"It's impossible to discriminate against people from The Hague," de Gier said when they walked to the car. "Are we going anywhere?"
"To Headquarters. I telephoned the commissaris. He's making a special trip to his office to hear us. He's got the weekend off."
"I don't want to go. The two of you will be smoking."
"You could smoke too."
"I can't, you know I can't." There was agony in the sergeant's voice and Grijpstra took pity.
"So why did you stop, Rinus?"
"For you."
"Hondecoeter."
"What?"
"Hondecoeter," Grijpstra said. "If you answer out of context, I can do the same. I say Hondecoeter and you can find out what I mean."
De Gier drove on silently. He parked in the courtyard of the gray forbidding police building.
When Grijpstra wanted to enter the elevator, de Gier restrained him.
"Now what?"
"I know what you mean by Hondecoeter," de Gier said. "Melchior Hondecoeter was a not-too-well-known painter who liked to portray birds. You took me to see his pictures once, in the municipal museum. They all looked as if they had been painted in the evening. You thought of him last night, when you saw the exotic geese in the canal. I thought of him too. And you mentioned his name because you wanted to draw my attention to the essential beauty of…"
"Restrain yourself, sergeant."
"Never mind, don't withdraw at the crucial point. I know exactly what you meant, Grijpstra. You wanted to share your perception with me. Very sweet of you. Really, I'm serious. You're right too, we live in a wonderful world, but we busy ourselves and don't notice."
"I didn't mean anything of the kind."
"Subconsciously," de Gier said. "The true feeling that only comes out in some children and a few artists. I appreciate your true intentions."
"A brothel," Grijpstra said.
"Hey?"
"Apple pie, very tasty. But I would like to know who gets sent to the brothel when there is trouble. There's always trouble in brothels. If he sends Karate and Ketchup, they'll tear the joint apart and he won't get apple pie that way. But he does. So…"
De Gier gaped.
"So he sends himself," Grijpstra said triumphantly.
De Gier touched the breast pocket of bis shirt. "I forgot to buy cigarettes. I always have cigarettes. Now why did I forget?"
"Sergeant Jurriaans is no good either," Grijpstra said.
3
"What nonsense is this?" the commissaris asked. "It's Saturday. Since when do I work Saturdays? Since when do I work at all? Don't you read newspapers? It says so here, in last night's Courier. The Courier is writing a regular column on the police these days. It's gotten tired of playing up the drug bribes and now it's paying attention to officers above the rank of inspector. It says that high police officers are only concerned about publicity." He waved the newspaper. "In black and white, read all about it, colleagues. We're stupid too, that was in yesterday's issue. We can't remember the simplest details. So why are you wasting yout time with me? Whatever you'll tell me will go into one ear, out of the other." The small old man stood in the dead center of the large Oriental rug that decorated his office. Irregularly shaped orange halberds seemed to grow out of the points of his polished shoes.
De Gier laughed.
"I'm glad I amuse you, sergeant."
De Gier stopped laughing. The commissaris's sharp little nose pointed at the sergeant's forehead.
Grijpstra cleared his throat. "He stopped smoking, sir. His behavior is somewhat irregular."
"Is that so? What's this story on the disappeared household goods? You fellows getting into simple theft? Didn't anybody see the van or truck the criminals used? Trucks don't look as identical as cars; they can be traced without too much footwork."
"No sir. We would like to acquaint you with the framework of our case and ask for your advice and permission to go ahead."
The commissaris almost smiled but snorted instead. "Advice? Permission? Really!" He slapped the newspaper. "Read this. I'm here to beautify the building, and as I don't even do that, I've become an appendix that can painlessly be removed. You two are doing the work. The journalist delved deeply and the quality of his research is admirable. He even took some photographs of my colleagues. You should see how dumb they look. No brains anywhere in their oversize skulls. No function either. Filling rooms on the upper stories of police stations."
"We haven't been able to trace the truck, sir, but we haven't done much so far. The only witnesses we interrogated were people who happened to get in our way. On Monday we can telephone the movers."
"Did you say 'murder' just now, Grijpstra?"
"Yes sir."
"Tell me the story again. You can say something too, sergeant. Do you have to stare at me like that?"
"Would you have a match, sir?"
"You stopped smoking, didn't you?"
"To chew, sir."
De Gier chewed. Grijpstra reported. The commissaris dropped his newspaper, picked up a watering can and busied himself with the plants on the windowsills.
"That's all, sir."
The commissaris replaced the can in his cupboard. "Yes, the facts, as described by you, don't tally much. But they fit exactly, of course, once you have the pattern and the other facts. Anything that happens consists of intertwining causes and effects and every single one of them can be traced. Some of your missing facts could be criminal, or they could. be harmless. They might very well be harmless. Offhand I would say that Sergeant Jurriaans's approach is correct. Mr. Fortune is having a hard time without you two stepping on his toes. If I tell you to consider him as a suspect he loses some of his liberty, and he has already lost his wife and his possessions."
"And his dog," de Gier said, smiling inanely.
"Job," Grijpstra said.
"Beg pardon, adjutant?"
"I said 'Job,' sir. The old woman who shared the handcart with me called him that. Fortune is Job. Not on the dungheap but in an empty apartment. A comparison, sir."
The commissaris was following the edge of his carpet which contained a number of colored squares. He only stepped on the blue squares which were irregularly placed, so that he had to jump here and there.
"Job. Quite. But Job came out fine. He used the right attitude, passive positivity. The man's faith was impeccable. Hey! You can't be serious, Grijpstra. Are you identifying me with the almighty Father? Are you saying that I have the power to plague the unhappy man further because he'll gain the heavenly kingdom anyway?"
De Gier grabbed his throat and coughed harshly. He spat out a sliver of match wood.
"What now?" the commissaris asked, his voice rising. "Are you okay, sergeant?"
"It's the chewing, sir. Haven't got the habit yet. I shouldn't tear so much; just flattening the match is enough."
Grijpstra was halfway out of his chair. "Please start smoking again, Rinus."
"No."
"A fundamental change of a habitual pattern causes critical effects, adjutant. We'll have to harden ourselves. Job, eh? A most interesting comparison. God and the devil gambling and the suspect is the stake. Let's hope he is intelligent and knows he can't lose. Did I ever tell you about the time that I lost my car?"
De Gier suffered another attack of harsh rasping coughs and it took a few minutes before the commissaris could entertain his assistants. He had, a few years back, been issued a new Citroen of the expensive variety and was pleased with the classy vehicle. He thought of an errand, drove into town, and parked the car. When he returned the car was gone. His disappointment was mingled with fear. Not only that something wasn't there that should be there, not only that the missing item was the gleaming auto he had been so proud of owning a few minutes ago-the loss could be related to events of the past, he had attempted to twist his car key into thin air before-no, the emptiness confronting him at that fearful moment was more than he could have expected. The Citroen wasn't there and the ground on which it had rested wasn't there either. The commissaris, abruptly transformed from acting object into suffering subject, stared down into a gaping hole. The bright red bricks were replaced by a black aperture that sucked at his very existence.