The Mind-Murders Read online

  "Thieves?"

  She squeaked like a bird in fear. "Never. His own wife. Never surprised me. Rea Fortune, the silly bitch. Frits's too good for a silly bitch. The mister works while the missus sits on her sucker, if nobody holds it for her, that is. When he's home she yells at him, the floor is thick but I can still hear her. He makes the money and she spends it, but she can't do nothing."

  "Mrs. Fortune wasn't home?"

  The woman cackled. "Not home? Nothing was home; He gets inside and there's nothing but polished floors. That's why he's got the crutch. He slips and hurts himself. I hear it and I go up and help him down the stairs, take him to the doctor. He's in pain. He's lame. Poor Frits. But she'd taken it all, except the phone, can you believe it? Even the dog is gone, nice dog, a poodle, Babette. But Babette conies back late last night, scratching and barking and Frits lets it in and this morning the dog is gone again, ain't that terrible? So I take Frits to the pub and everybody knows and they all buy him a drink and look at it now."

  Grijpstra looked and nodded. Righteous power was closing in; Frits Fortune's movements became restricted by the sergeant's and Karate's strategy. The crutch still swung but it had lost both strength and direction. The sight didn't thrill the adjutant. He averted his gaze and admired the geese again. The birds, ungainly as they climbed a board attached to a houseboat, were being fed by a holy-looking old man. Grijpstra no longer concentrated; his mind reverted to duty. He visualized a report and phrased the essential statement: While removing all household goods.

  "Mrs. Fortune didn't leave a note?"

  "Nothing. She leaves space."

  "Nobody saw a van?"

  "Nobody. Poor Frits goes about asking, but it's busy here during the day, there's always a van somewhere. Nobody notices. He phones his relatives, everybody he knows. Me too, but I am out most of that day."

  "Grijpstra!" shouted de Gier.

  "Here."

  Fortune was pushed up by the sergeant and Karate. Grijpstra left his cart and received the suspect. Ketchup drove the patrol car alongside. The crowd approached and was restrained by other policemen pouring out of a minibus. Frits Fortune, relieved at being on dry ground again and encouraged by friendly faces in the crowd, whacked Ketchup on his cap. The crowd howled and Grijpstra joined his colleagues and addressed the hostile civilians lovingly, benevolently, touching softly.

  "You're fuzz too!" the old woman shrieked.

  "Yes ma'm."

  "Take care of poor Frits."

  "We will," Ketchup said. "We'll bounce him up and down in the drunks' cell and he can roll in his own filth all night. And if he doesn't call us 'sir' tomorrow, we'll have him for a little while longer."

  Grijpstra put an arm around Ketchup's shoulders and walked him away.

  "Monkeyface."

  "Beg pardon, adjutant."

  "I say you're a monkeyface. You shouldn't be throwing invalids into the canal. And you shouldn't be fighting in pubs. When there's pub trouble, you should stay in the open door and wait till it calms down, and then you should go in. Don't you learn that at school anymore?"

  "Yes, adjutant, but tonight it was different. Karate was a bit nervous and so was I. We wanted to take care of it quickly."

  "You didn't. You aggravated and provoked. Ill be mentioning the matter. I'm telling you now so that you know what's ahead."

  "Yes, adjutant."

  "Take care of poor Frits."

  "Yes, adjutant."

  De Gier had dressed. "Strange suspect, you know. Blew bubbles. Like bubble gum, but it wasn't."

  "The man was disturbed." Grijpstra passed on his information.

  De Gier listened while he dried his hair with his scarf. "Yes? Doesn't sound right to me."

  "Doesn't sound right at all," Grijpstra said, "but they can explain it in the café, and pour us a drink meanwhile."

  De Gier shook his scarf.

  "I don't want to drink, I want to smoke."

  "They'll have nicotine."

  "Like in cigarettes?"

  "Of course, and like in shag tobacco, and like in cigars."

  "But I stopped smoking."

