Grijpstra knelt down obediently. The commissaris slipped past him, found a comfortable-looking chair and sat down. The girl stayed with Grijpstra until both shoes, upside down, were placed in a corner near the door.
"Are you police officers?" the girl asked. "I always thought they wore raincoats and felt hats."
"You've been watching old movies," the commissaris said.
"Coffee?" the girl asked.
"No, thanks, miss."
The commissaris approved of the girl. Large lively eyes in a freckled face. Stiff pigtails with blue ribbons to keep them together. A dress, reaching her ankles, made out of gaily printed cotton. Irregular but very white teeth, a strong mouth. A ray of sunshine, the commissaris thought happily, just what we need to finish off a day's work.
"You've come about Abe?" the girl asked and looked at Grijpstra, who was standing about forlornly. "Why don't you sit down?"
"Where?" Grijpstra asked.
"Right here." She pointed at a shapeless leather bag next to the commissaris' chair, got down on her haunches and thumped the bag. "It's quite comfortable, it's filled with pebbles. I bought it in Spain. Try it." Grijpstra sat down. "You see?"
"Yes, miss," Grijpstra said and screwed his wide bottom into the bag. Its back came up and supported his bulk; the pebbles were crunching inside.
"Yes," the commissaris said. "We've come about Abe. He was killed yesterday, as you know. We were told you were friendly with Mr. Rogge."
"Yes," the girl said. "Very friendly. We slept together."
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"I like to be exact," the girl said brightly.
Why is she so damned cheerful? Grijpstra thought. The man is dead, isn't he? Can't she be upset? He moved and the pebbles crunched again.
"Don't look so worried. That bag won't break. Hundreds of people have sat on it."
"So Abe was your lover, eh?" he asked.
"He was my lover but I wasn't his mistress."
"I see," Grijpstra said doubtfully.
"I don't," the commissaris said. "If Mr. Rogge was your lover you were his mistress. Surely that's the right way of describing the relationship, isn't it?"
"No," the girl said, and smiled. "No, not at all. Abe slept with lots of girls; they came to him when he flicked his fingers-and wagged their tails. He didn't even have to seduce them, they just expected him to take his pants off and do the job. Not me. He came when / wanted him to come and he left me when / wanted him to leave and he had to talk to me and to listen to me. I never tried to fit into his schedule. I am a busy girl, I've got my own schedule. I study and the State is paying me to study; they gave me a nice grant. I intend to finish my studies in time, ahead of time preferably. I don't play around."
It was a long speech and she delivered it almost vehemently, standing in the middle of the small room. Grijpstra was impressed. The commissaris appeared not to be listening. He had been looking around him. The interior of the boat looked as neat as its outside. She hadn't cluttered the room; everything which it contained seemed to fulfill a function. A large low table, stacked with books and paper and a typewriter. A few plants and a vase filled with freshly cut flowers.
He got up, and walked to the end of the room, stopping at a work bench. "Are you working on something, miss?"
Tilda," the girl said. "Tilda van Andringa de Kempenaar. Just call me Tilda. That's a bird feeder, or, rather, it will be one day. I am having a little trouble with it."
"Van Andringa de Kempenaar," the commissaris said, and narrowed his eyes. The puckered forehead showed that he was thinking, trying to remember. "A noble name, it shows in our history books, doesn't it?"
"Yes," she said briskly, "a noble name, a noble family."
"I should address you as freule' perhaps."
"Not really," she said. "Tilda will do." She picked up her long dress, bent her knees and straightened up again. "We had estates once, and influence at court, and I don't think we paid taxes in those days, but my great-great-grandfather blew it all in Paris and ever since then we've been like the rest and worked for a living."
"I see," the commissaris said and bared his teeth mechanically. "A bird feeder, you said?"
"Yes. I like making things but this is more work than I anticipated. It still has to be covered with sheet metal and glass but I've got to get the inside right first. It's supposed to be ingenious you see. The bird has to sit on this little rod and then some feed will flow into that tray over there. There's a small trapdoor here connected to the rod. But it isn't working properly. There should be just enough feed going into the tray; I don't want to keep refilling the container. The whole thing will be hung outside when it's ready and the only way I can get at it will be via the roof. The windows on that side don't open."
"I see, I see," the commissaris said, replacing the structure. "Very clever. Did you design it yourself?"
"I had some help but not much. 1 like inventing. I was always making soap box carts when I was a child. One of them got a prize at school. I won a race in it Want to see it?"
"Please," the commissaris and Grijpstra said.
She brought it in and went into a long technical explanation. "Very clever," the commissaris said again.
"What do you study, Tilda?" Grijpstra asked.
"Medicine. I am in my third year. I want to be a surgeon."
"But you are still very young," Grijpstra said in an awed voice.
Twenty-one."
"You'll have your degree in four years' time." Grijpstra was almost whispering. He couldn't imagine the girl as a graduate in medicine. He suddenly saw himself tied to a table in a white room. The girl was bending over him. She had a knife, the knife would cut into his skin, slicing a deep wound. Her fingers were touching exposed muscles, nerves, vital organs. A shiver touched the hairs on his neck.
"Nothing special," the girl said. She had seen Grijpstra's reaction and grinned wickedly. "Anybody who isn't downright stupid and who is willing to work hard for eight or ten hours a day can become a doctor."
"But you want to be a surgeon," Grijpstra said.
"Yes. I'll have to work in a hospital somewhere for another seven years or so. But it'll be worth it."
"Yes," the commissaris said. "Do you have any idea who killed your friend, Tilda?"
The grin froze on her face. She suddenly seemed to become aware of herself, standing halfway between her interrogators. "No. No, I have no idea. He was always so happy and full of life. I am sure nobody disliked him. Esther said that he was killed in some mysterious way? Is that right?"
"That's right," the commissaris said. "You wouldn't have any photographs, would you? We only saw him dead."
Her eyes were moist now. "Yes, holiday snapshots. I'll get them."
They looked at the album. Abe Rogge at the helm of his boat, and running in the surf, and leaning over the railing of a ferry, and at the wheel of an antique motorcar. Louis Zilver was in some of the photographs, and Tilda herself, looking healthy and attractive.
"Fishing," the commissaris said. "Did he fish a lot?" He pointed at a photo showing Abe struggling with a fishing rod, bent backward, pulling with all his might.
"That was in North Africa," the girl said, "last year. Just the two of us went. He had some gamefish on the hook, took him all afternoon to bring it in. It was such a lovely fish that I made him throw it back. It must have weighed a hundred kilos."
"Where were you yesterday afternoon and last night?" Grijpstra asked.
"Here."
"Anyone with you?"
"No, several people knocked on the door and the telephone rang but I didn't answer. I am working on a test. I should be working at it now too. They didn't give me much time and it's an important credit."