Grijpstra hadn't even looked up but he had heard all right and immediately the drums filled the space that the weaving flute left open and since then they had often played together.
Grijpstra didn't look up now either. De Gier's flute was neither thin nor hesitant now, but strong and free and Grijpstra had to go down to the depth of his heavy soul to find the inspiration necessary to follow his artful friend. De Gier was on his feet, bent slightly, shoulders hunched, he had closed his eyes. The bongo drums formed a well connected base, fairly loud and extremely simple, and the flute was now very courageous, shrilly wavering between two notes, shrieking almost. One shriek was so loud, and so breakable, that nothing could follow it.
Grijpstra paused and waited, very straight on the settee.
The flute came back, with a lovely round sound and the two little drums were with it.
Neither of the two had noticed the opening door. They hadn't seen van Meteren come in and they hadn't seen van Meteren leave again. They didn't notice his second entry either and they were so far gone that they didn't stop when the third player hit his wooden instrument, a tree trunk, hollow and with a long split in its surface. The sound of the jungle drum was hypnotic, magical, deep yet sharp and fitted in and even became the center of the melody. Both Grijpstra and de Gier played around the new sonorous vibration and raised the theme until they could go no further and until van Meteren, with a high-pitched yell and a final groan of his tree trunk, broke the interlinking sounds and they looked at each other, silently, and utterly surprised.
"What was that?" Grijpstra asked softly.
Van Meteren shook himself from his dream and looked at them with a laugh.
"I heard you both play so nicely and I thought my contribution might go with it. This is a drum from the forests of New Guinea. My mother's grandfather used it as a telegraph, to pass messages to the next village. It can also be used to make music. And our witch doctors have other uses for it. Whoever knows the drum well can create moods, influence others. You can lame the enemy with it but if you do you take a risk. A grave risk. The power may turn around and strike you down and you have to be well protected. The drum can kill its owner, or drive him mad, and you rush off into the jungle, hollering and beating your chest."
"You're not serious," de Gier said.
"What do you mean?" van Meteren asked.
'This influence, this power," de Gier said.
Van Meteren smiled gently.
"And what about you? What about your flute? What about the adjutant and his drums? What do you think you were doing? Making music?"
"Sure," de Gier said, "we were making music. Nothing to it. Boom boom. Squeak squeak. Lots of people do it. To amuse themselves."
"But then you are changing your mood, aren't you?" van Meteren asked. "You are creating something, surely. Something new I mean, something that wasn't there before. Perhaps this new something is innocent. But you might, with the same effort, create something dangerous, a little evil force, which sneaks away from you and does what you intend it to do."
Grijpstra laughed.
"You are in Holland, van Meteren. Cheese, butter and eggs. Tulips. Windmills keeping the swamp dry. Nice crumbly potatoes and thick gravy. Gray porridge, so thick that you can hardly stir it. But all right, if you like we will be sorcerers and witches. We'll catch the murderer by creating a vibration."
"Yes," de Gier said, "and the vibration will rush off, and suddenly, hats, it will catch him and bring him to us. And when he is close enough we'll hand him the ballpoint and he'll sign his confession."
"In his own words," Grijpstra added, "and clearly enumerating all the elements of the crime as it is listed in the law."
Van Meteren relaxed.
"But the music was O.K., wasn't it?" he asked.
"Yes," de Gier said, "rock group The Bopcops," and he looked at his watch. "Six o'clock. I'll have to go home. To feed the cat."
"You'll have to take the bus," Grijpstra said. "We have no car."
"Bah," de Gier said. "It's rush hour. The buses will be full. Bodies sweating all over you."
"Where do you live?" van Meteren asked.
"In Buitenveldert. Why? Do you have a car?"
"No," van Meteren said, "the parking police pay modest wages. But I do have a motorcycle."
De Gier wasn't enthusiastic. He detested the motorized bicycles cluttering the capital's streets by the thousands but he didn't want to offend his incongruous colleague.
"That'll be very nice," he said, "if you can spare the time."
"As long as you'll be back soon," Grijpstra said. "I am going to have dinner at the Chinese restaurant on the Nieuwedijk, next to the bare-bottom cinema. I'd like you to be there at seven-thirty. Can you make that?"
De Gier nodded and followed van Meteren.
They crossed the busy thoroughfare and van Meteren led the way into the large court of the monstrous Land Registry Office opposite the Haarlemmer Houttuinen.
"They let me park her here," he said. 'They wouldn't have anything to do with me when I asked them but it was all right when I showed them my police card."
"Must be a new bicycle," de Gier thought, "a Kreidler, I suppose, with a fifty cc engine. Half a dozen of them are stolen every night."
They found the Harley-Davidson under a corrugated iron roof.
De Gier stopped. He recognized the model, a 1943 Harley of the Liberator type, which he had seen for the first time when the Allied armies rushed into Holland. He had been a twelve-year-old boy, waving at the side of the road, and a large American military policeman had waved back at him, firmly in the saddle of the gorgeous monster guiding a dozen halftracks loaded with cheering troops. The motorbike seemed to be in prime condition, spotless, white, its chromium plated exhaust gleaming in the sparse light of the large dark court.
"You like her?" van Meteren asked.
"Beautiful," de Gier said, and meant it. "Where did you get her?"
"From a junkyard, for a couple of hundred guilders," van Meteren said.
"We used them in the New Guinea police and I was trained on a similar machine, many years ago now. When I bought the wreck she was in very sad shape and it took me almost two years to strip and rebuild her again. The spare parts are very expensive so I tried to use all the old parts, but it was a lot of work. The gearbox was the worst part of the job, I had to replace it in the end, after having wasted a month on the bastard. And the leather sidebags are new, of course, or rather, unused. I bought them from an army dump and the leather had dried out and begun to crack. I must have used kilos of fat to restore them."
He kicked the Harley off her standard and began to push her out of the courtyard. The machine was so heavy that it was quite an effort to push her up the slight elevation toward the street.
"A little patience now," van Meteren said. "I'll start her up."
De Gier followed the process with interest. The clutch had to be kicked down. There was no spring to the clutch so that it couldn't resume a neutral position but would have to be adjusted continuously. On the tank an air-stopper had to be unscrewed and pulled up. Choke. Regulation of the ignition by turning the left handlebar. Gas pushed back by turning the right handlebar. Kick the starter four times, giving a little gas each time, to suck petrol into the two cylinders. Turn the key on the tank. Push the choke back but not quite back.