The Rattle-Rat Read online

  Eddy rearranged his tail.

  "She has just eaten her husband," de Gier said. "This author who calls herself Martha when she writes." Because Eddy wouldn't wake up, de Gier addressed the plants as he watered them, being careful not to slosh the water. While he poured and talked, he read Mrs. Oppenhuyzen's instructions. "Ten cc, primula, twelve cc, fuchsia." He poured from a measured watering can.

  "The Frisian character," de Gier said. "Consciously pure, so the impurities are repressed. In order to function optimally, Martha has to eat her husband. A literary joke? Not at all. A revelation, rather. This is serious stuff, true art, well written. The author is telling me, the intelligent reader, that here in Friesland, where true goodness reigns, evil is active under pressure. So how is it released?"

  De Gier returned the sleeping Eddy to the terrarium upstairs.

  He went back to the couch and immersed his mind further in the Frisian female aspect. Woman eats her man. De Gier penetrated into the next short story, where Martha beats her man to death. In the next tale she drowns him in a bath of black paint that, once he's quite dead, takes on a brilliant green color.

  The book dropped away. De Gier dropped away with it. He changed into a spider. So did Martha, but she was three times his size. She rang a bell at him while she ate him slowly. He woke up with a shriek and was no longer being eaten, but the ringing persisted. De Gier rolled off the couch and reached for the telephone.

  "Hello?"

  "We dropped down a dike," Grrjpstra said. "Save us, Sergeant."

  "Where are you?"

  "Between the towns of Tzum," Grgpstra said, "and Tzummarum. In a village, but it's closed. In a phone booth without a phone book. Do something, Sergeant."

  "You'll be all right," de Gier said, "but do tell me how you got there."

  \\ 8 /////

  DO YOU TWO REALLY HAVE TO CONTENT YOURSELVES with this little rustbucket?" the commissaris had asked, while bouncing about in his seat. "I'm against total equality, but maybe some distances between ranks are a tittle stretched. Now look at me, with my super Citroen. Can't you two wangle a new car out of die administration? If you'd only try, you'd have a brand-new vehicle within a month. 1*11 countersign the application with pleasure. It'll make me feel less guilty."

  "Yes sir," Grijpstra said. "I'll take up your request with de Gier. I myself don't care much one way or another, but you know how willful the sergeant can be. Old love. De Gier can be persistent." The Volkswagen jangled into a long street lined with factories, and wheezed past a railway station. "Didn't you say we would have to find a circular road?" Grypstra asked. "Yesterday I kept finding it, but now I seem to be missing it altogether."

  "Some sort of dike?" the commissaris asked. "Built around the city? All roads leading out of town are supposed to connect to this circular road. That's what the local officers were saying. If we kept following the Ringway, we would see the headquarters of the Municipal Police, the State Police, and the Fire Brigade, three sizable six-story cubes. Very clever, all services within each other's reach."

  "The signs are pointing to Germany now," Grijpstra said. "Pity I can't use our radio. It's still on the Amsterdam channel. Wouldn't work here anyway, the provinces have changed to more modern equipment."

  "Keep driving," the commissaris said. "There'll be other signs that should guide us back to Leeuwarden."

  The signs kept pointing east. Grijpstra made the Volkswagen cross the center division. "That's illegal, sir," the adjutant said. "I hope we were seen so that they can switch on their sirens and chase us and then we can listen to what they have to say and ask for directions when they're out of breath."

  "Quite," the commissaris said.

  "Now we're headed for Amsterdam," Grijpstra said, pointing at a sign. "That's much better. We're going south. In Germany we would be lost."

  "Keep following these rural lanes," the commissaris said. "They may twist and turn a bit, but they should take us back to Leeuwarden."

  Together they enjoyed the changing vistas of meadows lined by woods.

  "Dingjum?" Grijpstra asked, half an hour later. "I've been here before. This is where Mem Scherjoen lives, and over there's the State Police station where Lieutenant Sudema is the chief."

  "Why don't you stop?" the commissaris asked. "It's time for coffee. The lieutenant can give us directions on how to get back to Leeuwarden."

  The lieutenant had gone home, but the corporal who had replaced him poured coffee. "Are you in charge of this murder case, sir?"

  "I am.

  "Maybe," the corporal said, "you should take a few minutes to visit the lieutenant. I'm sure he would like to keep informed of your progress. He lives close by. Your adjutant knows where."

