The Mind-Murders Read online

  "Where did he buy before?"

  "From Turkey through Lebanon and France, but that traffic was stopped by the French police a while back. He was buying heroin then, but cocaine is about as profitable."

  "Have the Germans left?"

  "Yes. They said Muller was lucky that he was caught here and not in his own country. The penalties in Germany are stiffer, here he'll only get a few years."

  "True," the commissaris said. "Did you ask him anything about Boronski's death?"

  "Yes, he denies having anything to do with that."

  "Do you believe him?"

  "Yes sir." Grijpstra was playing with the menu that the waiter had replaced next to the commissaris's plate.

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "we'll choose our desserts in a minute. Why don't you believe that Muller killed Boronski?"

  Grijpstra put the menu down and held up two fingers. "First, Boronski was Muller's goose that lays the golden eggs. Second, Mtiller wouldn't have placed the body in his own car, a car reportedly stolen at the time and looked for by the police."

  De Gier held up a finger too. "Boronski died of an ulcer, sir."

  They ordered and ate their desserts. It took a while, for both Grijpstra and Asta selected the special, which came in a tall glass and had many layers of different ice creams, topped with fruit and whipped cream.

  "Boronski was killed," the commissaris said when Asta licked her spoon. "He was attacked by a mind that was more subtle and agile than his own, and manipulated to the point where his fear and uncertainty turned inward and gnawed through his gut. Remember Mr. Fortune, this case is similar. Fortune faltered, became accident prone, fell afoul of the police, and was dumped into the Brewerscanal. But there was some insight in him and he managed to save himself. Fear eventually strengthened Fortune; it destroyed Boronski, understandably, I suppose. Boronski was, I hear, rather a rotter, and Fortune, according to your reports, seems to be a nice fellow."

  De Gier deposited the remnants of a match into the ashtray. "Is good stronger than evil, sir?"

  "I've often wondered about that," the commissaris said, "and I do believe that I have had some indications that the supposition may be true. The subject is tricky, sergeant. Good is useful and evil destroys. Sometimes it is good to destroy, and useful is often a shallow definition; it's relative, of course." He folded his napkin. "If we imagine that a drug dealer is a bad man and that a publisher ready to retire in solitude to meditate on the center of things is a good man, and if we bring them both into stress situations by playing about with their environment, and if they are both of the same strength, I would say that Boronski will go under and Fortune will come out on top. But the experiment starts at the end and I've built up its base afterward. We know that Fortune is a happy man today and Boronski's spirit is in hell, if I'm to believe Mr. Jacobs, the morgue attendant."

  "You seem to have investigated Boronski's death further, sir."

  The commissaris wrote a check. He looked up. "I have, Grijpstra. I spoke to an acquaintance of the dead man last night by teletype. The lady in the photograph you studied in my office yesterday is a Marian Hyme, the wife of a local publisher."

  "Hyme," Grijpstra said.

  "The name is familiar?"

  "Back to Beelema, sir. It's the last place I want to go to. I was there twice yesterday. I can't get away from it."

  "Tell me what you know about Mr. Hyme," the commissaris said, "and I'll tell you what I know. If we pool our ignorance, Mr. Hyme may turn out to be our missing link."

  11

  "I must ask you to calm down," the commissaris said. "Please sit down, sir, and don't shout."

  Hyme sat down. His pale face framed a flabby and twitching mouth. "Boronski! The bastard! Dropped Marian like a sack of potatoes when he was through with her. Destroyed her dignity. She was a beautiful woman, intelligent, witty. You should see her now. He saw her. He came to the hospital to see if she was about to get out. Looking for a free fuck. Man hasn't been in Amsterdam for years and he has no connections here. He let her go in Bogotd, pushed her out of his palace with hardly enough time to pack her suitcase, but here he comes running after her. Marian has just been operated on again; she's fiat on her back and in pain. It's the second operation and they don't know yet if they got the disc back in place this time. If it's where it should be, it'll be another six months before she can walk. When Boronski realized there 205 was nothing doing, he shook her hand and left. I'm surprised he didn't take his flowers with him; he could have given them to somebody else. He had wasted his money."

  "So you were aware that BoronsM was in Amsterdam. Did you meet him at the hospital?"

  "No. Marian told me about his visit."

  "Did you meet with him here?"

