Blond Baboon ac-6 Read online

  “What time did you leave?”

  “Around eight. I only stayed a quarter of an hour, I think.”

  Grijpstra sat back and the commissaris raised a hand. “Your money was found, Mr. Vleuten. I had a message, just before I came here, from Gabrielle Carnet. She found a hundred thousand guilders, which must be the sum of your twenty thousand and the eighty thousand Mrs. Carnet collected from her company’s bank account recently. Do you have any idea what she may have wanted to do with that eighty thousand?”

  “No.”

  “The hundred thousand was found under her mattress, a strange hiding palace, don’t you think? She did have a safe.”

  The baboon’s hand reached out to a side table and came back with a pack of cigarettes. He smiled apologetically. ‘Time to smoke. Under the mattress, you said, that is a strange place. I know her safe. It isn’t really a safe: it’s fireproof but not burglarproof, it opens with a normal key. She never kept much money in there. I made a hiding place in her bedroom, under a loose board. It has a spring lock. You have to press a very small knob near one of the legs of her bed. If she wanted to hide money she would have hidden it in there.”

  Nothing was said for a while and the commissaris looked around. The apartment seemed to consist of only one room stretching from the front to the rear of the house. The furniture was sparse but of good quality, not from the showrooms of Carnet and Company. Good Victorian furniture and not too much of it. A quiet room, refined, with large empty surfaces, both in floor and wall space. The sergeant had got up and was wandering around.

  “Sir?”

  The commissaris got up too. The sergeant was looking at a painting. The painting showed a rat realistically drawn, each long brittle hair in place, the mouth half open showing pointed cruel teeth, the red eye glared. It was rearing on its spindly hind legs and its long tail, of an obscene, glaring naked pink, hung down.

  “Unusual, don’t you think, sir?”

  The tail went beyond the painting, curving over its frame and continuing on the wall. The part that protruded from the painting’s flat surface had become three-dimensional, molded out of some plastic material but so well shaped that it seemed alive. There was another strange detail in the painter’s subject matter. The rat was ridden by a little boy dressed in a dainty suit of dark red velvet.

  The childish face sat in a high collar of ruffled lace, and the boy’s small pudgy hands held reins that were slipped through the rat’s mouth.

  “Do you like it?” the baboon’s voice asked from the other side of the room.

  “It wasn’t made to be liked, I dunk.” The commissaris was still studying the painting. “Your work, Mr. Vleuten?”

  “In a way. The combination is mine. The original is an illustration to a child’s tale and I enlarged it and worked in some of the details. I’ve done more work like this, more elaborate, but in the same vein, I would think.”

  The baboon got up and pressed a button at the side of a large cupboard. A deep hum filled the room and the cupboard’s door swung open. The apparition mat rode out of the cupboard came straight at the sergeant, who jumped out of its way, but it changed direction and he had to jump again. The commissaris wasn’t able to determine the nature of the apparition immediately, he only knew he felt nauseated.

  He followed it as it moved around and returned to the cupboard.

  It was a structure of human bones, clipped together and held upright by a transparent plastic rod. The head seemed to be a cow’s skull, very old and moldy, with a gaping hole in its forehead framed in dry moss. Part of the skull was covered by a mask of frayed purple corduroy but the eye sockets and the long mouth with rows of pale yellow teeth had been left bare. The cupboard’s door closed and the hum stopped. The commissaris looked at the floor. A pair of rails had been sunk into the smooth polished boards, evidently the specter had ridden on a small cart powered by electricity.

  “A toy,” the baboon said.

  De Gier was staring at the cupboard door, his legs astride. Grijpstra stood next to the sergeant, bent slightly forward. Only the commissaris hadn’t moved, not even when the ghoul’s weapon, a rusted Sten gun, had brushed the back of his sleeve.

  He sat down again. “You are an artist, Mr. Vleuten, and your creations are spectacular. I’m sure the municipal museum would be interested and give you space to exhibit. I’m interested too. What prompted you to make that structure?”

