The Mind-Murders Read online

  "Are you alone?" the man asked.

  "Yes, but don't get any ideas. If you touch me, I'll tie you into a knot with both your feet in your mouth."

  The man smiled. "Really?"

  Asta smiled too. "Really. Now will you tell me about that German or do you want me to get help? I trust your license is in order. If it is, I could still charge you with living on the profit of prostitution of another person or persons, that article hasn't been revoked, you know. We still use it occasionally."

  "Quite," the man said. "I'm sorry, officer. I have been trying to remember that German you mentioned. We had a busy night yesterday, there's a convention in the hotel across the street, of politicians. We were a bit crowded. Quite a few of the gentlemen were fat, and some of them were German. Muller, you said the name was?"

  "Karl Muller, man in his forties, obese, bald on top and a long fringe below, a lot of gold teeth, a heavy gold watch, light-color suit and a red tie."

  "Ah. Yes. I remember the tie. Red is my favorite color. Let me check the credit card slips."

  He opened a neat file and turned small rectangular slips, wetting his finger.

  "Here we are, Karl Muller, the address is in Hamburg. Yes, I remember him. He complained, the girl hadn't been cooperative, he wanted a discount. I asked the girl what was wrong and she said she refused to get into the bath with him. The more expensive rooms have baths, you see, with gold-plated faucets, special feature of the house. The baths are king size; even so, there was little room left for the girl. He also complained about the quality of our snacks, we serve free snacks with the drinks. They're good. I've never had anybody criticizing them before."

  "What time did he leave?"

  The manager closed the file and placed it on the right corner of his desk, tapping it with his finger so that it was parallel to one side and perpendicular to the other.

  "He left early. He wanted another girl, but we had so many clients that the girls could make their own choice, and nobody wanted him. Sometimes I'm able to obtain free-lance help but usually not on Mondays; the ladies are resting then after the weekend. I made a few unsuccessful phone calls and the gentleman left."

  "What time?"

  "Hard to say, there was so much coming and going. Around midnight, I would think."

  "You'll have to sign a statement to that effect, and I also need a statement from the girl who wouldn't get into the bath. She'll have to confirm the time he left."

  The manager puffed on his cigarette. His eyes evaded the demon that was pestering him.

  "I'm afraid that will be impossible."

  "As you like," Asta said. "Let me use your phone. I don't care how many sex clubs there are in Amsterdam, they're still illegal. I'm going to get my sergeant and some uniformed cops and we'll go through the place. Don't leave this room until my colleagues have arrived."

  There were two telephones on the desk; the smaller model was pseudoantique. He picked it up.

  "Ask Willemine to come into my office, will you? It's urgent, I don't care if she is busy."

  The knife flashed past Asta and hit the center of the circle that had been painted on the cupboard door. De Gier walked from the other side of the room to retrieve it.

  "You might have hit me," Asta said.

  "No, I missed you by a foot. I'm accurate within an inch, and I've been practicing for a year. I've always been bad with knives. Grijpstra is better, he's never more than a centimeter off, but he is slow on the draw. That part I've got right, I think, you didn't see me draw the knife, did you?"

  "No."

  "Good, but not good enough. Your results aren't good enough either. So MuIIer left the club at midnight, two hours earlier than he told us. The difference doesn't constitute a crime. He had been drinking, didn't know what the time was. We still can't arrest the slob. What happened to Grijpstra?"

  "Here," Grijpstra said. The knife came again. Grijpstra took off his jacket and hung it on the knife. "I've been to the hotel; the girl we're looking for gave a false name. It isn't in the computer. The address she gave is in Rotterdam. I telephoned the police there, and a patrol car drove to the street; the street exists but the number doesn't."

  "Harassment," de Gier said, "and she had help inside the hotel. Boronski must have stayed in room 12. Did you check the register?"

  "Yes. The entries are made with pencil. The pencil hadn't been pressed down and the handwriting wasn't too clear. It's easy to change a 2 into a 4. I took the register with me and the lab looked at it. They say that the 2 of 12 may have been erased and replaced by a 4, but they won't swear to it."