  "Briefly, on the Brewerscanal. I ran into him; he stays at Hotel Oberon. When I met him, I couldn't speak. The man has ruined my life. That vacation to South America was the worst hell I've ever lived through. We were invited to a cocktail party at the embassy and Marian fell for the bastard immediately. I thought it was a little flirtation, but she went home with him. She checked out of the hotel. We had a terrible scene; everything was said, everything that has ever been bad between us. I thought it would be the ultimate farewell, but she came back to me. She probably still loves him."

  Hyme hid his face in his hands. Grijpstra sucked patiently on his cigar. De Crier studied a stain on the wall.

  "Would you like some coffee?"

  "Yes."

  De Gier poured the coffee. The cup rattled on its saucer when Hyme took it.

  "Did you see Boronski at his hotel, Mr. Hyme?"

  "No. If I had, I would have killed him. I'm not a violent man, but I must have changed. I keep on thinking of ways to destroy that devil. I thought of having him kidnapped, locking him up in some dungeon, torturing him, but what can I do? The days a man could take revenge are over. I'm not too courageous anyway, that's why Marian got bored with me. I'm a slave, chained to my desk. My only act of bravery is pissing off bridges and I can only do that when I'm drunk."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said softly.

  "With a paper hat on. I'm the knight of the paper hat and the wooden sword, riding a rocking horse."

  "Ah," the commissaris said. "What sort of a car do you have, Mr. Hyme."

  "What?"

  "What sort of a car do you drive?"

  "A Porsche."

  "With the wheel on the right side?"

  "How do you know?"

  "I guessed."

  Hyme drank his coffee. The room was quiet. Grijpstra got up and left The telephone on the commissaris's desk rang.

  "Yes?"

  "It's me, sir, Grijpstra. Can I have a word with you in the corridor?"

  "Yes?" the commissaris asked when he had closed the door behind him.

  "We might as well arrest him, don't you think, sir? The car checks out, he had the opportunity and the motive. He must have paid the employees of the Oberon to play tricks on Boronski."

  "You can arrest him, adjutant."

  Grijpstra reached for the door handle, but the small almost transparent hand of the commissaris rested lightly on his sleeve.

  "I wouldn't advise you to do that, however. Harassment is difficult to prove and hardly punishable. You'll find yourself wasting endless time in a court case where the lawyers will have a field day. Besides, Hyme is not your man."

  Grijpstra stepped away from the door. "He isn't?"

  "No. I admit that the suspect's nerves are in a bad state and that he may be at the lowest point of his life. But you mustn't forget that he is a director of a large and successful firm. Mr. Hyme is no fool. He's not a genius either. Only a genius would have confirmed, in the way he just did, that his dearest wish is to do away with Boronski, and tried to prove his innocence in such a perverse way."

  "Shall we tell him that Boronski is dead, sir?"

  "We can do that now."

  "Dead?" whispered Hyme. "When?"

  "Yesterday. Jim Boronski bled to death int
ernally. A severe duodenal ulcer. Some would-be muggers saw him staggering about on the Gentleman's Market just after midnight on Saturday and, for some reason, dumped him in the trunk of a car. He must have died shortly afterward."

  "My God," Hyme said. "But he was still a young man."

  "Young men die too, Mr. Hyme. Your enemy must have labored under heavy stress. He suffered, but didn't go to a doctor. His complaint worsened, circumstances were against him, and . . ." The commissaris gestured.

  "Dead," Hyme said.

  "Where were you last night, sir?"

  "I ate in a restaurant, visited Marian at the hospital, went home, and watched TV."

  "And the night before, Sunday evening."

  "Same thing."

  "You weren't at Café Beelema last night?"

  "No."

  "And the night before?"

  "No. I was there Saturday and met with your assistants."

  Grijpstra raised a hand. "Have you met with Mr. Fortune recently?"

  "Yes, yesterday. We arranged for the take-over of his firm. He came to my office. I was glad to hear that his wife turned up after all."

  "Did Mr. Fortune tell you about Boronski's death?"

  "Frits Fortune? No. Why should he? He doesn't even know Boronski."

  "Did Borry Beelema know Boronski?" de Gier asked.

  "Yes. I pointed him out to Beelema. Hotel Oberon is just across the street from Beelema's."

  "When was that?"

  "Last week some time."

  "Did you confide in Beelema about your troubles with Boronski?"

