The Mind-Murders Read online

  "HO!" Grijpstra shouted.

  De Gier was running, no, De Gier was running, no, leaping. The cyclist flew sideward, propelled by the sudden contact with the sergeant's last and far-ranging leap. The shot rang out. The bullet whistled and splashed. The red-beaked geese flapped and blew in anger. The cyclist's hat dropped, and his wig, beard, and mustache moved to the side of her face.

  Titania, suddenly released by Frits Fortune, staggered, stumbled, and fell. Her skirt, much higher now, translated the indicated into the obvious until once more corrected, as Titania, unaided, struggled up. Beelema and Zhaver came forward. Kiran waved his long tail Fortune, Titania, Zhaver, and Beelema stared at the cyclist.

  "Hello, Rea," Fortune said.

  "Mrs. Fortune," Grijpstra said politely, "I arrest you, under suspicion of repeated attempted murder or manslaughter, as the case may be, of your husband, and of ill treatment of your dog Babette resulting in its death."

  De Gier bent his knees and looked into Beelema's eyes.

  "Are you the other son of God?"

  "It was well meant," Beelema whispered hoarsely.

  "It usually is," de Gier said.

  "Are you coming with me?" Grijpstra asked Rea Fortune imperatively.

  "Coming with me?" de Gier asked Beelema pleasantly.

  "Coming?" Fortune asked Titania shyly.

  Kiran embraced Zhaver, barking cheerfully.

  12

  "Well, well," the commissaris said, "and in the weekend too, in the off weekend! Will I ever understand what motivates activity? I do hope your reports will be short and limit the prosecutor's ridicule. A merry display indeed! Will you be holding Rea Fortune, adjutant?"

  "I might recommend that to the authorities, sir," Grijpstra said. "I've charged the suspect with the illegal possession of a firearm."

  "And the attempted manslaughter, albeit murder?"

  "We might drop that part of the charge, sir. The suspect is in a state of shock, the material we've come up with is somewhat garbled, and the lawyer the suspect hired seems to be rather forceful, and, eh, intelligent, sir. It seems that Mrs. Fortune was merely persuading her husband to sell his business, by manipulating circumstances, so to speak. I gather that she thought that the sudden emptiness of their apartment, coupled with her own and the dog's disappearance, would make him change his mind. By weakening his defenses by, as the lawyer puts it, not illegal means, she meant to release the victim of his fear of retirement."

  The commissaris harrumphed furiously.

  "And the evidence you found? Fortune's weak heart? His susceptibility to sudden shocks? The actual death of that poor little poodle? Can't we show a sinister underground? And what about Beelema, the divine entrepreneur, surely he can be charged with complicity?"

  "The evidence could be rather thin, sir."

  "And the count? That Zhaver fellow? He was her lover, wasn't he?"

  "So was Beelema, sir, but the two of them stood to gain nothing. They weren't being paid and there was no promise of payment. Neither of them meant to marry Mrs. Fortune or live with her. The relationship was merely physical, it seems."

  "So what were they? Friends? Did they help the lady to move the contents of the apartment?"

  "No sir."

  "Who did help her?"

  "Illegal immigrants, sir, Turks and Pakistanis. There are quite a few of them in the neighborhood. They're always looking for jobs."

  "Are you sure?"

  "I have no reason to disbelieve the suspect, sir, but the sergeant and I can check the point if you like."

  The commissaris whipped off his spectacles and began to polish them with his handkerchief.

  "Ha! No. I won't go against your judgment. You might explain, however, why the lady did dress up as a man and cycle around in the area."

  "To see how her husband was doing."

  "Ah. And the dog?"

  "Rea lived in a hotel, sir. The dog was confused. It got away from her and ran home. She picked it up the next day; she still had the key, of course, but it was still nervous, crossed the street and was killed by a car."

  The commissaris blew on his glasses.

  "Hold it there, adjutant, how did the body get on

  "Hold it there, adjutant, how did the body get on the roof?"

  Grijpstra scratched his chin.