  Grijpstra entered the pub. De Gier stood and watched a cyclist. The cyclist was a slender but hairy gentleman dressed in a three-piece summer suit complete with an old-fashioned felt hat. The cycle was new but a bent pedal touched the metal chain guard, clanging monotonously. Ducks, awakened by the melancholy repetitive sounds, quacked sleepily. The two red-beaked geese honked briefly. The old man who had been feeding them cleared his throat sadly. A shiny Mercedes, parked in front of the Hotel Oberon which occupied the five finest gable houses on the other side of the canal, emitted a fat man.

  Grijpstra came out of the pub again and grabbed the sergeant by the arm, turned him round, and pushed him to the pub.

  "I read it somewhere," Grijpstra said, "in a book that gives examples of correct reports, based on true cases: A gentleman lost his temper because his wife annoyed him. He picked up a vase and broke it on her head, killing her. The body rolled on the carpet and bled profusely. The gentleman rolled the body into the carpet and dug a large hole in his garden. He dropped the bundle into the hole, covered it up with earth, and stated: 'My wife has left me, I don't know where she went.'"

  "Yes," de Gier said, "and in that way he hid both body and the traces of his crime. I remember the report, but it only mentioned a carpet, not everything that goes into a house. This case is different."

  "Every case is different, principles are often identical."

  "True."

  "We're closed," the barman said. He was dressed in bib overalls made out of imitation silk. Downy hair flowed over the bib. His profile was Greek and divine but no longer young.

  "Police."

  The barman read the two plastic-coated identity cards and noted the stamps, the photographs, and the diagonal red, white, and blue stripes. He put them on the counter and moved his thumb so that they slid toward a short elderly man who was sitting at the bar. "More of the same, Bony."

  The man studied the cards and returned them to the detectives. He felt his stomach bulging under a leather waistcoat, pulled his curly sideburns, and smiled convincingly.

  "Drinks on the house, gentlemen. My name is Borry Beelema. I own this establishment, and my hair salon across the water is at your service should you wish to look better than you do now. Titania, ask my friends what they would have."

  A young woman presented herself behind the bar.

  "Titania?" asked Grijpstra.

  "Titania, at your service. What would our guests like to imbibe? A triple whisky with a drop of cognac? Ice and whipped cream? A gilded straw? Please state your desires."

  Grijpstra's lips twisted.

  "Not that sort of desire," the girl said primly.

  "Two jenevers, miss."

  Grijpstra turned to de Gier. The sergeant offered no support. He wasn't looking at Titania but at the half-revealed upper part of a young lady on a poster. Grijpstra corrected his observation. De Gier was looking at the young lady's hand. The hand held a cigarette.

  De Gier cursed.

  "Beg pardon?"

  De Gier smiled brightly. '"Nothing, adjutant. I was thinking. Please proceed."

  * The ranks of the Dutch municipal police are constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris, and chief constable.

  2

  "I regret that I have to state that the tradition of the police, born in a noble past, stretching to an enlightened future, does not allow .. ."

  "Yes," Sergeant Jurriaans said softly.

  "... for a shoddy present. Two of your men, dressed in the Queen's uniform, disgraced the force last night I'm here to complain."

  "So I gather."

  The two men leaned toward each other across a worn counter in the front office of the police station in the inner city. Grijpstra wore his usual crumpled three-piece pinstripe that now contrasted sadly with Sergeant Jurriaans's impeccable uniform. Grijpstra sighe
d and prepared to match the power of this tall and wide-shouldered colleague and to withstand the steady gaze directed at him from a heavily lined face under a wealth of cropped orange hair.

  "Would you like some coffee?" a female constable 24 asked. Grijpstra now sighed with pleasure. He noted that the young constable was well shaped and looked back at him through unusually large and sparkling blue eyes. She was small and slender, but her breasts seemed to exert considerable pressure against the stiff material of her jacket. The intensity of her eyes disconcerted him, however, and he faced the sergeant again. The sergeant was rubbing his face. The stiff hairs on the back of his hand reminded Grijpstra of carrot scrapings.

  "Please, dear," Jurriaans said, "and I don't mind if you serve the Revenging Angel too. He's a colleague, after all, and carries a superior rank, and he's probably been sent, he can't help himself."

  The girl giggled. The adjutant attempted to ignore her. He couldn't. He saw more in her eyes than he wanted to see. Wise, Grijpstra thought, and lewd. She knows it all. How can she know it all? She's too young.