  “A vision,” the baboon said slowly, “a vision when I was drunk. I don’t normally drink much, but I did happen to get very drunk some years ago and I passed out. My body stopped functioning but my mind worked well, too well, perhaps. The sensation was unpleasant. I wanted to go to sleep but I had been caught in a maelstrom. You probably know the experience. Dizziness, increasing until everything turns, not only what the mind experiences but the mind itself joins its reflections. A crazy dance, and in my case also macabre.”

  The commissaris smiled. “If I remember correctly mat particular sensation doesn’t last too long. One gets sick and vomits and then there is nothing but sleep until the hangover the following day.”

  “I didn’t get sick. I spent hours being part of the maelstrom, trying not to be sucked into the abyss that lurked at its bottom. I had everything against me that night. There was much to be seen although I didn’t want to see it. In the edge of the swirl different scenes were acted out and I was in all of them. The main actors, apart from myself, were a human skeleton with a masked cow’s head and a little boy riding his rat.”

  It was the commissaris’s turn to get up and wander around the room and the baboon followed him. They were of about the same height, and Grijpstra leaned out of his chair to keep track of their moving shapes.

  “So what have we caught now?” de Gier whispered.

  “Shhh!”

  “Normally a man would try to get away from his fears,” the commissaris was saying, “but you went to great trouble to picture them. It seems that you do the opposite of what is to be expected. The effort is deliberate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Like when you had the Camet and Company firm in the palm of your hand, so to speak, and you threw it away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you mind a personal question?”

  “No.”

  “Patient, isn’t he?” de Gier’s voice said close to Grijpstra’s ear. Grijpstra’s hands made an irritated flapping movement in response.

  “You have a nickname, Mr. Vleuten. You are called die baboon. It would seem to me that you wouldn’t like that nickname. A baboon is an ape. I would have expected pictures of baboons in this room, maybe even skeletons of baboons.”

  The baboon laughed. “I have several mirrors here, I can see the baboon anytime I wish to, and often when I don’t wish to.” The laugh was relaxed and spread to the three detectives.

  “True. Another question, something that interests me, it has nothing to do with why we are here. Your effort is to do the opposite of what is expected and your effort must require strength. It is easier to glide along the groove. You are exerting yourself to go against that movement, to break out of the groove altogether, perhaps. Does that effort get you anywhere?”

  The baboon had come back to his chair and sat down. His flat strong hands rested on his knees. “An intriguing question.”

  “Yes. Would you answer it?”

  “Why not? But I don’t think I can. Perhaps the vision I tried to describe just now set me off. Everything was going so well at that time, you see. I was, in a way, making a career. I was selling unbelievable quantities of furniture. My income was based, in part, on commission, so I was earning a fair amount of money. On top of that I could have the business, the control of it, anyway. Bergen had weakened to the point where he was ready to have himself pushed out. Elaine wanted to marry me and it wouldn’t have been an impossible match, we are of the same age and I was fond of her. But nothing was happening.”

  “How do you mean, Mr. Vleuten?”

  “I was
just driving a car, visiting customers, going home in the evenings, resting during the weekends. I had a boat, of course, and there were other pastimes, hobbies. I read, I painted a little. But still nothing was happening. I just moved along.”

  “And you were bored?”

  “No. I became bored after that drunken night. It seemed there was something else. But whatever that something else was, it was certainly frightening. The rat and the little boy, the skeleton threatening me. I don’t know whether you felt threatened just now, as it lunged at you from the cupboard. Perhaps to you it was just a silly shape like something you see at a carnival, something you scream at and then forget again. To me the shapes were much more, they came out of my own mind, out of the hidden part of my mind, and they were very strong. I was frightened throughout the vision, but I was also fascinated even while I was being tortured by the little boy-he isn’t as harmless as he looks, you know-and chased by his rat and even as the cow shape attacked me over and over again, hurting me badly every time. And it wasn’t just masochism. I don’t particularly enjoy being in pain, but yet…”

  “You decided consciously to live with your fear? To deliberately recreate it?”