  "She put it there, didn't she?'* the commissaris asked. "Now why would she do that? She could have dropped it in a garbage can, but she went to a lot of trouble to hide it in an unlikely place. Would she be hoping perhaps that Fortune, who was still doing well and not suffering enough perhaps, might be disturbed by the gulls and crows, climb onto the roof, and find the torn corpse of a pet he was fond of? Another shock to shake the poor fellow's mind perhaps?"

  Grijpstra scratched his chin with a little more force.

  "Could be, sir."

  The commissaris frowned.

  "Bad, adjutant, bad. To misuse affection. She had done it before, after all, by running away, thinking that Frits would miss her. Consistent behavior. Do you think the woman is evil?"

  Grijpstra sighed.

  The commissaris replaced his spectacles and managed to smile.

  "Bah. But you're right not to pursue the point Her lawyer would tell the court that the means justify the end somewhat, and the end was to help. Wives are supposed to help their husbands. They rarely do. And the means never justify the end, but that's between you and me. The lawyer will also mention that the dog was already dead. So what does all this add up to?"

  Grijpstra grunted. The commissaris got up, left his desk, and found the center of his carpet

  "Now what caused you two to waste two free days on such a flimsy case, eh? And why didn't you spot the suspect? Isn't it hard for a woman to impersonate a man? If I understand the situation correctly, she must have shown herself to you on several occasions."

  The Oriental arrows extended from his shoes. One arrow pointed at Grijpstra, the other at de Gier.

  De Gier plotted the course of the arrow. When he realized the danger, he spoke.

  "The suspect used to be an actress, sir, possibly a good actress. I believe she was a professional. I saw her too and I never caught on. I only noticed that the cyclist was slender, well dressed, and overhairy. I've seen worse in the city, perhaps my mind no longer registers abnormalities. All sorts of apparitions appear these days. There was a dwarf, for instance, dressed in a yellow cape. He rode a scooter, a monkey sat on the handlebars."

  The commissaris's mouth opened as he tried to visualize the yellow-caped dwarf.

  "Really? What sort of a scooter, a motor scooter?"

  "No sir, a child's scooter."

  "And he wasn't a child?"

  "No sir, he had a beard too, and a mustache."

  "For heaven's sake."

  Grijpstra gestured. "Amsterdam, sir!"

  Grijpstra offered a cigar. The commissaris was calmed by the sudden intake of nicotine.

  "Dwarfl Well. Ah. Something else. The lady pulled a gun. She actually fired the gun. Did she aim at the kissing couple?"

  "She didn't have time, sir, the sergeant knocked her off her feet."

  "But the shot went off so she had pressed the safety catch. Did you question her on that point?"

  "Yes sir, she said that she intended to fire over their heads. She confesses to being jealous but there was no murderous intent."

  "Is she a good shot?"

  "No sir, she had never fired a gun, except on the stage where they use blanks."

  The commissaris sucked his cigar.

  "Yes. Hmpf. So she could have shot them by mistake or she could have got someone else, so perhaps it was a good thing you two were around, to prevent an accident. You know ..."

  A streetcar passed down the Marnixstreet outside and the commissaris had to wait for the noise to subside.

  "You two remind me of a farewell speech delivered by my first chief who retired. That was a long time ago, but truth lasts. I wore a saber on my belt then, and performed street
duty."

  "What did your chief say, sir?"

  "You really want to know? Very well. He claimed that the police are by definition stupid, because intelligent men will not apply for boring work at low wages. He also said that stupidity hardly matters in our profession, provided our brainlessness is compensated by zeal."

  "Zeal.. . ," Grijpstra muttered.

  "Weren't you and the sergeant zealous, by working when you didn't have to?"

  De Gier got up.

  "Could I bother you for a match, sir?"

  The commissaris flicked his golden lighter.

  "No, a match. To chew on, sir."

  "Chew? Oh, I see. You're still not smoking. No, I don't have a match, sergeant. Grijpstra?"

  The adjutant passed a box of matches. De Gier began to chew hungrily. Grijpstra moved his chair. The arrow no longer pointed at his feet. The commissaris stepped off the carpet and yanked a corner. The arrow followed Grijpstra. The commissaris stepped back.

  "Perhaps the chief's statement was too abstract, but he accompanied it with a story. Would you like to hear the story too?"

  "Yes," de Gier said.

  "You too, adjutant?"

