Janwillem De Wetering: Death of a Hawker

De Gier's legs faltered again and Grijpstra's arm caught his shoulders.

A uniformed constable came running up.

"Are you in charge of this arrest?" the constable asked.

"The commissaris is in the car, constable," Grijpstra said, "in the Citroen. He is in charge, but I think you will have to write the report; this is your territory. You witnessed the proceedings, didn't you?"

"Proceedings," the constable muttered. "Proceedings! I've never seen anything like it in my life. What are we going to do about the fellow's head?"

"Scrape if off the yard and the wall and put it in a box," Grijpstra said. "And the man who handled the digger isn't ours but a civilian. We've got his name and particulars. Don't charge him, we have reason to be grateful; he saved the commissaris' life. I also have the name of the dead man for you."

Grijpstra took out his notebook, opened it and scribbled. He tore out the page and gave it to the constable. "If you want me you can reach me at Amsterdam Headquarters. Grijpstra is the name. Adjutant Grijpstra."

"I'll be wanting you," the constable said. "You'll have me on your back for the rest of the week. What a show! If we staged an arrest like this in Amsterdam, we would never hear the end of it."

"We're from the big city, constable," Grijpstra said. "Be grateful you live in the province."

Another constable had arrived.

"You," the first constable said, "get a knife or small spade or something and a box. I want you to collect whatever you can find of the head."

"Bah," the other constable said.

Cardozo grinned. The first constable had three stripes, the second only two. Grijpstra grinned too.

"Poor fellow," Cardozo said.

The sparrows were still twittering as they left the courtyard.

"My dear," she said, as the Commissaris limped into his house. "Has it got worse again? I thought it had gone when you left this morning; you looked positively spry when you got into the car."

The commissaris mumbled something in which only the word "tea" stood out. "I am fine," he answered, "bumped into something, that's all."

"I'll make the tea in a minute. Oh, your suit!"

The suit was stained, it was also torn. A creeper had stuck to one of the sleeves as he had tried to pull himself free when the bulldozer came at him. He tried to cover the tear with his hand as she pulled him into the light near the window.

"And what's that? Blood?"

He remembered that he had stood close to the corpse.

"Yes," he said, "blood, dear, but it'll come off again and I am sure the old tailor can repair the suit. I would like some tea, and a bath. Will you bring up a tray?"

"Yes. Will you be long? You do remember that my sister and her husband are coming tonight? They phoned this morning and I said you were much better."

The commissaris was halfway up the stairs. He stopped, turned and sat down.

"You won't mind, will you? They are always so nice and he wants to tell us about the firm he took over, a factory somewhere in the South. He's very excited about it."

"I do mind," the commissaris said. "Phone them and tell them I am ill. I want to smoke cigars tonight and sit in the garden and I want you to sit with me. We can listen to the turtle. He's very nice too, and he never takes over anything.'"

"My dear, you know I hate to tell lies."

The commissaris had got up again and was climbing the rest of the stairs. His wife sighed and picked up the telephone in the hall. She could hear the hot water being turned on in the bathroom.

"I am so sorry, Annie," she said, "but Jan's legs are much worse again. He's feeling terrible and I thought it might be better if we…"

Mrs. Grijpstra glared as the adjutant bit off the end of a small black cigar and spat it in the direction of the large copper ashtray standing on a side table in the corridor. He missed it by about a foot.

"The smoke is bad enough," she said, her voice rising dangerously. "You don't have to mess up the house as well. I've told you a thousand times…"

"Enough," Grijpstra said quietly.

"You are late again," she said. "Won't you ever be on time? I fried up the potatoes we had left over from yesterday. There are some in the pan. Do you want them?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "and some bread. And make a pot of coffee." His voice was low and she switched on the light in the corridor to be able to see his face.

"You are very pale. You aren't sick, are you?"

"I am not sick."

"You look sick."

"I am sick of my job," Grijpstra said, and stood. His arms dangled and his cheeks sagged. His wife's bloated face moved into what, twenty years ago, would have been a smile of compassion.

"Go and shave, Henk," she said. "You always feel better when you have shaved. I got a new stick of soap yesterday and there's a packet of blades I found behind the night table. They are extra sharp or something, it's that brand you couldn't get the other day when we went to the supermarket."

"Ah," Grijpstra said. "Good. I'll be ten minutes." He watched her waddling to the kitchen.

"Horrible blob of fat," he said as he opened the bathroom door. He was smiling.

"Ah, there you are," Mrs. Cardozo said, as her son came into the kitchen. "Did you deliver that money to the station?"

"Yes, mother."

"Did they count it?"

"Yes, mother."

"Was it all there?"

"Yes, mother."

"We are having fish for supper and sour beet roots."'

"Yagh!" Cardozo said.

"Your father likes it and what's good enough for your father should be good enough for you."

"I hate sour beet roots, don't you have something else? A nice salad?"

"No. Did you have a good day?"

"We tried to arrest a man who was driving a bulldozer but his head got chopped off by a mechanical digger."

"Don't tell stories. You know I don't like you to tell stories."

"It's true. It'll be all over the front page of the Telegraph tomorrow."

"I don't read the Telegraph" his mother said. "Go and wash your hands. Your father will be home any minute now."

Cardozo washed his hands in the kitchen sink. His mother watched his back.

"Man driving a bulldozer indeed," she said.

Cardozo's back stiffened but he didn't turn around.

"You are late," Esther said. "I have to go home to feed my cat. I am sure Louis will forget."

De Gier embraced her, squeezing Oliver, who was upside down in Esther's arms and purring sleepily.

"You'll come again later, will you?"

"Yes, but it'll take me at least two hours. It's a long way and I only have my bicycle."

"I'll buy a car," de Gier said, "but it will be easier if you move in with me. You won't have to rush up and down all the time."

She kissed him back.

"I may, but this flat is awfully small for two people and two cats, and the cats won't like each other. It may be better if you move in with me."

"O.K.," de Gier said, "anything you say."

Esther stepped back. "Will you really give up your life here for me, Rinus? You are so comfortable in this flat. Won't it be better if I keep on coming here?"

"Marry me," de Gier said.

She giggled and pushed back her glasses, which had slipped down her nose.

"You're so old-fashioned, darling. Nobody wants to get married anymore these days. People live together now, haven't you noticed?"

"We'll have a child," de Gier said. "A son, or a daughter if you like. Twins, one each."

"I'll think about it, dear, don't rush me. And I must go now. Did you have a pleasant day?"

"No."

"What happened?"

"Everything happened. I'll go with you. I can tell you about it in the bus. Leave your bicycle here. Then I'll be sure you're coming back."

She put Oliver down and de Gier picked him up, wrapping the cat around his neck and pulling its paws with both hands. Oliver yowled and tried to bite him but got his mouth full of hair and blew furiously.