"Now," said van Meteren.
He kicked the starter again and the engine came to life, with a soft but powerful gurgle.
"Do you have to do all that?" de Gier asked surprised.
"Yes," van Meteren said. "If you forget any of the movements you can kick the starter till your sweat fills your shoes. I can do it a lot more quickly but I saw you watching me so I went slowly. It can be done in a few seconds, and even a few seconds is a long time in New Guinea, especially when someone is firing at you with a bren gun."
He made an inviting gesture and de Gier climbed on the back part of the double saddle, van Meteren slid onto the front part and the machine took off at once. De Gier looked at the old-fashioned gear lever attached to the tank and thought of the BMW he once used to ride himself and the easy footgear that he could move with a flick of the toe. But van Meteren handled the cumbersome gear with the same ease.
De Gier was frightened. A motorcycle gives no protection. Only the skin envelops your life, the merest touch of a car or a lamppost and your leg is gone, your shoulder crushed or your skull split.
But his fear went when he realized that this was the best trip he had ever made through the city of Amsterdam. Van Meteren chose the grachts and sidegrachts and rode, without the slightest shock, through the narrow streets. He took no risks and the machine slithered through the rush-hour traffic. At every traffic light they were the first to take off and the Papuan never seemed to use his brakes, approaching the stoplights in gear and guessing the exact moment when the lights changed. A car that ignored their right of way was avoided in a supple curve and de Gier, pressed against the small body of his host, felt no irritation with the thoughtless or offensive driver who had endangered their lives. An obstacle, skillfully passed, no more.
When, at the end of the Beethovenstreet, the heavy traffic thinned out, van Meteren allowed the Harley to pick up speed and de Gier saw, when he looked over the Papuan's shoulder, that they were doing almost a hundred, but there was no danger, there were no sidestreets and de Gier watched the fat reed-plums, bordering the canal, flashing past him as a solid curtain and felt free.
The Harley slowed down and de Gier pointed at the large block of flats that contained his small apartment. Van Meteren changed into neutral and turned the key. The motorcycle approached the front door in silence. The Harley was in very good repair indeed, de Gier thought. He couldn't detect the slightest rattle or squeak anywhere in its complicated engine.
"Very nice," de Gier said. "Thanks a lot. Only the motorcops ride like that but they use BMW's and Guzzi's. I wonder if they could duplicate your performance on a Harley."
"Of course they can do that," said van Meteren. "I have ridden other makes when I was with the New Guinea police. Each brand has its secret, but you can solve them within a week and if there are any faults you can make use of them. The Harley is a little slow but makes up for it by its reliability. You can risk all sorts of maneuvers on the Harley that you shouldn't even think about on another cycle.
"Come in a moment," de Gier said. "I have some beer in the fridge and you can drink it while I feed Oliver, but be careful with the cat. He isn't to be trusted and if he can't attack you straight away he'U wait for an opportunity and while he waits he looks very innocent, as if a mouse wouldn't melt in his mouth."
He was glad he had warned van Meteren for Oliver was in a bad mood. De Gier had always kept the cat inside and Oliver had become neurotic. His twisted mind still loved de Gier but anyone else was considered as legal prey and of the few visitors de Gier had entertained lately at least two had left with bleeding ankles.
Oliver flattened himself when he saw van Meteren and began to growl, making his tail swell up at the same time. Van Meteren dropped to his haunches and scooped the cat off the floor, turning him upside down in the same movement. He caught the cat in his forearm and shook him gently, talking to the surprised animal in a gentle and smoothing voice.
"You are a sweet little cat, aren't you? A crazy silly animal? A crazy animal who hates large people, don't you?"
Oliver purred and closed his eyes.
"God, Christ Almighty," said de Gier. "He has never done that before."
"He does it to you doesn't he?" van Meteren asked.
"Yes, but he has known me since he was eight centimeters long and white all over. He needs a lot of love, that cat, and he'll bite me if I don't spend half an hour a day stroking and fondling him, but so far I have been the only person who could really touch him."
"Cats are marvelous animals," said van Meteren, who had put Oliver back on the floor, "great comedians."
Oliver tried again and attacked van Meteren's trousers, trying to gash a hole into the cloth. Van Meteren ignored him. The Siamese gave up and stalked into the kitchen, pawing the refrigerator and howling for his daily helping of chopped heart.
Grijpstra faced the chief inspector in the Hindist Society's restaurant. The chief inspector listened, while Grijpstra, limiting himself to the official language of a police report, summed up the events of the day.
"So you allowed her to go to Rotterdam?" the chief inspector asked.
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.
"Let me see now," the chief inspector said and looked at the cast-iron ceiling of the restaurant, studying the golden garlands of stylized flowers. "She admits she hates him. She admits that she threw a heavy book at his head. You even have that in writing, nicely signed. A bruise, it could be attempted manslaughter. I'll have to look at the doctor's report again. And seventy-five thousand guilders are missing. And she is pregnant with Piet's child. And he never did anything for her and everything he gave her she had to return."
"Yes sir," Grijpstra said.
"Yes sir," the chief inspector repeated. He was still looking at the ceiling.
"Well, all right," said the chief inspector. "When we need her you'll be able to find her, I suppose. And we are short of cells. And she is pregnant."
Grijpstra said nothing.
"You still think it was murder?"
"I don't know, sir."
"There's no news from the detectives who are hunting the two drug dealers. Or rather, there is some news. One of the detectives phoned me. According to the underworld there can't be any connection between the drug fellows and the murder. Nobody has ever heard of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number five."
"But that's the address where we found them," Grijpstra said in a flat voice.
"Yes," the chief inspector said. "Perhaps they were members of the Society. There must be a list of members somewhere. Did you see it?"
"No," Grijpstra said. "I think Piet pocketed the membership fees. I'll have to check with the accountant if the fees were part of the Society's income. Probably not. I did find a tearbook with membership certificates but there are no stubs. Piet just grabbed the twenty-five guilders each time and gave the new member his bit of paper. He didn't like to pay tax."
"Who does?" the chief inspector said. "Very clever man, our Piet."
Grijpstra grinned.
"Something funny?" the chief inspector asked.
"For a clever man he made rather a stupid picture, dangling from his own beam on a piece of rope."
The chief inspector grinned as well.
"So why would he have needed all that money?" he asked. "Perhaps he wanted to get away. The accountant claims that he might have had to pay some fifty thousand in taxes and fines. And according to the two boys and the two girls, and also to van Meteren, he didn't believe in the Society anymore. Perhaps he wanted to disappear and leave the Society as an empty hull, mortgaged up to the hilt and in debt to its suppliers. With seventy-thousand he might have made a new start. He has lived in Paris so he must be adapted to living in other surroundings than Amsterdam."