Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

"Right," Grijpstra said. "My house faces the water, and I can't stand people throwing rubbish into the canal."

"Hell," de Gier said and looked hurt. "I'm sorry. I'll never do it again. I'll fish it out if you like," and he got up to look out of the window.

Therese laughed. "It's all right, sergeant."

De Gier felt comforted and smiled at the girl.

"Are you all right now?' he asked.

"No," Th6rese said, and began to cry, "I am still pregnant."

"For God's sake," de Gier said. "I do everything wrong today. I am sorry. I didn't mean to make her cry."

"All right sergeant," everybody said in choir.

They left. Annetje saw them to the door and waved.

"Cheer up," said Grijpstra, in the car.

"Isn't this where Claassen died?" de Gier asked a little later as they were driving past a site that belongs to the Public Works Department.

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "and you know it is."

De Gier knew. He had known Claassen well, they were in the same group at school.

Claassen had shot himself on the vacant site, early one morning. The body had been found by a patrol car. Claassen had used his service pistol. Grijpstra had been ill at the time and another adjutant had investigated the death, together with de Gier. Suicide. No apparent reason. No family troubles for Claassen had no family. No girlfriend. No boyfriend. No money troubles.

Depression.

"What causes depression?" de Gier thought.

What makes a man shoot himself, on a vacant lot in winter, between two rusty cranes of the Public Works Department, at two o'clock in the morning?

"Claassen was a good policeman," de Gier said. "Serious. Intelligent."

"Yes," Grijpstra said.

"A proper raid," De Gier said contentedly. "WE haven't done that in a long time. And at the chief inspector's orders."

"I thought we only had to question them," Grijpstra said. 'To raid them is overdoing it a bit. But perhaps we can arrest them."

De Gier had managed to overcome the trials of the day and looked agreeable.

"Yes. So far they are the only suspects that we. know are no good."

"We'll need another car," Grijpstra said. "You can stop at that cafe over there and I'll phone the garage."

They went into the cafe and de Gier ordered two coffees; the waiter wasn't enthusiastic. It was a very hot day. It was stuffy in the bar and half a dozen large bluebottle flies buzzed about at top speed and crashed into the windows, surviving their accidents and trying again.

"Get some good help," de Gier said when Grijpstra walked to the call box at the rear of the room. "At least two."

Grijpstra came back and sat down. The owner of the cafe" came to talk to them and offered cigars.

"How are you doing?" Grijpstra asked.

"All right," said the owner, a sad old man with a drooping mustache. "Did you hear about the fight we had here last night?"

"No," Grijpstra said.

"Then I won't tell you about it," the owner said and shuffled back to his living quarters. "Nothing to do with us," he whispered to the waiter as he came past him.

"So where do we go?" Grijpstra asked.

"I have two addresses," de Gier said, finding the right page in his notebook, "one in the Vossiusstraat and one on the Leliegracht."

"Complications again," Grijpstra said.

De Gier agreed. "They may be at neither address, they may even be on holiday, sunning themselves on a Spanish beach. But we better try both addresses."

They paid, in spite of the waiter's protests, and returned to Headquarters. While Grijpstra went to find the two detectives scheduled to help that night de Gier checked the contents of their own gray VW; the car had been used by others and he wanted to make sure that everything was still there, and in its proper place.

When Grijpstra returned with his two assistants he found de Gier with a carbine in his hands.

"What do you want to do with that?" Grijpstra asked. "The war is over."

"I know," de Gier said, "I saw too many movies. And a carbine is a beautiful weapon, it has to be handled every now and then. When it lies under the back seat it dies."

"A point fifty machine gun is a beautiful weapon too," one of the detectives said. "I used to have one in Indonesia. Ah, the sound of it. Rattattat it would go. And afterward we would eat real fried rice, with shrimps on the side, and some good fried vegetables. A good life. And to think that all I do now is walking about the street markets, sniffing about for stolen goods."

"A warrior," de Gier said.

"Well," the detective said, as if he were apologizing, "my friends were killed over there and I have been in a hospital for a while, with a splinter of a shell in my leg, a splinter of a Dutch shell, of course. But it was another sort of life. Not monotonous at all."

"This may be very exciting," de Gier said. "Perhaps you'll be climbing about on the roof of a house in the Vossiusstraat tonight."

"That'll be fun," the detective said, "providing a spectacle for the hippies in the Vondelpark. It may stop them from picking their noses, for a while anyway."

But they, found no one at the Vossiusstraat. They showed photographs to the neighbors. The neighbors recognized one of the photographs.

"Moved out a long time ago," they said.

"Without registering their new address," one of the detectives said. "That's one offense we can prove."

Grijpstra chuckled and patted the eager young man on the shoulder. "We can't arrest him for an offense, and the fine is ten guilders."

De Gier parked the car close to the Leliegracht and went off on his own to have a look at the house. A lovely gable house, recently restored by the -city's architects and resplendent in its seventeenth-century luster.

He returned to the car and reported.

"Those houses have small gardens in the rear," Grijpstra said. "Two of us will have to watch from there." He looked at the detectives on the back seat.

"All right," said the smaller of the two, "we'll ask the neighbors for permission. Don't forget to let us know when it's all over, or we'll be sitting there until tomorrow morning. It has happened before."

De Gier rang the bell and the door opened at once. He saw a wide-shouldered young man at the top of the stairs. A long-haired young man, a luxurious growth of shining golden hair hanging down to his shoulders.

"Yes?"

"Police. Can we come in a minute?"

"Do you have a warrant?" the young man asked.

"No," said de Gier, "but we can fetch one in a minute. My colleague will wait here for me to come back with it."

The young man thought for a few seconds.

"No," he said. "I don't want to inconvenience your colleague. Please come in."

Grijpstra looked about him in the living room and admired what he saw. The city's architects were top notch, no doubt about it. Thick oak beams, elaborate wood-sculpture on the windows and windowsills. The aristocratic style of the past had come to life again.

He introduced himself to the young man and his friend, who had been watching TV, but had switched the set off and got up to greet the guests.

"Beuzekom," the young man with the golden hair said, "but I can safely assume that you are already aware of my name. And this is my friend, Ringma."

"Please sit down," Ringma said, and pointed at a low couch with an inviting smile. Ringma was a little fellow with a rat's face; he was going bald but he had allowed the fringe on his head to grow and the spare hairs partly covered his small ears.

Grijpstra sat down and looked longingly at the bar that occupied a corner of the room. Beuzekom stood behind the bar.

"What can I offer you?"

"Something nonalcoholic," Grijpstra said.

"Lemonade? Tonic? Limejuice ice and water?"

"Lemonade," Grijpstra said.