Janwillem De Wetering - The Rattle-Rat

"Look at the illustration," Mem said. "Here. See? This is death in life."

"Those little fellows must be devils," the commissaris said, adjusting his spectacles. "My, what are they doing to that unfortunate fellow? They're pumping him full of some fluid, through the navel, oh, the poor man."

"They're pouring something into his anus too," Cardozo said.

"Using a runnel. Boiling oil, I suppose. And here, look at this, Cardozo, worms with sharp scales that are crawling into the unlucky chap's ears."

"Douwe had all that in life," Mem said. "Eczema in his ears, it itched and made them swell up inside, and he always complained about food thumping his stomach and his hemorrhoids. Terrible. They'd get infected and he'd bleed through his pants."

The doorbell rang loudly. Cardozo peeked through the vines. "The enemy, sir, ready to pounce."

Mem peeked too. "Mr. Verhulst. He telephoned earlier. I'd forgotten all about it."

"Keep him talking outside," the commissaris said. "Car-dozo, replace those books."

Verhulst lumbered into the room. The commissaris reclined in an easy chair. He held up a limp hand. "Glad to see you, I'm sure," Verhulst said. "Are you getting somewhere?"

The commissaris pursed his lips.

"Restored to your previous form, I see," Verhulst said to Cardozo. "Boy, did you look a mess. Those herons are a plague. Feathered varmints, what do we need them for?"

Cardozo pursed his lips.

"Mrs. Scherjoen," Verhulst said, "I'll be brief and to the point. Your husband embezzled a fortune from the State, which is a sin and prohibited by law."

Mrs. Scherjoen put up her hands in consternation.

"Some laws need changing," the commissaris said.

"I need your professional help here," Verhulst said. "This is no time for moralizing." He turned back to Mrs. Scherjoen. "That fortune needs to be returned. To me." He tapped his case. "I'll give you a receipt and you may hear from us. There should be fines, but if you cooperate now, I'll see what I can do."

"We're working on a murder here," the commissaris said, "and you're in my way. Why don't you leave? You'll hear from me once my inquiry has ended."

"Sir," Verhulst said.

"Sir," the commissaris said.

Cardozo held up his police identification. "Mr. Verhulst, I order you to leave this house at once. If you stay, you're trespassing, and I'll reluctantly arrest you."

Gravel flew from the tires of Verhulst's car. The commissaris peeked through the vines. "Now," Cardozo said.

"What happened to the gold?" Mem Scherjoen asked. The commissaris pointed at his chair. He rubbed his bottom. "I'm glad he left. Good work, Cardozo."

"Will you confiscate it now?" Mem Scherjoen asked.

"No. I think you should remove it. Although…" The commissaris thought. "Maybe you should wait a day or two. Let's say the day after tomorrow, once we've closed this stage of our investigation. Yes, that'll be best."

"I'll have to wait for Gyske, to help me change the gold into money in Switzerland," Mem Scherjoen said. "She can't leave just now, for the lieutenant is still wrecking their house, and his mind isn't clear. Alcohol and Valium, and he has a need to talk."

"What do you think about their problem?" the commissaris asked.

"It isn't serious," Mem said. "Everybody knows it and the lieutenant will find out in time."

"So it'll be all right again?" the commissaris asked.

"Better than ever before," Mem said. "I'm doing what I can. Gyske isn't too patient, and she works half-days, and the kids and all. She's too busy to put up with his rambling. I don't mind listening to Sjurd at all. He keeps holding forth about the shelf in the cupboard." Mem tittered. "Wouldn't it have been nicer if Gyske had used a bed? There's too much guilt here; I think sometimes it prevents us from enjoying ourselves."

"Well?" Cardozo asked in the car.

"No," the commissaris said. "Or yes, maybe. I wish I were a woman at times. It's about time we hired some female detectives. What do you think, Cardozo?"

"What do you think of my mother?" Cardozo asked. "Tell me the truth. I can take it, I think."

"I think she is a dear, caring soul."

"And a good cook," Cardozo said. "Very patient with Dad and us. We had rats in a cupboard. Dad was going to kill them, but he didn't in the end. Samuel volunteered. He spent some time in the cupboard. Everything was very quiet and then he came out. I went in too. The rats were looking at me. Then my mother grabbed a poker, and wham, wham, wham."

"Ferocious, eh?" the commissaris asked.

"Ferocious," Cardozo said. "Mem is a mother, but she has no children of her own. All people are her children. And now this big filthy rat turns up and harms her kids."

"Yes," the commissaris said. "Listen here, Cardozo, that rat was Mem's own husband. She took snapshots of dear Douwe and pasted them in her secret album. Douwe was her child."

"You asked what I was thinking," Cardozo said. "So there is this big nasty kid and he harms all the other kids."

"When she told him to stop lending money at thirty percent, he stopped."

'The sly bastard," Cardozo said. "He thought of something worse and was about to try it out. Mem found out. Wham."

"Possibly," the commissaris said. "But there are other explanations that might fit the facts. Let's start by frightening Mem. If she's playing a part, she'll have to drop her mask. You know, Cardozo…"

Cardozo looked over his shoulder. "Do you know that a Land Rover is following us? Blinking his lights?"

The commissaris checked his mirror. "So he is."

"His flashing lights are on too," Cardozo said. "I think he's ordering us to pull over."

"Not now," the commissaris said. "Hold on, Cardozo." The Citroen suddenly lurched forward.

"They only want to help us," Cardozo said. "We've lost our way again. We're going west instead of north."

The Citroen screamed through a curve, then unexpectedly swerved off the highway, followed a dirt track, swerved again, and went through some shrubs. The Land Rover sped on, swishing its lights stupidly, crying sadly with its siren.

"You know, Cardozo," the commissaris said, "it's all a matter of conscience. The law that we have been inventing tries to standardize our conscience, but it hasn't been doing too well. There are all sorts of consciences. Some rise above the average measure."

The Citroen drove back to the highway. The Land Rover, hidden behind a hedge, suddenly reappeared.

"Aren't they clever?" the commissaris asked. The Citroen changed into a hazy silver line streaking past dark green meadows.

"Suppose," the commissaris said, "that I have a higher conscience. If I had one I might, from my dizzy level, decide to leave Mem alone. Practically, it would be easy. I could withdraw, claiming lack of proof, or I could write an ambiguous report that the public prosecutor would lose at once. But"-the commissaris thumped the steering wheel-"I first have to know what has been going on."

"Irrational female goodness," Cardozo said. "You should have seen my mother exterminate those rats. Complete, utter destruction, and only because she assumed that rats spread disease and that we might get sick."

"Not that she might get sick?" the commissaris asked.

"My mother never gets sick," Cardozo said.

The Citroen found the speedway leading to Leeuwarden. The commissaris blew his horn at road hogs who got in his way. The speedometer needle hung right over. "A dilemma," the commissaris said. "Not uninteresting. Look, there's the capital of this fair land."

"Now what?" Cardozo asked, for the Citroen had pulled up on the shoulder.

"I always lose my way in the city."

"That Land Rover gave up on us, sir."

"We're Frisians," the commissaris said. "Don't tell me what we will or won't do. I was born in Joure."