"We'll have to see him again," the commissaris said. "Phone him at his office tomorrow morning and ask him to be here at three in the afternoon."
He got up and opened the door.
"He is liking this case," Grijpstra said as they walked back to their room.
"I am not," de Gier said. "Are you?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "It's a nice case, nice and complicated. Let's go to a cafe and have a drink and go through it again. We have a lot of information now."
"No," de Gier said.
8
The rain was thick and cold and thoroughly unpleasant but the commissaris, a dapper pedestrian in a black oilcloth coat and a floppy hat, didn't mind. The only concern that his brain was registering was a concern about die pain in his legs. Rain aggravated his rheumatism and his limp was obvious that morning, in spite of his efforts. He was forcing himself to breathe slowly. Slow breathing improved his resistance. He was also forcing himself to think about something that had nothing to do with his pain. He was thinking about the Secret Service and his thoughts amused him so that his expression was a mixture of joy and suffering, resulting in an odd grimace. He wondered how many people knew that the Secret Service had a local head office that was separate from its three rooms at Police Headquarters, and he wondered if there would be any people who would care.
He had seen the chief constable that morning, to ask for an introduction to the director of the Secret Service. The introduction had been arranged within a few minutes. And now he was on his way. He knew the address, had known it for some years but there had never been a reason to penetrate into this seat of mystery.
He stumbled on a cobblestone and supported himself against the cast-iron railing of a bridge. He cursed, a long full-blooded curse, venomously pronounced, each syllable stressed. The pain was now a little worse and he waited until he had regulated his breathing again.
He wished he could have avoided this visit but had to agree with himself that he couldn't have. The Secret Service had alerted the police, an unignorable fact. They had, in some so far unexplained way, discovered that Mrs. Maria van Buren was not the simple lone woman living on a houseboat she might have pretended to be.
The commissaris shook his head and grumbled. They still didn't know much about the dead woman.
He had arrived and looked at the dilapidated narrow gable house. He checked the number and smiled. He knew the house. He smiled again. He knew the house well. He had visited it several times, but long ago. Thirty-five years ago, before the war it had been. The house had looked better in those days. It had been a great house, quiet and dignified, furnished with dark red velours drapes and thick semitransparent lace and a wealth of Victorian furniture. It had catered to the weird tastes of some of the richest men of the capital. His suddenly activated memory produced a series of fairly sharp color photographs. He remembered the fat oily face of Madame and the luscious body of Mimi, a Javanese girl who could only be rented for short periods at an exorbitant rate for she was first choice. She had her own large room on die second floor, a room full of minors. The commissaris had spent several hours with the mirrors, enervated by the reflection of his own body shown from every possible angle. It had been on the day that old Mr. de V. had been found in that room and old Mr. de V. hadn't been a pretty sight with all the lights switched on, looking rather bulbous, like an overgrown white mushroom. He had died, of a stroke, but the doctor wasn't sure and the police were invited. The commissaris was an inspector at the time. An evening which made an impression on his inexperienced mind.
Madame dropped a heavy hint that evening and the hint had made him return, about a week later. Madame had been very good to him, giving him his choice of four ravishing girls and the use of the mirror room and she opened the bottle of champagne herself, with her pudgy bejeweled hands. He had paid for the second bottle himself but was only charged a quarter of the usual price.
The small oilcloth-covered figure on the steps of the old house straightened itself as the memories flooded its brain. A very memorable evening indeed. The girl was French, genuinely French and he had practiced his knowledge of the language on her and she had corrected his mistakes and giggled beautifully and done far more than he had expected her to do.
He had visited the house once more. A client, a foreigner fortunately, had, in a frenzy of rage and frustration, wounded a girl with a small fork. The wound wasn't serious but the client was arrested nevertheless. Client and girl had been eating small pieces of buttered toast, thickly covered with caviar, and the minute black eggs were mixed up with blood on the alabaster body of the girl. A horrible but also rather interesting sight. And now he was visiting the house again, for the fourth time. He rang the bell.
Would the present occupants know about the history of the house? They probably would not, the commissaris thought. As he waited for somebody to open the door he became more certain that they wouldn't know.
They didn't even know that he was ringing the bell. He rang again.
A slow shuffling sound approached and the door creaked open. An old man, in the city's uniform, the collar of his jacket decorated with the three crosses of the arms of Amsterdam, faced the commissaris, although "faced" was, perhaps, an exaggeration. The old man didn't really have a face. The commissaris found himself confronted with a mask, made of old yellowed putty and, again, he was reminded of the brothel of a past now so far away that it seemed dated in the dream time, which also had an aged doorman who would stare at the customers as if he didn't know why they had taken the trouble of ringing the bell.
"I have an appointment with your director," the commissaris said, and the doorman forced his back into a slight bow, and stepped back.
Perhaps the old man was dumb but his attitude indicated servility and the commissaris felt grateful, his presence had been acknowledged.
The door closed behind him and he was led up a flight of stairs toward the mirror room. He tittered and half-expected his guide to stop and ask for an explanation but their slow procedure was uninterrupted and another door opened.
The mirrors had gone.
But some of the furniture was still there and the commissaris sat down on a chair upholstered in red velours, an old chair, a chair he had sat on before, but the mood had changed. He was neither breathless nor excited. Now, he dryly stated to himself, he was bored. No other word for it. Bored.
His host had helped him out of his coat and hung it on a heavy copper hook; his hat crowned the coat. He had shaken his host's hand and they had agreed on the weather. He also knew his host's name, and his rank. A naval commander. So that's what happened to the navy, he told himself. The ships are tied up in the river, and here is their last man, an old man, for the commander was old, close to retirement, like himself.
He noted, without any surprise, that his host's feet were covered by slippers, worn and shabby. He also noted that the commander's face reminded him of the face of a turtle, a dried-out face with patient eyes embedded in heavy folds. The commissaris liked turtles and kept one in his garden. He called it ''Turtle" but it would never come when he called it by its name. He approved of his turtle's supreme indifference and fed it well, with fresh lettuce leaves, put out on the center of the small lawn of his garden, every night without fail.
"Yes," the turtle was saying now, "the van Buren case. Poor woman has been murdered, I hear."
"So she has," the commissaris agreed.
"Sad," the turtle replied.
"Very," the commissaris answered.
They didn't stare at each other. The turtle's look had turned inward and the commissaris had closed his eyes. His legs hurt him very badly now and all his energy was directed toward the rhythm of his breathing.