"For his Walther PPK pistol, according to the report," Cardozo said. "Expensive. An appropriate weapon for an influential man to have around."
"An illegal weapon," Grijpstra said. He walked back to his desk. He picked up the file and pointed it accusingly at de Gier. "And the junkies just happened to die on their boat across the street? The very same night?"
"You know, Adjutant," de Gier said gently, "this is not our case. Besides, it's closed."
Grijpstra dropped the file and pounded it softly with both fists. "The report is too brief. Is the commissaris back yet?"
"You wouldn't suggest," de Gier said, "that a case closed by colleagues should be reopened, would you now?"
Cardozo brought out his notebook. "It's the junkies that get me. Do you know that I had a junkie visit me here? An American who said he lived in a houseboat on the Binnenkant? His name was Jimmy. One of the dead is called James T. Floyd in the report. Isn't 'Jimmy' short for 'James'?"
"Ask de Gier," Grijpstra said. "Our intellectual sergeant knows all about everything. He even reads French literature."
"Sergeant?" Cardozo asked.
De Gier nodded.
Cardozo checked his notes. "Jimmy called here a month ago. Pity the file doesn't give physical descriptions." He reached for his telephone and dialed. "Mr. Jacobs? How're you doing? You're not? I'm sorry. Is that right? You don't want to be doing? That's okay, then. Listen, a question, Mr. Jacobs. You have a dead young man there, an American, James T. Floyd of Berkeley, California, it should say so on the tag on his toe. I want to know what he looks like. Sure, I'll wait." Cardozo held his hand over the phone's mouthpiece. "Yagh! I can hear Jacobs pull the metal box out of the fridge." He dropped his hand off the receiver. "Tall? Long blond hair? Missing front teeth? Thank you, Mr. Jacobs, that's what I wanted to hear." Cardozo replaced the phone.
"You're acquainted with the deceased," Grijpstra said. "That's nice."
Cardozo grimaced sadly. "Yes, Jimmy came to tell me about some planned murder. That's what I like about specialization. We're the Murder Brigade, so if a visitor says 'murder,' he's sent to us. Pity I didn't believe him at the time."
Grijpstra pounded his desk with more force. "Dead junkies on a boat. Dead banker in a house across from the boat. Dead junkie, when still alive, comes here to gab about murder. Adjutant Guldemeester says there's no connection. Chief Inspector Halba diagnoses one case as suicide and the other as an overdose. Bah!"
"Constable?" de Gier said. "Why didn't we get to hear about Jimmy?"
"I forgot," Cardozo said. "We were working on the Frisian case. Lots of odd birds drop in here from time to time. Odd crazy birds. We chase them away. You're lucky I made a note. He was in here two minutes before he fell off his chair. Wanted heroin in exchange for information."
"But subject mentioned murder. Did he mention anything else?"
Cardozo shrugged. "A murder that was planned. He would tell me all about it in exchange for junk. The informer was ill. A scarecrow, a sight. If this Jimmy turns out to be the dead James T. Floyd, I won't be surprised."
"What happened after the subject fell off his chair?" Grijpstra asked.
"I picked him up," Cardozo said, "walked him down the stairs, and pushed him into the street. Standard instructions. Sick junkies aren't taken to hospitals anymore, since treatment is usually refused by the medical staff. Waste of time and trouble."
"He must have said something more," de Gier said. "A lot of words fit into two minutes."
Cardozo read from his notes. "Subject claims to study Chinese literature at the University of California in Berkeley. He had taken a year off to visit magical Amsterdam."
De Gier gestured enthusiastically. "We could check, you know. There are enough details. I could send a teletype message to all stations. Most junkies are known to some cop or other. Jimmy probably dealt junk, too. The Alien Department might know of him as well. You think he really was a student, Cardozo?"
"Maybe," Cardozo said. "Subject must be intelligent, for he spoke passably good Dutch, learned within a year. He could have been well off once, a refined-looking wreck."
"Missing teeth," de Gier said. "A fight?"
"Junk does that to them." Cardozo shifted his papers around absentmindedly. "Pity I didn't follow up."
"You could have reported subject to Narcotics," de Gier said.
"Waste of time, Sergeant. Narcotics used to be Chief Inspector Halba's show. At Narcotics, nobody has time to listen."
"Halba had already been transferred to the Murder Brigade by then."
"And he hadn't been replaced," Cardozo said. "That department wasn't functioning. It functions a little bit now. Chief Inspector Rood is supposed to be in charge again."
Grijpstra sighed. "Nothing much has changed. Isn't it great to be back at work? Sergeant, it's your turn to buy me coffee at the cafe of my choice. The commissaris isn't back yet, I take it. You didn't answer my question just now."
De Gier dialed. "Miss Antoinette? It's me. Has the chief shown up yet, or is he still in his Austrian sulfur bath? Miss Antoinette? Remember my suggestion? I'm sorry if I made my intentions too clear, perhaps, but if I don't we'll never get anywhere together. Since you're so shy, I mean, and since I'm shy, too. This afternoon? Thank you very much."
"During working hours?" Cardozo asked. "Are you out of your mind? That's all we need. You'll be suspended for sure. There's a whole list of complaints against you as it is."
"The commissaris is due back this afternoon," de Gier said. "I know about the complaints. Halba was waving the list at me. Dangerous driving and Lord knows what. Balderdash, mostly. Adjutant? Did you read what the file says about the German terrorist? There's more trouble there."
"Colleagues killed the fellow, didn't they?" Cardozo asked. "In a telephone booth. I saw it in the paper on the way back from Spain. Chief Inspector Halba was in charge of the hunt."
"He wasn't really," de Gier said. "Chief Inspector Rood prepared the case, traced the suspect, did everything. Halba stepped in at the last moment. There's news value in such an arrest. Halba is a fool. He placed detectives around the booth. When suspect started shooting, colleagues had to return his fire, and since there were cops on all sides, someone was bound to get hurt."
Grijpstra groaned.
"See what happens if we aren't around?" Cardozo asked. "By the way, I heard some talk in the canteen just now. Informers tell us that both Halba and Guldemeester seem to be having a good time at local night spots."
"I know," de Gier said. "Small town. Bad news travels fast."
"You heard about the chief constable as well?"
"Out on the tiles too?" de Gier asked.
"Extramarital trouble. A blonde photo model he shows off in his Porsche."
"Forget the coffee," Grijpstra said, and stomped over to the door. He yanked his knife out of the wood. "I'm going out alone."
Cardozo looked up when the door banged behind Grijpstra. "What's with him?"
"Holidays never agree with the adjutant," de Gier said. "He probably feels he's been missing out. He turns his back a moment, and four corpses are strewn about in the same location." De Gier picked up a pair of drumsticks from Grijpstra's desk and stroked a cymbal that formed part of a set of battered percussion instruments wedged between a filing cabinet and the window. "What do you think, colleague? Something smelly about the banker's death, maybe?"
Cardozo pouted. "I never trust you when you call me 'colleague.' "
De Gier tried a roll on the big drum. "Answer the question."
"Maybe," Cardozo said. "Suicide is pretty easy to prove."
"Easy to disprove, too." De Gier scratched the snare drum with both sticks. "Pity Grijpstra hasn't been playing lately. Too much on his mind. All our troubles are getting him down. Silly, really. Troubles are exciting."