  "Nice walk," Grypstra said.

  The commissaris phoned his wife.

  "Where are you?" she asked. "I was expecting you. Couldn't you let me know you were planning to work late? You shouldn't be working, your leg is in bad shape. I could run you a hot bath."

  "I do love you," the commissaris said, "and I would like to get back to you, but you've no idea how vast this country is. We keep driving forever. I wish you were here, you have a feeling for shortcuts."

  "And a feeling for you."

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "And don't worry, dear."

  "Don't overstrain yourself."

  "Grypstra is taking care of me," the commissaris said. "De Gier is around too. As he isn't Frisian, he won't be of much use to us here; he can't identify with the locals. Grypstra and I fit within the mental climate. You know I was bora here, in Joure. I thought I had forgotten, but my origins have bubbled up again. We always forget how important first impressions are. They shape our characters, inspire us all our lives."

  "Dear Jan," his wife said. "Do what you have to do and then come back quickly."

  A little later, strolling between majestic beeches towering above fields of corn where songbirds chanted divine compositions, the commissaris and Grijpstra discussed their shared roots. A most beneficial beginning, they agreed, that had influenced both their lives. Corruption that occurs later can do little to spoil a truly blissful start. While Grijpstra searched for proper expressions that would illustrate his happy feelings, the commissaris talked about rural peace, forgotten by city slickers, so that they become irritated by their own and each other's spiritual filth, but here—his arm followed a leaping jackrabbit between neat rows of cabbage and waved at a low little cloud, glowing in late light—"here in the natural harmony of untrammeled nature..."

  "Evil will have a hard time here," Grijpstra said.

  "Exactly, Adjutant. No wonder a spoiled soul like Scherjoen had to commit his misdeeds on the low side of the dike, and that he had to come to a horrible end in our parts, where the blessings of his homeland could no longer defend his miserable existence."

  The commissaris shook his head, to rid himself of Amsterdam associations. "Ach, how hearlik is here ut libben."

  "You're speaking Frisian, sir?"

  "De Gier found that expression. It means 'life is wonderful.' "

  "Bah... de Gier," Grypstra shook his head too. "What does de Gier know? He's got a gift for languages, but it's all on the surface. How can he feel what truly goes on in our land? There's Lieutenant Sudema's house. Under the chestnut trees. A most pleasant little dwelling."

  Gyske Sudema stood in her front garden, under waving branches that held clusters of white flowers. The commissaris enjoyed the sight. Gyske impressed him as a very attractive woman, tall and slender, her long blond hair lifted by the breeze, her body tight in gleaming leather trousers and a clinging white blouse. Coming closer, the commissaris regretted to see that she was wearing a man's jacket across her shoulders, of too large a size, and hanging down on one side.

  "Evening, Mrs. Sudema."

  Grijpstra introduced him. Gyske's supple hand felt moist. Her long eyelashes twitched. "Not a good time for a visit," Gyske said. "I'm sorry, yes. Problems tonight. No, this is hardly the moment."

 
"Your husband isn't home?"

  "Visiting," Gyske said. "Sjurd is making a friendly call. He swallowed all my tranquilizers and drank some jenever. He's crying on the neighbor lady's shoulder now. She's alone too, for her man is a sailor. It's all right with me, they can do what they like."

  "Marriage problems?" Grijpstra asked. "How could that be? Yesterday you and the lieutenant seemed so happy."

  "Happened just now," Gyske said. "Bit of a problem. The whole thing blew up."

  Grijpstra gasped. "But he just sent me some information via Corporal Hilarius."

  "He had to look for comfort," Gyske said. "An hour ago, first time. Never visited the neighbor on his own before, my Sjurd, such a clumsy oaf." Gyske's laugh was shrill. She patted the side pocket of her jacket. "I took his pistol. He can't shoot himself now. He wanted to, but that's all crazy."

  "Could I have the weapon?" The commissaris extended a small hand. Gyske passed him the pistol. The commissaris handed it to Grijpstra. Grijpstra pulled the clip, ejected the chambered cartridge into his hand, and dropped the various parts into his pocket.

  "Why don't you tell me what happened?" the commissaris said. "Once a problem is shared, it can be solved. Let's hear about the mishap, dear lady."

