He sat up while she was away. A small painting caught his eye. It was hung in a dark corner near the end of the couch and he bent over to study it closer. A portrait of a young man, head and shoulders. A young man in some medieval costume, a tight tunic that fitted the narrow shoulders closely. A striking face framed in long, dark, flowing hair. A hooked nose, large liquid eyes, a high forehead. A nobleman from the South, Italian, Spanish, perhaps a Spanish don from the time that Spain was trying to conquer the Netherlands. He wondered what had moved Gabrielle to hang the portrait in the intimacy of her room, so close to her bed. Whenever she lay on her right side the young man would be staring at her. He heard her in the corridor and moved to the middle of the couch. She came back with a ladies’ magazine and opened it and they counted the notes together, one hundred notes of a thousand guilders each. Eighty were brand-new, twenty slightly used.
“I don’t suppose I should keep the money here. Do you need it as an exhibit? You could give me a receipt; I suppose the police would return it later?”
The small hand on his wrist distracted him but he could still think logically. “No. Just hide it until tomorrow and deposit it in your bank account. I have seen the money and I’ll make up a report and sign it under oath.”
Her purring voice laughed. “Yes, you are an official, a police officer. I can’t believe it. You must be very dangerous, nobody would ever expect you to be a detective. How clever of the police to employ you. I am sure people will tell you anything you want to know!”
“You mean I look like a harmless moron?”
Her hand was stroking his neck. “Never mind, I am only teasing. I like you very much. I like men who don’t look tall and overpowering and handsome like that other officer who came the night of Mother’s death, the beautiful man with the large mustache. Men like that are unbearable.”
Cardozo was nodding and smiling, but the little wave of guilt had crept back and he heard himself defending the sergeant. “But he is very good, I have worked with him for a long time now. He is very intelligent and dependable.”
“Pff. He is a showoff!” She looked at her watch. “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I must take my shower. It was such a hot day and I’ll have to go work again. If I don’t bathe Iil be prickly and irritable and nothing will go right. I promised Mr. Bergen that I would sort out his stock files. We are preparing a statement of what we have in our warehouse for the bank, and so far we come up with a different figure every time. I’ll have to check through the invoices again.”
She jumped up but held on to his wrist so that he was pulled off the couch. He was in the bathroom before he knew that she had taken him with her and he saw her drop her housecoat and step into the tub and adjust the faucets. He stood, holding his glass, trying to find a harmless object to look at. She laughed. “Silly! Haven’t you ever seen a naked woman? Why don’t you sit on the toilet and enjoy your drink. I’ll be ready in a moment.”
The shower came on. The bath had plastic curtains but she didn’t draw them. He saw the hot water splash on her shoulders and run down her arms and there was a small riverlet trickling between her breasts, with two sidelines running down and causing a steady drip from her nipples.
“Don’t you want to see me like this?”
But he did want to, of course, and he was having trouble with his breathing. He took her by the hand before she had had a chance to reach for the towel.
“But I’m still wet.”
He pulled the towel off the rack and wrapped it around her body and swept her off her feet and carried her through die corridor. Her head rested on his shoulder.
On the bed he saw the arrogant eyes of the Spanish nobleman and he pushed the portrait’s broad gold frame so mat it slid off its hook and got stuck between the couch and the wall. The terrier was watching too, its dark button eyes fixed on the linked, throbbing bodies. Hie dog’s fuzzy ears stood up, quivering with interest, and his short tail tapped on the side of his basket. Cardozo wasn’t aware that some of his passion was shared by Paul, and when, after a while, he turned over and looked at the room, the dog had curled himself up in a tight ball and was fast asleep.
\\\\\ 13 /////
The Citroen’s smooth shape was coasting through the avenues of Amsterdam Old South like a large predator fish patrolling its hunting streams. It had been cruising for twenty-five minutes and it kept on turning the same corners. Grijpstra was studying a small soiled map and gave directions that the commissaris found hard to follow. Every turnoff they tried led into one-way streets and they invariably tried to enter on the wrong side. If Grijpstra had been with de Gier his mood might have turned sour and been edging toward blind fury, but the commissaris’s presence had soothed his mind and he continued trying to trace a course while the car floated on.
“It can’t be here anyway,” the commissaris said quietly. “Look at those vast houses, they were patricians’ homes once. Homes for the aged now, adjutant, and private hospitals and maybe a few high-priced sex clubs tucked away here and there. The whole neighborhood is subsidized by the state now.” He smiled. “Or lust, and expense accounts that cater to lust. Lovely old places all the same, don’t you agree?”
Grijpstra looked up from the map. The heavily wooded gardens lining the curving avenue did indeed offer a spectacle of sedate grandeur. The gardens shielded four- and five-storied villas, decorated with turrets and cantilevered balconies overgrown with creepers, abodes of splendor where merchants had once planned their overseas adventures and enjoyed the benefits of constructive but greedy thoughts.
“Yes, sir. But we should be close, we have been close for a while now. The street behind this one must be the one we want, I’m sure of it. Some mansions were pulled down and a bungalow park has taken their sites. Bergen probably has one of the bungalows, but I wouldn’t know how to get in there with all these damned NO ENTRY signs.”
The commissaris tried again. “No. No use. We’ll walk.”
They heard the evening song of a thrush the minute the engine was shut off and the commissaris pointed at the bird, a small, exact silhouette on an overhead wire. The thrush flew off and a nightingale took over. Grijpstra had folded his map and put it away and began to walk on, but the commissaris restrained him, waiting for the end of the trilling cantata. The nightingale seemed to feel that he had an audience, for he pushed himself into such a brilliant feat of pure artistry, and sang so loudly, that Grijpstra expected him to fall off his branch. When the song broke, and ended, in the middle of a rapidly rising scale of notes, the commissaris was standing on his toes, his small head raised, his eyes closed.
Grijpstra smiled. It was good to be with the old man again. His perception had risen and he became aware of the quiet of the street. The one-way system had effectively blocked all through traffic and the old-fashioned streetlights, adapted gas lanterns spaced far apart, threw a soft light that was held by flowering bushes and freshly mowed lawns and hung between the gnarled branches of old beeches and oaks. They walked on, two contemplative pedestrians enjoying the peace of the evening, and found Bergen’s street at the next corner.
Grijpstra checked the house numbers. “This one, sir.”
The bungalow’s garage doors were open. A new Volvo had been left in the driveway, unable to fit into the garage, where the wreck of a small, fairly new car blocked its way. The compact’s nose had been pushed in and its hood stood up, cracked. A refrigerator with its door hanging open leaned against the wreck and parts of a lawn mower littered the floor.
“I’m sure most of that could be fixed,” Grijpstra said as he peered into the garage. The commissaris had walked on. “Maybe that’s considered to be junk, adjutant, the throwouts of a different lifestyle.”
The commissaris pushed the bell. The door swung open and Bergen was staring at them, one eye large and round and menacing, the other almost closed. He was holding his face and his spectacles hung on one ear. He was in his shirtsleeves and his suspenders were slipping off his shoulders.