  “I decided to try that. I’m not original. I’m quite content to follow ways already explored. I assume that you are acquainted with the work of Bosch, Breughel. There have been others, also now, the films of Fellini, for instance. And there are writers, poets, even composers…”

  “Many who follow those paths go mad, Mr. Vleuten. They commit suicide, are found hanging in alleys, afloat in the canals, lifeless in gutters. We find them, our patrol cars bring them in and dump them in the morgue.”

  The baboon’s chest expanded as he breathed. “No, the corpses you find have a different history. Drug addicts and alcoholics are caught in a groove too, they slip into habits like average citizens. I want to do something else, really do something, not to slip into a ready-made pattern that has, at the best, some moments of high perception but leads to utter degeneration eventually. The idea is not so bad perhaps; it’s romantic to be a tramp, I thought of that possibility. I even spent some time in Paris studying clochards, but I decided that their way of life is both uncomfortable and unnecessary and leads to what most lives lead to, a half-conscious dream that turns in a half-circle. The clochards I followed around had to beg or steal. I didn’t want to do that, even though the idea of being nothing, having nothing, not even a name, did appeal to me. But I wouldn’t want to break into some tourist’s car to be able to buy my next bottle or teaspoon of drugs. Why should I spoil another man’s vacation? The tourist has his rights too. I don’t quarrel with the ideals or lack of ideals of others. But it was interesting to live with the clochards for a while. Some of them were as sinister, as horrible, as my vision, but it seemed that I could prick through them. They were shadows, my vision was more real.”

  “The clochards weren’t getting anywhere, you mean?”

  “Oh, they were somewhere all right, in hell. A hell of boredom, not so different from my own when I was selling a lot of furniture.”

  “And now, are you bored now?”

  “No.”

  “Happy?”

  The baboon shook his head. “Happy! that’s a silly word. It has to with security, there is no security. The only thing we can ever be secure about is the knowledge that we will die.”

  “Do you feel that you are getting anywhere?”

  “No, but perhaps I am approaching…”

  “Approaching what?”

  The sergeant was listening with such concentration that his eyes had become slits. The conversation, intense, almost ominous in its inward direction, sounded familiar. He could understand both the significance of the questions and the penetration of the answers. It seemed, and the possibility didn’t appear so ludicrous later when he thought back on it, that the meeting between baboon and commissaris was staged for his own personal benefit. There was an accord between the old man and the bizarre figure opposite him that didn’t have to be stressed, they would have understood each other without the question-and-answer game. But some of de Gier’s own thoughts were being clarified in a way that made the game seem staged.

  He glanced at Grijpstra, but the adjutant’s initial fascination had ebbed away. De Gier knew that Grijpstra had gone back to his task, the apprehension of Elaine Camet’s killer. He guessed, and the guess was substantiated later when he talked about the investigation again, that Grijpstra thought that the commissaris was only interested in determining the suspect’s character, to see if he could be fitted into the facts they had collected about Elaine’s death. No more, no less. The ideal policeman.

  “A mystery perhaps.” The baboon’s answer had a mocking overtone. His hand, each finger moving individually, mocked the answer.

  “Yes, a mystery,” the commissaris said pleasantly. “A useless word, I agree. Well, sir, we’ll be going. Just a last question about Mrs. Camet’s death. Could you think of anyone who would derive some pleasure, some gain, from her death? There are a number of suspects we are interrogating. There is Mr. Bergen, young Mr. Pullini, Gabrielle too, of course. There may be others, people Mrs. Camet employed, perhaps. We found a man, a certain Mr. de Bree, a neighbor, who tried to poison Gabrielle Camet’s dog some days ago.”

  The baboon didn’t answer.

  “You have no ideas that could be of help to us?”

  “Only negative ideas. Mr. Bergen is mainly a businessman. He was, when I knew him, quite happy to run the business, I don’t think he wanted to own it. And with Elaine’s death he will still only own a quarter of the shares, the quarter she gave him years ago, the other three-quarters will go to Gabrielle. Did you mention Pullini?”

