"Heh heh." De Gier put his hands on his knees and smiled at Grijpstra.
"No," Grijpstra said.
"Released from my duties," the commissaris said. "Isn't 'release' a lovely expression? I still have duties, of course, but I can define them myself now. My self-inflicted duty now is the destruction of the Society for Help Abroad. Adjutant? What do we do next?"
"Lean on Heul," Grijpstra said. "He's the weakest link in their chain. I had a good look at Heul last night. If we can get him away from Huip Fernandus, Heul might confess to having supplied the dope to the junkies. We could waive that and have him implicate young Fernandus. Fernandus is tougher, but if we break him we have the leader's only son."
"They aren't weak enough yet," de Gier said. "Let's raid the club first. Illegally, of course."
"There you go already," Grijpstra said.
"Don't you want us to go?" de Gier asked the commissaris. "Karate and Ketchup would like to be in on the raid. Their sergeant is bought by the Society, so they can only hunt the Society's competition. This sergeant owns a high-priced sailboat on the Vinker Lakes. That's where the motel is."
"The motel," the commissaris said. "That would be the private country club where all rooms are continuously reserved for Society members? That muckraking magazine my wife cherishes mentioned the motel."
"The motel is protected by the local police," de Gier said. "We can raid it later."
"Raid," Grijpstra grunted. "What raid? You mean we burn the place down? Have charred bodies on our hands? Are you crazy?"
De Gier dropped his voice to a persuasive level. "Just rob the club a little, Adjutant. Annoy the opposition. Show them they aren't as safe as they'd like to be. They can't officially complain, for the reporters would swoop down and write about their illegal activities. Two illegals cancel each other out."
"Sir?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes, Adjutant." The commissaris looked over Grijpstra's head. "I was thinking about Karate and Ketchup. Courageous little daredevils, are they not? They've been promoted to detectives, I hear. Can we trust them, do you think?"
"Grijpstra doesn't trust anybody," de Gier said.
Grijpstra scratched his badly shaven chin. "We could use them a little. They've been helpful so far. Pointed out that you're followed by a State Detection Corvette. Karate and Ketchup have got good eyes. Told us about Cardozo, too."
"Cardozo?" the commissaris asked. "Yes, de Gier mentioned that just now. Cardozo seems to be out on his own somewhere. Did you go to that address in Mad Nun's Alley?"
"Not yet, sir," de Gier said. "I think Cardozo wants to impress us. He'll show up in his own time."
"We could use an inside contact in the club," Grijpstra said.
"Oh, my," the commissaris said. "Oh, my."
"You've got someone in mind, sir?"
The commissaris looked at de Gier. "Oh, dear. Another decision. I have to consider morals again. Should I ask Katrien?"
"Beg pardon, sir?"
"Never mind," the commissaris said. "I'll work this out. Why don't you try and get hold of Cahcarl, meanwhile? Even if we can't use him as a witness, it'll worry Fernandus once he knows that Cahcarl is in our custody. I think I'd like to talk to subject. Just pick him up and bring him over. He could enjoy protective custody at my place too. What do you think?"
"Then what, sir?"
"Then you take a break," the commissaris said. "Drive along the Amstel River a bit. Check with me later. Stay away from the phone. If I'm not home, I'll pick up messages at Bert's place on the island." He got up. "Away with you now."
\\\\\ 14 /////
"How?" De Gler asked. "By being the police. We can find anybody."
"Shuhure," Carl said, beckoning the adjutant and the sergeant into his loft. "If they're spahastic."
"Okay," Grijpstra said. "It was easy, Mrs. Jongs gave us the name of your street. We just asked around the neighborhood. Nice place you have here."
Carl lived in the top-floor loft of a large old house; the loft had its own front door and a steep staircase unbroken by landings. De Gier wandered about the vast space, weaving his way through the statuary that showed up everywhere. "You've been busy. This is great stuff."
