The Mind-Murders Read online

  "I want some pie too," Grijpstra said.

  "Be my guest, and tell me more. Something jolly this time. Tell me about some nice murder."

  "Yes," Grijpstra said a little later, before plunging his fork. "A murder, you said. But I can't tell you much about it yet. It's not the right sbrt of murder, you see."

  "Is there a right sort of murder?"

  "Oh yes."

  "What's wrong with this one?"

  "No corpse."

  "No," Sergeant Jurriaans said when Grijpstra had finished his story and three helpings of pie. "A murder because some furniture disappeared? And some silly poodle? And a wayward wife? Don't you have anything better to do? You've got a whole weekend ahead of you and the weather happens to be fine. Go fishing. Or count tits on the beach. Another two miles of beach have been set aside for the naked. I can give you directions."

  "No."

  "You've been doing something wrong, or you are jumping to conclusions. Is superstar de Gier in this too? How is our hero? He caused a few laughs at the range the other night. I always thought he was supposed to be a reasonable shot."

  "You fellows gave him a pistol with the sights out of whack. He's doing badly. Nervous, Jurriaans, very. Stopped smoking and lives in pure insanity. Of course he is in this with me, it's my duty to keep him busy. I'm not expecting him to be useful but he can look at Titania while I work. That's a nice girl, although your Asta is better. What's the use of beauty without invitation? Your Asta is friendlier. Do you ever go to cafe" Beelema?"

  Jurriaans grinned. "Sure, and I know Titania. Did you happen to look at her sideways?"

  Grijpstra ate his last crumb and scraped his plate. "Yes. That blouse must have been specially designed, and they placed the bottles on a high shelf so that she has to reach up all the time. Whoever cut the armholes in that blouse should be decorated. She does have perfect breasts, doesn't she? Never saw anything like it Sure, on photographs, but that's all tricks. They photograph them upside down or attach nylon threads to their nipples and pull. Titania doesn't need any of that De Gier thought so too. We changed places a few times so that we could check the other side. Perfect, Jurriaans, perfect."

  Jurriaans pursed his lips. "Not quite. Asta looks better."

  "Yes? How do you know?"

  "How do you think? I told you she has a father complex and I'm the right type for her. I live a strict life, of course, the police is housed in glass; but pressure is pressure, and there are limits, Grijpstra. I could tell you stories."

  "Any more apple pie?" asked Grijpstra.

  "No."

  "Go ahead then."

  "Just one story. Some weeks ago. My wife was watching a program I didn't like and we had an argument. I'm a pleasant man, but there are songs I have heard before, they're all the same anyway. So I left the house. There are evenings you're ready for anything and you should stay home. I couldn't stay home for there were those songs. I went to cafe" Beelema, it's the best place around here. I drank a bit but there was nobody there I wanted to be with, until Asta came in, she lives close by. She wears an old T-shirt and no bra when she is out of uniform. She's beautiful, Grijpstra, I tell you she's beautiful. I said hello and she came to sit at my table. I don't know what was the matter with the girl. She was stone cold sober, but she was all over me. Under the table mostly. Beelema is busy on Saturday nights and nobody noticed much but I wanted to get away. She wouldn't let me. She said she likes older men. I got so nervous I had more to drink. She got on my lap and got my hand under her shirt. Wow, Grijpstra, wow! I couldn't stand it and I left and she came with me. She has an old car and we went for a drive. She said she had a friend somewhere in the country, a rich divorced woman who gets lonely at times. Dame by the name of Magda. Good-looking, she said. Thirtyish or so. I didn't care, she was bending over and kissing me while she drove, didn't worry much about stoplights. I stopped worrying too. That car is the biggest mess you've ever seen, outside and inside. Half the stuff she owns must be in that car. She kept pushing it aside to reach for me. We got to some town, I can't remember which one, and it was a nice evening and there was a garden party. She stopped and we went inside, didn't know anybody there but it didn't seem to matter. Next thing she's stripping on a table, with a hundred men ogling her. Heavenly body, Grijpstra, moves right, too. She didn't have much on, so it didn't take long to take it ofi. Pity in a way. I thought I had lost her, but she came back to me and we were on our way again. She driving with her, shirt off, breaking the speed limit. We were drinking in the car; if the state cops had stopped us, well, never mind."

