When Grijpstra returned with his two assistants he found de Gier with a carbine in his hands.
"What do you want to do with that?" Grijpstra asked. "The war is over."
"I know," de Gier said, "I saw too many movies. And a carbine is a beautiful weapon, it has to be handled every now and then. When it lies under the back seat it dies."
"A point fifty machine gun is a beautiful weapon too," one of the detectives said. "I used to have one in Indonesia. Ah, the sound of it. Rattattat it would go. And afterward we would eat real fried rice, with shrimps on the side, and some good fried vegetables. A good life. And to think that all I do now is walking about the street markets, sniffing about for stolen goods."
"A warrior," de Gier said.
"Well," the detective said, as if he were apologizing, "my friends were killed over there and I have been in a hospital for a while, with a splinter of a shell in my leg, a splinter of a Dutch shell, of course. But it was another sort of life. Not monotonous at all."
"This may be very exciting," de Gier said. "Perhaps you'll be climbing about on the roof of a house in the Vossiusstraat tonight."
"That'll be fun," the detective said, "providing a spectacle for the hippies in the Vondelpark. It may stop them from picking their noses, for a while anyway."
But they, found no one at the Vossiusstraat. They showed photographs to the neighbors. The neighbors recognized one of the photographs.
"Moved out a long time ago," they said.
"Without registering their new address," one of the detectives said. "That's one offense we can prove."
Grijpstra chuckled and patted the eager young man on the shoulder. "We can't arrest him for an offense, and the fine is ten guilders."
De Gier parked the car close to the Leliegracht and went off on his own to have a look at the house. A lovely gable house, recently restored by the -city's architects and resplendent in its seventeenth-century luster.
He returned to the car and reported.
"Those houses have small gardens in the rear," Grijpstra said. "Two of us will have to watch from there." He looked at the detectives on the back seat.
"All right," said the smaller of the two, "we'll ask the neighbors for permission. Don't forget to let us know when it's all over, or we'll be sitting there until tomorrow morning. It has happened before."
De Gier rang the bell and the door opened at once. He saw a wide-shouldered young man at the top of the stairs. A long-haired young man, a luxurious growth of shining golden hair hanging down to his shoulders.
"Yes?"
"Police. Can we come in a minute?"
"Do you have a warrant?" the young man asked.
"No," said de Gier, "but we can fetch one in a minute. My colleague will wait here for me to come back with it."
The young man thought for a few seconds.
"No," he said. "I don't want to inconvenience your colleague. Please come in."
Grijpstra looked about him in the living room and admired what he saw. The city's architects were top notch, no doubt about it. Thick oak beams, elaborate wood-sculpture on the windows and windowsills. The aristocratic style of the past had come to life again.
He introduced himself to the young man and his friend, who had been watching TV, but had switched the set off and got up to greet the guests.
"Beuzekom," the young man with the golden hair said, "but I can safely assume that you are already aware of my name. And this is my friend, Ringma."
"Please sit down," Ringma said, and pointed at a low couch with an inviting smile. Ringma was a little fellow with a rat's face; he was going bald but he had allowed the fringe on his head to grow and the spare hairs partly covered his small ears.
Grijpstra sat down and looked longingly at the bar that occupied a corner of the room. Beuzekom stood behind the bar.
"What can I offer you?"
"Something nonalcoholic," Grijpstra said.
"Lemonade? Tonic? Limejuice ice and water?"
"Lemonade," Grijpstra said.
Beuzekom cut two lemons and squeezed them with a practiced gesture using a small strainer. Ice cubes tinkled. A silver stirring ladle appeared as if by magic. The glass was served on a small antique tray, solid silver.
"Have you ever been a barman?" asked de Gier, who had been watching the performance with interest.
Beuzekom smiled. "Can you see it? You are right. As a student I used to make some money during the holidays. I started as a lavatory scraper on a cruise ship, I was promoted to cabin steward on the second trip and became barman on the third. Nice work, and it brought in a little pocket money as well. Would you like a lemonade, too?"
"Yes, please," de Gier said.
"I hope you don't mind if we drink something a little stronger?"
Beuzekom poured two glasses from a bottle of an expensive brand of whisky.
"Neat?" he asked Ringma.
"On the rocks," Ringma said.
"And what can we do for you two gentlemen?" Beuzekom asked. He had sat down, in a highbacked velvet-covered chair and smiled down on his guests.
"The fellow has charm," de Gier thought. "It pours out of him. It requires an effort of will to dislike him."
De Gier made an effort of will.
"You have been convicted of drug dealing," Grijpstra said, put his glass down, pursed his lips and paused.
"That's correct," Beuzekom said, after a while. "The police are well informed. Three months in jail, one suspended. Ringma was acquitted for lack of proof. He did the housekeeping while I was away. But that's a year ago now, I had almost forgotten."
"And now there is some indication," Grijpstra said, "that you are back in the business. You may have been buying hash, packed in small casks. Hash that looks like mizo-soup paste. According to the information we received you picked up the merchandise yourself, in a house at the Haarlemmer Houttuinen, property of Piet Verboom, now deceased."
Beuzekom nodded, gulped his drink down, and shivered. "First drink today," he said. "Always gives me the shivers."
The room gradually filled itself with a nervous silence. Its occupants merely looked at each other.
Beuzekom poured himself another drink. "Your information is correct, up to a point. I did buy some mizosoup paste from Verboom for he was overstocked. I thought I might be able to sell it to other restaurants. But so far I haven't had any luck, not yet anyway. There are some restaurants in The Hague I have to try. I bought five casks and I still have five casks. They are here, in the house. Would you like to see them?"
"Damn," thought de Gier, who had been studying Ringma's face meanwhile. Ringma's eyes had twinkled.
"I'd like to see them," Grijpstra said.
"Give us a hand, Ringma," Beuzekom said and together they rolled five little casks into the room. They hadn't been opened and had been wound with thick rope.
"Shall we open them up?"
Grijpstra nodded.
"Don't," Ringma said. "Once we have opened them we can't sell them anymore. They are nicely closed and that rope looks very decorative. I'll never be able to make them look the way they look now. I am no Japanese."
"Don't be a bore," Beuzekom said. "Open them up yourself and be careful about it. Maybe you can get them back into their original state afterwards. If the police think that they contain hash they'll keep on thinking it unless they have been proved wrong. You know there is no hash in the casks, and I know there is no hash in the casks, but what matters now is that the police will know there is no hash in the casks."
"All right," Ringma said, and began to loosen the knots as carefully as he could. It took him a few minutes to open the first cask.