Janwillem De Wetering - Outsider in Amsterdam

They looked around the large room which, like the room van Meteren occupied at Piet Verboom's house, had been white-washed and hung with a number of strange objects. De Gier recognized the large animal skull, the map of the great inland lake, the strangely shaped stones. One of the walls featured a large slice of an old tree trunk. The grain of the wood stood out; it had been dabbed with red paint that contrasted with the white of the wall behind it. De Gier shuddered involuntarily. The wood looked natural enough but the red paint, sunk deeply into the grain, reminded him of blood, of a cannibal's feast, of the deep vibrations of van Meteren's wooden jungle drum. The drum stood in the corner.

"I must ask him if he still has his rifle," de Gier asked, and remembered that he hadn't checked with the armory. Van Meteren should have had the barrel filled with aluminum.

"He may still have the rifle," he said to Grijpstra.

"That's all right," Grijpstra said. "He can't use it here."

"What if he comes back with the rifle instead of the beer?"

"He won't," Grijpstra said.

De Gier moved toward the front door of the apartment. They would arrest him in a little while, after the beer. The front door was the only way out. He had already looked into the small bedroom. It had one door only, he had also been able to get a look at the kitchen as van Meteren went into it. The kitchen didn't have another door either.

"Can I help you?" Grijpstra asked and went into the kitchen where he found their host cutting slices of cheese.

"You take the tray," van Meteren said.

"Your health."

They raised their glasses.

Grijpstra put his glass down first. Van Meteren filled the glasses again. He had brought his glass to his lips when Grijpstra spoke.

"I am sorry, van Meteren," Grijpstra said. Perhaps I should have refused the beer but I was very thirsty. We haven't come as friends, you see, we have come to arrest you."

De Gier had moved a little closer to the door and his hand was under his jacket, an inch from his pistol's butt.

"Arrest me?" van Meteren asked, still smiling pleasantly but with the corners of his mouth sagging as an immense sadness seemed to overcome him.

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "We suspect you of having committed a murder."

"Why?" van Meteren asked softly.

"Seket," de Gier said.

"Ah," van Meteren said.

De Gier jumped aside but it was too late. He couldn't see anymore, the beer from van Meteren's glass had hit him in the eyes.

At the same moment Grijpstra's chair collapsed, due to a kick in its weakest spot. Grijpstra's hand, which was on its way to his pistol, now had to support his suddenly falling body.

When de Gier had wiped the beer out of his eyes and could, vaguely, see again, he was alone in the room with Grijpstra.

Grijpstra was looking out of the window. "Come and see," Grijpstra shouted.

De Gier pushed him aside and looked down. Van Meteren was three stories down, holding on to a thick rope.

"Your knife," de Gier shouted.

"No use," Grijpstra said. "I can't reach the rope. It was attached to the hoist above us, out of reach. He must have planned it all carefully. A perfect escape."

De Gier looked down again and saw van Meteren veering off the gable, very close to the street mow. "He is back in New Guinea," de Gier thought, "getting away from the Indonesian commandos."

But he was thinking it on the stairs. He was falling down the stairs, rather than running, and when he reached the street Grijpstra was still on the fifth floor.

De Gier reached the street in time to see the Harley ride off the sidewalk. Van Meteren didn't appear to be in a hurry.

De Gier didn't use his pistol. There were bicycles in the street and several cars. Students were coming from the pub opposite and a boat full of tourists was moving into the canal, having successfully maneuvered itself from underneath a bridge. The chance that he would have hit van Meteren or the Harley was small, the chance that he would have hit something else much larger.

He ran to the car. The key stuck in the lock. When the door finally opened the Harley had turned a corner. He switched the radio on and heard Sientje's voice giving instructions to a patrol car. He had to wait for her to pause.

"One-three to Headquarters," de Gier said.

"One-three come in."

"A white Harley Davidson, just turned off the Brouwersgracht toward the Haarlemmer Houttuinen. Going east by the sound of her, toward the new Single bridge and Central Station. The rider is suspected of murder. Dangerous, probably armed. Small man, colored. Registration Victory Ferdinand seventeen-seventy-two. Over."

"Understood. Out." Sientje's voice was very calm, and still slightly hoarse."

"Lovely voice," de Gier thought.

He heard her pass the message to all cars, and called her again.

"One-three come in."

"How many cars do you have to help us?" de Gier asked.

"One right now," Sientje said, "on the Prins Hendrikkade. All the other cars are busy but we have called the station on the other side of the river and they should have two cars on standby. We are also calling the motorcycles, they should be able to send two men at least, but that's all we have, I think."

"Maybe you should let the State Police know in case he leaves the city."

"We are letting them know now," Sientje said reproachfully. "It's standard procedure. "Out."

De Gier blushed.

Grijpstra had got into the car.

"Well?" Grijpstra asked.

"We are moving, aren't we?" de Gier snapped. "I think I heard him turn east. At least one car should be close to him and others are being alerted. But he may have turned back through the Haarlemmerstraat."

"No," Grijpstra said, "the Haarlemmerstraat is being taken apart by public works. New drains or something. He might be able to ride on the sidewalk. Is he in a panic?"

"Never," de Gier said. "He is a proper policeman. You should have seen him ride off, as if he was going to work."

"No panic," Grijpstra said to himself. "So he won't hit anything," he thought.

"Ha," he said aloud.

"What shall we do?" de Gier asked. "Go east or check the canals? He may be on a merry-go-round, trying to shake us off, or park the motorbike in a quiet place and have a beer."

"Go east," Grijpstra said. "He must leave the city. He knows everyone is watching for a white motorbike now. And he knows the country. He has been spending all his weekends riding around. If he leaves town he must either keep on going east or he must go through the tunnel. He'll take the tunnel, Amsterdam North isn't being patrolled as heavily as Amsterdam East."

De Gier shook his head.

"I wonder if they'll see him. He'll be riding slowly. I bet he is even stopping for orange traffic lights."

"No," Grijpstra said, "don't exaggerate. He knows how to handle himself under stress but he shouldn't be riding that motorbike. A white Harley is a white elephant, even in Amsterdam. Patrol cars aren't blind. They might have trouble spotting a white Volkswagen or a blue Fiat, but they are bound to spot a Harley."

Sientje's voice came through.

"Your motorcycle has just emerged at the other side of the tunnel. A patrol car is after him and its siren is going."

"You see?" Grijpstra asked.

"Pity we have no siren," de Gier said and put his foot down. The VW went through a red light. Two cars honked at them and a man on a bicycle shouted something and tapped a finger on his forehead.

"No race," Grijpstra said, "I have a lot of children."

"I have a cat," de Gier said.

"The VW dived into the tunnel and Grijpstra closed his eyes. De Gier was zigzagging through the tunnel's traffic. The radio had stopped crackling.

"You can open your eyes," de Gier said. "Sientje is calling us."