“Yes, adjutant. There were one hundred thousand guilder notes, eighty new, twenty slightly used.”
Grijpstra’s index finger came up. “See, sergeant? The money was there. Francesco took the lot and rushed out of the house. He counted the money in his hotel and found more than he expected. He phoned Gabrielle. She told him that she had removed his fingerprints and that he was safe but that he should return the money to her. She probably promised to pay him the eighty later, officially, out of the firm’s account-she could make that promise for she inherits the firm, Bergen only owns a quarter of it, she could override all his decisions. I am sure Francesco would have given the twenty back anyway. I don’t think he’s a robber, he just wanted what was due him.”
“And he killed Elaine in anger,” de Gier said slowly. That’ll help him in court, if he confesses. He should come and see us and give himself up, mat’s why the commissaris didn’t want us to make an arrest while he was away.”
“Exactly.”
“Adjutant?”
“Yes, Caidozo?”
“But Elaine was a bit of a bitch, wasn’t she? She knew that her daughter was having an affair with Francesco and that Francesco was Gabrielle’s half-brother. She could have stopped the affair, couldn’t she?”
Grijpstra shrugged. “Perhaps, but Gabrielle might not have cared. I would say that Gabrielle’s real feeling is for the baboon and that Francesco was something on the side, strong enough to protect him against us but still… She jumped at you at the drop of a hat, didn’t she? She probably has lots of sex, here, there, and everywhere.”
Cardozo blushed.
De Gier got up too and joined Grijpstra at the window. “I don’t know, Grijpstra. Elaine had an affair with the baboon and he got himself out of it, even at the expense of losing his job. Next thing we know is that Gabrielle dives into bis bed. Elaine may have known. There may have been a terrific scene between mother and daughter, which would explain the wedding ring on the floor too. Gabrielle kills her mother. That way she has the business and the baboon and is free forever after.”
“And who was smoking the cigars that evening?”
De Gier walked back to his desk. “True. It would be nice if we could prove that angle, wouldn’t it?”
“Here,” Grijpstra said.
They all looked at the long narrow tin of cigars the adjutant had placed on de Gier’s desk. “Signorinas, made in Brazil. I found this tin late last night, had to wake up my cousin who owns a tobacco store. Expensive cigars for successful businessmen, my cousin doesn’t sell too many of them. He says they are really excellent cigars. Maybe he is right, I tried one and they taste rather perfumed. Cardozo can take the tin and check the cigar counter in the Pulitzer Hotel and all the tobacconists around it. He should be able to come up with a statement that says that a man of Francesco’s description bought the cigars on the evening of Mrs. Carnet’s death. The statement won’t mean too much in court, but it’ll mean something. At least we’ll be able to prove that Francesco was lying when he said that he didn’t visit Elaine Carnet on the evening of her death.”
Cardozo took the tin and left.
“Anything else we can do while the commissaris is away?”
Grijpstra grinned. “Sure. We can go to the snack bar around the corner and drink some real coffee and enjoy a quiet twenty minutes. And then we might go and visit the baboon again.”
“Why?”
“Why not? He’s an interesting man, isn’t he?”
“O.K. And Bergen?”
“He’s having more tests this morning, but I mink we should contact him later in the day. They’ve all been lying, of course, hiding facts. Everybody has been hoping that we’ll give up and consider the easiest way out.”
De Gier nodded. “Write it off as an accident. Good, we’ll go and shake them, but I don’t think it’s necessary. The commissaris is bound to come up with something conclusive.”
“I think I’ll become a mercenary,” de Gier said a little later in the snack bar. He held up the paper and showed Grijpstra a photograph of a fat, jolly black man in a general’s uniform. “This guy has killed a few hundred thousand people in his country, why don’t we go and get him? Why must we go after a tiny little Italian who doesn’t really mean any harm?”
Grijpstra choked on a meat roll. De Gier waited.
“The Italian is here,” Grijpstra said finally, when he had finished coughing.
“We could go there, couldn’t we?”
I am here too.”
“And if you were there?”
Grijpstra took the paper and looked at the photograph. The fat general was still smiling. Grijpstra stuffed the rest of the meat roll into his mouth. He chewed for another minute.
“Well”
“I would kill him,” Grijpstra said and wiped his mouth. “It would be fun. We could think it out carefully, make it look like an accident, set up some sort of a trap. The commissaris would like that too. He could sit in his bath and build a trap out of subtleties, do it step by step, each step a little more slithery than the one before, create a safety system for the general’s protection, for instance, but the system suddenly malfunctions and poof!”
Grijpstra’s fingertip tapped the general’s forehead. They walked to the counter together. Grijpstra stepped back so that de Gier could pay.
“Yes,” de Gier said, “the commissaris would like that.”
\\\\\ 18 /////
“Very very sorry,” Puluni said. “I will buy new truck for Eraldo. That old truck, he has bad brakes. I warn him many times but Eraldo, he keeps driving truck. Eraldo, he says you broke your cane, yes?”
The commissaris felt in his pocket. He put the handle on the table. Pullini picked it up. He shook his head in silent consternation.
“Nice handle, beautiful handle. Maybe I can get you new cane. Really very sorry. Eraldo, he could have hit you, yes? Fortunately he turned wheel just in time, but say he had not, then what would happen? Commissaire de la police municipale d’Amsterdam dead in Sesto San Giovanni. Accident, of course. Constable here, he says accident. Eraldo, he says accident. Many witnesses say accident. But you, you dead commissaire.”
The commissaris took off his glasses and began to polish them. His eyes twinkled. The wine had been excellent, so had the meal. Proper gourmet food, exquisitely cooked. A lovely salad. Even the ice cream had been outstanding, and the service could be called personal, very personal. Renata had served every dish and had hovered around the table in between courses, managing to be both inconspicuous and lovely.
He couldn’t argue about Pullini’s good taste as he couldn’t have argued with Eraldo’s little green pickup that had missed him but had taken his cane and crushed it Eraldo was, indeed, a good driver. Pullini’s chauffeur had taken his chances, another fraction of an inch and the commissaris would have been caught by die sleeve, whirled around, and smashed into the cobblestones. As it was he had fallen, but the truck, in spite of its alleged absence of brakes, had stopped a few hundred feet down the road and come back to pick him up. Eraldo had been most apologetic and solicitous. He had brushed the commissaris’s jacket and helped him into the truck’s cabin and delivered him at the Ristorante Pullini. A good show.
“Now,” Pullini said, rubbing his wide hands, “we have eaten and now we talk. Something I understand now. Francesco, he has been silly, Elaine, she has been also silly. Sillier, for now she is dead.”
“Did you speak to your son this afternoon?”
“Oh, yes.” Pullini smiled benignly. Yes, he had finally got through to Amsterdam. Francesco was quite sure that the police suspected him of having pushed Mrs. Carnet down the stairs, and he was also quite sure that he was caught. His passport had already been taken away, soon he might be in jail.