up the wedding ring. “Not a very tight fit, sir, but not a very loose one, either. The corpse was almost frozen, so maybe the experiment was without value. When I left her, her arms were sticking straight up as if she couldn’t bear my walking away. Brr. That morgue is a nasty place, sir. I saw at least ten bodies of young people dead of drug overdoses or malnutrition caused by drugs, and they were bringing in more as I left. The attendant said that they are mostly foreigners and all of them nameless and unclaimed.”