“The clochards weren’t getting anywhere, you mean?”
“Oh, they were somewhere all right, in hell. A hell of boredom, not so different from my own when I was selling a lot of furniture.”
“And now, are you bored now?”
“No.”
“Happy?”
The baboon shook his head. “Happy! that’s a silly word. It has to with security, there is no security. The only thing we can ever be secure about is the knowledge that we will die.”
“Do you feel that you are getting anywhere?”
“No, but perhaps I am approaching…”
“Approaching what?”
The sergeant was listening with such concentration that his eyes had become slits. The conversation, intense, almost ominous in its inward direction, sounded familiar. He could understand both the significance of the questions and the penetration of the answers. It seemed, and the possibility didn’t appear so ludicrous later when he thought back on it, that the meeting between baboon and commissaris was staged for his own personal benefit. There was an accord between the old man and the bizarre figure opposite him that didn’t have to be stressed, they would have understood each other without the question-and-answer game. But some of de Gier’s own thoughts were being clarified in a way that made the game seem staged.
He glanced at Grijpstra, but the adjutant’s initial fascination had ebbed away. De Gier knew that Grijpstra had gone back to his task, the apprehension of Elaine Camet’s killer. He guessed, and the guess was substantiated later when he talked about the investigation again, that Grijpstra thought that the commissaris was only interested in determining the suspect’s character, to see if he could be fitted into the facts they had collected about Elaine’s death. No more, no less. The ideal policeman.
“A mystery perhaps.” The baboon’s answer had a mocking overtone. His hand, each finger moving individually, mocked the answer.
“Yes, a mystery,” the commissaris said pleasantly. “A useless word, I agree. Well, sir, we’ll be going. Just a last question about Mrs. Camet’s death. Could you think of anyone who would derive some pleasure, some gain, from her death? There are a number of suspects we are interrogating. There is Mr. Bergen, young Mr. Pullini, Gabrielle too, of course. There may be others, people Mrs. Camet employed, perhaps. We found a man, a certain Mr. de Bree, a neighbor, who tried to poison Gabrielle Camet’s dog some days ago.”
The baboon didn’t answer.
“You have no ideas that could be of help to us?”
“Only negative ideas. Mr. Bergen is mainly a businessman. He was, when I knew him, quite happy to run the business, I don’t think he wanted to own it. And with Elaine’s death he will still only own a quarter of the shares, the quarter she gave him years ago, the other three-quarters will go to Gabrielle. Did you mention Pullini?”
“Yes, Francesco Pullini. He is in town just now. We saw him briefly today, he isn’t feeling well.”
“I know Francesco. He dealt with Bergen, not with Elaine.”
The commissaris sat up and massaged his thighs.
“Is that so? I understood that Mrs. Carnet did pay attention to the Pullini connection, chose merchandise, determined the size of the orders, and so on.”
The baboon shook his head. “Not really, that was just a charade. Bergen liked to work on Francesco and he sometimes got Elaine to help. Tricks: he would give a very large order to get a good price and then he would later halve it and say that Elaine had made the decision, or he might delay the order altogether, also to get a better price.”
“And Gabrielle, she didn’t get on too well with her mother, I believe?”
“True, they did argue sometimes, but Gabrielle has had her own apartment for quite a long time now.”
“Whose idea was that?”
“Gabrielle’s. She is clever, and she certainly loved her mother. She could have moved out altogether but she stayed in the house.”
“Did Mrs. Carnet drink compulsively?”
The baboon moved a hand over his face. “Yes, I think so, the drinking was getting worse. Couldn’t she have fallen down the stairs?”
The commissaris got up. “Yes, she might have, mat would certainly be the best solution.”
“Where’s your car?” the commissaris asked when they were in the street again.
“A little farmer along, sir, near the Berlaghe Bridge.”
“I’ll give you a ride. Sergeant?”
“Sir.”
“I know it’s been a long day but I’d like you to go back to the Pulitzer Hotel and get Francesco’s passport. If he doesn’t want to give it up you can bring him to headquarters and lock him in for the night. I’ll clear it with the public prosecutor later on, but if you are tactful that won’t be necessary. Grijpstra?”
“Sir.”
“Do you want to go home now?”
“Not particularly, sir.”
“You can come with me, I want to pay another call on Mr. Bergen. You haven’t met him yet.”
He opened the door of the Citroen and took out the radio’s microphone.
“Headquarters?”
“Headquarters, who is calling?”
“CID, the Camet case. Any news from Detective Cardozo?”
“Yes, sir, he left a number, wants you to call him.”
“Any urgency?”
“No, sir.”
He pushed the microphone back. “I’ll call him from Bergen’s house.”
“We might have dinner somewhere, sir,” Grijpstra said from the back of the car.
“Later, if you don’t mind. I’d like to see Bergen first. Would you like to have dinner with us, sergeant?”
“Thank you, sir, but I’ll have to go home first to feed Tabriz and I’d like to get out of this uniform and have a shower.”
“Fine, how about nine o’clock at that Chinese restaurant next to the porno cinema in the old city? We’ve eaten there before, it’s a favorite hangout of yours, I believe.”
“Cardozo might like to come too, sir. He’s been complaining that he is always sent off on his own and that he loses track of what goes on.”
The commissaris smiled. “Yes, and he is right, of course. But I have his number and I’ll ring him later. He’s probably having his dinner now but he can have it again. By nine o’clock our preliminary investigation should be complete. It’ll be time to compare our theories, if we have the courage to bring them out, and to move into the next stage.”
“Setting up traps, sir?”
The commissaris turned around. “No, Grijpstra, the traps have been set up already and not by us. This time we’ll have to do the opposite, if we can. We’ll have to release our suspects, they are trapped already.”
“The opposite,” de Gier murmured. “Interesting.”
\\\\\ 12 /////
Cardozomarched along, arms swinging, until he became aware of his own eagerness and dropped back into an exaggerated slouch. He had been out of uniform for some two years now, but he hadn’t yet lost the habit of being on patrol during working hours. He was still checking bicycles for proper lights and would start every time he saw a car going through the red. He also missed the protection of his mate. Policemen on the beat are hardly ever alone, detectives often are. His trained eyes were registering.