  Hyme nodded. "Yes. Beelema is a friend. Fve known him for years, ever since he bought the café. Before that I was his client at the hair salon, I still go there every fortnight and at the café I see him several times a week. He's my best friend." He smiled. "He's more than a friend, he's an incarnate angel. A lot of people call him the other son of God."

  "Did you," de Gier asked, "by any chance, some time last week, lend your .. ."

  The commissaris jumped up with such force that his chair hit the wall.

  "That'll be all, Mr. Hyme. Thank you for coming here. I hope your wife's condition will soon improve. Adjutant, please escort Mr. Hyme out of the building."

  12

  "This is the best time of the day," Beelema said.

  "They've all just got home and there'll be dinner in a minute. The town is quiet. The town is so much more beautiful when there's no bustle, don't you think? Like one of those old prints or glass paintings—they only show the buildings and the water, maybe a boat moored to a tree. People are a nuisance."

  "Indeed," the commissaris said. He was leaning over the railing watching a duck. The duck's head was submerged, and it was waving its bright orange feet. A litle farther down a swan floated, asleep, its feathers precisely arranged. It bobbed almost imperceptibly on the slow ripple of the canal's weak current.

  "It was good of you to come to see me. You're not here professionally, I understand?"

  "Oh yes," the commissaris said, "I'm here professionally but not officially. You've committed a crime, but I won't arrest you if that's what you're getting at. My curiosity has brought me; I would like to know the details of what you managed to bring about."

  Beelema undipped a gold toothpick off the chain that spanned his ample stomach and pressed it slowly between his teeth. He took it out and spat. The duck retrieved its head, quacked, and paddled away; the swan looked up sleepily and reinserted its beak between its backfeathers. "But perhaps you could arrest me. Some of my deeds could be proved, I suppose; you might get some sort of case together."

  "No. The law we uphold is primitive. I would have to prove intent to kill. Did you intend to kill Boronski?"

  Beelema fumbled with the toothpick. Its clip was small and he had to bring out his spectacles to finish the operation. "No, not really, but he died."

  "You see, there goes one charge. Yet you killed the man as surely as if you had fired a bullet through his head. Death caused by guilt would be the better charge, but you would have to confess and I would have to produce witnesses who heard you state your intention to bother Boronski."

  Beelema's fluffy white curls danced as he shook his head. "I wouldn't confess, and I told nobody, not even Hyme. The favor was a secret."

  "Favor," the commissaris said softly.

  Beelema smiled, and his golden canines caught the sunlight. "Yes, a favor to a friend. Hyme was harmed and couldn't defend himself. I have a talent; I'm imaginative and energetic. I'm also efficient. But I've reached all my goals. My hair salon is successful, I can live on it in luxury. The café goes well. I have all I want and to spare. I've no need for a car or a boat or an airplane or all the other gadgets rich people go in for. This area is all I care for, I hardly ever move outside it. When I found that I could help people unobtrusively, by pushing factors a little, by fitting parts into a whole, I began to experiment. I've been amazed at what I can do."

  "Just amazed? Never frightened?"

  "Never frightened. I listen to my friends, I observe them, I see what goes wrong with them, I also see ways to right the wrong. Sometimes I concentrate when I sit at the bar or walk about in my shop or stand on this bridge, but often the thoughts just pop into my head. You've seen two examples of my work. I liberated Frits Fortune and I balanced the scales in Hyme's head. There have been other examples that I won't mention because I'm not trying to impress you. I didn't ask for my talent. It just came to me to be used."

  The commissaris was watching a sparrow now, investigating ripening seeds on a weed growing between stones. "Ah."

  "You don't approve? You must be doing the same thing, or do you wait until there's a deadlock and the man goes down? Do you kick him when he is down? I've often wondered about the police. In a way I also police this area; I restore order."

  The commissaris smiled. "We usually wait until it's too late. Optima civi cives. The highest value of a citizen is the citizenry. We'll let them muddle through as best they can and only interfere when they break the law."

  "When it's too late."

  The commissaris nodded. "When they break the law, it is too late. But they shouldn't break the law."

  "Pfff."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  Beelema turned and found the right place for the railing to support his back. He was of the same size as the commissaris but nearly twice as wide.

