"Why was IJsbreker shot?" the consul asked.
"I think Fernandus wanted him out of the way," Cardozo said. "There was a struggle for power. Three junkies were killed, after they removed IJsbreker's wealth."
"So they're that ruthless?" The consul got up and looked out the window. "Your mother is weeding our garden in the rain."
"What is Izzy doing?"
"He's being useless," the consul said. "Sitting on a rock. Talking to himself."
"A letter from you will uncrazy him," Cardozo said. "Then he'll be useful again. That bank is an enemy fortress; we can blow it up."
"My specialty," the consul said. "I blew up a lot of buildings. I got shellshock too, and was transferred to diplomacy. I saw a dead Arab who looked just like my Warsaw brother. The Arab was killed by a device that I placed."
"We'll do all the work cleanly," Cardozo said, "for mutual profit. Just write the letter."
"What if you went away?" the consul asked, "you and your dear mother?"
"And Izzy?" Cardozo asked.
The consul's lips became a pink nipple that pushed itself from the gray curls of his beard.
"The kiss of compassion?" Cardozo asked. "All is forgiven and forgotten?"
"Forgive we don't," the consul said.
"All right," Cardozo said, "forgetting is fine too." He pointed at the files strewn about on the tables. You have quite an administration here. In administrations, much is forgotten. Forget your charges."
"Well?" Mrs. Cardozo asked in the garden.
"It's okay," Cardozo said.
"He said that?"
"He did not say that," Cardozo said. "And he has lost something now, his administration is a shambles."
"What?" Izzy asked.
"His charges against you, it seems," Cardozo said. "When I left he had stopped looking. Apply for your Dutch passport. I don't think this consulate will object."
\\\\\ 18 /////
"Is she beautiful?" the Commissaris's wife asked, watching how her husband arranged his new pale blue tie, standing very straight in front of the full-length mirror in the hallway.
"Yes," the commissaris said.
"Whowho?" asked Carl, swaying his unbalanced body into the hall. "That's a nice tiehie."
Mrs. Jongs dragged the vacuum cleaner behind her. "Bob also sees other women. He has three at home, and me, I'm his wife."
"Who?" the commissaris's wife asked. "I thought your womanizing was over now. All this gallumphing about is getting you into trouble, Jan. You need a much stricter routine. I wish you could go back to work."
"She's part of my work," the commissaris said. "She's my secret agent and she's young and beautiful, so I put on my new tie."
"Secret agent indeed," his wife said, brushing his sleeves. "And I polished your shoes. Is she the secretary you're sending to the whorehouse?"
"Where are my car keys?" the commissaris asked. "I've got to go. I'll be late. I had them here on the table."
His wife patted his pockets. The keys rattled. "Here they are. You're seeing Miss Antoinette?"
"She has volunteered for the job," the commissaris said. "We've discussed my relationship with Miss Antoinette at length, Katrien. I never sent the poor girl anywhere. It's Willem again, he made the immoral suggestion."
"But she's doing it for you," his wife said, buttoning his jacket. "That's the part I don't like. I wish you would understand women a little better."
"We does it all for them and they never understands," Mrs. Jongs said. "Can I clean here now? Carl, is this yours?" With the vacuum cleaner's snout she touched scraps of wood stacked in a corner of the hall. "That's Tuhurtle," Carl said, "me and the co-hommm…" He waved his hand furiously, trying to trip the word off his jaw.
"We found the pieces together," the commissaris said. "Last night when we were out for a walk. Don't you like the head, Mrs. Jongs? The State Detection sergeant found that for us. He came along, he can't drive his car in the park. It's a champagne cork."
"That's Tuhurtle's foohoot," Carl said, "the other cohork is his heahead, the one with the men-metal still on."
" 'Bye," the commissaris said. His wife followed him to the door. He kissed her cheek. "I'm not a dirty old man."
She kissed him back. "I know, Jan, but it isn't fair. Older women can never find lovers, and all that old men have to do is put out a hand." The commissaris put out his hand. She held it between hers. He retrieved it gently. " 'Bye, Katrien, got to go now."
He walked to his car. The Corvette parked across the road started up. The commissaris waved at the driver. He got into the Citroen and wound the window down, waiting for the Corvette to make a U-turn and come alongside. "Morning," the commissaris said. The sergeant's companion sat up straight, rather awkwardly, for the Corvette's seats were luxuriously tipped back. "Morning, sir."
"I don't want you two to know where I'm going today," the commissaris said, "so I thought of a special trick. We'll have some fun, okay? See if you can catch me. Back up a little, please, so I can get out of here."
The Corvette backed away obediently. The commissaris maneuvered the Citroen out of its tight parking place and swung the large car into traffic. He drove as far as the Rijksmuseum without doing anything spectacular, the Corvette following close behind. The commissaris grinned into his rearview mirror and said, "Now." Cyclists were all around him, heading straight for the gateway through the museum's main building reserved for two-wheeled traffic only. The commissaris switched on his left-turn indicator, swerved a little to the left, turned the wheel back, then made the car jump dead ahead. The Corvette followed, forcing protesting cyclists to the side. "Very well," the commissaris said. "Thought this was it, did you? Tried to lose you and I failed? Good. Now watch this." He turned right and drove parallel to the center lane reserved for trams. A tram appeared and slowed down for the tram stop. The commissaris slowed too, staying abreast of the tram. Passengers filed in and out. The tram's doors would close any moment now. "Hurrah!" the commissaris shouted, and stopped, shifted his car into neutral, and pulled on the emergency brake. He jumped out of the Citroen and into the tram. The tram closed its automatic doors and clanged its bell. The traffic light ahead had changed to green. The commissaris looked back and grinned. The Corvette was blocked by the stationary Citroen. The State Detection constable, resplendent in his polished leather suit and hennaed hair, had left the Corvette and was running after the tram. The commissaris waved. The tram turned left and made use of its clear lane to accelerate.
The commissaris left the tram at the next stop and waved a cab down. "Prince's Island."
"Sir," the cabdriver said, and put up the flag that activated his meter. The commissaris checked his watch. Five to ten. Too early to smoke cigars, a little too late for his meeting with Miss Antoinette. She would wait.
She got up as he walked into the cafe hardly limping; perhaps the sudden leap from car to tram had disturbed the pattern of his usual morning pains. "Dear," Miss Antoinette said, "I did so worry about you."
The commissaris nodded to the skeletal barman. "Morning, Bert."
Miss Antoinette skipped up to the bar, displaying a long perfect leg through a split in her tight skirt. "A jenever, please, nice and cold, and a vodka and tonic with ice for me." She carried the drinks back, put them down, and whirled on the gleaming floorboards. "Do you like my outfit? Aren't I realistically wicked now? Like the short skirt? Don't you just love the low blouse?" She bent down.
The commissaris looked away. "Splendid, dear."
"Do look," she whispered. "The bra is transparent. Willem bought me lots of clothes yesterday, it took forever trying them on. Do you think this is my true self?"
The commissaris looked. He coughed discreetly. "Most attractive."