  “Yes, Francesco Pullini. He is in town just now. We saw him briefly today, he isn’t feeling well.”

  “I know Francesco. He dealt with Bergen, not with Elaine.”

  The commissaris sat up and massaged his thighs.

  “Is that so? I understood that Mrs. Carnet did pay attention to the Pullini connection, chose merchandise, determined the size of the orders, and so on.”

  The baboon shook his head. “Not really, that was just a charade. Bergen liked to work on Francesco and he sometimes got Elaine to help. Tricks: he would give a very large order to get a good price and then he would later halve it and say that Elaine had made the decision, or he might delay the order altogether, also to get a better price.”

  “And Gabrielle, she didn’t get on too well with her mother, I believe?”

  “True, they did argue sometimes, but Gabrielle has had her own apartment for quite a long time now.”

  “Whose idea was that?”

  “Gabrielle’s. She is clever, and she certainly loved her mother. She could have moved out altogether but she stayed in the house.”

  “Did Mrs. Carnet drink compulsively?”

  The baboon moved a hand over his face. “Yes, I think so, the drinking was getting worse. Couldn’t she have fallen down the stairs?”

  The commissaris got up. “Yes, she might have, mat would certainly be the best solution.”

  “Where’s your car?” the commissaris asked when they were in the street again.

  “A little farmer along, sir, near the Berlaghe Bridge.”

  “I’ll give you a ride. Sergeant?”

  “Sir.”

  “I know it’s been a long day but I’d like you to go back to the Pulitzer Hotel and get Francesco’s passport. If he doesn’t want to give it up you can bring him to headquarters and lock him in for the night. I’ll clear it with the public prosecutor later on, but if you are tactful that won’t be necessary. Grijpstra?”

  “Sir.”

  “Do you want to go home now?”

  “Not particularly, sir.”

  “You can come with me, I want to pay another call on Mr. Bergen. You haven’t met him yet.”

  He opened the door of the Citroen and took out the radio’s microphone.

  “Headquarters?”


  “Headquarters, who is calling?”

  “CID, the Camet case. Any news from Detective Cardozo?”

  “Yes, sir, he left a number, wants you to call him.”

  “Any urgency?”

  “No, sir.”

  He pushed the microphone back. “I’ll call him from Bergen’s house.”

  “We might have dinner somewhere, sir,” Grijpstra said from the back of the car.

  “Later, if you don’t mind. I’d like to see Bergen first. Would you like to have dinner with us, sergeant?”

  “Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to go home first to feed Tabriz and I’d like to get out of this uniform and have a shower.”

  “Fine, how about nine o’clock at that Chinese restaurant next to the porno cinema in the old city? We’ve eaten there before, it’s a favorite hangout of yours, I believe.”

  “Cardozo might like to come too, sir. He’s been complaining that he is always sent off on his own and that he loses track of what goes on.”

  The commissaris smiled. “Yes, and he is right, of course. But I have his number and I’ll ring him later. He’s probably having his dinner now but he can have it again. By nine o’clock our preliminary investigation should be complete. It’ll be time to compare our theories, if we have the courage to bring them out, and to move into the next stage.”

  “Setting up traps, sir?”

  The commissaris turned around. “No, Grijpstra, the traps have been set up already and not by us. This time we’ll have to do the opposite, if we can. We’ll have to release our suspects, they are trapped already.”

  “The opposite,” de Gier murmured. “Interesting.”

  \\ 12 /////

  Cardozomarched along, arms swinging, until he became aware of his own eagerness and dropped back into an exaggerated slouch. He had been out of uniform for some two years now, but he hadn’t yet lost the habit of being on patrol during working hours. He was still checking bicycles for proper lights and would start every time he saw a car going through the red. He also missed the protection of his mate. Policemen on the beat are hardly ever alone, detectives often are. His trained eyes were registering.