  "All right," Gyske said. "I started it, I know that very well, but I'm damned if I'll feel guilty. It wasn't sinful at all. Sjurd is from the past. I'm not. I read magazine articles and the psychological column in the paper. I live with the times. I know what things are like today. When I do it, I do it."

  "With whom, dear lady?"

  Gyske lifted one shoulder. "With a man, of course."

  "Let's go in," the commissaris said. "Or are your children in the house?"

  "Gone out," Gyske said, "to play with friends. So that they don't have to work in Sjurd's greenhouse tonight. They don't want to do that, they're too little anyway. Sjurd's idea of duty is too heavy. Slave away, day after day, that's a bad example."

  "I like your furniture," the commissaris said when they had gone inside. "Real antiques, I'm sure."

  "From the past," Gyske said. "Like my husband. Passed down through the generations. Clammy, moldy, sealed off from fresh air. I'm a modern woman. Would you like a beer?"

  "I still have to drive," Grypstra said, "and the commissaris has to see the Leeuwarden chief constable. We'd better stay sober."

  Gyske plucked at her jacket. "It's Sjurd's, it doesn't fit. I'll take it off now. I only put it on to have something to carry the pistol in. Sjurd wanted to shoot Anne."

  "The neighbor lady?"

  "No," Gyske said. "Anne is a man. You're from Holland, are you? Our names are different here. Anne is the man I had been doing it with. He lives close by too. Everybody lives close by." She began to cry. Grypstra supplied a handkerchief, the commissaris gentle words. "Now, now, Mrs. Sudema."

  Gyske stopped crying. "Anne's the Christian therapist here, qualified, with proper papers. He does social work for the municipality and the church. He's Dutch Reformed, too, same denomination as Sjurd and I. He was supposed to help me. I wasn't sleeping well at all, and cramps down below, and crying all the time. Sjurd got the parson to pray with me, but that made it worse, and then the pastor sent his therapeutical man."

  "Who went to bed with you?" the commissaris asked.

  Gyske shook her wealth of golden hair. "I went to bed with Anne. It was my decision. And we didn't use the bed; the bed is Sjurd's, from his grandparents, I won't use that bed for that. I did it over there."

  Surprised, Grijpstra looked at the cupboard door.

  "Yes," Gyske said. "On a shelf. Wide enough. It's okay for sitting on and leaning back. Sjurd got upset too, when he heard."

  "You went into details when you talked to your husband?" the commissaris asked.

  "Isn't that what Sjurd wanted? Didn't I have to make a complete confession? And what did it all amount to, any- way? Hadn't it come to an end a long time ago? I knew it wouldn't last. I wasn't doing it anymore. But Sjurd had to know everything, that's what he kept saying. I had to tell all, and then it would be all right forever. Anne no longer came to visit because I no longer cared for treatment. He was in love with me, Anne said, but later he changed his tale. He let me do it because bis wife was a lesbian. Some reason, right? What sort of reason could that be? I told him never to come again. That's a month ago now."

  "And Sjurd suspected?" the commissaris asked.

  "He sensed it. He kept nosing about. It made me so nervous. If I came clean it would be good between us again, Sjurd told me ten times a day. We could make a fresh start."

  Grypstra covered his eyes with his hand.

  "Right," Gyske said. "I'm a silly goose. But you men never give in, do you now? So I told him this evening that Anne and I... in the cupboard and all... and Sjurd ran off, beside himself with fury. To Anne's house. He broke Anne's glasses. Anne's wife stood next to the poor man. Me too, I had run after Sjurd, and then Sjurd hit Anne in the mouth, Anne's lips were bleeding, and he hit him once more, and again. Good thing I was there, I didn't trust it at all, Sjurd pretending he was taking it all so calmly and then suddenly running off. 'I'll take care of this.' Ha, I know Sjurd. And Anne's wife, the lesbian—she isn't one, you know—she thought she was, so she spent a weekend on the island with that other woman, but she wasn't after all. The other woman was, yes, sure, but not Anne's wife. So when Sjurd kept trying to smash Anne's face, Anne got away, in his car, at full speed, through his own fence, not the gate, he couldn't find the gate, and Sjurd rushed home to swallow all my pills, and then to the pub." Gyske bit a fingernail. "He was back again, to fetch his pistol, but I had it and wouldn't give it to him, and then he went to see the neighbor lady. She isn't happy either, her husband is first mate on a supertanker. He's never home."