  Jurriaans, overcome by memory and emotion, pushed at a crumb.

  "Yes?"

  "Where was I?"

  "They didn't get you."

  "Who?"

  "The state cops."

  "No. We got to this Magda, or whatever her name was. The lady was asleep but seemed overjoyed to see us. Broke out the champagne. Served us in a tight black dress that was mostly transparent. I saw it all, even when she wasn't standing with the light behind her. She suggested a game on the Oriental rug in the living room."

  "So?" Grijpstra was whispering too. He was leaning across the table. Jurriaans straightened up. "So nothing. The game started, but I don't know how it finished. I woke up eight hours later on that damned rug. Asta and Magda were having breakfast on the porch. I was sick; Asta took me to the bathroom and home afterward. I missed it. Maybe they did it together."

  Grijpstra gaped, then frowned, "Yes?"

  "That's it."

  "No ending?"

  "I just told you the ending. You don't think I would go out with that girl again, do you? My wife only talks to me since yesterday. That particular evening spent itself a week ago."

  "Tell me another story with a better ending."

  Jurriaans raised his voice to a normal level. "No. These are working hours. You tell me about your possible murder, and about what you did since your theory got away with you."

  "De Gier and I visited Beelema's last night as part of our preliminary investigation as to the whereabouts of Rea Fortune, wife of the suspect we found in the canal."

  "Ha."

  "She's missing, isn't she?" Grijpstra asked.

  Jurriaans shrugged. "She is not. She isn't home but what does that mean? There have been some lifestyle changes you know; married women sometimes leave their homes without asking permission."

  "While removing all household goods?"

  "So what? Maybe it makes it special but not very special. You still haven't got a case. What does de Gier think about your theory?"

  Grijpstra gestured. "Not much, but de Gier is never impressed by subtle reasoning."

  "He consents to going ahead?"

  "Of course. He's a simple sergeant and I'm an adjutant. I'm telling him what to do. He wants to work, he can't sit still in his present predicament. That's why he wouldn't come in with me. He's outside somewhere, watching tobacconists' windows."

  "A murder," Sergeant Jurriaans said. "All right. I'm a simple sergeant too and I can't see your view; you have an elevated position. But I would think that you need serious suspicions. I learned that when I still learned. Nobody can be designated as a suspect without serious suspicions that the person has committed a crime. You don't have any."

  Grijpstra grunted. "No? If a lady disappears, suddenly and without leaving a note, while all household goods are removed—that's a nice clause, I'm keeping it for my report—then I have serious suspicions."

  "No," Jurriaans said.

  "No what?"

  "It's not a nice clause. Household goods are pots and pans. You're talking about everything, including the tiling that keeps the door from slamming against the wall and the chromium nut that prevents the toilet-paper bar from slipping."

  "You know better words?"

  "All contents of the house."

  "Thanks."

  "See? I'm quite willing to help you. I can help you too, for I know the suspect."

  "Because you've got him in your
dungeon here?'* Grijpstra asked.

  "No, I let him go this morning, with a sermon. But I've known him for years. I know the other actors on your stage too. I've been around for a while, adjutant, the environment is familiar to me and cafe" Beelema is where I go when the universal guilt becomes too much to carry."

  "You know," Grijpstra said slowly, "when I hear that a woman has gone completely, and that nobody, except one particular person, has the slightest idea where she may have gone to, if such knowledge comes to me and I notice that the husband of the lady behaves in a most unusual manner ..."

  "What do you mean, unusual?"

  "What? You weren't there. Frits Fortune didn't just behave strangely, he misbehaved. De Gier was trying to save his life ... I mean, really . . . and the man was actually trying to brain my sergeant with his crutch."

  "Man kills wife," said Jurriaans, "it has happened before in my practice. The other day, for instance. Man goes to his work, to some horrible daily drudge, and just before he leaves the apartment, his wife thrusts a verbal barbed dagger in his neck, liberally dipped in poison. The man wheels around, grabs the shrew by the neck, presses and shakes ..."

  "Dead? No!"

