Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

"O.K.," de Gier said, "let's do it your way. But tell him to report to the armory this week. If he hasn't been there in seven days' time we'll still grab him."

"Yes, boss."

"And write an unofficial report with a copy for the armory sergeant."

"Yes, boss."

"And don't call me boss."

"No, boss," the detective said.

Grijpstra came into the restaurant, accompanied by a young woman and a little girl.

"Allow me to introduce you."

"De Gier," de Gier said. "You must be Mrs. Verboom."

"Mrs. Verboom has come straight from the airport," Grijpstra said. "This is Yvette. Yvette is very tired, aren't you?" The little girl smiled.

"We mustn't keep you, then," de Gier said. "Can we take you anywhere? Do you have a place to sleep?"

Mrs. Verboom smiled sweetly.

"Don't worry about us," she said. "My father is downstairs with the car. He'll take Yvette home and I'll go there later. I thought you might want to see me right away."

"Yes, that would be a good idea," de Gier said. "This officer will take your daughter down to the car."

The detective took the little girl by the hand. "You want to come with me, dear?"

"Are you a policeman?" the girl asked.

"He is a very nice policeman," de Gier said. "Aren't you?"

"Yes, boss," the detective said.

Grijpstra and de Gier studied the young woman. Piet's taste must have been excellent. Th6rese was a good looking girl but this woman, although at least ten years older than her husband's mistress, and worn out by the trip and possibly tension, was a beauty. De Gier admired the long thick blond hair and the sensual, well-shaped mouth. Mrs. Verboom crossed her legs and produced a cigarette. De Gier smiled and lit it for her. She smiled back.

"I hope you don't mind if I am not sad. I didn't love Piet, not for a long time, and I am not really concerned about his death. I didn't want him to the but if he did, well, then he did."

"I understand," de Gier said.

"And I didn't kill him," she said calmly. "I couldn't have if I had wanted to for I was in Paris. I can prove it easily. I'll give you my address in Paris, so you can check it out."

She wrote the address down and de Gier copied it in his notebook. He would have to ask the chief inspector to contact the French police.

"You are now the only director of the Hindist Society," Grijpstra said.

"Some society," Mrs. Verboom said sarcastically, "some nothing. The house is empty and everybody has left, except van Meteren, I hear, and he was never part of the Society. And he is leaving as well, he tells me. And I saw through the Hindist nonsense a long time ago. Piet converted me when I married him, when I still thought he had something to teach." She looked at the policemen.

"But I am interested in the money, I have to look after my child."

"I am sorry, Mrs. Verboom," Grijpstra said, "but I don't think there is any money. Your husband mortgaged the house and I don't know what happened to the money. There's still a chance we may find it but right now there is no trace of it. Perhaps you can sell the house and make something out of it but I think you should contact Joachim de Kater, your husband's accountant."

Mrs. Verboom looked out of the window.

"The bastard," she said. "For years and years I sweated on this house. I even plastered some of the walls and did carpentry. He made me carry bricks, right up to the top floor, he was too stingy to install a proper hoist. And it wasn't just me. We were all idealists, we were going to improve the mental climate of Amsterdam and make people happy by introducing them to the 'real peace.' We were detached! Ha."

The detectives smiled understandingly.

"And now he has blown the lot. What did he do with the money?"

"I wish I knew," de Gier said. 'Then we might also know if your husband was murdered and if so, why. But we can't find anything. Would you know perhaps if your husband ever dealt in drugs?"

"Hash?" Mrs. Verboom asked.

"Hash, heroin, cocaine, speed, pills, any drug at all." Mrs. Verboom shook her lovely head and allowed her cape to slide down from her shoulders. She wore a thin cotton blouse underneath, with the three top buttons undone. She bowed down a little. De Gier saw her breasts, first one, and then, after a charming twist, the other.

"Hmmpf, hmmpf," he said slowly.

"I beg your pardon?" Mrs. Verboom asked.

"No, nothing," de Gier said. "I said hmmpf hmmpf. I have been saying that a lot lately. No specific meaning. Maybe I work too much."

"May be the warm weather," Mrs. Verboom said and laughed. "Drugs you said. Perhaps he did. He had no morals, I know all about his lack of morals. But he wasn't very courageous and drugs is a risky business… I don't know. We did have hash here, a big tin full of hash. He must have bought it wholesale for there was quite a lot in it. But he never sold any as far as I know. We used to have parties with it, he called it concentration exercises, and he would play special music on his gramophone and we had to be quiet. I enjoyed those parties. Once we had some tomatoes on the table and they were very beautiful. It was the first time I saw what a tomato really is like. Or, rather, that's what I thought at the time. The next day it was just another tomato. Hash is very relaxing, you know."

"You still use it?" de Gier asked.

"No. I gave it up when I went to Paris. Nobody offered me any and I felt no need to start rushing around to see if somebody would give me a stickie. I never smoked much of it. Perhaps we had six parties in all. Anyway, I have to work for a living now. I live a very dull life."

"Why in Paris?" Grijpstra asked.

"My mother is French and we have relatives over there. French is my second language. When I left Piet I wanted to make a complete break."

"So your husband gave people the opportunity to take drugs. But did he ever sell any?" de Gier asked.

"I am not sure," Mrs. Verboom said. "We never sold stickies over the bar or in the restaurant. But perhaps he dealt in it in a big way. Some strange types used to come and visit him and he would receive them in his room and lock the door. Perhaps they were dealers."

"We didn't find the tin you mentioned," Grijpstra said.

"Perhaps somebody took it; van Meteren told me downstairs that somebody broke in during the night after Piet's death."

The detectives went on asking but Mis. Verboom began to repeat herself. She mainly talked about Piet. Grijpstra became very sleepy.

"That'll be all Mrs. Verboom," he said. "You must be tired. I am sure you would like to go to your parents." He knew, by now, that Piet had not been the most charming person in Amsterdam.

Saturday morning, nine o'clock.

De Gier was asleep.

The alarm had gone off, as always, at six-thirty. And de Gier had got up, groaning, and fixed himself coffee and drunk the coffee on his balcony, while he looked at the large brown lawn behind the apartment building, a very neat lawn, with roses in the middle. He had listened to the many thrushes, admired the seagulls and the lone crow, and frowned at the pigeons.

"Why don't you catch yourself a couple of pigeons?" he had asked Oliver who had come out on the balcony too. "Pigeons shit too much. Look."

One of his geranium plants had been hit and showed a patch of slimy acid excrement.

De Gier went inside, got a pair of scissors, and snipped at the plant.

He looked at the lawn again, now populated by a dachshund. The dachshund couldn't make up his mind where to sit down, the lawn was too big. Acres and acres of grass and just one small dachshund.

De Gier finished his cigarette, grinned at the dachshund, patted Oliver on the head, and got into bed again. He grunted with pleasure as he pulled the blanket over his shoulder. Another hour, two hours maybe. A long pleasant day.