Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

He was glad he had warned van Meteren for Oliver was in a bad mood. De Gier had always kept the cat inside and Oliver had become neurotic. His twisted mind still loved de Gier but anyone else was considered as legal prey and of the few visitors de Gier had entertained lately at least two had left with bleeding ankles.

Oliver flattened himself when he saw van Meteren and began to growl, making his tail swell up at the same time. Van Meteren dropped to his haunches and scooped the cat off the floor, turning him upside down in the same movement. He caught the cat in his forearm and shook him gently, talking to the surprised animal in a gentle and smoothing voice.

"You are a sweet little cat, aren't you? A crazy silly animal? A crazy animal who hates large people, don't you?"

Oliver purred and closed his eyes.

"God, Christ Almighty," said de Gier. "He has never done that before."

"He does it to you doesn't he?" van Meteren asked.

"Yes, but he has known me since he was eight centimeters long and white all over. He needs a lot of love, that cat, and he'll bite me if I don't spend half an hour a day stroking and fondling him, but so far I have been the only person who could really touch him."

"Cats are marvelous animals," said van Meteren, who had put Oliver back on the floor, "great comedians."

Oliver tried again and attacked van Meteren's trousers, trying to gash a hole into the cloth. Van Meteren ignored him. The Siamese gave up and stalked into the kitchen, pawing the refrigerator and howling for his daily helping of chopped heart.

Grijpstra faced the chief inspector in the Hindist Society's restaurant. The chief inspector listened, while Grijpstra, limiting himself to the official language of a police report, summed up the events of the day.

"So you allowed her to go to Rotterdam?" the chief inspector asked.

"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.

"Let me see now," the chief inspector said and looked at the cast-iron ceiling of the restaurant, studying the golden garlands of stylized flowers. "She admits she hates him. She admits that she threw a heavy book at his head. You even have that in writing, nicely signed. A bruise, it could be attempted manslaughter. I'll have to look at the doctor's report again. And seventy-five thousand guilders are missing. And she is pregnant with Piet's child. And he never did anything for her and everything he gave her she had to return."

"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.

"Yes sir," the chief inspector repeated. He was still looking at the ceiling.

"Well, all right," said the chief inspector. "When we need her you'll be able to find her, I suppose. And we are short of cells. And she is pregnant."

Grijpstra said nothing.

"You still think it was murder?"

"I don't know, sir."

"There's no news from the detectives who are hunting the two drug dealers. Or rather, there is some news. One of the detectives phoned me. According to the underworld there can't be any connection between the drug fellows and the murder. Nobody has ever heard of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number five."

"But that's the address where we found them," Grijpstra said in a flat voice.

"Yes," the chief inspector said. "Perhaps they were members of the Society. There must be a list of members somewhere. Did you see it?"

"No," Grijpstra said. "I think Piet pocketed the membership fees. I'll have to check with the accountant if the fees were part of the Society's income. Probably not. I did find a tearbook with membership certificates but there are no stubs. Piet just grabbed the twenty-five guilders each time and gave the new member his bit of paper. He didn't like to pay tax."

"Who does?" the chief inspector said. "Very clever man, our Piet."

Grijpstra grinned.

"Something funny?" the chief inspector asked.

"For a clever man he made rather a stupid picture, dangling from his own beam on a piece of rope."

The chief inspector grinned as well.

"So why would he have needed all that money?" he asked. "Perhaps he wanted to get away. The accountant claims that he might have had to pay some fifty thousand in taxes and fines. And according to the two boys and the two girls, and also to van Meteren, he didn't believe in the Society anymore. Perhaps he wanted to disappear and leave the Society as an empty hull, mortgaged up to the hilt and in debt to its suppliers. With seventy-thousand he might have made a new start. He has lived in Paris so he must be adapted to living in other surroundings than Amsterdam."

"Possibly," Grijpstra said, "but he never left. He died, and the money is gone."

The chief inspector looked around the room.

"Funny atmosphere here, don't you think? Did you see the statue in the corridor downstairs? There are other statues as well. There is a proper Buddha statue somewhere upstairs."

"Very nice statues," Grijpstra said.

"A matter of taste. A chap sitting still all the time. So what? Is it recommendable to sit on your arse all day contemplating God knows what? Floating thoughts? Dirty dreams? One has enough of that, without sitting still."

He looked at his hands on the table.

"But it is a quiet pastime. Yes. Perhaps we are too busy. Perhaps we should have some of those statues in Headquarters, to teach a lesson to the colleagues who want to solve everything right away. Perhaps it is better to sit still and wait. Perhaps the right thought will bubble up. You can't trace where it comes from but it is there, right in front of you. Has it happened to you?"

Grijpstra thought and nodded, hesitatingly.

"Perhaps. A sudden spark, very fast. Too fast sometimes for it is gone before you can grab it. All you know is that you knew it, for a very short moment, but you have forgotten again."

"It'll come back later," the chief inspector said, "when you least expect it, sometimes."

"Perhaps," said Grijpstra.

"So what now, Grijpstra?"

"I am going to have dinner at a Chinese restaurant with de Gier."

"And where is de Gier?"

"Gone home to feed the cat."

The chief inspector laughed.

"Gone home to feed the cat," he repeated. "A clear motivation. I like that."

The mention of the word "dinner" made him finish the conversation. Grijpstra took him to the front door. A black Citroen was parked on the sidewalk, an impassive constable at the wheel. The chief inspector will be a commissaris soon, Grijpstra thought.

Janwillem Van De Wetering

Outsider in Amsterdam

\\\\\ 6 /////

IT WAS SEVEN-THIRTY SHARP WHEN DE GIER CAME INTO the Chinese restaurant. Grijpstra sat in one of the booths at the side, behind a glass of beer and his notebook. He was scribbling, connecting a number of circles. Each circle had a name.

"You see that I often come on time?"

Grijpstra mumbled something.

"And what conclusions is the master-mind drawing?"

Grijpstra connected two more circles.

"Well?"

"Ach," Grijpstra said, "what do I know? Bits and pieces, that's all I have. They all connect, but then anything does. I see the connections but I don't understand them. And what can I be sure of? The only fact we have so far is the book that girl of yours threw. The constables who are searching the house haven't found anything, except some dead mice. The search is still on. The detectives who are grubbing about in the underworld haven't found anything either. The theories we have come up with aren't very satisfactory. You helped me thinking today. Have you thought of anything?"

De Gier sat back and looked at the red lamps decorated with worn tassels. The owner had made use of the talents of a compatriot artist and there were some Chinese landscapes painted on the peeling plaster of the walls. One of the scenes was religious. A pagoda, or temple, inhabited by gods. Fat gods with bulging bellies, overpleasant smiles, bald heads and obscene female breasts. One of them had a thin beard. Fat tubby babies were crawling all over them.