  "As dead as a doornail. Man drops the body, telephones us and sits in a chair until my constables rush to him. Ketchup and Karate, of course, there happened to be nobody else available. They were throwing up when they came back. Ketchup had to visit the shrink a few times; he kept breaking into tears. That's odd behavior in a police station, I won't put up with it."

  "Were you ever tempted to throttle your wife?" Grijpstra asked.

  "Sure. Why?"

  "Just thought I'd ask."

  A slight tenderness moved the lines on Jurriaans's face. "She isn't too bad, and she's beautiful too, much younger than I am. She's been looking for a last fling lately, but she doesn't dare to make the break. Makes things awkward at times."

  Grijpstra coughed.

  "I don't help much," Jurriaans continued. "I have similar thoughts myself. As you know."

  "Right," Grijpstra said. "Didn't mean to pry really. So you let Frits Fortune go. Pity, in a way. After a night in the drunks' cell, suspects interrogate easily."

  "True, weakens their defenses. He didn't look in great shape, a little crumpled and his mouth was all dry and caked with filth."

  "De Gier says he was blowing peculiar bubbles, like gum bubbles; they flew away."

  "Because of the medication. He explained it to me. That's why I let him go. Extraordinary and extenuating circumstances. The doctor prescribed tranquilizers and they don't mix with alcohol. Probably explains his aggression, but this morning he was peaceful. He said he felt fine, wouldn't even take his crutch, didn't limp when he left."

  Grijpstra's jaw hardened. "Really? There we go again, the man behaves in a suspicious manner. First he limps and the next morning he runs like a deer."

  "That's correct; I watched him leave, nothing the matter with him."

  "You said you knew him before. What's he like? Has he ever been in trouble?"

  Jurriaans removed a cigar from Grijpstra's breast pocket and lit it. "He owns a warehouse further along the Brewerscanal where he has his business, and he used to live in one of those concrete blocks in the south. He didn't like it there and bought some horizontal property in a remodeled mansion next to the Oberon. Spent a lot of money to get it right and just when he wanted to move in, a bum broke into the place. Fortune came to see me about it, but you know that there's little we can do. The city fathers are socialists and they feel that a bum who finds an empty living place has a right to grab it. Property is theft and all that. The law states that such an act is illegal, but the authorities who employ us feel differently. A ticklish situation and I do what the chief constable tells me to do. He tells me to do nothing, and besides I'm busy, for the police are corrupt and we spend all our time taking bribes from the drug dealers. Right?"

  Grijpstra sucked his cigar.

  "That's what the papers say we do," Jurriaans said, "and I've learned not to argue. So I tell Mr. Fortune that regretfully there is nothing I can do to get his bum out of his brand new apartment. But because I know the guy, as I've met him at Beelema's and we've bought each other drinks, I blow into his ear that Beelema is known to be God's other son."

  "So Fortune goes to see Beelema."

  "He does. Beelema ponders the matter and gives him the address of a certain little pub in a certain little alley where ex-prize fighters meet. But now the fine point of it all. Do you know who the bum was?"

  "No."

  "Zhaver, the barman at Beelema's. You must have met him last night."

  "I met him; lovely looking gent."

  "Gent is an understatement. Zhaver is nobility, a count filled with the bluest of bloods, born in a castle that now houses a state committee and its girlfriends."

  "You're joking."

  "I'm not joking. Xavier Michel d'Ablaing de Batagglia is a count. His father went under with something and didn't come up again, and Zhaver became a bum, a city bum, an Amsterdam city bum, the worst variety. I wouldn't mention what he hasn't done, for it wouldn't be worth the trouble mentioning. But we are the police and we understand that sort of thing."

  "Let me see now," Grijpstra said, "pickpocket, drug, pushing, prostitution and blackmail, breaking into cars, what else?"

  "What else too. He also broke into Fortune's apartment. The turning point in his career, for Zhaver came to see me too, to complain about the ex-prize fighters who threatened to do nasty things to him."

  "I can see it," Grijpstra said. "Big lumpy gents with soft voices, one on each side. 'Nice teeth you have, Zhaver,' one of them says and 'Pity they are loose,' says the other, 'we could knock them out in a jiffy, couldn't we, mate?'"

