Hard Rain Read online

  Hard Rain

  Also by Janwillem van de Wetering

  FICTION

  The Grijpstra-de Gier series:

  Outsider in Amsterdam

  Tumbleweed

  The Corpse on the Dike

  Death of a Hawker

  The Japanese Corpse

  The Blond Baboon

  The Maine Massacre

  The Mind-Murders

  The Streetbird

  The Rattle-Rat

  Just a Corpse at Twilight

  The Hollow-Eyed Angel

  The Perfidious Parrot

  OTHER

  Inspector Saito's Small Satori

  The Butterfly Hunter

  Bliss and Bluster

  Murder by Remote Control

  Seesaw Millions

  NONFICTION

  The Empty Mirror

  A Glimpse of Nothingness

  CHILDREN'S BOOKS

  Hugh Pine

  Hugh Pine and the Good Place

  Hugh Pine and Something Else

  Little Owl

  Hard Rain

  Janwillem van de Wetering

  Copyright © 1986 by Janwillem van de Wetering

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Soho Press, Inc.

  853 Broadway

  New York, NY 10003

  Library of Congress Cataloging in Publishing Data

  Van de Wetering, Janwillem, 1931-

  Hard rain / Janwillem van de Wetering.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 1-56947-104-5

  1. DeGier, Rinus (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Grijpstra, Hank

  (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Police—Netherlands—

  Amsterdam—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3572.A4292H3 1997

  813'.54—dc21 97-20268

  CIP

  10987654321

  For Nikki

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  \\ 1 /////

  A THUNDERCLAP PRECEDED SUDDEN HARD-DRIVING rain, blotting out the shots, two insignificant little bangs compared to the divine anger bursting forth, booming in splendor. When the rain fell, IJsbreker fell too. The rain splashed on the windowsill, into the open window on the body and the floor. Outside it lashed at the tarmac, houseboats, and parked cars, whipped trembling leaves on gigantic elms, cut into the quiet water of the canal, split myriad tiny waves that the sudden storm brushed up.

  The corpse lay quietly, after a spasm that made its long legs kick and its balding head shudder. The sprawling body was lit up by lightning flashes. The city of Amsterdam, surprised by the sudden change in heavenly temper—for it had been a pristine day in spring, windless under a protective dome of clear sky —waited quietly for the rain to subside. The Godfearing citizenry of the Binnenkant, meaning "Inner Side," where bank director Martin IJsbreker resided in a luxurious, fully restored, medieval gable house, were safely home, most likely in bed, for the tiny shots cracked at 11:00 P.M. The rain was so hard that it even blocked traffic. Both quays of the Binnenkant, lit by rustic streetlights, were devoid of movement. Nothing stirred, except the elm's branches, begging forgiveness of the rain, as they tried to spring up and were cruelly pushed down again, until four dim shapes darted up the stone steps leading to the banker's freshly painted front door. They slipped through the door, which gave way willingly enough, and three of them ran up the dark stairs. The fourth followed awkwardly, waving both arms, dragging one leg. Because of the rolling thunder outside, exploding every few seconds into sharp, jagged reports, accompanied by flashes of brittle bright light, the forms could have been demons, flushed from the inner city's drains, eager to take over while normally forbidden territory was stunned, and no longer aware. But demons jabber, and the shadowy figures spoke, in a mixture of Dutch and English. Two were looking down at the body.

  "Dead?" the third asked.

  The fourth stumbled into the room, lurched forward, and held on to a leather couch. "Don't touch," the third shadow hissed. "Fingerprints, you know."

  "Yes," a female voice whispered. "Give me the gun." The barrel trembled near the corpse's face while she waited for the thunder to rumble again. When it came, the room shook and lightning flashed instantaneously, adding revealing details to what had been mere forms. No one heard the shot, not even the girl who fired it, but there was the acrid smell of gunpowder. Her haggard face twisted. Blond hair peeped from her hooded jacket.