  The constable left, gracefully wobbling her small tight bottom.

  "Don't mind her," Sergeant Jurriaans said, "she's amused by older men. She likes them, too. She has a father complex. When you get through with your heavy words, I'll tell you a story about her. It's about time we exchanged the news of the day, we don't see each other much lately."

  Grijpstra's eyes were on the girl again. Sergeant Jurriaans coughed politely.

  "Ah yes," Grijpstra said. "She's as nice from the rear as the front. Why don't we ever get female assistants? Cardozo doesn't compare with . . . what's her name?"

  "Asta."

  "Asta. And I haven't been sent, Jurriaans, as you know."

  "I know. What happened?"

  "Two of your constables, Ketchup and Karate, threw an invalid into the Emperorscanal last night. A dangerous crowd had to be restrained by six uniformed colleagues, my sergeant, and myself. My sergeant even had to swim. An unnecessary and painful commotion. Unreasonable, too. Your constables provoked the trouble. There was no charge against the invalid. There'll probably be a charge against him now. If so, I demand that you withdraw it, apologize to the civilian, and take disciplinary action against the constables."

  The sergeant nodded. "Right. But the blame is mine. Not just for this but for everything. I admit it freely so that we can continue on our various paths. Do you know why I should be blamed?"

  "Tell me," Grijpstra said and stirred the coffee in his paper cup, handed to him by Asta whose attractiveness he didn't notice this rime. He removed the plastic spoon and stuck it into the sergeant's cup. The sergeant held Grijpstra's spoon together with his own and stirred too. Then he removed both spoons and inserted them in Grijpstra's cup. Grijpstra took them out, held them in his hand for a while, and dropped them into a trash can.

  Jurriaans smiled. "I won that one. Your turn. But first I'll tell you why the guilt is mine for anything that goes wrong, here and everywhere. It has to do with my birth. I could have slipped back but I did not. By making that initial choice I became part of an unacceptable situation which, and not in my innocence I assure you, I accepted. On that fateful moment I became loaded with universal guilt."

  "Quite."

  "With that out of the way, I will leave the general for the particular. I am also responsible for the system that channels new blood into the force. You still follow me?"

  Grijpstra smiled noncommittally.

  "I'm with you."

  "Do you know how the system works, now, I mean?"

  Grijpstra's smile froze.

  "No, because you and I started at the same time, but I'm of the uniformed branch and closer to ground level. I know what goes on now and remember what it used to be like. In our days, a commissaris blew some cigar smoke into your face and if you didn't drop—they weren't really corrupt as you'll recall, they smoked whatever the civilians gave them—you were accepted. It was a strong test, but honest. Now it's different. The aspiring cadet is faced by a psychologist, with a degree from a respected university and a violent facial tic, smoking a pipe that doesn't draw in a small room where flies crash into the window. He has to answer questions that the psychologist reads to him from a form that also lists the correct replies. Sometimes the psychologist also reads the replies."

  "What sort of questions?"

  "About hobbies. Does the young man have hobbies? The reply should be 'growing flowers' or 'jigsaw-puzzling,' but our fellow doesn't know that yet, so, in his ignorance, he states that he likes to beat people. The psychologist knows what to do. He says, 'Hee hee, I won't write that down, sir, you're joking, of course, but I'll mark down, further along, that you have a sense of humor, and that's something else that is needed in the police force today; the right answer is . . .' What did I say it was just now?"

  "Composing poetry."

  "Right. So the psychologist helps the fellow along and says, 'You do like making poems, don't you?' and the fellow says, 'I sure do,' and the psychologist says, "Let's hear some of your art, sir,' and the fellow recites,

  Swishing swiftly through the sky

  for crown and church, I fly ...

  and the psychologist says; 'Right, right, no more, sir, not in this dismal little room with the flies banging against the window and my pipe poisoning the already polluted air. My, you are a sensitive one, the police should be proud to welcome you. What sports do you prefer?'"

  "Shooting dolls," Grijpstra said, "with poisoned arrows."

