"Did you come to any conclusions?"
De Gier looked noncommittal. "No, sir."
The commissaris looked at Grijpstra.
"Could be just a woman who likes a bit of company," Grijpstra said, "could be that she is earning a little pocket money on the side. We investigated the Dutchman, IJsbrand Drachtsma. He seems a solid citizen. Very wealthy, very respectable. A tycoon in business. The companies he works for do very well. Chemicals, textiles, building materials. A hero as well. He escaped to England during the second year of the war, when the Germans were watching the beaches. In a rowboat, I believe, with three others. They had a small engine but it broke down. Joined the British army and came back fighting, through France and Belgium."
"Did you find out anything about the other two?"
"No, sir," Grijpstra said, "but I am sure the chief inspector did. We gave him all the details and he seemed interested."
"Did you make any inquiries about the woman?"
"No," Grijpstra said. "We checked with the municipal files but that was all. We were told to be discreet so we didn't ask about. We could, of course. There are some other boats nearby."
"Anything special about that woman, sir?" de Gier asked, trying not to show any excitement.
"Yes," the commissaris said. "You know that we have a Secret Service." He smiled and the two detectives guffawed. They were aware of the existence of the Secret Service. It occupied two rooms on the floor above them, rooms filled with a few middle-aged men and aged secretaries. The middle-aged men talked a lot of football and the secretaries were always typing. Poems, according to Grijpstra. Bad poems. Grijpstra claimed that Holland has no secrets and that the Secret Service was only formed to fill a gap in the state's budget. But the Secret Service was a larger organization than whatever went on in the two rooms above them. They occupied other offices as well, in The Hague and in Rotterdam. They were linked with several ministries, with mayors and with chief constables. They were even linked with the crown, the supreme mystery of the democracy. They might, Grijpstra had once whispered, be connected with God, the Dutch God, an old man living in a stuffy room, a powerful manifestation wearing slippers and interested in a wide range of phenomena, such as waterworks, the price of butter, theology, the right to argue, and Ajax, the national soccer team.
"The Secret Service," Grijpstra repeated, doing his best to look serious.
"Yes," the commissaris said, "they are interested in Mrs. van Buren and they asked us to keep an eye on her. For some reason they don't seem to have their own detectives. The tax department has, and the customs have and die army has, but they haven't. They like to use us. When was the last time that you had a look at the houseboat?"
"Today is Tuesday," de Gier said. "I was there on Thursday. I meant to go during the weekend but I had a friend staying with me. Do you know why the Secret Service is interested, sir?'
"No," the commissaris said, "but we may find out. Something seems to be wrong. We had a telephone call from the man staying in the boat next door to hers. He says he hasn't seen her for a few days and he wants us to come and have a look. Her cat is wandering about the area and wants to move in with him. He has rung her bell but she doesn't open the door. Her car is parked in front of the boat."
"When did the call come in, sir?" Grijpstra asked.
"Just now. Quarter of an hour ago. I want you to go there and break in if necessary. I brought a warrant."
"Don't you want to come with us, sir?" de Gier asked.
"No. I have a meeting with the chief constable. If there is anything wrong you can reach me via your radio or the telephone." The commissaris rubbed his leg, got up with some difficulty, and walked out of the room, trying not to limp.
Within a few minutes they were in Mamix Street waiting at a traffic light. A small motorcycle ignored the red light and raced past a truck coming from the right, managing to miss it.
"No," de Gier said, but it had happened already. The motorcycle missed the truck, it even missed another truck, but then the rider lost control and the cycle went into a spin. When the helmet of the young man crashed against the sidewalk, Grijpstra reached for the microphone.
"Comer of Marnix Street and Passeerders Street. Motorcycle. Please call an ambulance. Detectives de Gier and Grijpstra witnesses but no time to stop. Over."
"OK. Out," the voice from Headquarters answered.
A little later they heard the sirens. De Gier made way for the ambulance and, within seconds, for a white police Volkswagen. Both had their blue lights flashing.
"You think he is dead?" de Gier asked.
Grijpstra shrugged. "Perhaps his helmet saved him, but he must be badly hurt. Crushed his shoulder maybe and his leg. A hot engine burns through your leg in no time at all. He may never walk properly again."
De Gier drove calmly, trying to forget the accident and concentrating on what he remembered about the houseboat.
Even with all the lights against them it didn't take long. A short bearded man was standing near the houseboat's door.
"Police," Grijpstra said as he got out of the car. "Are you the one who phoned?"
"I am," the man said. "Bart de Jong is the name. Call me Bart, everybody does. I live in that boat over there."
Grijpstra shook the man's hand and said his name. De Gier joined them. Bart looked unusual, but not very unusual, considering they were in Amsterdam. A short-set strong-looking man some forty years old. The beard seemed to grow right up to his small twinkly eyes. Dark eyes, like beads, black and pearly. The left ear was decorated with a gold earring. He wore a corduroy suit and an open-necked shirt and leather boots, beautifully polished, covering his ankles. The narrow trouser legs had been tucked into the boots. The man looked clean, even his hair was neatly brushed.
"What's this about the lady's cat?" Grijpstra asked.
Bart offered cigarettes. De Gier noticed that his hand shook as he held the burning match. "Ah. The cat. The cat has been bothering me for the last two days. The cat often calls on me, scratches my door and I let him in. Beautiful animal, a Persian. There he is now."
A cat came stalking along the narrow path leading to a small houseboat, lying next to the luxurious structure that was directly facing them. De Gier squatted down and patted the cat's head while it rubbed itself against his leg, half-closing the large yellow luminous eyes in obvious pleasure.
"Friendly animal," de Gier said. "I prefer Siamese cats myself but this one is pretty, has a lot of fur."
"Exactly," Bart said, "that's what I've got against him. I don't mind him visiting me and he can get milk and meat any time he likes but he wants much more. He is used to being properly pampered, hair has got to be brushed ten times a day for he doesn't like things sticking to it, and he walks through the plants here and messes himself up. And if you refuse to brush him he begins to whine and scratch your legs. If he does that I send him home, but he has kept on coming back for the last two days. I rang Mrs. van Buren's bell but she doesn't want to open her door. Her cat is here and I am sure she is home, so perhaps something happened to her."
"Let's try the bell again," de Gier said.
They rang the bell, knocked and shouted. No response.
"So?" Bart asked.
"We'll break the door."
"I thought even the police weren't allowed to break doors in this country," Bart said.
"We are special police," de Gier said, "and we have a warrant."
"And we won't break the door," Grijpstra said. "Let's find another way."
De Gier reached out from the gangway and studied a window.
"You have long legs," Grijpstra said.