Blond Baboon (17 page)
“Have you seen everybody now?” Bergen asked.
“I think so. We saw your friend Mr. Vleuten this afternoon.”
Bergen’s right hand waved tiredly. “Not my friend. Perhaps the baboon was right to get out of the business. He’s doing very well, isn’t he?”
“I thought you had had no contact with him since he left. That was awhile ago, wasn’t it?”
I heard,” Bergen said. “We have mutual acquaintances. The baboon is doing well. He’s restored his house, he deals in boats. Boats are the thing these days, everybody who does well wants one. Old boats, antique launches, fiat-bottomed sailing yachts … excellent status symbols. The baboon is a businessman still, he hasn’t forgotten what he learned when he was selling our furniture. And Elaine must have been providing him with capital, she has been saving her wages and profits for the last five years. She used to put them back into the business but stopped when we obtained good bank credit. And she always loved Vleuten. The baboon is the clever one and I am the sucker. I work and he plays around.”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it, no doubt there are other ways. But we did see Mr. Vleuten and we also talked with Mr. Pullini.”
Bergen laughed cheerlessly and his hand came up to hold his cheek again. “Pullini!”
“You don’t think there’s a connection?”
“No, Francesco hardly knew Elaine. His father did business with her and she went to Italy, but that was all such a long time ago. She was still working then.”
“We’ll have to be on our way again, Mr. Bergen. I wish you good luck with your test tomorrow.”
“Poor man,” Grijpstra said in the car.
“You think so, adjutant?”
Grijpstra’s right eyebrow crept up an eighth of an inch. “Shouldn’t I be sorry for the slob, sir? He is in about as perfect a mess as Job on his garbage pile. Bergen has lost it all, hasn’t he?”
The commissaris suddenly tittered and Grijpstra’s eyebrow stayed where it was. “An absolute fool, adjutant. The man must have a special talent for connecting misunderstandings incorrectly. That medical report didn’t indicate cancer, it only said there might be something somewhere. Doctors like to be explorers, especially when they have a lot of expensive equipment around that can be used in their explorations. All they have to do is instill a little fear in the patient’s mind and they can switch on their electronic gear and work up a bill of a few thousand guilders. And the insurance pays.”
“But there could be a tumor in Bergen’s head, sir.”
The commissaris shrugged. “Surely, and in my head and in yours, but we haven’t thought of that possiblity yet. Bergen has.”
“So you don’t think there is any link between his paralysis and whatever they are looking for in his head?”
“Not necessarily. What Bergen has now I’ve had too, Bell’s palsy, a harmless affliction that will go away by itself. I didn’t want to tell Bergen that. I’m not a doctor and perhaps he
is
in serious trouble. I’m only saying that the man is overworrying, about everything.”
“His divorce and the bank letter?”
“Exactly. Calamities are only calamities if you define them as such; in reality there are only events and all events can be useful.”
Grijpstra’s eyebrow came down.
“You should know that simple truth,” the commissaris continued. “You’ve been in the police a long time now, adjutant. We always deal with people, suspects or victims, who have managed to channel their thoughts in such a way that they see no acceptable way out anymore. They think they are suffering because of all sorts of reasons—their rights haven’t been respected, they’ve lost something, they’ve been robbed or slandered or treated badly, and so they’re justified in behaving in such a way that they break the law and meet us. But usually they are drowning in a poisonous pool of their own making. But they’ll never blame themselves. Never.”
The Citroen was waiting for a green light.
“Sir.”
“Ah, thank you. No, Grijpstra, I won’t pity our friend Bergen. Pity won’t do any good, anyway. Let’s hope he can get shocked out of his present state of mind and steer himself into a course that may lead to a little more freedom. And it’s time to eat. And Cardozo wants to be telephoned. He must be brooding on the information he collected from his visit to Gabrielle.”
The commissaris parked the car at the edge of the old city and, after calling Cardozo from a public telephone booth, they set out for the restaurant on foot. A brightly lit store window attracted the commissaris and he stopped to look in. He was still lecturing on the lack of awareness that causes illusion and misconstruction and didn’t appear to notice what he was looking at.
Grijpstra cleared his throat.
“Yes, adjutant?”
Grijpstra pointed at the window. “I don’t think this display is of much interest, sir.”
