Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

It was his attempt at education, he thought, and pushed his solid shape into motion again. The small boy he had lectured just now hadn't really been impressed. He had probably been frightened into agreeing. The display of firearms, the running feet, the suspect's knife, de Gier's kick, the handcuffs, the siren of the patrol car, the uniformed constables grabbing the prisoner. It's the war all over, Grijpstra thought. The kid will have his bicycle chain and join the free fight. Just give him a few more years.

Grijpstra was back in the restaurant. Their food was still on the table. The waiter smiled uneasily.

"Hey you," a fat woman said.

"Madame?" Grijpstra asked.

"You know what you did?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I ran into the waiter. I am sorry."

"You a policeman?" the fat woman asked.

"Yes."

"That fellow you went after, what happened?"

"A criminal," Grijpstra said, "on the run. His photograph is in all the police stations. Dangerous. Armed with a knife. Had to grab him."

"Did you?"

"My colleague has got him. He is on his way to the cell now."

"You made a mess of my clothes, you know that?"

Grijpstra got up and looked at the woman's dress. It was stained badly.

"A whole plate of noodles. And my husband here got an egg roll on his head. And the girl over there got soup all over her. And you should have seen what you did to the waiter. He had to change his jacket."

"I am sorry," Grijpstra said again.

"You should pay something, maybe," the woman said.

"Ah, don't listen to her," the husband broke in. "She is having you on. The dress had to be dry-cleaned anyway and I got the egg roll on my hair, it's thick enough still."

"Are you all right?" Grijpstra asked the girl who had got soup over her.

The girl smiled shyly. "Yes."

"Women," the husband said. "A policeman got shot last year. Dead he was. And she is talking about her clothes. You might have been shot too."

"He only carried a knife," Grijpstra said.

"Or knifed. Maybe that's worse."

"It's O.K.," the fat woman said. "But next time run around the waiter. He's a small chap, you could easily have avoided him."

"Women," the husband said.

"Shut up," the fat woman said.

"Yes dear," the man said.

"Would you two like a beer?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes," the woman said and smiled at him.

The waiter brought the beer and refused payment.

"On the house," he said and smiled. He still looked very nervous.

"I wonder what he is hiding," Grijpstra thought. "No papers, that's for sure. And a friend of Lee Fong." He looked at the waiter's face, trying to remember it. Perhaps he should drop a hint at the Aliens Department. Perhaps he should not.

"There's enough trouble in the world," he thought.

Ten minutes later de Gier came in. The waiter brought a fresh plate of noodles and some fried vegetables.

"So?" Grijpstra asked.

"It's O.K. They've got him in the cell. A lot of charges against him now. The fool shouldn't have drawn his knife. I phoned the chief inspector and he seemed pleased for once. He asked me to congratulate you."

"Me?" Grijpstra asked.

"Don't be modest," de Gier said. "I can't stand it. You spotted him, didn't you?"

"Ah, yes," Grijpstra said, "and then you caught him. Because I told you to."

"You never told me anything."

"I would have," Grijpstra said, "if I had had a little time."

"Well," de Gier said and smiled nastily, "you got the waiter."

"It's the little things in life that give us our pleasure," Grijpstra said. "You pay the bill."

"Is it my turn again?"

"I paid last week."

"Four rolls and two cups of coffee," de Gier said. "Six or seven guilders. This must be over twenty."

"You are the youngest," Grijpstra said, "don't argue."

"No," said de Gier, and paid the bill.

"Got anything yet?" Grijpstra asked, addressing a young constable who was moving casks in the cellar of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number 5.

"Perhaps," the young constable said. "These casks contain some sort of paste. I believe it is called mizo and they make soup with it. I ate it once in one of these health-food restaurants. The taste isn't too bad if you don't eat too much of it. Innocent stuff anyway but this is different. I picked it up on the floor."

He showed a few crumbs of a sticky dark brown substance. "It looks like mizo but it is harder. I think it is hash."

"You roll your own cigarettes?" Grijpstra asked.

"Sure," the constable said. "You want some cigarette paper?"

Grijpstra mixed a little of the substance with cigarette tobacco, cutting it up with his stiletto. De Gier lit the cigarette for him and Grijpstra took a deep puff and exhaled the smoke. They all sniffed.

"Hash," they said simultaneously.

"We'll send it to the lab to make sure," Grijpstra said, "but it's hash all right."

"Good work," de Gier said to the constable, who looked pleased, but he didn't think much of the find. A few crumbs of hash on the floor meant nothing. Of course these people would smoke hash. Johan, or Eduard, or the girls, or Piet himself, or van Meteren perhaps. And they might drop a little on the floor. Why not? To smoke hash is hardly punishable. To stock and sell it is a crime. If they could find a cask full of the stuff…

"You opened all the casks?" he asked.

"All of them. We had to cut the ropes and pry the lids open with a knife. Nothing but soup paste in there. We prodded them and took samples from the bottom and the sides. Soup, that's all."

"Anything else?"

"Nothing," the constable said, "but it's a hell of a mess here. Dirty. Dead mice and all. And they call it a restaurant. Bah."

"You are still young," Grijpstra said. "The world is held together by dirt. Don't think of it or you'll never eat again."

Before leaving the cellar he stopped and turned around. "I'll tell you something else. Female bodies can be very dirty too. Did you ever think of that? If you would only consider…"

"I don't want to know," the constable said.

De Gier laughed and climbed the stairs. A detective tapped him on the shoulder.

"You got a minute?"

De Gier followed the detective to the restaurant. "You found something?"

The detective shrugged. "Perhaps."

"So?"

"Well, you'll have to decide. You are in charge, aren't you?"

"Grijpstra is in charge."

"That's what I mean," the detective said. "You and Grijpstra, same thing."

"Oh yes?" de Gier asked irritably. "I am a separate entity, you know. We aren't a Siamese twin, you know."

"All right," the detective said. "You are separate. You want to hear what I have to tell you?"

"Please," de Gier said.

"In van Meteren's room, that Papuan gent, we found some funny things."

"I know," de Gier said. "I saw the room. A wild boar's skull, a jungle drum, a collection of twigs and shells and stones and some funny dolls."

"Exactly," the detective said, "and a Lee-Enfield rifle, well kept and wrapped in an oiled cloth, but no ammunition."

"Hey," de Gier said, "he shouldn't have that."

"Right," the detective said, "but the fellow is on the force and he had no ammunition. He told me that he used to be with the New Guinea state police and that he kept the rifle as a souvenir, when the Indonesians took over. He didn't want to surrender his weapon. A patriot. He took it apart and smuggled it in, and the customs didn't notice. Now do I grab him or not? To own a firearm is a crime nowadays. It'll cost him his job and maybe his unemployment benefits. He'll have to pay a fine and his name will be in the books forever."

"What have you done so far?" de Gier asked.

"I told him to report to the armory at Headquarters and ask them to pour aluminum into the barrel, then he can keep it. But I also said that the final decision rests with you. So I can still grab him if you give the word."