  "Yes."

  "Good, because I would have told it anyway. Listen here."

  Grijpstra moaned.

  "Adjutant?"

  "I did have serious suspicions, sir. The sergeant is smiling, and it's true that he hasn't gone along with me much, but I refuse to believe that my theory was silly. Rea Fortune did disappear with her dog and the contents of the house. An exceptional course of events has often provided me with a case. We found nothing but dust specks in that apartment Unusual, sir, very."

  "Yes?"

  "There were character witnesses," Grijpstra said sadly. "Several, in fact. They confirmed the suspect's tendency, I'm referring to Mr. Fortune now, to destroy what he didn't like. Isn't a character the sura of certain habits, and aren't habits with us forever?"

  "I used to smoke," de Gier said, "but I don't anymore."

  "Arrgh!"

  "Just thought I would mention it."

  "Not againl"

  "So a man is a slave," de Gier said, "the slave of what he did. For what he did, you say, he does, and what he does, you say, he will always do. There's also liberty, I just thought I would mention liberty."

  The commissaris left his carpet and studied a geranium.

  Grijpstra glared.

  De Gier smiled. "I did stop smoking, you know. I chew matches now, different habit altogether."

  "We know, we know," the commissaris said to the geranium. "He stopped smoking. Now why would he have done that?"

  "For Grijpstra, sir."

  Grijpstra jumped up.

  "Won't you ever stop saying that? What is it to me whether you smoke or not?"

  De Gier moved his match with his tongue.

  "To show you that there is still hope."

  "Hope. For who?"

  "For you."

  "Not for me. Fm stuck. I waste my time watching morons because anything is better than to stay home. A situation that can't be changed."

  "If I can change, so can you. To smoke is to be addicted. I broke my chain. I'm free." De Gier got up and clutched his belt. "Would you excuse me a minute? Chewing matches doesn't agree with me. I'll be right back."

  He looked pale when he came back and there was a sour stench.

  "Won't you go back to smoking again?" the commissaris asked.

  "Not just yet, sir."

  "Then I'll tell you the story to distract you. A jack rabbit runs through a field. He doesn't pay attention. He runs into a fence. The impact stuns him for a moment. He staggers about for a bit. A few cows are around. The jack rabbit bumps into a cow. The second mishap is too much for him. The jack rabbit faints. He's under the cow. 'Look,' the cow says to the other cows, 7 actually managed to catch a jack rabbit.'"

  "That's about the way it was," de Gier said.

  "Do you agree, adjutant?"

  "Yes sir."

  "I'm glad to hear it and I'm glad you were good enough to keep me informed of your activities. You know that I don't have much of a function here, as the journalist of the Courier was kind enough to point out."

  More streetcars passed through the Marnixstreet. The commissaris spent another minute on his geranium.

  "And what do you think of our lovers, Grijpstra, do you think that the affair will last?"

  "Frits Fortune and Titania?"

  "Yes."

  "I think so, sir. Titania is a dear girl and I was mistaken about Mr. Fortune, I believe he's a good man. She certainly managed to impress him at the right moment."

  "In which case you'll have to find a suitable partner for Rea, we cannot let go of her now. She'll be depressed and slip into even worse ideas. Perhaps Beelema should exercise his powers again, keeping the lady's extravagant desires in mind. How about matching her to the nobleman Xavier Michel d'Ablaing de Batagglia? The capital which will be returned to her by Frits Fortune could ease her way with him. Zhaver has gone straight for a long while; perhaps the two of them could start up a luxurious restaurant."

  "Yes sir."

  The commissaris rubbed his legs. His lips thinned.

  "A change of weather, gentlemen, I feel it in my bones. Perhaps we should do some real work for a change. I had a call just before you came in. A well-dressed male corpse was found in the luggage compartment of a stolen Mercedes." He tore a sheet out of his notebook and gave it to Grijpstra. The sergeant read the notes over the adjutant's shoulder.

  "A corpse!" de Gier said. "Just what is needed."

  When the detectives crossed the hall on their way to the elevator, Grijpstra held on to de Gier's arm.

  "Didn't you mention a dwarf in a yellow cape on a scooter just now?"

