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Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
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town."
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I N THE DETECTIVES' OFFICE THE PHONE RANG, JINgling on and on, cutting off now and then, and starting up again. De Gier, coming back from the canteen, where he'd listened to dismal conversation on the subject of State Detection's threatened investigation— nobody thought it would do more than cause further useless trouble—picked up the phone. "Homicide," he said pleasantly.
"Sergeant de Gier?" a muffled voice whispered.
"Yes?"
"Prince's Island," the voice said. "The Ancient's Café in an hour." The voice was replaced by a mechanical hum.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked from the door, seeing de Gier shaking the phone.
"Karate," de Gier said. "He and his co-demon are onto something. Now what? I only want to work on that dead banker. Do we allow ourselves to be sidetracked again? Karate and Ketchup have messed us up before."
Grijpstra sat on his desk, carefully peeling the plastic off a cigar. "In interesting ways. I could do with a laugh."
"What's with you?" de Gier asked. "You like the ordinary. You're a stodgy, slow, unimaginative member of the petrified old guard. Let's stick to our parts. I'm the one who's out for adventure. I wouldn't mind adventure now, but there were the corpses at the Binnenkant, and we should do some work. Have you seen IJsbreker's body yet?"
"Sure." Grijpstra licked his cigar. "I thought you were on your way down too. Did you chicken out again? I've seen worse bodies. A somewhat seedy but well-dressed gent, rather bald on top, a bit pudgy all over, due to soft living, of course. Remember the ladies' underwear we found in the leather couch at his house? And the traces of cocaine on the glass coffee table? According to Mr. Jacobs, there was a faint smell of perfume when they put IJsbreker in the fridge. The pathologist came down and had another look too."
"The one who talks?" de Gier asked. "Or his disgruntled chief?"
Grijpstra nodded. "The one who talks. There were powder burns on the corpse's face. The pathologist mentioned advanced cirrhosis of the liver. A hard-drinking man in his late forties, our banker was. Did drugs too—cocaine; his nose is a mess. No heroin— we found no needle marks anywhere. He could have smoked it, of course."
"So you want the case closed again?"
Grijpstra grinned at the sergeant's suddenly stooped shoulders. "Why? Because of the powder burns? So someone fired a blank in his face. It's been done before. Subject is shot from a distance and then the scene is changed so it appears he has been shot from close by." The adjutant raised a lecturing finger. "We're now assuming murder, and therefore premeditation. Why was IJsbreker shot during a thunder^ storm with hard rain? That storm was predicted, very handy for covering up the sound of a shot. If I had paid attention in that campground, I could have saved Nellie's tent."
De Gier smiled.
"Good," Grijpstra said. "That's my boy. I might have despaired too, if there hadn't been two bullets."
De Gier looked grim again. "Only one, Adjutant. The other one is hearsay."
"Hearsay from a disinterested party." Grijpstra lit his cigar and sucked contentedly. "The pathologist who talks has no motive for hampering our job."
"Except getting his boss in trouble," de Gier said. "Our two doctors are rivals who like to trip each other up. The one underneath wants to climb on top. He imagines a nonexistent bullet and spreads the rumor all over the building. The authorities will begin to question the integrity of the top doctor. The top doctor has always been a hard man to work with. Uncooperative, right? Now he loses a bullet and he won't sign a report."
Grijpstra studied the tip of his cigar. "Too farfetched. There must have been two bullets. Everybody expected just one. One suicide, one gun, one bullet. The second bullet is almost surreal. There's nothing special about the assistant pathologist; he's your regular pseudo-intellectual, badly qualified, sniveling, backbiting corporate slave." Grijpstra took a deep
\\\\\ 7 /////
I N THE DETECTIVES' OFFICE THE PHONE RANG, JINgling on and on, cutting off now and then, and starting up again. De Gier, coming back from the canteen, where he'd listened to dismal conversation on the subject of State Detection's threatened investigation— nobody thought it would do more than cause further useless trouble—picked up the phone. "Homicide," he said pleasantly.
"Sergeant de Gier?" a muffled voice whispered.
"Yes?"
"Prince's Island," the voice said. "The Ancient's Café in an hour." The voice was replaced by a mechanical hum.
"Yes?" Grijpstra asked from the door, seeing de Gier shaking the phone.
"Karate," de Gier said. "He and his co-demon are onto something. Now what? I only want to work on that dead banker. Do we allow ourselves to be sidetracked again? Karate and Ketchup have messed us up before."
Grijpstra sat on his desk, carefully peeling the plastic off a cigar. "In interesting ways. I could do with a laugh."
"What's with you?" de Gier asked. "You like the ordinary. You're a stodgy, slow, unimaginative member of the petrified old guard. Let's stick to our parts. I'm the one who's out for adventure. I wouldn't mind adventure now, but there were the corpses at the Binnenkant, and we should do some work. Have you seen IJsbreker's body yet?"
"Sure." Grijpstra licked his cigar. "I thought you were on your way down too. Did you chicken out again? I've seen worse bodies. A somewhat seedy but well-dressed gent, rather bald on top, a bit pudgy all over, due to soft living, of course. Remember the ladies' underwear we found in the leather couch at his house? And the traces of cocaine on the glass coffee table? According to Mr. Jacobs, there was a faint smell of perfume when they put IJsbreker in the fridge. The pathologist came down and had another look too."
"The one who talks?" de Gier asked. "Or his disgruntled chief?"
Grijpstra nodded. "The one who talks. There were powder burns on the corpse's face. The pathologist mentioned advanced cirrhosis of the liver. A hard-drinking man in his late forties, our banker was. Did drugs too—cocaine; his nose is a mess. No heroin— we found no needle marks anywhere. He could have smoked it, of course."
"So you want the case closed again?"
Grijpstra grinned at the sergeant's suddenly stooped shoulders. "Why? Because of the powder burns? So someone fired a blank in his face. It's been done before. Subject is shot from a distance and then the scene is changed so it appears he has been shot from close by." The adjutant raised a lecturing finger. "We're now assuming murder, and therefore premeditation. Why was IJsbreker shot during a thunder^ storm with hard rain? That storm was predicted, very handy for covering up the sound of a shot. If I had paid attention in that campground, I could have saved Nellie's tent."
De Gier smiled.
"Good," Grijpstra said. "That's my boy. I might have despaired too, if there hadn't been two bullets."
De Gier looked grim again. "Only one, Adjutant. The other one is hearsay."
"Hearsay from a disinterested party." Grijpstra lit his cigar and sucked contentedly. "The pathologist who talks has no motive for hampering our job."
"Except getting his boss in trouble," de Gier said. "Our two doctors are rivals who like to trip each other up. The one underneath wants to climb on top. He imagines a nonexistent bullet and spreads the rumor all over the building. The authorities will begin to question the integrity of the top doctor. The top doctor has always been a hard man to work with. Uncooperative, right? Now he loses a bullet and he won't sign a report."
Grijpstra studied the tip of his cigar. "Too farfetched. There must have been two bullets. Everybody expected just one. One suicide, one gun, one bullet. The second bullet is almost surreal. There's nothing special about the assistant pathologist; he's your regular pseudo-intellectual, badly qualified, sniveling, backbiting corporate slave." Grijpstra took a deep
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