  "The law. Rules and regulations, I never liked them. As a toddler I took part in a school performance; I had to dance with the other kids in a circle. I kept on leaving the circle and dancing the other way. I don't remember that event, my mother told me about it. She was embarrassed. Everybody laughed and I wasn't allowed to finish the act. I see what goes wrong and I help others to find an original solution, contrary to custom. Fortune was unhappy, he'll be better off in his present position. Hyme was a wreck. He was turning into an alcoholic, swilling beer at my café, making a spectacle of himself on this bridge. Now he can face the world again. Boronski was a scoundrel; he didn't concern me until he crossed Hyme's path and therefore mine. I enjoyed that little game."

  "Who was the lady who upset Boronski at Hotel Oberon?"

  "Guess."

  "Titania?"

  "Never," Beelema said, poking the commissaris playfully in the side. "You don't know Titania, so you are excused. She can only perform when I'm right behind her. No, Rea Fortune, of course. She used to be an actress, not a very good one, I think, but good enough for this little drama. I mentioned the matter to her and she accepted immediately. Every woman is half a whore, Shakespeare said. She enjoyed being picked up by Boronski and went to the hotel with him. Sexually she is very capable. He had such a good time that he arranged for her to spend the night with him too at a stiff price, which he paid in advance. Even smart businessmen can be suckers. Rea used the cash to pay her expenses when she ran away from her husband." Beelema giggled. "Wonderful how it all fits together, don't you think? And she'll never breathe a word. She is with Zhaver now
and Frits Fortune is going to give her a lot of money. Zhaver wants to open up on his own farther along, a small restaurant, I found it for him. There should always be change. He worked well for me, but it's time to replace him. I've already replaced Titania, too. How do you like the new girl?"

  "Beautiful," the commissaris said.

  "I've always liked black women. I'm having some white jumpsuits made for her. It'll be fun experimenting with how far the zipper should be pulled down. She has perfect breasts, but they shouldn't be exposed completely, I think."

  The commissaris agreed.

  'Til ask the adjutant and that handsome sergeant to be on the committee. They're good men; they have the talent, too, I think. I sometimes recognize it in others. Not too often, though; it must be rare. You have it."

  "Do I really?" The sparrow flew off. The commissaris turned his back to the railing too. "And the car? How did you arrange that? Hyme didn't know, did he? My sergeant was going to ask him, but I cut the question off. I didn't want Hyme to run to you and prevent this conversation or alter it."

  Beelema burped. "Excuse me. Too rich a meal again. It'll be worse when Zhaver opens his restaurant. I should really go on a diet. Hyme? No, he never knew. He has a habit of leaving his car keys on the counter, and that night he had a lot to drink. I slipped out and got the two kitchen boys at Hotel Oberon to help me push Boronski's Porsche away. Then I replaced it with Hyme's Porsche and took all the stuff that Boronski had in his car and rearranged it carefully in Hyme's. The kitchen boys changed the number plates. When I knew that Boronski had seen the car, I changed everything back to normal again. No, Hyme never knew. His Porsche was back where it had been by the time he went home."

  "The kitchen boys also arranged the matter of the watch and the laundry?"

  Beelema laughed. "You heard about that too? Yes. They were foreign students who have meanwhile left the country. They'll be hard to trace. They helped me with all the other setups too. Little things mostly. It's amazing how a man can be shaken by little things. I noticed that a long time ago at school, when I practiced on the teachers. It seems as if each man creates a foundation for himself, a pattern of habits. A teacher I particularly disliked would always hang his hat on a certain hook. I would take it off and hang it on the next hook. It drove him frantic. Nobody could understand why he got so upset. I sat in the hotel lounge sometimes and observed Boronski. I read some of his thoughts, analyzed his mind. He was neat. I arranged that the waitresses would spill on him, just a little, a drop of coffee, a tiny splash of ketchup. Can happen to anybody, they would apologize and pretend to clean his trousers or jacket and then they would worsen the stain somehow; women are very clever at that. There were other instances. I know the traffic attendant who writes out the parking tickets here; he drinks at my cafe. Boronski got a lot of tickets. My friend would wait for Boronski to come out of the hotel and make him pay in cash. And my dear old lady friend, Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto, pretended that Boronski had stepped on her Chihuahua and made a terrible scene in the street. Much more happened, I won't bore you with it all, but I had Boronski jumping during every waking minute, and I daresay I got into his dreams too."