"Some party," de Gier said. "They are driving me mad in there. Are their parties always like that?"
"First time I have been to a party outside Abe Rogge's house for a long time. Abe's parties were always well organized, and he would have live music. A few jazz musicians who followed the mood of the evening, not like this canned stuff they are pouring out now. And the drinking was slower. They fill up your glass in here when the last drop is still on your lips. I haven't been going for more than an hour and I am sloshed already."
"They scare me in there," de Gier said. "I had to get away for a minute and speak to some sane person."
"I am sane," Zilver said. "Talk to me. You said they scare you. Do you really get scared sometimes?"
"Often."
"Anything in particular that scares you?"
"Blood," de Gier said, "and rats. Rats I can stand now. I saw one the other night when we were chasing someone near the river and I didn't mind so much. A big brown brute, he jumped into the water as I was almost on top of him. I wasn't really afraid then, but blood always gets me, I don't know why."
"You'll grow out of it," Zilver said and smiled at a girl who passed them to go to the toilet. "I am scared of things I can't define. I dream of them but I can't remember them when I wake up. I think I'll go back in there and chase a few girls."
"Switch the TV off," de Gier said. "They have some horror movie on. I would switch it off myself but I don't want to be rude. You know Uncle Bert better than I do."
"I will. I'll change the record too. We want some rock music if we are going to chase the girls. Some pretty ones came in just now. You want me to introduce you?"
"No, thanks. I am here to work."
"Good luck. Got any ideas yet?"
"Lots of ideas," de Gier said, "but I want more than ideas."
Zilver smiled and closed the door behind him.
The girl had come out of the toilet and de Gier nipped in, locking the door with exaggerated care. He washed his hands carefully and combed his hair. He adjusted the silk scarf which was just the right color to go with his shirt. He sat down on the toilet seat and took out his pistol from its shoulder holster. He pulled out the clip and checked the cartridges. Six. He put the clip back and loaded, checking the breech. He could see the cartridge gleaming inside the steel of the barrel. He pulled the breech back and made the cartridge jump free. What am I doing this for? he thought. I never do this. He put the cartridge into the clip, replaced the clip and stuck the pistol back into its holster, washed his face, sat down again and lit a cigarette. Two corpses in two days. Three, counting the lawyer. But the lawyer had died because he had died. The others had been robbed of their lives. Robbery is a crime. Theft of the greatest good. The greatest good is life. And here he was in a house filled with people thumping the floor with their great ungainly feet to the beat of doped long-haired young men, tearing at the atmosphere with their electric sound boxes and magnified drums. The killer might be in the room, thumping the floor too, drinking high-powered jenever and sucking a fat cigar, with his red hand on some woman's eagerly trembling bottom. Or would he be somewhere else in town, grinning to himself? Or herself? He hadn't seen the two women whom Grijpstra and the commissaris had interviewed. He had asked Grijpstra about them but he had only been given the gist of the conversation and a description of the women. He had a feeling that Grijpstra was following some other line of thinking and getting nowhere, for he was saying even less than usual. De Gier got back into his own line of thought. A ball, attached to a string. And the string attached to what? How could the ball have found its mark with such deadly precision?
And the commissaris? Did he know anything yet? The case was only a few days old. No need to rush. Work along the rules. Follow each possibility as far as it will go. Turn back if there is no result.
Someone knocked on the door.
"Coming," de Gier shouted and opened the door.
It was the middle-aged lady who had been talking to him before.
"Are you all right?" the woman asked, touching his shoulder. Her eyelashes shot up and came down slowly. "I was missing you in there."
"I am fine," de Gier said quickly. "Go ahead, dear. The toilet is all yours." He ran back into the room.
Zilver was talking to Grijpstra. Grijpstra's face was flushed and there was a full glass of beer in his hand.
"Rinus," roared Grijpstra, "how are you my boy? Jolly party this. Eat some of the nuts. Delicious nuts."
Zilver wandered off.
"I'll be going soon," de Gier said. "Will you be staying long?"
"Yes. I don't have anything else to do tonight and this isn't a bad way to spend the time."
"You are getting drunk."
"Yes." Grijpstra nodded gravely. "Drunk as a coot. Maybe I'd better go too. How is Cardozo?"
"Drinking lemonade and watching the parrots."
"Disgusting birds," Grijpstra said solemnly. "That red one is throwing up all the time."
"I know. What happened to the girl who was being throttled by the bad man?"
"Police came. Just in time. They always come just in time. To catch the bad man."
"Yes. We don't. Poor Elizabeth."
"Elizabeth?"
"The policeman who was an old lady."
"Oh, him. Transsexual fellow." Grijpstra had some trouble with the word. "Trans-sexual." He tried again.
"I met her," de Gier said, grabbing a glass of jenever from the table without being aware of it. "Nice person. Great friend of the commissaris. She had just finished a bellpull in half cross-stitch."
"Really?" Grijpstra's eyes were round and kind. "Half cross-stitch?"
"You are drunk," de Gier said. "Let's get out of here. I'll tip off Cardozo as we leave."
"Right," Grijpstra said, putting his glass down with such force that it broke. "Home. Or maybe I'll go to Nellie."
"Phone first. She may have a customer."
Grijpstra phoned twice. Nellie was free and a taxi was on its way. He came back looking so happy that de Gier ruffled his superior's short graying hair.
"Nice," Grijpstra said. "Very nishe. Nice, I mean."
Cardozo nodded when de Gier had finished whispering. "What are you going to do?" Cardozo asked.
"Home. To bed."
"And the adjutant?"
"To bed."
"It's always me," Cardozo said. "Always. I spent an hour hanging all that money on the clothesline. My mother is furious with me for she's got to sit in the kitchen watching it dry. She thinks someone will come and steal it."
De Gier grinned
"Not funny, sergeant. How long do you want me to stay here?"
"Till it's all over."
"Can I drink?"
"If you are careful. Don't blab. Just listen."
The red parrot had begun to throw up again. Cardozo closed his eyes.
"You'll be a sergeant one day, Cardozo, and then you can push another constable around."
"I will," Cardozo said. "Oh, I will!"
18
"Tell me," the Commissaris said.
The commissaris looked fresh, almost jolly, and surprisingly elegant, for he had finally given in to his wife's constant urging and put on his new linen suit to go with the warm weather. It was specially cut for him by a very old tailor who, in his young days, had designed suits for the great merchants who made their wealth in what was once called the Dutch East Indies. The suit fitted him perfectly, somehow managing to look loose and soft, and the thick golden watch chain spanning his waistcoat added to his general aura of luxury. The commissaris had spent an evening, two nights and a full day in bed, leaving it only to soak in a scaldingly hot bath; and his wife had fussed over him continuously, supplying him with coffee and orange juice and at least five different soups, served in bowls with a plate of hot toast on the side, and lighting his cigars for him (even biting off the ends and spitting them out with a look of gentle disgust); and the pain had finally left him so that he could now sit in his oversized office and stretch out his legs without having to worry about sudden stabs and pricks and cramps, and take care of whatever came his way. De Gier had come his way that morning, at nine sharp, the earliest anybody could bother the commissaris in his secluded room. De Gier was upset, pale in the face, and unusually nervous.