The commissaris grinned and they walked on. The window had shown a number of different types of vibrators arranged on a ground of artificial grass that was fenced off by a row of plastic penises.
T
HE FAT GOD WAS GRINNING AT THE MONGREL BUT THE
mongrel didn’t care. She was lying on the floor of the cheap Chinese eating place, half hidden under a table, which everybody who knew the restaurant avoided because it wobbled, and was noisily licking her swollen private parts. She was a particularly ugly mongrel, small and hairy and spotted, but she did own some endearing features, such as large expressive eyes and a tail with a stiff curl that pointed at the spot where her neck should have been. De Gier’s foot came out and nudged the dog. She looked up.
“Don’t
do
that,” de Gier whispered. “People are trying to eat here. The food is excellent but they won’t taste it if you keep on making that blubbery sucking noise.” The dog’s tail quivered. She bared her teeth in an effort to be friendly and rolled over, showing her naked pink belly. De Gier’s foot rubbed the belly softly and the dog whined ingratiatingly. The restaurant was empty and the owner, a tall thin Cantonese with the face of a philosopher, was resting his back against the counter; he hadn’t moved in the last ten minutes.
The dog rolled back and went on licking and de Gier’s eyes wandered up to the portrait of the fat god, a portly gentleman being crawled over by seven well-dressed slit-eyed toddlers equipped with similar smiles. The god of wealth and health, sitting on a cushion that in turn sat on a hilltop that overlooked a valley planted with dark green crops stretching to the horizon.
The restaurant’s glass door swung open and Cardozo entered, followed by four street prostitutes coming in for a late dinner. Cardozo held the door and they thanked him politely. They were off duty now and had lost their inviting smiles and prancing mannerisms. De Gier knew them all: he had listened to them many times, he knew their favorite subjects. They never talked shop when they ate their fried rice or noodles. They liked to talk about knitting and the defects of their cars and about taxes, and they would linger over their meal, unwilling to go back to the street, where tourists, usually a little drunk, were ambling about restlessly, waiting to purchase their services.
“Evening,” Cardozo said sadly.
De Gier muttered his reply and moved over to the corner chair so that Cardozo could sit next to him.
“Have you ordered?”
“No, I’m waiting for the commissaris, he should be here in a few minutes. We can have a beer.”
He waved to the philosopher and put up two fingers. The Chinese bowed, pushed himself off the counter, and slid behind it, grabbing the handle of the beer pump before he had reached his proper station. His other hand swept two glasses off a shelf and caught them deftly; he had them in position as the first stream of frothy golden liquid poured out of the polished spout. The beer was on their table before de Gier’s arm had come down.
“Your very good health. Had any adventures today?”
Cardozo nodded as he drank. “Yes, I saw Gabrielle Carnet just now. Hie commissaris wanted to know how she found the hundred thousand, you heard about that?”
“No. Tell me.”
De Gier listened. “That’s very nice, so the obvious motive has gone too, has it? What’s this now, a complication or a simplification? I had worked out a theory but the facts may still fit. I’ll have to talk to Grijpstra, maybe he thought of the theory first, I forget now.’
Cardozo tried to smile. “Does it matter? You won’t get any credit for it anyway. The case will be solved by the brigade and the chief constable will shake the commisaris’s hand in the end or not. Maybe the public prosecutor will spoil the case, or the judge, or some fool lawyer.”
But de Gier hadn’t heard him. The glass door swung open again and he was waving at the Chinese while the commissaris and Grijpstra came into the restaurant. Two more beers appeared and another ashtray.
“Sir?”
The commissaris had drunk his beer and was waiting for another. His hands moved restlessly on the bare boards of the table. “No, sergeant, Grijpstra can explain and then you three can fill each other in. I’ll listen for a change.” More beer appeared and the commissaris hid his face behind it.
Cardozo looked at Grijpstra, but the adjutant was reading the menu. “Roast pork, hmm. Fried noodles with shrimp, hmm. Wonton soup, that’s nice but it’s crossed out. Thin noodles with lobster, hmm, a little slippery but tasty. Yes.”
“Adjutant?”
“Yes. Noodles with fried chicken, I think, as always. I don’t know why I bother to read the menu. And you’ll have the same, de Gier, for otherwise we’ll have to wait too long, and you’ll have the same too, Cardozo. Sir?”
