"Not a nutcase?" de Gier asked.
"No."
De Gier's head moved closer to Grijpstra's. "Why," de Gier asked, "would, if you please, a non-nutcase desire to voluntarily join the Amsterdam Police to serve without pay?" De Gier dropped his voice dramatically. "Henk, listen. Isn't that, in itself, suspicious behavior? What we policemen are dealing with is human filth, misery any decent being would want to stay away from. And this good guy volunteers?"
Grijpstra grinned. "You mean that the very idea of wanting to be a cop is despicable in essence?"
"You disagree?" de Gier asked.
"Ask complainant," Grijpstra said. "I'm not being investigated here, okay?"
"I did ask complainant."
"You got a clear answer?"
"Termeer said he liked our type of work."
The detectives had more tea. Tabriz was turned upside down and kneaded by Grijpstra this time. The cat purred dutifully.
"Why," de Gier asked, "did you join the police yourself?"
Grijpstra cited stupidity, ignorance of choices, a slavish desire to serve the ruling class, a sadistic inclination. Uniform, badge, the right to carry arms are ways to indulge power.
He stared into de Gier's eyes. "And you, my dear?"
De Gier said that he wanted to serve the queen and that one could see the queen, or her symbol, the crown, as a kind of opening, a tunnel through which the aware and diligent disciple could approach divinity, even here on earth.
"That's nice," Grijpstra said.
De Gier poured boiling water into his teapot. "So what else do we know?" de Gier asked. "The commissaris mentioned that Termeer, according to Antoinette, appeared to be a 'young fellow of forty."'
"Some young fellow," Grijpstra said. "Six foot two, a sporting type, physically not unlike yourself but mentally more pure. Less cynical, I mean."
De Gier had the same impression. Termeer could be described as childlike. As "nice."
"You told that to the commissaris?" Grijpstra asked.
De Gier said he had but that, in spite of the possibly authentic complaint, now sustained by a profile drawn up by an experienced criminal investigator…
("Meaning you?"
"You too somewhat," de Gier said.)
…he didn't think it was fair that because of Grijpstra, via his pushy introduction of his star student, complainant Jo Termeer, the commissaris was now more or less forced to jump into a risky set of circumstances. In a dangerous city like New York of all places. Right before the rheumatic little old gentleman was to be retired.
Grijpstra felt bad.
Chapter 3
"Grijpstra should feel bad," Katrien said.
The commissaris was having breakfast-a Sunday morning ritual comprising a choice of three cheeses, fruit juices in antique tumblers, perking coffee, which set him up for the day.
Since Katrien no longer smoked she had done away with breakfast. Her sudden gain in weight distressed Katrien. The commissaris kept saying he liked her "ladylike figure."
"You like nothing better than being a hero in America," Katrien said, "another ruse that you hope will make your image live forever."
The commissaris, squeezing a fresh roll, spilled crumbs.
"Or would this case be somehow special?" Katrien asked. "A nasty twisted puzzle requiring your exclusive genius perhaps?"
The commissaris butchered a new piece of Gruyere.
"What is so peculiar about an Amsterdam book dealer found dead in Central Park, New York?"
The commissaris got up, walked over to his cylinder desk and came back carrying a fax that he handed over.
Katrien read that the commissaris's colleague Hugh O'Neill (a high-ranking detective with the New York Police Department, the commissaris explained) was nominally in charge of investigating the case of Bert Termeer, deceased, this fourth of June, in Central Park. The dead body had been found dressed in rags and covered with a filthy blanket. The autopsy indicated a fatal heart condition aggravated by trauma, an injury caused to Termeer's chest. A fallen branch was found near the corpse. Termeer's case was about to be defined as death due to natural causes, or caused accidentally, without intent. A sport-related incident hadn't been ruled out.
"The book dealer was struck by an unidentified implement, possibly propelled or wielded by an unknown party?" Katrien asked. She had been to New York and tried to recall a visit to Manhattan's Central Park. "Don't people play ball there?"
"This case is about to be closed," the commissaris said. He sipped apple cider. "A piece of cake, Katrien. Mere routine. I'm only looking into it in order to help out a nephew of the deceased, a policeman known to Grijpstra."
"Do book dealers wear rags in New York?" Katrien asked. "Do they sleep in parks under filthy blankets?"
The commissaris said he planned to look into those controversial aspects.
"Maybe golf," Katrien said. "Or baseball, or something. Victim was hit, collapsed, crawled into the bushes?"
The commissaris nodded.
Katrien was still thinking. "No. Wouldn't he be more likely to stay in the open, where help would be forthcoming?"
The commissaris fetched more fresh rolls from the kitchen.
"A busy park within the metropolis," Katrien said. "A man has a heart attack. Wouldn't people notice?"
The commissaris agreed.
"What age was Grijpstra's pal's dead uncle?" Katrien asked.
"Seventy, Katrien."
"Enjoying good health, apart from the heart condition?"
The commissaris said he would inquire.
"Not a drunk? Or an addict? So why would he wear rags?"
The commissaris planned to find out.
Katrien, frustrated, ate something after all-thinly sliced cheese-and drank coffee, no cream, no sugar.
The commissaris played with his roll, then handed the rest to her.
"Looks like it is all over," Katrien was saying. "What do you expect to come up with, Jan? Old people don't respond well to shock. They tend to just keel over. Remember my father?"
"Uncle Bert wasn't married," the commissaris said.
Katrien interrupted her eating. "Meaning what, my sweet?"
The commissaris meant that when Katrien's father died, he hadn't just switched off. He had been gradually worn down by seventy years of irritation caused by life's vicissitudes. That he was also hit by a truck was because, exhausted, he was paying no attention.
Katrien stared at her husband.
"I don't mean that you irritate me," the commissaris said. "Don't worry, Katrien. I'm sure the case is simple, even if it seems puzzling when we look at it from here. I'll check the details, ask around a little bit, study the location, go into this Uncle Bert's background. I'm sure my final report will put complainant's mind at rest."
"You'll be mugged," Katrien said. "You've been very sickly lately. You hardly sleep at night. You don't even enjoy napping. You keep taking pain pills. And I can't go with you because of our daughter's due date. I won't let you go."
Soon, the commissaris said, he would be retired. All the rest a man could ask for. He would wallow in nondoing.
"I'll go with you," Katrien decided.
"You promised to be here for the grandchildren's birth."
There was that-twins were about to be born to Katrien and Jan's youngest daughter. The birth was predicted to entail some complications. Katrien had promised support.
"I'll be fine," the commissaris said.
Katrien wanted to do something. The police convention accommodations consisted of a room in a Holiday Inn. Katrien had inherited a small fortune in tax-free jewels from a tax-evading aunt who had left her the key and authorization to enter a Swiss bank's safety deposit box. Katrien never wore "trinkets." She had sold the stashed rubies.
"I'll get you a nice hotel room. Right on the park. That will be pleasant. Maybe that place near that enormous museum. The Cavendish? I'll get you a suite. You can rest and enjoy room service."