  "Put it in his hand."

  She didn't respond to the hissed order, so her companion, a black young man, tsk'd impatiently and knelt down too, taking the gun from her hand and wiping it with his handkerchief, before arranging the pistol carefully in the dead man's hand.

  His mate, a curly-headed man in his late twenties, was staring at the corpse. "Hurry," he said shrilly. "This is bad shit. Let's get out of here. Grab the loot." The fourth intruder had sat down on the couch, half turned, wiping the leather upholstery with his arm.

  "Right," the black man said in English, rolling his r, "we know what to take, the paintings, right? And the vases? We leave the cabinet here? The cabinet is too much bother."

  "The cabinet goes," the girl said. "It's a rosewood antique. The man wants it, too. He'll be outside any minute now."

  "There's more junk downstairs," the curly-haired man said, "More paintings and the Peruvian stuff. We're lifting a fortune for the man."

  "The pay better be good," the black man said.

  "No pay. Junk for junk."

  "Then the junk better be good."

  "Best Nepalese," the girl whispered, "That's what he said."

  "I heard that before," the black man snarled. "They'll cut the shit out of it with crap."

  "Maybe we're short on choices." The curly-haired man whirled around. "What are we waiting for? Let's grab treasure."

  The girl got up. "You okay, Carl? You don't have to be here. You shouldn't have come."

  The young man on the couch managed, with some trouble, to stand on wobbly legs. "Yehess." He was dressed better than the others, in a clean striped shirt and spotless pressed jeans. His face, when not contorted because of the necessity to speak, was quite handsome. His recently cut hair had been combed neatly. His arms were waving wildly as he steered his body to a wall. "I'll get this puh-painting."

  "Oh," the girl wailed. "The letter, I left it in the boat." She almost cried. "I'm always so disorganized.'"'

  "Get it," the curly-haired man snapped. "If we don't do everything just right, we'll lose out altogether."

  "I feel sick, Jimmy."

  He pushed her to the door. "Go. Go! We'll pile up the stuff, take it downstairs."

  The black man stared at the rain running down the windowsill, making a puddle on the floor. "Keep cool, man, the weather is helping out."

  "Go!" the curly-haired man screamed. "You too. The man'll be i
n the street with his truck. We'll be exposed, carrying this shit."

  "Yes, white man boss." The black man was lifting paintings off the wall.

  The girl came running back, out of breath. "Here's the letter."

  The curly-haired man put the paper on a low table, placing a vase on the letter so that it wouldn't blow away. Gusts of wet wind made the letter flap. The neatly dressed young man carried a painting into the corridor. The girl followed, a vase in each hand. "Go away, Carl, you really shouldn't be here."

  "The muh-man asked me too."

  "That's all right," the curly-haired man said, switching to Dutch with an American accent. "Go down. Go home. We'll tell him you were in on it. You'll get your share."

  "Kuh-keep it."

  The girl kissed his cheek.

  "I can do sun-something." He staggered back into the room.

  "No," the girl said. "Go. We don't want you in jail."

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun, but thunder still rolled over the city. The young man carried paintings as the others lugged the rosewood cabinet down the stairs. A truck engine rumbled outside. The driver stayed in the truck cab while the four robbers loaded paintings and vases in a frantic hurry. They banged the vehicle's side when they were done. The girl and the curly-haired man ran off. The black man looked around.

  "Coming to the boat? The man'll be there later."

  "Noho. Tuh-tomorrow." The young man stumbled away, trying to stay on the narrow sidewalk.

  "Shame," a neatly dressed middle-aged woman said, safe behind her folded umbrella, warding him off with its sharp point. "A nice young man like you."

  "Sssshame, ma'am?"

  "Yes, you're dead drunk."

  "Just sssspahastic."

  "I'm sorry," the woman said, dropping her umbrella, staring into his face, "I am sorry."

  The young man shuffled on, jerking his shoulders, twisting his head, throwing out his arms.

