"I do," de Gier said and thought of the breasts that had been presented to him, one by one.
"You sound much better now," Grijpstra said. "I am still looking for the right motive."
De Gier sighed. "You've got a good motive. Seventy-five thousand is a good motive."
"Yes. But what do you think of this? Van Meteren and Mrs. Verboom have an affair. We know that Piet was always on the make, and with some success. So the marriage must have been a failure, which means that Mrs. Verboom must have been frustrated. Frustrated women need company. Nature doesn't like gaps, it fills them up. Black is beautiful. She grabs van Meteren."
"Black is beautiful refers to Negroes," de Gier said, "not to Papuans."
"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "If I were a woman I would prefer a Papuan. Negroes, nowadays, are too civilized, they watch TV and football and make nice conversation. They are boring. But Papuans were cannibals, one generation ago. Just one generation ago. Imagine. Long pig for dinner, and feathers on your head, and dancing in the full moon, and pointing the bone."
"Hmm," de Gier said dreamily. "We used to do it too, you know."
"We did it a hundred thousand years ago. We have forgotten."
"I think you are right again," de Gier said. "I thought you knew nothing about psychology."
"No psychology," Grijpstra said, "just dreams. Imagination. The reason she took van Meteren was because she had him in the house. He could have been a Chinese, or a man from Rotterdam."
"No," de Gier said, "not a man from Rotterdam, she wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have."
"A frustrated woman may do anything."
"Go on," de Gier said. "You excite me."
"So she took the Papuan," Grijpstra said.
"He is only seven-eights Papuan."
"Stop interrupting me," Grijpstra said. "I have things to do. And seven-eighths of a Papuan is a complete man."
"What things to do? It's Saturday. You are free."
"Free!" Grijpstra exclaimed. "Free, ha! I have to take my children to the beach and it's late already. They are all packed, buckets, spades, sunhats, thermosflasks, the lot."
"O.K. Go on then."
"This van Meteren is a special man, have you noticed?"
"Of course I have," de Gier said. "Didn't I tell you how he rode that Harley-Davidson of his, and how he treated Oliver?"
"You have," Grijpstra said. "So he is a special man, and Mrs. Verboom is a beautiful intelligent woman. They get on well. But they have no money. Van Meteren has a minimal wage and Mrs. Verboom waits on her husband's customers and slaves in the kitchen for a penny a week. Meanwhile Piet makes a fortune, on drugs. Van Meteren knows about Piet's racket, maybe he is part of it. Perhaps he knows that Piet has seventy-five thousand ready to buy a large quantity. Heroin maybe, or cocaine. Or a big load of hash. He tells Mrs. Verboom that he will get the money. She wants to help him but van Meteren realizes the danger. If we had found Mrs. Verboom in the house at the time of Piet's death we might have discovered the affair. She had to go."
"Right," de Gier said, "so he told her to leave her husband, and to make the break complete, to leave the country as well. It would absolve her of being suspected of complicity. So what happened then?"
"I am glad you can follow me," Grijpstra said, "so early in the morning. Now the good part comes."
De Gier looked out of the window and saw Oliver, who had climbed into the geranium box and was chattering at the seagulls.
"Ho," he shouted, "hold it. Oliver is in the flowerbox again. He fell out last week and nearly broke his jaw. He bled for days. I'll have to get him out."
Grijpstra sighed.
"I got him," de Gier said, and sighed as well. "Damned cat. I should have bought a canary. Go on. What's the good part?"
"Piet becomes depressed," Grijpstra said. "He really misses his wife and child. He mentions suicide. Van Meteren eggs him on. Piet is an unbalanced type and capable of doing away with himself. Van Meteren spreads the rumor that Piet is very depressed and getting worse. Everybody in the house believes it."
"Ha," said de Gier, who had become really interested. "But Piet is full of cheer, in spite of missing his family. He is busy on the biggest deal of his life. He is buying heroin or whatever, which he can sell immediately to the drug dealers who come to his bar, and who pass themselves off as proper Hindists. But the deal misfires and Piet is dead. How did he die?"
"Well," Grijpstra said, "simple. Van Meteren waits until Piet has the money in the house. Piet is waiting for whoever will bring him the drugs. But before the man arrives van Meteren strolls into the room, knocks Piet out and hangs him. The money goes into his pocket and he hides it somewhere, outside the house perhaps. The world is large."
De Gier studied a discolored spot on his ceiling, a round spot. He remembered that he had dreamt about the spot. He had got into it and it led somewhere, but he couldn't remember where it led to when he woke up.
"Yes, yes," he said, "and van Meteren would make use of the fight Therese picked with Piet that day. He came in just after she had stalked out of the room, found Piet in a dazed state, holding his head after he had been hit with the dictionary, and finished the job. And when we came he was the first to notice the bruise, to stress his innocence."
"You really think the girl hit him with that book?" Grijpstra asked. "Women never hit anything. They miss. But it doesn't matter."
De Gier began to laugh. "Doesn't matter," he repeated. "You talk like a Hindist. You've been converted?"
Grijpstra laughed. "I have been converted years ago. The police may not teach much and I may have a thick head but I did notice that nothing is quite as important as it seems. But never mind, maybe it doesn't matter who the murderer is, we'll catch him all the same."
De Gier made a face at the telephone. "Just for the hell of it, what?"
"Hell, or heaven, or purgatory. Whatever you like. And if we don't succeed we'll keep on trying. And if we never succeed it'll be a pity, but not too much of a pity."
"Yes," de Gier said, "then what happened?"
"Van Meteren phones Mrs. Verboom in Paris and tells her he had made a neat job of it. She can come. She'll have to come for she has to show some interest in the inheritance."
"Why?" de Gier asked. "She might have stayed away. But she'll want to see van Meteren. But all right, maybe she should have come or we would have worried about her. Pity she came, I would have liked to have visited her in Paris. But now what do you want of me?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "glad you remind me. I want something of you. It's a nice day and you have nothing to do. I want you to date her. You were very impressed with her yesterday, she must have noticed. And you have thought about her all night. Tossed in your bed. Nothing wrong with that, you are a bachelor. So phone her and make a date and take her out."
"What if she refuses?"
"She won't," Grijpstra said persuasively. "You are a detective and charged with the case. She knows that and she is curious. And you are very handsome, you know. Two good reasons for her to welcome your company. And then you can listen to her. She is sure to drop her guard. Let her talk."
De Gier got up, stretched, and grunted.
"You do it," he said. "You are a great actor. Act the fatherly type. If your theory is correct I'm of no use to you. She'll be in love with van Meteren. I have a blotched pink skin, not a shining black one."
"I've got to go to the coast now," Grijpstra said. "Good luck and good hunting. Give me a ring tonight, any time, and tell me what happened."
"HEY!" de Gier shouted.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked.
"A car. I need a car, you don't want me to take her on the luggage carrier of my old bicycle do you?"
"No," Grijpstra said. "There'll be a Mercedes waiting for you in the police garage next to Headquarters, at two o'clock this afternoon. There'll be fifty guilders in the glove compartment. The doorman will have the keys. Tell me what you have spent on Monday and give me the change, and the dockets."