  De Gier took Grijpstra's jacket off the knife and hung it on a hook. He replaced the knife in a sheath that had been sewn to the lining of his jacket.

  "Inside help, probably the same person who changed Boronski's dry-cleaned clothes and then changed them again; he or she must also have lifted his watch from the bathroom and replaced it."

  Grijpstra walked over to a battered set of drums and picked up two tapered sticks. He played on the side of the largest drum, lightly bitting the center in the middle and at the end of each bar.

  "No," Asta said. "Do you often do that here, play drums?"

  "Ever since the lost and found department gave him the drums," de Gier said. "Grijpstra gets everything free, I had to pay for this flute." He had taken the flute from his desk and blew a single note. Grijpstra sat up and started a fairly complicated rhythm. Asta couldn't hear who followed whom. The music seemed to become more intricate. The two men played for no more than five minutes. De Gier dropped the flute back into his desk, Grijpstra finished the way he had begun, with slowing taps on the side of the main drum.

  "Wow! What was it? An improvisation?"

  "Of course," Grijpstra said. "Ibaniz composed this for piano. He never thought of us, we can't play the piano."

  Asta shook her head. "Sergeant Jurriaans told me that you two are musicians, but I never believed him. Most of what he says isn't connected with daily life."

  "I should hope so," de Gier said. The telephone rang. "Right, I'll come and pick it up."

  He was back within minutes, waving paper. "Hear this. In German but I'll try to translate it. Karl Mtiller, businessman, import and export of lumber, apart from legitimate business possibly active in unproved drug dealing on large scale. Please let us know immediately if you can produce charge. Hamburg Police, Criminal Investigation Department, Narcotics Branch, signed Inspector Hans Wingel."

  Grijpstra read the teletype message and gave it to Asta. He began to pace the room.

  "So now we have some sort of construction. Ever since I heard that Jim Boronski lived in Colombia, I suspected drugs. We know that the stufi coming from Turkey is being intercepted too often, and the supply is irregular anyway. Colombia is a new source that seems more efficient, and the hashish and marihuana that originates there is of good quality. The Colombians also sell cocaine, and cocaine ranks about as high as heroin, in price, that is. A smart man like Boronski and another smart man like Miiller would prefer to deal in cocaine; just a few pounds make a golden deal. So now let's assume that Boronski played foul and that Miiller got annoyed. He harasses Boronski to the point where he drops dead."

  "In Miiller's car," de Gier said.

  "RIGHT!" shouted Grijpstra. "That's where we go wrong. Every time. The whole silly thing is impossible. Boronski is sick, he gets sicker, he dies. That's all we have. We should close the case and go home. There's no logic in it. See you tomorrow." He put on his jacket and stamped out of the room.

  "I haven't got a car," said de Gier, "but I could walk you home. You'll be safe, your landlady doesn't approve of male visitors."

  "You can kiss me here."

  De Gier bent down and kissed her.

  "Is that the way you kiss? Just smack?"

  She embraced him. "Can't you bend your knees? Or shall I stand on a chair?"

  "No."

  "All right, I'll take you home. My car is only two blocks from here and you live in the so
uthside of the city; you have no car and it's a long bus ride."

  "Who told you that?"

  "Sergeant Jurriaans. I know that you are single and that you live with a cat in a luxurious apartment and that you have no current girlfriend."

  "I'm married, I have four kids, and my wife worries about me."

  "No."

  "Didn't you say that Jurriaans can't be trusted?"

  She opened the door. "Let's go, darling."

  The car was an old compact Ford, battered and rusty. The inside was cluttered with clothes, cartons of cigarettes, and frayed wicker baskets containing odd objects. She made room on the passenger seat. The dashboard was cluttered too. A faded cloth tiger was glued to the loudspeaker. De Gier counted three boxes of tissues of different brands, all opened.

  "How can you look so neat when you drive about in this junk pile?"

  "Different parts of my mind manifest themselves in different ways. There's nothing wrong with this car, everything works."

