Read Online The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem van de Wetering - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
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pheasant hunting but it wasn’t the season now. The shots weren’t fired by a shotgun. No loud bangs here but sharp cracks, normally associated with the firing of an automatic assault gun. An American liberation weapon, the M-16 used by the Dutch Army? The Kalshnikov used by Eastern European forces?
Now bullets whined close to the commissaris’ head.
He knelt between waving grass plumes. The tall pheasant feather on his hat was hit and snapped in two.
Katrien had been wrong once again, the commissaris thought when, back at the windmill parking lot, he got back into the old Citroën. The situation wasn’t dangerous at all. All the shots had missed him. De Gier’s cracked ribs were healing nicely. Grijpstra wouldn’t be sick to his stomach forever. These harmless assaults could be explained as invitations to return to the good life. As encouragements, loving touches from the guiding hand of a benevolent spirit.
Yessir, as far as he was concerned, and he
was
concerned now, the invitation could be accepted.
The commissaris whistled a popular football jingle, “Kick AssHahahah, Kick Ass Hahahah,” following an arrangement for mini-trumpet, drums, percussion keyboards and voice, composed by de Gier. He stopped at a carwash on the way home. He noted with pleasure that the weather happened to be superb. He was still whistling when he pushed his front door open.
“Oh no,” Katrien said when she saw his face.
He kissed her cheek. “What’s wrong, my darling?”
“And I can’t go along to take care of you,” Katrien said. “You knew that. You’re slipping out of reach again. And I have to play grandmother here. Stay away from those tropical beauties, Jan. Don’t overeat now. Don’t forget your pain pills. Stay close to G&G, they like to protect you. Beware, dear.”
“Let the enemy beware,” said the commissaris, hissing the tune of “Kick Ass, Hahahah.”
The commissaris, stumbling about the loft, found a pith helmet and a tropical suit, with a tunic that buttoned all the way up to the chin. He shouted. “A
tutup
coat, vintage Dutch Indies, from the good old days!” He held the coat up. “Dad used to wear this, on the plantation, Katrien, during the twenties. Real shantung, still as good as new. I bet you this sort of thing is in fashion again, I’ll be the king of the Caribbean.” Back in the living room, duly uniformed complete with cork-and-linen helmet, the commissaris marched stiffly around Katrien, stopped, clicked his heels, saluted.
“What do you think,” he asked shyly. “Does this look okay on me, Katrien?”
Katrien laughed, then cried.
8
D OUBLE P RICE
The nice thing about life, the commissaris thought, during the meeting in the Run Street billiard café, is that nothing ever works out as advertised. Grijpstra’s and de Gier’s show-off talk apparently was based on very little. The strip-lady might exist but if she did she had that day off. The balcony was empty. The pianist wasn’t there. The billiard table was hidden below its dust cover.
Grijpstra talked about nurse Sayukta’s visit to de Gier’s loft to see if he really grew weeds there. “A mutually useful relationship, sir. Sex traded for insights. The nurse is an adept of the Hindu sadhana. De Gier needs practice after all that reading.”
“That so?” the commissaris asked de Gier.
“Never,” de Gier said.
The commissaris rummaged in his briefcase. “I have a map of the Antilles here.”
Although Ambagt & Son’s proposal, on the commissaris’s advice, had been accepted by Detection G&G, including thecommissaris himself as on-the-spot counselor, de Gier had not been convinced the job was a good thing. Grijpstra tried to persuade his laggard partner. “The Caribbean is good for you, Rinus. Sayuktas galore, and not the tame version you see in Holland. Out there they water-ski, nude.”
De Gier thought that the wild Sayuktas, roaming their own habitat without any measure of control, could make him ill. He
Now bullets whined close to the commissaris’ head.
He knelt between waving grass plumes. The tall pheasant feather on his hat was hit and snapped in two.
Katrien had been wrong once again, the commissaris thought when, back at the windmill parking lot, he got back into the old Citroën. The situation wasn’t dangerous at all. All the shots had missed him. De Gier’s cracked ribs were healing nicely. Grijpstra wouldn’t be sick to his stomach forever. These harmless assaults could be explained as invitations to return to the good life. As encouragements, loving touches from the guiding hand of a benevolent spirit.
Yessir, as far as he was concerned, and he
was
concerned now, the invitation could be accepted.
The commissaris whistled a popular football jingle, “Kick AssHahahah, Kick Ass Hahahah,” following an arrangement for mini-trumpet, drums, percussion keyboards and voice, composed by de Gier. He stopped at a carwash on the way home. He noted with pleasure that the weather happened to be superb. He was still whistling when he pushed his front door open.
“Oh no,” Katrien said when she saw his face.
He kissed her cheek. “What’s wrong, my darling?”
“And I can’t go along to take care of you,” Katrien said. “You knew that. You’re slipping out of reach again. And I have to play grandmother here. Stay away from those tropical beauties, Jan. Don’t overeat now. Don’t forget your pain pills. Stay close to G&G, they like to protect you. Beware, dear.”
“Let the enemy beware,” said the commissaris, hissing the tune of “Kick Ass, Hahahah.”
The commissaris, stumbling about the loft, found a pith helmet and a tropical suit, with a tunic that buttoned all the way up to the chin. He shouted. “A
tutup
coat, vintage Dutch Indies, from the good old days!” He held the coat up. “Dad used to wear this, on the plantation, Katrien, during the twenties. Real shantung, still as good as new. I bet you this sort of thing is in fashion again, I’ll be the king of the Caribbean.” Back in the living room, duly uniformed complete with cork-and-linen helmet, the commissaris marched stiffly around Katrien, stopped, clicked his heels, saluted.
“What do you think,” he asked shyly. “Does this look okay on me, Katrien?”
Katrien laughed, then cried.
8
D OUBLE P RICE
The nice thing about life, the commissaris thought, during the meeting in the Run Street billiard café, is that nothing ever works out as advertised. Grijpstra’s and de Gier’s show-off talk apparently was based on very little. The strip-lady might exist but if she did she had that day off. The balcony was empty. The pianist wasn’t there. The billiard table was hidden below its dust cover.
Grijpstra talked about nurse Sayukta’s visit to de Gier’s loft to see if he really grew weeds there. “A mutually useful relationship, sir. Sex traded for insights. The nurse is an adept of the Hindu sadhana. De Gier needs practice after all that reading.”
“That so?” the commissaris asked de Gier.
“Never,” de Gier said.
The commissaris rummaged in his briefcase. “I have a map of the Antilles here.”
Although Ambagt & Son’s proposal, on the commissaris’s advice, had been accepted by Detection G&G, including thecommissaris himself as on-the-spot counselor, de Gier had not been convinced the job was a good thing. Grijpstra tried to persuade his laggard partner. “The Caribbean is good for you, Rinus. Sayuktas galore, and not the tame version you see in Holland. Out there they water-ski, nude.”
De Gier thought that the wild Sayuktas, roaming their own habitat without any measure of control, could make him ill. He
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