"There you are," Grijpstra said at the door. "Don't forget your hot bath now, dear."
"Thank you," the old woman said. "You don't want to come up, do you? I have some good tea left, in a sealed tin, I have had it for years but it won't have lost its taste."
"Some other day, dear," Grijpstra said. "I have to help my mates. The sun has come back and we'll be busy this afternoon. Thanks anyway."
"You saved us all," de Gier said when Grijpstra returned. "The old cow would have murdered us. She had a wicked-looking umbrella."
"She never bought the lace," Cardozo said.
They were busy all afternoon, selling most of the cloth they had brought. Grijpstra and de Gier wandered about, leaving Cardozo to do the work, only coming back to the stall when the young detective's screams for help became too frantic. Grijpstra talked to Louis Zilver and de Gier followed up on their contact with the vegetable man. The hawkers were talking about Abe Rogge's death and the detectives listened but no new suggestions were given. There seemed to be a general feeling of surprise. The street sellers had all liked Rogge and were telling tall stories about him, stories which showed their admiration. The detectives were trying to find traces of envy in the conversation but there didn't seem to be any. The hawkers had enjoyed Rogge's success, success as a merchant, success with women. They mentioned his good breeding and his knowledge. They talked about the parties he had thrown in bars and at his home. They had lost a friend, a friend who had lent them money in times of stress, who had drawn customers to their corner of the market, who had listened to their troubles and who had cheered them up by his funny stories and extravagant way of behavior.
"We ought to do something tonight," the vegetable man said. "Have a few drinks together in his honor. Least we can do."
"Shouldn't we wait for the funeral?" the vegetable man's wife asked.
"The body is still with the police," Louis Zilver said. "I phoned them this morning. They won't release it for a few more days."
"Let's have the party tonight,'' the vegetable man said. "I live close by. You can all come at about nine o'clock if my wife is willing. All right, wife?" The fat little woman agreed.
"We'll bring a bottle," Grijpstra said.
"Yes, It'll be in your honor too then," the vegetable man said. "You helped me out today and I hope you'll keep on coming here. I'll ask all the others around here It'll be a big party, forty or fifty people maybe."
His wife sighed. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. "I'll help you clean up, darling, and we won't work tomorrow. We have cleared our stocks and we shouldn't work every day."
"Right," the vegetable man's wife said, prodding him affectionately.
16
There weren't too many buyers around at four o'clock that afternoon and the street sellers began to clear their stalls, pleased with the day's results. The rain hadn't lasted long enough to spoil sales, the puddles had drained away and were dried by the hot sun, vegetables and flowers had sold well and the date was close enough to payday to create demand for durable goods. Even antiques and high-priced electrical appliances hadn't done badly. The hawkers were smiling as they loaded their minibuses, vans and trailers, and were feeling the weight of their wallets, tins and linen moneybags with some satisfaction.
"Right," Cardozo said and lifted the remnants of a bale of cloth with a gesture of exuberance, but he overdid it and the end of the bale knocked a glass of coffee over, spilling the foaming liquid into the tin till which de Gier was about to close, having counted its contents.
"No," de Gier said.
"Silly," Grijpstra said as he bent down to survey the damage. "There's close to two thousand guilders in small notes in there. I have counted it too. Police money."
"No," de Gier said again. "We'll never get it dry and if it sticks together too much the bank won't accept it. You're a fool, Cardozo."
"Yes," Cardozo said. "You are right. You are always right. It's very annoying for other people, you know. You should learn to be wrong sometimes."
"You did it, you fix it," Grijpstra said. "Take it home and dry it somehow. You're still living with your parents, aren't you?"
"What's that got to do with it, adjutant?"
"Your mother may know of a way to dry it. Hang it on a line maybe, in the kitchen, with clothes pins. Or she can put it in the dryer. You've got a dryer at home?"
"The dryer may shred it," Cardozo said and dug about in the mess with his fingers. "It's all soddy now, it's only paper, you know."
"Your problem," de Gier said cheerfully. "You take care of it, constable. You can go home now and take the tin. We'll take care of the van. See you tonight at the party. Off you go."
"But…" Cardozo said, using the whining voice which he reserved for desperate occasions.
"Off," Grijpstra said. "Shoo! You heard what the sergeant said."
"He's only one rank over me. I am a constable first class."
"An adjutant is telling you too," de Gier said, "and an adjutant is two ranks above you. Off!"
"Yes, sir," Cardozo said.
"Don't cringe," de Gier said.
"No, sir."
"He always overdoes everything," Grijpstra said as they watched Cardozo's small shape, the till clutched in his arm, strutting away into the crowd.
De Gier agreed. "He hasn't been in the police long enough. The police underdo things."
"As long as they are ruled by a democratic government."
De Gier turned around. "I thought you secretly preferred communism, Grijpstra."
"Ssh," Grijpstra said, looking around him stealthily. "I do, but the communism I like is very advanced. By the time society is ripe for it we won't need any police."
"You think the day will ever come?"
"No," Grijpstra said firmly, "but I can dream, can't I?"
"What will you do when the dream comes true?"
"I'll paint," Grijpstra said, and heaved the last bale of cloth into the gray van.
They were driving through Amsterdam's thick late-afternoon traffic when Grijpstra touched de Gier's forearm.
"Over there, on the right, near that lamppost."
A man was staggering about, trying to reach the wall. As de Gier watched he saw the man going down on his knees, crumpling up on the pavement. The man was well dressed, about fifty years old. They were close when the man's head hit the ground. They saw the top plate of his dentures fall out; they could almost hear the click when the plastic teeth touched the stone tile.
"Drunk?" de Gier asked.
"No," Grijpstra said. "He doesn't look drunk. Ill, I would say."
De Gier felt under the dashboard for the van's microphone and switched the radio on as Grijpstra put up its volume. The radio began to crackle.
"Headquarters," de Gier said.
"Headquarters," the radio voice said. "Come in, who are you, haven't you got a number?"
"No. We are in a special car, on special duty. Van Wou Street number 187. A man has collapsed in the street. Send an ambulance and a patrol car."
"Ambulance alerted. Is that you, de Gier?"
De Gier held the microphone away from his mouth.
"Stupid bugger," he said softly, "knows my name.
I've got nothing to do with this."
"Yes, de Gier here."
"You take care of it, sergeant. We don't have a patrol car available right now. The traffic lights in your area aren't working properly and all available men are directing traffic."
"O.K.," de Gier said sadly, "we'll take care of this."