  She drove fast and paid little attention to traffic lights. De Gier hardly noticed. Her hand was on his shoulder. I'm in love, he thought. I haven't been in love for years. It's as if I knew the girl since the day I began my first life. He looked at the tiger, rooted solidly in the framework of the loudspeaker. Maybe we hunted saber-toothed tigers together when we were still apes. This is absurd. I don't want to be in love.

  "This is south, am I going the right way?"

  He gave her the address. She turned through a red

  light and put her foot down. A patrol car's siren howled behind them. She parked in front of the apartment building. The patrol car screeched to a halt and two constables came running up. Asta got out and showed her card. De Gier got out too.

  "Evening."

  "Evening, sergeant."

  "Are you busy tonight?" de Gier asked.

  "No, sergeant. Maybe later. There's a thriller on TV, all the crooks are watching it. Maybe later we'll find something to do."

  "Good hunting."

  "Thank you. You wouldn't be taking this constable home for pleasure, would you, sergeant?"

  "He's thinking of it, but he won't get anywhere," Asta said. "Good night."

  The patrol car drove off, the constables grinned and waved.

  "Would you come up for a drink?" de Gier asked.

  "I would."

  They drank on the balcony; it was only a small balcony, but she kept away from him. He went inside to feed his cat. The cat purred and ran to the balcony. Asta picked it up. "You're ugly, you have too many colors."

  De Gier came out to water his geraniums. "She's got the colors of a Persian carpet, that's why she's called Tabriz. Can I make you a meal? I've got some noodles and frozen soup, they might go well together. I could toss a salad, too."

  They ate and washed up together. De Gier thought he should be flirtatious but couldn't think of suitable words. The girl was quiet and efficient. He didn't have to tell her where to put the dishes; she opened the cupboard and found the right places.

  "Coffee?" he asked.

  "No, sergeant, I think I

  "No, sergeant, I think I should go." She raised her head and he kissed her lightly. When he tried to embrace her, she stepped out of his arms. "No. I'll see you tomorrow."

  He pulled his only easy chair onto the balcony and sat with the cat on his lap. The cat turned over and he pulled at some hair that had matted together. The cat groaned. "I won't do it if you don't want me to." The cat didn't move. He tugged. Suddenly the cat jumped away and a sizable cluster of hair stayed in his hand. "Bothered you, did it? Used me as a tool, did you? Clever Tabriz." The cat wanted to come back, but he got up. "I don't want to work, Tabriz, I want to stay here and be with you, but I think there may be something to do." He looked at the sky; heavy clouds floated toward each other. "No car and it'll be raining." He put on a round cotton hat and took the elevator down to the basement where he extracted an old bicycle out of the clutch of another.

  Half an hour later, a lone cyclist entered the inner city. The dying sun touched the lining of clouds that were lowering themselves on the spires of medieval churches. He left his cycle under a tree at the Brewers-canal and became a pedestrian. The herringstall on the bridge across from Hotel Oberon was doing a brisk business. He bought a herring, liberally sprinkled with chopped onions, and retired under the awning at the side to eat it in peace.

  "Evening," a portly gentleman said.

  "Evening," de Gier said. "I thought you had gone home."

  "I didn't. I've been here for an hour and a half. I've eaten six herrings. He hasn't come out yet. Stay here, I'll have a beer at Beelema's. I'll be right back."

  6

  "There," Grijpstra said.

  They moved simultaneously, each taking a side of the man, keeping well back. Mtiller waddled ahead, carrying a flat case. It was dark by now and the ornamental street lights, spaced far apart, played with the fat man's shadow. They also played with another shadow, slim and sharp, darting in and out of the lights. The shadow was attached to a girl, dressed in faded jeans and a trim jacket, bouncing on high-heeled sneakers. De Gier, on the waterside, and Grijpstra, inconspicuously merging with the walls of small and narrow houses, lagged even farther behind. Two more shadows joined the procession; they had sneaked from a side alley. They moved as gracefully as the girl. They were tall and thin, as black as their owners, who were both in their late teens or early twenties, with shaved skulls, sporting leather jackets and tapered dungarees.

  Rapists, Grijpstra thought.