  "I don't smoke anymore," de Gier said.

  "With a monkey on the handlebars?"

  "A withdrawal monkey," de Gier said, "and a withdrawal dwarf."

  "Is that what you see? But that's horrifying. I'll never stop smoking."

  "What has that got to do with it?" de Gier asked. "Smoking is fun."

  "So you'll start again?"

  "Me? No. I don't smoke. Not smoking is becoming a habit and habits are forever."

  De Gier walked on. Grijpstra walked after him. De Gier frowned. Grijpstra grinned.

  PART II

  1

  De Gier crossed the courtyard. His legs bounced, his arms swung, his chin jutted, the sun highlighted bis wavy hair. Grijpstra followed heavily, as if the tarmac stuck to his soles, as if the air was viscous, as if his blood was glue, coagulating in every artery and vein. De Gier folded himself into the Volkswagen and waited, drumming his fingertips on the steering wheel. He started the engine as Grijpstra lowered his bulk on the creaking plastic next to him. Grijpstra mumbled.

  The car left the courtyard and headed for the inner city, ignoring traffic signals, swerving around jaywalking pedestrians.

  "I don't know what you're saying," de Gier said, "but here's your corpse. You looked for it all weekend. You were right, after all; whatever you want will find you in due time." He patted Grijpstra's shoulder. "A solid corpse, adjutant, all ours. No manufactured case this time. We won't have to make excuses to each other and to the good citizens who obstruct our path. We can work by the book. We're following orders. Forward."

  "Forward how?" Grijpstra asked and nodded at a gesticulating oversized lady on a bicycle as the car eased through a red light.

  "From dream time into actuality," de Gier shouted as he made the Volkswagen shoot ahead. "A real body, quite dead but able to withstand our prodding. Facts instead of a vacuum. Cause and effect instead of conjecture on a transparent tightrope. Connecting events instead of stacking flimsy cards!"

  Grijpstra mumbled on.

  De Gier parked.

  "We can walk from here. We even have an address. Gentleman's Market. Across the canal, see? There's the Mercedes, there's a patrol car. We have all sorts of details. A silver Mercedes with
a German registration. Corpse of a forty-five-year-old man, well dressed. Isn't it unbelievable, Grijpstra, after all we've been through?"

  Grijpstra grunted, spoke, and grunted again.

  "What's that?"

  "I'm saying," Grijpstra said in an unnecessarily loud voice, "that we are back where we started, on the Brewerscanal, with nothing in our hands. Once again we will twist misrepresented evidence and be a bother to ourselves and all those who have the misfortune to meet with us. What do we have?" He held up a finger. "A corpse, you're right. From that point on, you're wrong. The corpse was not killed, neither by itself nor by others. There are, according to the commissaris's notes, no wounds. Very likely our man died of natural causes. If we get into this, we'll stumble forever, and there'll be nothing in the end."

  De Gier got out of the car, walked around it and opened the passenger door. He reached in, grabbed Grijpstra by the forearm and pulled.

  "No. Fm right. We have a case. The corpse was found in the baggage compartment of a car. How did it get there?"

  They crossed the nearest bridge. A male and a female constable walked toward the detectives.

  "I'll tell you how it got there," Grijpstra said. "It fell in. It was still alive then. The man became unwell, the baggage compartment of the car was open, he lunged toward the car, intending to find support, he was dizzy, fainting, he tumbled into the gaping hole."

  "And somebody closed the lid," de Gier said. "No, no. Murder. I tell you it's murder. We're employed by the murder brigade. This is our thing. The hunt is on. Hello, Asta, hello, Karate, where's Ketchup?"

  "Do you know my name?" Asta asked.

  "Ketchup is on leave," Karate said. "The weekend was too much for him. He scraped some free days together and foul-mouthed Sergeant Jurriaans. The sergeant jumped across the counter, but Ketchup was out on the street by then. He's a good runner. Look what I got in his place."

  "I'm not a what," Asta said. "I'm a she. I have my rights. I didn't know you knew my name, sergeant."

  "Stay away from him," Grijpstra said. "He's working, but not for long. This corpse is nothing, we'll find something else to do. We could have a late breakfast or an early lunch. Where's the dead man, constable?"