Read Online Death of a Hawker by Janwillem van de Wetering - Free Book Online
Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
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said, "my assistant."
"Welcome, sergeant," Elizabeth said and giggled. "You are looking at my cap, I see. Looks funny, doesn't it? But there is a draft here and I don't want to catch another cold. I have had two already this year. Sit down, sit down. Shall I make coffee or would you prefer something a little stronger? I still have half a bottle of redberry jenever waiting for company but it may be too sweet for your taste. How nice to have visitors! I can't go for my evening walk with all this fuss on the Newmarket and I was just saying to Tabby here that there's nothing on TV tonight and he gets bored just sitting around with me, don't you, Tabby?"
Tabby sat on the floor, looking at de Gier from huge slit eyes, yellow and wicked. De Gier sat down on his haunches and scratched the cat behind the ears. Tabby immediately began to purr, imitating the sound of an outboard engine. He was twice the size of a normal cat and must have weighed between twenty-five and thirty pounds.
Elizabeth lowered her bulk into a rocking chair and pounded her thighs. "Here, Tabby." The cat turned and leaped in one movement, flopping down on his mistress's lap with a dull thud.
"There's a good cat," Elizabeth boomed, and squeezed the animal with both hands so that the air was forced out of its lungs in a full-throated yell, which made the commissaris and de Gier jump, but the cat closed its eyes with sensuous pleasure and continued its interrupted purring. "So? Berry jenever or coffee?"
"Coffee, I think, dear," the commissaris said.
"You make it, sergeant," Elizabeth said. "You'll find everything in the kitchen. I am sure you can make better coffee than I can, and while you are busy the commissaris and I can have a little chat. We haven't seen each other for months and months, have we, darting?"
De Gier busied himself in the kitchen, nearly dropping the heavy coffeepot as he thought of what he had just seen. When Elizabeth sat down he had glimpsed her feet, stuck into boots which would be size thirteen. De Gier had seen travesty before, but always in young people. Only a week ago he had helped to raid a brothel where the prostitutes were men and boys dressed up as females. When he had interrogated them, trying to find a suspect to fit the charge of robbery brought in by a hysterical client, he had been a little disgusted but not much. He knew that the human mind can twist itself into any direction. But de Gier had never met with an old man, an old big man, dressed up as a woman. Elizabeth was a man. Or was she? Was this a real case of a female mind accidentally thrown into the body of a male? The houseboat was definitely female. The small kitchen he was moving about in now showed all the signs of female hands having arranged its pots and pans, having sewed tablecloths and curtains to fit the cramped space, selected crockery in harmony with the neat array of cups on the top shelf of the cupboard and crocheted a small cloth in an attempt to make, even the refrigerator look nice and dainty. The room where Elizabeth was now chatting to the commissaris—he could hear her deep voice coming through the thin partition—could be part of a Victorian museum; its armchairs, foot warmers, tea table, framed yellowish photographs of gentlemen with waxed mustaches and high collars had been high fashion, female fashion, a very long time ago.
"Can you manage, sergeant?"
De Gier shuddered. Elizabeth was in the open door, filling it completely; she had to bend her head.
"Yes, Elizabeth." His voice faltered. She was in the kitchen now and he could see the commissaris through the open door. The commissaris was gesticulating frantically. Yes, yes, he wouldn't give the game away, what mis the silly little man worrying about?
"Yes, Elizabeth, the coffee is perking and I've got sugar, cream, cups, spoons, yes, I've got it all."
"Naughty," Elizabeth said. "You haven't got the saucers. You aren't married, are you, sergeant? Living by yourself, I bet. You weren't
"Welcome, sergeant," Elizabeth said and giggled. "You are looking at my cap, I see. Looks funny, doesn't it? But there is a draft here and I don't want to catch another cold. I have had two already this year. Sit down, sit down. Shall I make coffee or would you prefer something a little stronger? I still have half a bottle of redberry jenever waiting for company but it may be too sweet for your taste. How nice to have visitors! I can't go for my evening walk with all this fuss on the Newmarket and I was just saying to Tabby here that there's nothing on TV tonight and he gets bored just sitting around with me, don't you, Tabby?"
Tabby sat on the floor, looking at de Gier from huge slit eyes, yellow and wicked. De Gier sat down on his haunches and scratched the cat behind the ears. Tabby immediately began to purr, imitating the sound of an outboard engine. He was twice the size of a normal cat and must have weighed between twenty-five and thirty pounds.
Elizabeth lowered her bulk into a rocking chair and pounded her thighs. "Here, Tabby." The cat turned and leaped in one movement, flopping down on his mistress's lap with a dull thud.
"There's a good cat," Elizabeth boomed, and squeezed the animal with both hands so that the air was forced out of its lungs in a full-throated yell, which made the commissaris and de Gier jump, but the cat closed its eyes with sensuous pleasure and continued its interrupted purring. "So? Berry jenever or coffee?"
"Coffee, I think, dear," the commissaris said.
"You make it, sergeant," Elizabeth said. "You'll find everything in the kitchen. I am sure you can make better coffee than I can, and while you are busy the commissaris and I can have a little chat. We haven't seen each other for months and months, have we, darting?"
De Gier busied himself in the kitchen, nearly dropping the heavy coffeepot as he thought of what he had just seen. When Elizabeth sat down he had glimpsed her feet, stuck into boots which would be size thirteen. De Gier had seen travesty before, but always in young people. Only a week ago he had helped to raid a brothel where the prostitutes were men and boys dressed up as females. When he had interrogated them, trying to find a suspect to fit the charge of robbery brought in by a hysterical client, he had been a little disgusted but not much. He knew that the human mind can twist itself into any direction. But de Gier had never met with an old man, an old big man, dressed up as a woman. Elizabeth was a man. Or was she? Was this a real case of a female mind accidentally thrown into the body of a male? The houseboat was definitely female. The small kitchen he was moving about in now showed all the signs of female hands having arranged its pots and pans, having sewed tablecloths and curtains to fit the cramped space, selected crockery in harmony with the neat array of cups on the top shelf of the cupboard and crocheted a small cloth in an attempt to make, even the refrigerator look nice and dainty. The room where Elizabeth was now chatting to the commissaris—he could hear her deep voice coming through the thin partition—could be part of a Victorian museum; its armchairs, foot warmers, tea table, framed yellowish photographs of gentlemen with waxed mustaches and high collars had been high fashion, female fashion, a very long time ago.
"Can you manage, sergeant?"
De Gier shuddered. Elizabeth was in the open door, filling it completely; she had to bend her head.
"Yes, Elizabeth." His voice faltered. She was in the kitchen now and he could see the commissaris through the open door. The commissaris was gesticulating frantically. Yes, yes, he wouldn't give the game away, what mis the silly little man worrying about?
"Yes, Elizabeth, the coffee is perking and I've got sugar, cream, cups, spoons, yes, I've got it all."
"Naughty," Elizabeth said. "You haven't got the saucers. You aren't married, are you, sergeant? Living by yourself, I bet. You weren't
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