  \\ 2 /////

  "DON'T TAKE A DUTCH PAPER," THE COMMISSARIS'S wife said as the stewardess came by. "When you do, we're back. Now we're still in Vienna."

  "For the cartoons?" the commissaris said. He took the paper.

  "Since when do you read cartoons?" his wife asked. "Oh, didn't we have a lovely holiday? Don't you feel rested?"

  The commissaris grunted as he scanned the headlines.

  "Do you, Jan?"

  "I feel dehydrated," the commissaris said. "All those medicinal steam baths dried out my legs. And I'm overstuffed. The cooking was too rich."

  "You drank too much," his wife said. "Your brother and you are a bad combination. He brings out the worst in you."

  "I bring out the best in him," the commissaris said. "But even his best is a bit boring."

  "I wish you wouldn't drink," his wife said, and to the stewardess, "No, thank you, we won't have any."

  "I'll have a gin and tonic," the commissaris* growled, and read, "Martin IJsbreker? That must be Peter IJsbreker's son. Yes, here it is, a director of the Banque du Credit. But I know Martin."

  "So do I," said his wife. "What did he do? Wasn't he involved in that nasty business of the Society for Help Abroad?"

  "Thank you," the commissaris said to the stewardess. "Martin shot himself."

  "Ach," his wife said. "Wasn't Martin divorced some years back? He had such a nice wife."

  "Halba took care of it," the commissaris said, and folded the paper. "I'm glad I didn't have to go. A self-inflicted pistol shot finished Martin off. Your health."

  "Your health," his wife said. "I wish you would drink beer."

  The commissaris drank. "There's just as much alcohol in a bottle of beer as in a glass of gin, I keep telling you that. I wish you'd stop harping, my dear; even with my brother I didn't overindulge."

  "You had four last night, Jan, two when I wasn't looking."

  "Two," the commissaris said. "If you weren't looking, you didn't see the other two."

  "I peeked," his wife said. "I'm sorry about Martin, even if I haven't met him since he was a boy, but Fleur talks about him from time to time."

  "I didn't know you were seeing the baroness, Katrien."

  "We meet in the supermarket sometimes, and have tea afterward. Fleur has gotten very fat."

  The commissaris smiled.

  "Of course, Fleur was always kind of pudgy," his wife said, "but you liked that, didn't you?"

  "That was a hundred years ago."

  "Don't gulp your drink, Jan. I know all about you two, even if you won't admit it."

  "What's there to admit?" He looked at her over his gold-rimmed spectacles. "You were still engaged to Willem Fernandus at the time. I was free, wasn't I?" "You were about to be engaged to Fleur." "Was I? So how come she married Willem?" "Because you married me. Fleur would have preferred you, she told me so herself."

  The commissaris mused, tinkling the ice in his drink.

  "And Fernandus made Fleur very unhappy. He isn't even paying alimony anymore, now that Huip is over twenty-one, but she must have money, she always wears something new."

  "Fleur inherited shares in the bank too," the commissaris said. "Fernandus must have gotten hold of them. The bank is doing well. It has all the Society's business, of course." The stewardess took his glass. "Another one, sir?" "No, thank you, dear." He looked back at his wife. "That bank is more evil than ever now. It sits right in the pleasure quarter. Fernandus is probably banking for the drug dealers too." "You think that's why IJsbreker got shot?" "Suicide." The commissaris put his hand on the paper. "According to what it says here, Chief Inspector Halba already closed the case." "I don't like Halba, Jan, he has shifty eyes." "He was good in narcotics, so I was told, Katrien. His promotion was due to that. His transfer to the Murder Brigade, too." "Do you like Chief Inspector Halba?" "No," the commissaris said, "but I don't know him too well yet. You were right, I shouldn't have looked at that paper. The other news is bad, too. Three dead junkies in a houseboat." He shook his small head. "I know that sort of thing shouldn't upset us anymore, but I'll never get used to it. Halba refuses to work on dead junkies. He claims they aren't worth the trouble —good riddance and so forth. I don't agree."