  "Good evening/' Lieutenant Sudema said, wobbling through the door, trying to stay upright.

  "My chief from Amsterdam," Grypstra said. "Lieutenant Sudema of the State Police."

  "How do you do?" the commissaris asked.

  "Not so well, sir. I've been a little stupid, I think, for some time now, and it hasn't gotten any better. I was born stupid, that's always a bad start. Hello, Gyske. Evening, Adjutant."

  "Are you drunk, Sjurd?"

  "Yes," the lieutenant said, "and stupid too. And I was wrong, I think." He staggered to a chair. "But Anne was wrong too. He can't come back to Dingjum. Won't have it, you know. That randy bugger will have to find himself another country. Let him settle down in the Netherlands somewhere. He'll have to remove himself completely. We can't have that here, something like that will have to go. And the money I paid him for his professional services. Gyske, I want that money back."

  'To the Netherlands?" the commissaris asked. "Isn't Friesland part of the country?"

  "No," Lieutenant Sudema said. "He can go to Amsterdam for all I care. Anywhere in the hell below the dike. Not here. The smudge has to be rubbed off."

  "And the other cheek?" Gyske asked. "Shouldn't we turn the other cheek? Aren't you Christian, Sjurd?"

  "You've got two cheeks," Sjurd said, "but only one..." He stopped and thought, and concluded, "Only one." He thought again. "But what I was saying about you"—he had trouble not sliding off his chair—"that isn't true, Gyske. I've been truly stupid. You're right. I'm sorry. It'll be different from now on."

  He managed to get up and steered an unsteady course for the cupboard. He clawed the handle. He skated back and pulled the cupboard door open. "Here is where it all happened, here on the shelf, in the name of the Lord. An insult to Our Lord, Gyske, by an authority of the church." He kicked the shelf, tore out the broken boards, and cracked them on his knee. "I will burn these outside. I'll take the entire cupboard out, but not now, right now I'm a little tired."

  "Why don't you lie down?" Gyske asked.

  "In a minute," Lieutenant Sudema said. "But the gentlemen should come along with me for a moment. I have a present for the gentlemen."

  Six crates of tomatoes had been placed outside the greenho
use. "My occupation outside of work hours," Lieutenant Sudema said sadly. "More work. To sweat to please the Lord. I was wrong there too. They all got ripe at the same time. You do like tomatoes, I hope?"

  "Delicious," the commissaris said.

  •I'll fetch the car," Grijpstra said.

  Gyske got hold of her husband. "You have to rest now, Sjurd." She pushed him into the house and came back alone, mumbling to herself. She passed the commissaris. "You're leaving us?" the commissaris asked.

  "I think I'll visit Mem Scherjoen for a moment."

  "A good idea," the commissaris said. "In times of stress, one needs a friend."

  "Mem understands," Gyske said. She turned. "Mem's pain is all done now. But Sjurd can stay alive, I would like that better."

  "Mem prefers Douwe dead?"

  "Mem understands, that means she can accept. Do you have a cigarette?"

  "Only small cigars."

  Gyske took the cigar. The commissaris flicked a light. Gyske inhaled hungrily. "Mem even accepted the dead kittens. She used to have a limping cat that showed up one night. Douwe didn't want her to feed the cat, but Mem did it anyway, behind the barn. When Douwe was away, Mem would talk to the cat. The cat had kittens, funny babies, that frolicked and gamboled all over the yard, but then they all began to die one afternoon. They didn't know they were dying, they still tried to play. Douwe had poisoned their milk, of course. He had to laugh, because Mem didn't know what was wrong with the kittens. Mem was going crazy."

  "There's a turtle," the commissaris said, "that lives in my rear garden. He's my good friend, I like to share his silence. If someone hurt my turtle, I would probably be quite upset."

  "I wanted revenge," Gyske said, "because Sjurd believes in good, and that's too boring. He would say that I should put my bottom in a bucket of cold water, that would soothe the urge, so I made a grab for Anne. That bald little Anne, with his few hairs plastered over his skull, and his wrinkled neck, and his spectacles without rims, only because he happened to be around, with his three-piece suit and with his watch chain across his stupid belly and with his arrogant accent. I took revenge. I committed a sin. Mem doesn't sin."