  "Exactly, and the psychologist checks his form, shakes his head, chokes, and finally whispers, 'Balls, sir, balls!' and the fellow doesn't understand right away and shouts, "What do you mean, what do you mean?' and the psychologist gets up and begins to dribble across the room, pretending to catch and throw balls and in the end the new fellow says, after he has said just about everything, they can get really involved you know, sometimes there are fist fights or they break up the furniture, but in the end the fellow catches on and says that he plays a lot of football, badminton, rugby, pelota, jokari, volleyball, squash, tennis, and so on, and the psychologist puts a lot of v's on his form, for he's a mental cripple and can only work a few hours a day and it's time to go home. So they get to the final question and he asks if the fellow ever dreams about the Queen and the fellow gets that one and says he does."

  "So he misses a lot of time at school, but he gets through the year, and they put him in uniform and send him to you," Grijpstra said.

  "And what do I do with him? Shoot two holes in his body and file him? Or do I keep him in the refrigerator behind the beer?"

  "No."

  "I don't do that, I'm glad he came; and I'm glad you came too, adjutant, this is a bad day, and I need a friend. I take the young blighter and I send him on patrol, that's what I do, damn my rotten soul if I don't. I know that he's going to add to the mess, but never mind, out he goes. I've got to be grateful after all, the fellow could have gone on welfare, but he has those ideas about the crown and the church, and the sky, and so forth, and he does dream about the Queen. The colonial attitude, somewhat scarce these days. 'To work,' I say. 'Catch me an invalid and dump the useless son-of-a-whore in the Emperorscanal.' Karate and Ketchup, eh? Who else? I knew it straightaway. Even the marrow in their spines is bad, although they look okay in a way, the despicable little clowns. Asta, darling! See if you can find Karate and his mate. Tell them they are wanted at the counter and don't breathe a word about what has been going on here."

  The girl rushed off.

  "Morning, sergeant."

  "Same to you, Ketchup, and yourself, Karate. Do you know who this officer is?"

  Ketchup came to attention, Karate answered the question.

  "Adjutant Grijpstra, sergeant. He assisted us last night when we were faced by a hostile gathering and engaged in arresting a troublesome suspect. He and Sergeant de Gier. Assistance to colleagues, sergeant. The operation was successful and the report is on your desk."

  Jurri
aans bowed so that he could look under Karate's cap.

  "Yes, successful." The vein halving his forehead swelled and crinkled up to the hairline. "Is it true that the two of you dashed into cafe* Beelema last night? Nightsticks at the ready?"

  "Yes, sergeant."

  "And that you, without warning, engaged in a battle with civilians?"

  "Yes, sergeant."

  "And that you, in the aforementioned establishment, grabbed hold of an invalid, a man who moves along with the help of a crutch, dragged the said individual outside, and threw him into the canal?"

  "Yes, sergeant."

  Sergeant Jurriaans lifted part of the counter, walked through the opening, and carefully took hold of one ear of each constable. He pulled in opposing directions. The constables pulled back and squeaked. "Eee-ee-ee-ee."

  "Louder."

  "Eee-ee-ee-ee."

  "I won't have this any longer. I won't warn you two again. The next bleeder you introduce into this station, the next suspect who has difficulty walking, the next civilian who doesn't look altogether healthy and happy—do you know what that arrest will do for you?"

  "Eee-ee-ee-ee?"

  "It will mean a transfer to a certain little village of fishermen that I won't mention, because the whole building may crash down on us if I do. And do you know what those God-fearing fishermen do with constables who haven't learned the meaning of the word proportion?"

  "Eee?"

  "How they treat those officials who have no idea of human relations?"

  "Eee?"

  "How they approach ignorant policemen who cannot weigh this against that?"

  "Eee?"

  "They grind them to dolls' shit. Ground, sieved, purified, refined dolls' shit."

  Sergeant Jurriaans let go. The constables tumbled away#and came to rest against opposite walls.

  "Did I hurt you?"

  "Yes, sergeant!"

  "Do you wish to apply for sick leave?"

  "No, sergeant."

  "You may go to the canteen. The brothel on the other side of the street delivered some apple pie, because we. haven't interfered with it for the last five years. Madame baked the pies with her own puffy hands. Sometimes all this becomes too much for me. She sent her two prize whores to carry the basket; the handle was decorated with a plastic rose."