The commissaris sighed. It had been a good dream. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. The phone rang for a long while.
"De Gier." The voice on the phone sounded deep and throaty.
"Morning, de Gier."
"Sir. Good morning, sir."
"Listen," the commissaris said. "It's early and it's Sunday, and judging from the way you talk you were asleep when your phone rang. I want you to get up and wash and have some coffee and shave perhaps. When you are ready you can phone me back. I'll be waiting for you."
"Yes, sir. Ten minutes."
"Make it twenty. You can have breakfast first if you like."
"Right," de Gier said.
The commissaris replaced the phone and stretched out. Then he changed his mind and got up and fetched some lettuce leaves from the kitchen. The turtle was waiting for him in the garden and bravely left the grass and marched ponderously on the flagstones leading to the open door of the commissaris' study.
"Morning sir," de Gier said again.
"Tell me," the commissaris said, "about last night. Anything worthwhile?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "Miss Rogge gave me three names and three addresses. Do you have a pen, sir?"
The commissaris noted the names and addresses. De Gier talked. "Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"Perhaps Grijpstra and I should call on these people today, sir."
"No. Grijpstra can go and Til go with him. I have other plans for you. Are you ready?"
"Yes, sir."
"Right. Go to our garage and ask for the gray van. Then go to the stores. We have some confiscated textiles, bales of cloth, a good assortment. They are due for auction next week but we can have them. I'll phone the chief clerk at his home later this morning."
"Textiles?" de Gier asked. "The gray van? Do you want me to take the textiles somewhere?"
"Yes. To the street market tomorrow. A detective should be a good actor; tomorrow you can be a hawker. I'll contact the market master at the Albert Cuyp and he'll give you a stall and a temporary license. You won't need more than a few days. Make friends with the other hawkers. If the killer comes from the market you'll be able to pick up a trail."
"Just me, sir?" De Gier didn't sound pleased.
"No. You can take Sergeant Sietsema with you."
"Can't I have Cardozo?"
"Cardozo?" the commissaris asked. "I thought you didn't like Cardozo. You two are always quarreling."
"Quarreling, sir? We never quarrel. I have been teaching him."
"Teaching. O.K. Take him. Perhaps he's the right choice. Cardozo is Jewish and Jews are supposed to be good traders. Maybe he should be the hawker and you can be his assistant."
Til be the hawker, sir."
The commissaris smiled. "Right. Phone Cardozo and get him to join you today. Better phone him right now before he leaves for the day. And what about Esther Rogge, was she in a good state of mind when you left her last night?"
There was no answer.
"De Gier?"
"I have her here with me, sir, in my apartment."
The commissaris looked out the window. One of the magpies was sitting on the grass, looking at the turtle. The turtle was looking back. He wondered what the two could have in common.
"It isn't what you are thinking, sir."
"I wasn't thinking, de Gier, I was looking at my turtle. I had a dream last night, something to do with the Papuan. Do you remember the Papuan?"
"Yes, sir."
"A strange dream. Something about his two sisters. They had wings and they flew into my garden. There was a full moon and my turtle was in the dream as well. My turtle was excited, jumping about in the grass."
"In your dream, sir?"
"Yes. And it was real, more real than the conversation I am having with you now. You dream too, you told me last night."
"Yes, sir. I'd like to hear more about your dream sometime."
"Sometime," the commissaris said, and stirred the coffee which his wife had put on the little table next to his bed. "Sometime we'll talk about it. I often think about the Papuan, possibly because he was the only suspect who ever got away after we had caught up with him. You'd better get Miss Rogge home, I suppose. I'll phone you tonight and tell you what Grijpstra and I found out, or you can phone me. My wife will know where I am."
"Sir," de Gier said, and rang off.
By eleven o'clock the commissaris' black Citroen was parked outside Grijpstra's house on the Lijnbaansgracht opposite Police Headquarters and the commissaris had his finger on the bell.
"Yes?" Mrs. Grijpstra's tousled head shouted from a window on the second floor.
"Is your husband in, madam?''
"Oh, it's you, sir. He'll be right down."
The commissaris coughed. He could hear the woman's voice inside the house and Grijpstra's heavy footsteps on the narrow wooden staircase. The door opened.
"Morning, sir," Grijpstra said. "Excuse my wife, sir. She is getting too fat to move around much and she won't answer the door anymore. Just sits near the window and shouts a lot. Right opposite the TV, but there won't be any TV till this afternoon."
"Never mind," the commissaris said.
"We are going to see this Bezuur fellow first, aren't we, sir? Does he know we are coming?"
They were in the car now and Grijpstra greeted the sleepy-eyed constable at the wheel. The constable wasn't in uniform but sported a dark blue blazer with the emblem of the Amsterdam Municipal Police Sports Club embroidered on the left top pocket.
"Yes. I phoned and he will see us right now. Then we can have lunch somewhere and see if we can raise the two ladies on the phone. I would like to see them later today if possible."
"Good,'' Grijpstra said and accepted a cigar.
"You don't mind working on a Sunday, do you, Grijpstra?''
"No, sir. Not at all, sir."
"Shouldn't you be taking the little ones out?"
"I took the brats to the zoo only last week, sir, and today they are going to play at a friend's house. And they are not so small anymore. The littlest one is six and the other one eight."
The commissaris mumbled.
"Pardon, sir?"
"Shouldn't have asked you to come," the commissaris repeated. "You are a family man and you were up half the night. Sietsema could have come just as well, I don't think he is working on anything now anyway."
"No, sir. But Sietsema isn't on this case, sir. I am."
The commissaris smiled. "How is your oldest son, by the way? He must be eighteen, right?"
"Right, sir, but there's nothing right about the boy."
"Doing badly with his studies?"
"Dropped out altogether and now he wants to leave the house. The army doesn't want him and he'll never find a job, not even if he wanted to, which he doesn't. When he leaves the house he'll be applying for national assistance, he says. I never know where he is these days. Rushing about on that little motorbike, I imagine, and smoking hash with his friends. He's sniffing too, caught him the other day. Cocaine powder."
"That's expensive," the commissaris said.
"Very."
"Any idea where he gets the money?"
"Not from me, sir."
"So?"
"I've been with the police a long time, sir."
"Dealing?"
"Everything, I think," Grijpstra said and pretended to be watching the traffic. "Dealing, motorbike stealing, straight-out burglarizing and a bit of prostitution. He doesn't like girls so he'll never be a pimp, but that's the only bad thing he'll never be."
"Prostitution?" the commissaris asked.
"He goes to the wrong pubs, the sort of places where they pick up the shopkeeper from the provinces and get him to take them to a motel."