Til have the same.”
There was more beer again and then the food came and was eaten in silence. They listened to the prostitutes. The platinum blonde’s little Fiat had lost its muffler and she had been given a ticket for causing excessive noise. The small redhead’s Volkswagen had starting problems. The tall beauty with the German accent complained about a rattle in her Renault’s front door. There didn’t seem to be anything wrong with the black girl’s car. De Gier was interested. He leaned over. “Excuse me, miss, what sort of a car do you drive?”
“A small Citroën.”
“Aha,” the commissaris said.
“But it’s brand-new, still under guarantee.”
The commissaris turned around. “You won’t have any trouble, miss. Citroens are good cars. I’ve been driving them all my life. No trouble.” The black girl smiled and the commissaris turned back to his fried noodles.
“No, sir?” Grijpstra whispered. “I thought you had a problem with your suspension a few weeks ago.’
The commissaris’s fork came up and pointed at the adjutant’s face. “Minor. Little leak somewhere. They fixed it.”
“And aren’t they always fiddling around with the timing? The garage sergeant was telling me about that. He said it was driving him crazy.”
“Nothing wrong with the timing, the sergeant wanted something to do.”
“And…”
“Never mind. I think Cardozo wants to ask something, what is it, Cardozo?”
“I want to know everything, sir. I’ve only been working on the poisoned dog angle. I know nothing about the murder investigation. Who
are
our suspects, sir, and what have we found out?”
“Good. Adjutant, why don’t you tell him, and then de Gier can do his bit too. And Cardozo can finish up. I haven’t heard about Gabrielle Carnet and the hundred thousand guilders that popped up so conveniently. Go ahead, adjutant.”
Grijpstra wanted mote beer but was given coffee and the discussion started. It lasted for an hour as more coffee was consumed and Grijpstra’s small black cigars smoldered away, making the restaurant’s owner cough politely and turn on an electric fan.
“Do we know everything now?” the commissaris asked. “Yes, Cardozo?’
Cardozo seemed very ill at ease. His lips, holding the cigar that Grijpstra had forced on him, twisted spasmodically.
“Eh, sir, I would like to hear about that skeleton in the baboon’s apartment again. It had a cow’s skull, right?”
“Yes.”
“Did, uh, the skull have a hole in its forehead?”
The commissaris thought. “Perhaps it did, yes. It was masked, a purple corduroy mask leaving the eye sockets open, but it seems that there was a sort of tear that exposed part of the forehead, a tear or a hole. Do you remember, sergeant?”
“Yes, sir. There was a hole in the skull’s forehead, I remember it exactly, between the eyes but a little higher. The skull must have been very old, there was some dried-out crusted moss around that hole. But why do you ask, Cardozo?” His voice was honey sweet. “You weren’t with us, Cardozo, so how do you know about that hole?”
“Uh…” Cardozo squeaked.
“Tell us, dear boy.”
“Gabrielle was wearing a small object, on a nylon string,” Cardozo said rapidly. “The object was a cow’s skull, the size of, uh, like that.” He pointed to a button on de Gier’s denim jacket. “That size. It was carved out of walnut, I think, well done, a lot of detail. The eye sockets were quite deep and there was a third hole, I thought it was a fault of the wood.”
“Amazing,” de Gier said, still in the same sweet voice. “And how do you know that? I also saw a piece of nylon around the young lady’s neck and I also saw a small object dangling on that nylon thread, but it was stuck way down into her blouse. I couldn’t see any detail on that object and yet you describe it so accurately.”
“I saw her this evening, before I came here. I told you, didn’t I?”
“But how did you manage to see something she keeps between her breasts? She must have been naked. Why was she naked, dear boy? Did she strip, or did you forget your manners and rape the young lady?”
Grijpstra’s eyes stared; the commissaris was stirring his coffee. Cardozo had picked up a match and was digging at a noodle, stuck between the table’s boards.
“Maybe you should tell us what happened exactly,” the commissaris said gently.
“I’m sorry, sir. I did have, uh, intimate contact with the suspect. I am very sorry, sir.”
“She seduced you, did she?”
“No, sir, it was my own fault. I wasn’t alert, I’m afraid. It, uh, just happened. I just slipped into it.”
“Into what?” Grijpstra asked, frowning furiously.