  "You work on them?"

  "If I can, Katrien, but this lot died of an overdose, with the needles in their arms, so what can we do? If they kill themselves ..."

  "Fleur says that her son Huip Fernandus is a druggie too," his wife said, "but he only uses the soft stuff. Huip is a musician, Fleur says. Musicians are often on drugs, aren't they?"

  "I don't know," the commissaris said. "I haven't seen statistics. You know, in a way I'm glad young IJsbreker shot himself while I was away. Now I won't have to see his employer, Willem Fernandus. Halba probably saw the big boss. The chief inspector must have been busy. He made front-page news, too, something about a German terrorist shot in a telephone booth. One of our men got wounded."

  "Badly?"

  "The detective is in the hospital," the commissaris said, "not in intensive care."

  "Oh my," his wife said. "Not Sergeant de Gier, I hope, he's such a daredevil. Does the article give a name?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "It won't be de Gier, for the sergeant had to go north, to supply testimony for the court on that murder case we had earlier this year. Adjutant Grijpstra took his girlfriend to do some camping. Cardozo is on holiday, too—in Spain, I believe."

  "Jan," his wife said, "didn't your father have shares in that Banque du Credit, too? You didn't inherit part of the bank, I hope."

  The commissaris looked out of the window. "Black clouds over Holland. The paper said there have been thunderstorms and hard rain. We didn't miss much, Katrien. No, Dad sold his shares. There were four shareholders then, Fernandus Senior, Willem's father, who was president then, Baron de la Faille—that's Fleur's father—IJsbreker Senior, and Dad. Old Fernandus was the evil genius. Dad sold out to his partners—at a loss, I believe."

  "I thought your dad and Willem Fernandus's father were close?"

  "Because t
hey married wives who were related." The commissaris frowned. "My mother is Willem's mother's distant cousin. Twice removed, maybe."

  "Willem and you are family?" his wife gasped. "I never knew that."

  "Too far to mention," the commissaris said. "Willem didn't harp on the subject, either. We disliked each other."

  "And you went to the same schools. You even studied together."

  "Law," the commissaris said. "I studied the articles and Willem studied the holes between the articles. He was always like that. Even in kindergarten he found an illegal way to the teacher's lap. Willem"— the commissaris stared solemnly at his wife—"is the most deliberately evil man I ever had the misfortune to know."

  His wife giggled.

  "What's funny?" the commissaris asked. "Is evil funny?"

  "What was Willem doing on the teacher's lap?"

  "Feeling her breasts, of course." The commissaris took off his spectacles and polished them with the tip of his silk tie. "Pretending to slide off Miss Bakker's lap and then grabbing hold. Willem was never very subtle. That time he got slapped."

  "How old was Willem then?"

  "We were both four. I used to sit on Miss Bakker's lap, and Willem got jealous. The teacher had pet mice, in a terrarium with a wheel. We could look at them doing their tricks for two minutes, if we asked. There was a clock above the terrarium, and we were supposed to time ourselves." The commissaris grinned. "When I see a mouse now, I still think about that stupid clock. Crazy education. You're supposed to learn, and all you do is pick up useless associations."

  "So how did Willem get you off that woman's lap? Was she beautiful, Jan?"

  "A goddess," the commissaris said. "There was a rocking horse in kindergarten, and whenever I rode it I fantasized that I was saving Miss Bakker from dragons, or from the principal of the school, whom she married later. I really lost out then."

  "Willem got her before the principal?"

  "Willem lied," the commisaris said. "Miss Bakker had to step out a minute, and I wanted to see the mice, so Willem said, 'Go ahead, she won't be back for a while.' Of course she came back straightaway and Willem pointed at me. Willem knew she'd only be a minute. I had to stand in the corner for half an hour."