Grijpstra felt sorry for the fat man. He sat down himself and smiled.
Mr. Holman smiled back; the smile hovered on his thick lips, disappearing as soon as it had come.
"I read about Mrs. van Buren's death in the newspaper," he said in a high voice. "I was very sorry to learn that she was killed. She was a nice lady."
De Gier remembered that he had read Mr. Holman's file that morning. Two convictions. One for embezzlement some ten years ago, and one for causing grievous injuries. He had also studied the details of the two cases. Mr. Holman had, when he still worked for a boss, failed to hand in a few thousand guilders which a customer had paid for goods received. There had been no invoice but Mr. Holman had signed a receipt. Three months in jail of which two were suspended. And a year later he had hit his neighbor's son. The boy had been trampling on some young plants in Mr. Holman's garden. The boy had fallen against a fence post and had been taken to hospital. A slightly cracked skull. Three months in jail.
"A shifty violent character," de Gier thought but what he saw didn't agree with the conclusion he had drawn from the file. Like many fat men Mr. Holman looked jolly. "A jolly chap," the commissaris was thinking. "Pity he is so nervous."
Grijpstra was also thinking but vaguely. He had remembered that Mr. Holman sold nuts. Grijpstra liked nuts, especially cashew nuts which he sometimes bought in small tins. But the nuts were expensive. "If I were corrupt," Grijpstra thought, "I would make him give me a whole jute bag full of cashew nuts and I would go home and eat them."
"What was your relationship to Mrs. van Buren, Mr. Holman?" the commissaris asked.
"I just knew her," Mr. Holman said. There was a squeak in his voice which he tried to hide by clearing his throat.
"Tell us about it," the commissaris said pleasantly. "We are interested. She was killed as you know, murdered, and the more we know about her the easier it will be for us to find her killer. If she was a friend of yours you would want us to find her killer, wouldn't you?"
"Yes," Mr. Holman said, "yes, she was a friend of mine. But not a very good friend. It was all because of my little boy and his ball."
"Ball?" the commissaris asked.
"Yes. He dropped it into the Schinkel, into the river. He likes me to take him for a walk on Sunday mornings and we drive out to the Schinkel and park the car and then we walk. Sometimes we play with his ball. I don't like playing ball so usually he throws it about by himself, and one Sunday morning it went into the river. He is only four years old and he was very upset. I said I would buy him a new bait because it had floated out of reach but he began to howl so I knocked on Mrs. van Buren's door thinking I might reach the ball from her boat. I didn't know her then."
"And she asked you in?"
"Yes. She was very helpful."
"And did you get the ball?"
Mr. Holman suddenly giggled. "Yes, we got it in the end, but meanwhile my little son had managed to fall into the Schinkel. He fell out of the window."
"That must have been a nice morning," Grijpstra said, thinking of the many walks his children had forced him to make on Sunday mornings.
"A very complicated morning," Mr. Holman was saying. "We had to get his clothes off and dry them and I couldn't leave."
"Did you mind?" the commissaris asked.
"You have seen Mrs. van Buren, haven't you?" Mr. Holman asked.
"I saw her corpse, in the mortuary."
"I see. Well, she was very beautiful when she was alive."
"Did you get to know her well?" de Gier asked.
Mr. Holman was sweating. He took out a large handkerchief and dried his face. "No. Not the way you mean."
"How do you know what I mean?" de Gier asked.
"I know what you mean. But it wasn't like that at all. I just went to see her again and again. Always on Sunday mornings, and my little son was with me. She used to give me a cup of coffee and my son had his lemonade. We would stay half an hour maybe."
"You just talked?" the commissaris asked.
Mr. Holman was silent.
"No intimate relationship?"
"No sir."
The room was very quiet.
"Did your wife know about your meetings with Mrs. van Buren?"
Mr. Holman giggled again. "Yes. My son was always telling her about the nice lady. My wife wanted to go and meet the nice lady."
"Did she meet her?"
"No."
"She was killed on Saturday night," Grijpstra said.
"Saturday night," Mr. Holman said. "That's bad.'
The policemen waited.
"I was in my office all Saturday afternoon and all Saturday evening. Only came home at eleven."
"Was there anyone with you at your office?"
"No," Mr. Holman said. "I was alone. I often work on Saturdays, best day of the week for me, no telephone, no visitors."
"Have you been in the army?" Grijpstra asked.
"No, I have a weak spine. Why?"
"I was just asking," Grijpstra said. "And you don't like sports, you were saying. You wouldn't play ball with your son."
Mr. Holman shook his head. "I am very fond of sports."
"Any particular sport?" the commissaris asked.
"Darts," Mr. Holman said. "I am good at darts. It isn't a popular sport in Holland but I like it. I have a special room in my house where we play. I am chairman of the society, you know."
"Darts is a throwing game," Grijpstra said slowly. "Can you throw this, you think?"
The stiletto gleamed in his hand; it had flicked open as he had pulled it out of his pocket.
"Sure," Mr. Holman said. "Where do you want me to throw it?"
"Into the cigar box," the commissaris said, "but wait a moment. I'll take the cigars out first."
The commissaris put the empty cigar box on a filing cabinet. "Right," he said.
Mr. Holman had got up and was balancing his feet. He half-closed his eyes, weighing the knife in his open hand. "There," he said.
The movement had been very quick. Grijpstra's stiletto had hit the cigar box squarely in the middle, and had pierced the flimsy wood. There wasn't much left of the box.
As Grijpstra began to walk toward the filing cabinet to retrieve his knife, Mr. Holman understood.
"The knife was thrown, wasn't it?" he asked in a whisper.
"It was," the commissaris said.
"I didn't kill her," Mr. Holman said, and began to cry.
The room was quiet again. Mr. Holman had left, loudly blowing his nose. He had been answering questions for more than an hour.
"Well?" the commissaris asked after a few minutes.
Grijpstra and de Gier stared at him.
"Well?" the commissaris asked again.
"Difficult," Grijpstra said.
The commissaris chose a cigar from the disorderly heap on his desk.
"Must get a new cigar box," he muttered to himself, and aloud, "You shouldn't have that stiletto, Grijpstra."
"No, sir," Grijpstra said.
"No motive," de Gier said loudly. "No motive at all. Why should he want to kill a woman who gave him cups of coffee and who gave his little boy glasses of lemonade? He wasn't a client of hers and she couldn't have blackmailed him."
"Why not?" the commissaris asked.
"He wouldn't be visiting her on Sunday morning if she was playing whore for him during the week."
"Quite," Grijpstra said.
"Perhaps he didn't have to pay," the commissaris said. "Perhaps they were lovers."
"That meatball?' de Gier said.
"Women," the commissaris said in a lecturing voice, "are not mainly attracted by a man's looks."
De Gier looked hurt and Grijpstra looked amused.
"Maybe he gave her flowers," Grijpstra said, "and recited poetry and paid her compliments."
"All right," de Gier said. "He was her lover. He sang songs to her. And then he threw a knife into her back."