  "Those very words. Zhaver drops to his knees, prays and begs for mercy, his tears are cleaning the pavement. 'Please dear bad men, leave my teeth alone.' The teeth stay where they are; Zhaver moves out of the apartment."

  "And visits you," Grijpstra said.

  "And I see that Zhaver hides some good in his character, but that it won't come out by itself, and that he needs help. I help him."

  "Do you help people?"

  "Sure, often."

  "Why?"

  Jurriaans stopped smiling.

  "Because it is the task of the police and because I work for the police. I refer you to article 28 of the Police Law. It is the duty of the police to assist those who are in need of help. I try to adhere to the law, insofar as the authorities do not restrict me."

  "Boy boy boy!" Grijpstra said.

  "You want to tell me that I didn't dig that up from the law?"

  "You're leaving out the middle piece. I don't recall the exact wording, but that article also tells us that we should maintain order actively. And by help the law means that we should help those who have suffered because of some crime perpetrated by another."

  "So? Wasn't Zhaver the subject of a crime? Didn't those two gorillas threaten him? And where was our friend supposed to sleep that night? Wouldn't he be stealing or even robbing to obtain the wherewithal to take care of his normal needs?"

  "Certainly, but you do go on," Grijpstra said. "You referred the blighter to Beelema knowing that Beelema would refer him to the gorillas. I've never been accused of perspicacity but it does seem to me that you are twisting your argumentation."

  Jurriaans took a deep breath. Grijpstra jumped up. "All right, you're nice. Go on. I'm sorry I interrupted."

  "And you won't interrupt me again?"

  "No."

  "You may sit down, adjutant. Zhaver needed help. Also because he is a nobleman. His grandfather burned native villages in the colonies and his father made a mint out of creating work for the unemployed during the depression. We have to respect good deeds performed in the past, and a son from a noble family cannot sleep in the gutter."

  Grijpstra touched Jurriaans's hand. "How right you

  are."

  "I am. And I thought of how I could save Z
haver. Again I happened to think of Beelema. I went to see him. I had to see him anyway, for a lady visited me here at the station and stated that she had been bothered by a gentleman late one evening in one of the alleys, and her description of the suspect's features and mode of dress reminded me somewhat of Beelema. Bony Beelema is a good man, of course, and God is his father, but he does tend to forget his manners when out for a stroll, and has been known to upset civilians, both male and female, by making certain propositions. The complaints are never too serious as he adheres to certain limits, so we can usually send the complainants home but. . ."

  "Beelema, eh?"

  "Beelema. And I was upset for another reason. He had given me a bad haircut. Too long. And I felt annoyed for a third reason; another lady had been complaining, bothering us, us the police, as if we don't have enough to do, about Beelema's oversexed dog's forceful behavior. All in all, I was in the proper mood to persuade Beelema . . ."

  "The dog!" Grijpstra's hand whacked the table. "You should have seen that dog with de Gier last night. All over the poor sergeant, Hello, dog,' the sergeant says, and the animal jumps him and doesn't let go. As if de Gier was the whore of Babylon. The beast went easy at first, but he does know how to quicken his rhythm. Staring into de Gier's eyes too, slime dribbling off his jaws, disgusting, absolutely disgusting!"

  Jurriaans grinned. "That's what he does. They say owners and their pets become alike after a while. True in this case, but Beelema isn't as strong as Kiran and the dog's teeth are bigger. Did you manage to liberate your sergeant or did he get the full dose? About half a liter, I would guess; that dog likes to finish what it starts."

  "Is that his name? Kiran?"

  "Named after a Russian prince, couldn't leave anybody alone either."

  "We got him off the sergeant, but everybody had to help. Beelema kicked him out after that, for the dog kept watching the sergeant and slavering."

  "So that's what I did," Jurriaans said and frowned impatiently. "Got myself worked up and saw Beelema. I knew he needed somebody to tend bar and Zhaver needed a job and a place to sleep. I'm always happy when the pieces fit. Two or three years ago that was. Zhaver still has the job and he gets on with Borry who has obtained more time to look after his hair salon. Fortune visits Beelema's cafe regularly; so does his wife, Rea. You want to know about Rea? Analysis of the victim, very important in murder cases it seems."