"You are the youngest," Grijpstra said, "don't argue."
"No," said de Gier, and paid the bill.
"Got anything yet?" Grijpstra asked, addressing a young constable who was moving casks in the cellar of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number 5.
"Perhaps," the young constable said. "These casks contain some sort of paste. I believe it is called mizo and they make soup with it. I ate it once in one of these health-food restaurants. The taste isn't too bad if you don't eat too much of it. Innocent stuff anyway but this is different. I picked it up on the floor."
He showed a few crumbs of a sticky dark brown substance. "It looks like mizo but it is harder. I think it is hash."
"You roll your own cigarettes?" Grijpstra asked.
"Sure," the constable said. "You want some cigarette paper?"
Grijpstra mixed a little of the substance with cigarette tobacco, cutting it up with his stiletto. De Gier lit the cigarette for him and Grijpstra took a deep puff and exhaled the smoke. They all sniffed.
"Hash," they said simultaneously.
"We'll send it to the lab to make sure," Grijpstra said, "but it's hash all right."
"Good work," de Gier said to the constable, who looked pleased, but he didn't think much of the find. A few crumbs of hash on the floor meant nothing. Of course these people would smoke hash. Johan, or Eduard, or the girls, or Piet himself, or van Meteren perhaps. And they might drop a little on the floor. Why not? To smoke hash is hardly punishable. To stock and sell it is a crime. If they could find a cask full of the stuff…
"You opened all the casks?" he asked.
"All of them. We had to cut the ropes and pry the lids open with a knife. Nothing but soup paste in there. We prodded them and took samples from the bottom and the sides. Soup, that's all."
"Anything else?"
"Nothing," the constable said, "but it's a hell of a mess here. Dirty. Dead mice and all. And they call it a restaurant. Bah."
"You are still young," Grijpstra said. "The world is held together by dirt. Don't think of it or you'll never eat again."
Before leaving the cellar he stopped and turned around. "I'll tell you something else. Female bodies can be very dirty too. Did you ever think of that? If you would only consider…"
"I don't want to know," the constable said.
De Gier laughed and climbed the stairs. A detective tapped him on the shoulder.
"You got a minute?"
De Gier followed the detective to the restaurant. "You found something?"
The detective shrugged. "Perhaps."
"So?"
"Well, you'll have to decide. You are in charge, aren't you?"
"Grijpstra is in charge."
"That's what I mean," the detective said. "You and Grijpstra, same thing."
"Oh yes?" de Gier asked irritably. "I am a separate entity, you know. We aren't a Siamese twin, you know."
"All right," the detective said. "You are separate. You want to hear what I have to tell you?"
"Please," de Gier said.
"In van Meteren's room, that Papuan gent, we found some funny things."
"I know," de Gier said. "I saw the room. A wild boar's skull, a jungle drum, a collection of twigs and shells and stones and some funny dolls."
"Exactly," the detective said, "and a Lee-Enfield rifle, well kept and wrapped in an oiled cloth, but no ammunition."
"Hey," de Gier said, "he shouldn't have that."
"Right," the detective said, "but the fellow is on the force and he had no ammunition. He told me that he used to be with the New Guinea state police and that he kept the rifle as a souvenir, when the Indonesians took over. He didn't want to surrender his weapon. A patriot. He took it apart and smuggled it in, and the customs didn't notice. Now do I grab him or not? To own a firearm is a crime nowadays. It'll cost him his job and maybe his unemployment benefits. He'll have to pay a fine and his name will be in the books forever."
"What have you done so far?" de Gier asked.
"I told him to report to the armory at Headquarters and ask them to pour aluminum into the barrel, then he can keep it. But I also said that the final decision rests with you. So I can still grab him if you give the word."
"O.K.," de Gier said, "let's do it your way. But tell him to report to the armory this week. If he hasn't been there in seven days' time we'll still grab him."
"Yes, boss."
"And write an unofficial report with a copy for the armory sergeant."
"Yes, boss."
"And don't call me boss."
"No, boss," the detective said.
Grijpstra came into the restaurant, accompanied by a young woman and a little girl.
"Allow me to introduce you."
"De Gier," de Gier said. "You must be Mrs. Verboom."
"Mrs. Verboom has come straight from the airport," Grijpstra said. "This is Yvette. Yvette is very tired, aren't you?" The little girl smiled.
"We mustn't keep you, then," de Gier said. "Can we take you anywhere? Do you have a place to sleep?"
Mrs. Verboom smiled sweetly.
"Don't worry about us," she said. "My father is downstairs with the car. He'll take Yvette home and I'll go there later. I thought you might want to see me right away."
"Yes, that would be a good idea," de Gier said. "This officer will take your daughter down to the car."
The detective took the little girl by the hand. "You want to come with me, dear?"
"Are you a policeman?" the girl asked.
"He is a very nice policeman," de Gier said. "Aren't you?"
"Yes, boss," the detective said.
Grijpstra and de Gier studied the young woman. Piet's taste must have been excellent. Th6rese was a good looking girl but this woman, although at least ten years older than her husband's mistress, and worn out by the trip and possibly tension, was a beauty. De Gier admired the long thick blond hair and the sensual, well-shaped mouth. Mrs. Verboom crossed her legs and produced a cigarette. De Gier smiled and lit it for her. She smiled back.
"I hope you don't mind if I am not sad. I didn't love Piet, not for a long time, and I am not really concerned about his death. I didn't want him to the but if he did, well, then he did."
"I understand," de Gier said.
"And I didn't kill him," she said calmly. "I couldn't have if I had wanted to for I was in Paris. I can prove it easily. I'll give you my address in Paris, so you can check it out."
She wrote the address down and de Gier copied it in his notebook. He would have to ask the chief inspector to contact the French police.
"You are now the only director of the Hindist Society," Grijpstra said.
"Some society," Mrs. Verboom said sarcastically, "some nothing. The house is empty and everybody has left, except van Meteren, I hear, and he was never part of the Society. And he is leaving as well, he tells me. And I saw through the Hindist nonsense a long time ago. Piet converted me when I married him, when I still thought he had something to teach." She looked at the policemen.
"But I am interested in the money, I have to look after my child."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Verboom," Grijpstra said, "but I don't think there is any money. Your husband mortgaged the house and I don't know what happened to the money. There's still a chance we may find it but right now there is no trace of it. Perhaps you can sell the house and make something out of it but I think you should contact Joachim de Kater, your husband's accountant."
Mrs. Verboom looked out of the window.
"The bastard," she said. "For years and years I sweated on this house. I even plastered some of the walls and did carpentry. He made me carry bricks, right up to the top floor, he was too stingy to install a proper hoist. And it wasn't just me. We were all idealists, we were going to improve the mental climate of Amsterdam and make people happy by introducing them to the 'real peace.' We were detached! Ha."
The detectives smiled understandingly.