"How's Mrs. Johongs?" Carl asked, leaning against a full-sized standing lion that growled near the door. The structure, looking fairly realistic, had been made from slabs, probably leftovers from sawn logs. The animal appeared to smile and had raised its tufted tail in a gesture of jolly eagerness.
"Mrs. Jongs is fine," Grijpstra said. "You may meet her a little later. She's staying with our chief."
"You're aharresting me?" Carl asked.
"No," de Gier said. "We'd like you to come with
139 us, though. Maybe you should take some clothes. We believe you're in danger and would like to ensure your safety."
"Amazing," Grijpstra said, looking at a row of large insect heads, displayed on a wall like hunting trophies. "This must be a mosquito. What are those wavy things coming from the eyes?"
"Not eyeyes," Carl said. "The eyeyes are on top and the si-hides of the hehead, those things are an… an…" He was bending sideways, contorting his mouth, his elbows jerked backwards, but the word still wouldn't come out.
"Antennae?" Grijpstra asked. "I see. Most expressive. This is some collection."
Carl, dressed in spotless jeans and a short-sleeved striped shirt, took the adjutant to the back of the room, where a microscope had been set on a table painted a meticulous white. A glass box held some dead moths. Carl held up a large magnifying glass. "Vehery beautiful."
"You catch them?"
"The spihider does." Carl pointed at an open window covered with cobwebs. He produced a pair of tweezers and took out a dead fly, steadying his hand with the other. "I hahaven't made a flyhy yet."
De Gier was looking at another table, covered with carpenter's tools, jars of nails, and a pot of glue bubbling on a hot plate. Heaps of broken boards, twigs and dried stalks, odd-shaped rocks and pebbles, flanked the table. "How do you get all this stuff?"
"I fihind it," Carl said. "Keeheeps me busy."
"You on welfare?"
"Noho."
"But you don't do regular work," Grijpstra said.
"This isn't reh-reh-reh… gular work?"
"Yeah, sure," Grijpstra said, "this is expressive stuff, really. I envy you your talent." He looked around the huge room again and concentrated on the skeleton of a horse assembled out of material that was probably charred plywood, remnants of a gutted building, perhaps, cut to size by a saber saw; the cadaverous animal seemed to prance in high spirits. The adjutant smiled widely and encompassed all the sculptures and other artful displays in a sweep of his arm. "This is something else again, but you don't make money on it, do you?"
"I dohon't neeheed to."
De Gier brought out a pack of tobacco and offered it to Carl. "Noho thanks, my hahands tremble." Carl found a packet of cigarettes among his tools and lit one. "My fahather sends money."
"That's nice," Grypstra said.
"Noho," Carl said. "Dahad never comes here. Because I'm spahastic."
"And your mother?"
"Noho, she's a Buhuddhist."
"The compassion of the Buddha?" de Gier asked.
"Noho," Carl said. "She lihives in a coh-coh-comm…"
"Commune?"
Carl nodded gratefully. "Vehery hoholy." He frowned furiously. "Fuhuck her."
De Gier admired a huge bird, swooping down from the ceiling, with wings made out of black garbage bags and a long beak twisted from sharp wires. "That's my mohother," Carl said. "My fahather's over there." De Gier walked over to the indicated corner. He stepped back when he saw a human figure sitting on a chair.
"Shit," de Gier said. "Look at this, Adjutant." Grijpstra ambled over. "Shit," Grijpstra agreed. Carl had outdone himself. The other figures all had a surrealistic touch-they were funny in a way, even the leering spider and beetle faces, even the bird of prey -but the sitting man, reading a newspaper, was horribly plain and ordinary, wearing a real suit, shirt, and tie. The meticulously sculptured wooden body implied, in its attitude, a complete self-centeredness, accentuated by the arrogantly tilted head that peered at columns of figures from deeply recessed eyes. The paper was the Financial Times and there was a satisfied sneer on the man's thin mouth; evidently the shares he owned had done well that day. The suit, tailor-made out of superior tweed material, fitted the figure perfectly. "I tohook the suhuit," Carl said. "Dahad had thrown it out. Shoehoes too. Everything."