Janwillem De Wetering - The Rattle-Rat

"Have you been suffering from mental troubles for a while now?" the commissaris asked.

Cardozo charged out of the poplar grove. "Now what?" the commissaris asked. "What's that mess on your head? Don't rub it, it's dripping into your eyes already."

Cardozo stamped his foot. "Heron shit."

"I did have a problem," Verhulst said. "Aboriginal-related. It comes back to me when the government sends me here. I've always served the State. I majored in colonial law, but when I was given my papers, our only foreign colony was New Guinea, populated by wild men. I became a district officer out there, and as soon as I arrived the villagers wanted to hunt some heads. Their grinning top pieces flew all around me. My pith helmet got smudged by their blood. I needed intensive treatment for some years, but eventually I was cured."

Fluid heron droppings had reached Cardozo's delicately shaped nose.

Verhulst jumped up and covered his mouth with his handkerchief. He ran away. His car was heard to start up. "Good," the commissaris said. "That was one way to get rid of the boorish lout. Nice job, Cardozo."

Cardozo was tearing at his hair. "Help. This shit burns."

The commissaris dragged him to a pump and energetically worked the handle. Cardozo kept his head in the spouting water. Mem Scherjoen put her bicycle against a fence. "What happened to the poor lad?" She came closer. "Oh, I see. Douwe once had that trouble too. He immediately wanted to shoot the herons, but I wouldn't let him. Come along, dear, there's a shower inside."

Cardozo disappeared into the bathroom. The commissaris was given tea in the kitchen. Mem Scherjoen fetched a suit that had belonged to her husband. Cardozo showed up again, in a black corduroy outfit with silver buttons and a collarless striped shirt. The commissaris applauded. "A living portrait by Rembrandt, Cardozo. Very striking. "The Jewish Poet.' It's in the Rijksmuseum. He's pictured standing on red tiles, with the light coming in from behind, just like you now. Oh, perfect."

"You look great," Mem Scherjoen said. "And don't you have nice hair!"

"I used all your shampoo," Cardozo said.

"Splendid." Mrs. Scherjoen buttered slices of spiced cake. She poured more tea. Cardozo sat on a stool.

"About your husband," the commissaris said. "We're police officers. We're very sorry about what happened, but please excuse us, we do have to ask questions."

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said, "was not a good man."

Hie commissaris waited.

"But I will miss him," she said.

"You married early?"

"Oh, yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "We were together for ever and ever. When I dream about Douwe now, he's my child or my friend, and I'm his, and not always his girlfriend either. Such strange dreams, but they're all real, and Douwe always makes trouble. I take the good side and he tries to keep us down, but we're always connected, that part does not change."

"Do your dreams end well?" the commissaris asked.

"Not what I saw last night," Mem Scherjoen said. "I was his mother again, but I got sick and died and he tried to crawl after me, but I couldn't take him with me."

"And in the other dreams?"

"We're walking somewhere, holding hands, or we're yelling at each other in some kitchen."

"Not this kitchen?"

"No, in a log cabin it seemed, on a hilltop. We were poor at that time."

"Who started the trouble?"

"Douwe," Mem Scherjoen said. "He broke my last plate."

"You were yelling too?"

"Not so much," Mem Scherjoen said. "I always loved him and he always wanted to make sure I did."

"He made you sad?"

"Yes."

"Did you want to punish him?"

"No," Mem Scherjoen said. "I only wanted to make up for the misery he caused others, but he was too active. I didn't want him to drag us down so much."

The commissaris waited.

Mem Scherjoen's silver-gray hair changed into a halo, speckled with the glowing light that poured through the kitchen windows. Are we really being taken back, the com-missaris thought, to the images of the Golden Age? He rubbed his hands with pleasure, but then a cloud interfered and Mem Scherjoen was just another old lady and Cardozo was an actor, getting used to a costume that didn't quite suit him.

"Now that I have Douwe's gold…" Mem Scherjoen said. She was interrupted by the commissaris's cough. "Gold?" the commissaris asked in a strange, high voice.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "It must be in the house here. Douwe always waited until I had gone to bed, and then he rummaged about. He was always bringing in gold."

"Gold?" the commissaris asked again, in the same surprised voice.

"Little slices," Mem Scherjoen said, extending her index and little fingers to indicate the size of little gold bars.

"Are you a good shot?" Cardozo asked.

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said proudly. "I learned to shoot during the war. The British dropped an instructor who lived in our loft, on my parents' farm. He put up a range for us. With a rifle you had to pull the bolt, but the pistol was easier. You just cocked it once. We were close to a sawmill, and the howling of the saw blocked all the noise."

"The Mauser was yours?"

"The Germans left it," Mem Scherjoen said. "Some German troops later camped in our field. They got away just before the liberation. I found the Mauser in one of their tents."

"Shouldn't you have handed it in?"

Mem Scherjoen smiled and shrugged.

"Did Douwe fight the Germans too?" the commissaris asked.

"Not at first," Mem Scherjoen said. "He was selling them supplies, but they beat him up because of some rotten potatoes, and talcum powder mixed with gravel to put into their shoes."

"Did he revenge himself?"

"He was never too courageous."

"That night," Cardozo said, "the night your husband was murdered, you were in Amsterdam."

Mem Scherjoen was still smiling. "Yes, I stayed with my sister, but I didn't shoot him. How could I have done that? I never shot anyone. During the war I transported contraband. All the killing was for the men."

"Times have changed," the commissaris said. "Women are active now, they're motorcycle cops and jet pilots and submarine captains."

"I'd rather take care of retarded men," Mem Scherjoen said. "Douwe was a little backward too. He never wanted to learn. I thought of taking them into the house here. Wouldn't that be nicer than some cold institution? They could play in the garden and I'd cook for them. Douwe was quite fond of my cooking."

"Would you have a photograph of your husband?" Car-dozo asked.

Mem brought out an album. "Snapshots. I took them when he wasn't looking."

Cardozo and the commissaris saw Scherjoen wandering about the rocks in the herb garden, feeding ducks in the pond, digging in the vegetable garden. Mem Scherjoen looked over their shoulders. "He did have his moments."

"May I borrow this?" Cardozo asked. 'Til return the album soon."

"Certainly." She cut more cake. The commissaris and Cardozo chewed slowly. Mem said that an inspector from the Tax Department had been around, but that she hadn't looked for the gold yet and wouldn't hand it over once she found it. "I was thinking of taking it to Switzerland. Change it for money. Then maybe bring the money back? Surely I could get around this Mr. Verhulst?"

"Did you tell him there was gold here?" the commissaris asked.

"No, I didn't."

"If you bring it in as cash and keep it out of your bank account," the commissaris said, "the tax hounds will never know. You might have a meeting with your accountant. Was Douwe's life insured?"

"Yes," Mem Scherjoen said. "Amazing, I never thought he would have bothered. The check will be enormous."

"Will it cover the mortgage?"

"There'll be a good bit left over."

"Your accountant will advise you to invest the difference and live off the income. If you do that, the gold will be extra."