Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

"I have heard about them," de Gier said. "Michiels of the Drugs Department was talking about them the other day. Big birds, both of them."

"Wholesalers," Grijpstra said and smiled. "Two nice juicy wholesalers. I'll spend a phone call on them."

The chief inspector wasn't easy to handle that morning and Grijpstra had to repeat himself twice. Finally he hung up and de Gier gave him a questioning look.

"It's all right," Grijpstra said. "We'll be given some help. And the chief inspector promised to look through the files."

The help arrived within ten minutes and Treesje was summoned for more coffee and another display of long tapered legs and rounded thighs. Grijpstra was forced into another coughing fit. The two drugs-detectives read the reports and listened. They said "yes" half a dozen times and left.

Grijpstra wandered toward his drums, sat down, and vibrated a stick.

"Right," he said. "They can be happy. Off to the bars and the cafes. I wonder how much money they'll spend, tax money, all of it. While we work."

De Gier looked morose.

"How many hours have you spent in cafes? Quietly? With half a glass of jenever on the table?" Grijpstra asked.

Thousands," de Gier said.

"That's all over now," said Grijpstra.

De Gier half closed his eyes and dreamed. How many hours had he spent in bars? Listening, chatting, acting. And meanwhile the eternal search. Who knows something, who says something? Who knows whether the wholesalers were in contact with Piet? Piet who is dead now? Who knows Piet? Who knows the old gable house Haarlemmer Houttuinen 5? What happens over there? I don't mean the holy talk in the bar, the health food and the sitting-still in the temple room. What really happens? Would you like another drink? Shall I tell you another joke? Easy now. Talk to the girls. Listen to the girls. Wait for a little fight to break out, a nice argument. Stir it up a little. Whoever gets angry talks. Whoever gets jealous talks. Whoever's pride is touched talks. Or do you want some money perhaps? Here, have another drink first, there's plenty in the bottle. You name it you get it. A hundred guilders? Why not? If the story is worth it. You can tell me outside, on a bench in the park or under a tree in the square. And then you can drink as much as you like for a couple of evenings, or you can smoke something, or inject. Is there anything worse than the needle? The other stuff will release you, after a good fight, but when the needle has got you it keeps you.

"We'll do some work," Grijpstra said. "You go back to the house. Go right through it. It's a big house and we only saw a bit of it."

"And you?" de Gier asked.

"I am going to have a sniff at that Society. If you find anything important you can phone me and if I'm not here you can leave a message. And tonight I should be home."

"Car?" de Gier asked.

"You won't need the car. It's the right day for walking. You better phone the garage that the car is free today."

Grijpstra had looked through Piet's bookcase the night before and had found some files. One of the files contained bookkeeping and gave the name of a chartered accountant. Grijpstra had read a report, signed by the accountant, describing the Society's financial progress during the previous book-year. He had noted the accountant's name and address.

De Gier left. Grijpstra phoned the accountant.

"Police?" the accountant asked. "Certainly, I am at your disposal."

Grijpstra arrived ten minutes later. A beautifully restored house on the fashionable Keizersgracht, shadowed by elm trees, its gable elaborately sculptured and recently whitewashed. The accountant's secretary smiled and talked to him in a cultured voice. She took him to the oak-paneled inner office.

"Coffee?" the accountant asked. "If you please," Grijpstra said. "Cigar?" the accountant asked. "If you please," Grijpstra said.

The accountant knew. He had read the morning's paper.

"Were you surprised?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes," the accountant said, and pulled a hand through his thick gray curly hair. "Yes, I was surprised. Piet wasn't the merriest type I knew, and he wasn't quite run of the mill of course, not very stable I may say, he had his moods. But suicide…?"

He looked at Grijpstra's passive face. Grijpstra sucked on the cigar.

"Or wasn't it suicide?" the accountant asked.

Grijpstra shrugged his shoulders.

"Murder?"

Grijpstra shrugged again.

"What can I do for you?"

Grijpstra sighed.

"This Society, what exactly was it?"

"Yes, yes, yes," the accountant said. "It wasn't much. But we earned some money. The bar was a paying proposition, the restaurant definitely made a profit and the shop was all right. A small but profitable business. You know the sort of thing they sell in these shops. Cent buying, guilder selling. Very good margin. They sold some books and leaflets and statues of Buddha and holy men. And chopsticks, machine-made in Hong Kong, you can buy them by the ton for next to nothing and he was selling them at one ninety-five a pair. Not bad. And the cost of the operation was ridiculously low, of course. That was the main thing, perhaps. There is always a good margin between buying and selling in business but the money goes to costs and you still make a loss. But Piet had found the right way of doing it. He hired idealists only, made them members of the Holy Society and paid mem a pittance a week. No social security, no minimum wage. He didn't even have to put them on the payroll. And if they didn't like it they could go back to the street, or the youth hostel, or the park. He always found others to replace them."

"What was he making?" Grijpstra asked.

The accountant produced a ledger from a metal filing cabinet.

"About two thousand guilders a week, I guess. A little more perhaps. He must have pocketed some as it came in."

"Did he pay taxes?"

The accountant looked sly.

"Not yet. The Society was only three years old. He had copied it from a similar thing in Paris, I believe; I think he worked in Paris for a while. No, he never paid any tax, only purchase tax. Nobody avoids purchase tax unless they sell in the street and run when the coppers arrive."

"No tax?" Grijpstra asked. "No company tax? No income tax?"

The accountant hadn't changed his expression. The sly look was still there. A professional slyness, a highly educated very smart fox who had made his lair in a gable house.

"No tax," he repeated. "Societies are very special, very vague material. A proper society makes no profit, whatever it makes it spends. It is allowed to form a slight reserve. If it makes a profit there is trouble with the inspection. There would have been trouble here and I have been warning Piet. After all, I am a chartered accountant, not a bookkeeper he could hire anywhere. I have a reputation to lose. I told him to change his Society into a normal commercial company with a balance sheet. I would have worked out his profit on the first three years and he would have paid some tax. I also told him that he could forget about my services if he refused. He might have gone on for years, quietly pocketing the money and improving his position. The inspection isn't very quick. But they would have caught him in the end and fined him right into bankruptcy."

Grijpstra looked up.

"You said 'we' just now. If I remember correctly you said 'but we earned some money.' Do you mean that you had a share in the business?"

The accountant laughed. "I see I am dealing with the police. No, no. Nobody is allowed to have a material interest in a society. But an accountant always identifies with his client and talks about 'we' and 'ours.' You can compare it to a mother who tells her small child 'now we are going to do a little whiddle' but the mother doesn't whiddle, the child whiddles."