  Robbers, de Gier thought.

  Can't have that, they both thought. Neither man was concerned about the girl's safety at that moment. They were hunting and Miiller was the prey. If the boys caught up with the girl, there would be a scuffle, some noise, a scream maybe. Miiller would be distracted and not do what he was supposed to do, or do it in a different manner, adding complications to the simple situation that now faced the original pursuers. One of the muggers followed the line of trees bordering the canal, the other adopted Grijpstra's tactics. Neither of them was aware of the danger behind. De Gier ran, Grijpstra lumbered. De Gier drew his knife faster than Grijpstra.

  "Hey."

  The boys stopped and turned. They were well trained. They did the right thing, their knives were out too, but they were at a disadvantage.

  "Drop it."

  The knives fell. They were light and didn't clatter much on the cobblestones.

  Grijpstra's catch muttered four-letter words, the other stared at de Gier. Of the two, the adjutant's prey was the most surprised. Grijpstra could not be in the same profession as the boy, yet he was. This well-dressed elderly man with the kind face, complete with tie, cuff links and neatly folded white handkerchief in his breast pocket, was asking a black street mugger for his money. The boy's deepest mind was disturbed. Facts no longer fitted reality. There was the stiletto, its cruel point pressing against his throat, there was the hand on the shoulder of his leather jacket, there was the pleasant voice, asking for money.

  The other boy could accept his particular set of circumstances more easily. The tall man in the round cotton hat looked somewhat odd. He could, if the imagination were stretched just short of the breaking point, perhaps be lurking in dark streets, prowling for loot.

  "Give," Grijpstra said.

  De Gier didn't speak. He hissed. He supported the boy's bare skull with his left hand, pressed the knife with the other. The skin on the boy's throat was about to break. The boy fumbled in his pocket and came out with crumpled bills. De Gier grabbed the money and swung the boy round. The boy held on to a tree while de Gier patted him down. The sergeant's foot pushed the boy's knife into the water, it splashed softly. Grijpstra picked up the other boy's knife.

  "Give!"

  The boy gave.

  "Off with you, that way!" Grijpstra pointed over his shoulder. The other boy was running already.

  There was a second splash as the other knife hit the canal's calm surface.

&nbs
p; The detectives waited for the boys to slip into the alley that had emitted them a few moments ago and turned.

  They should have kept the knives. Muller, alerted by the splashes, looked around. Asta stopped short.

  "You?" Muller asked. The arm that carried his case swung back. The girl ducked and pulled her gun, aiming the pistol as it came out of her pocketbook. The pistol's click immobilized Muller.

  "You're under arrest; drop your case, turn round, and hold your arms behind your back."

  Asta shifted the gun to her left hand and produced her handcuffs. She had some trouble trying to fit them around Muller's fat wrists. He kicked twice, forward and backward. The case shot into the canal and Asta staggered.

  When Muller turned, clawing at the a,ir separating him from the girl, de Gier jumped. The sergeant's flat hand came down, hitting Mtiller in the neck. The man's thick skin and spongy blubbery tissue absorbed the impact, but de Gier hit again in a blur of vindictive fury. Mtiller's breath escaped in a burst of foul air; after that he sobbed. Then he fell, taking his time, spreading his monstrous body between a tree trunk and de Gier's feet. The sergeant stepped back.

  Grijpstra was on his knees, holding Asta's leg.

  "I'm all right," she said. "He caught me on the side. It hurts but the knee'U still work. Help me up please."

  She held on to Grijpstra and hobbled over to de Gier.

  "The case, it's floating away, we've got to get it. You can lower me down and I'll pick it up. Here, hold my gun."

  De Gier lay down and Grijpstra held his feet. Asta grabbed the low railing at the end of the cobblestones and lowered her body gently. She touched the case with the point of her shoe and maneuvered it toward her.

  "Don't drop me, sergeant." The case was between her feet. "Pull me up now."

  Grijpstra handcuffed Mtiller while de Gier and Asta opened the case; it contained sixteen small plastic bags. Asta undid one and sniffed at the powder; she passed the bag to de Gier.