"So the killer was indoors, maybe?" Grijpstra asked. "In the house behind the boat? At number 20, where the old lady is being drummed out by musicians? Hey!"
Grijpstra scratched his short, stubby hair with both hands. "This is confusing. I don't want an old lady in my theory as yet. Didn't you say that you had read her complaint several times in the general file? I never saw the earlier versions."
"That's because you always look for big stuff," de Gier said. "Little bits of information are interesting too. Here is this old lady who keeps dragging herself to the local police station because ruffians want her to vacate her home-"
"The report didn't say that," Grijpstra said.
"Reports don't present conclusions, Adjutant. They try to feed us facts. Why would musicians drum an old lady out of her upstairs apartment?"
"They want the whole house?"
"Of course," de Gier said patiently. "They live downstairs and want the upstairs too. This area still has a bit of controlled rents. That old lady will never move unless you drag her out by the hair. Anarchy is not yet complete. The citizens keep up appearances. They would object to old ladies being publicly abused."
"So the ruffians drum." Grijpstra was still scratching his head. "Aren't we making this too complicated? We still have three dead junkies to fit into the theory. Forget the old lady."
"You brought her up, remember? Her location is of interest because the killer may have placed his weapon in her building."
"Hold it," Grijpstra said. "Some order here. Drumming goes all ways. Noise spreads sideways, too. Why didn't the other neighbors complain?"
De Gier pushed Grijpstra ahead of him, and they walked off the bridge and along the northern quay. "Behold."
"Yes," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. "Empty house on the left, empty house on the right. No one there to complain on either side. Now I see. This area is close to the growing red-light district. Aha."
"Simple, right?" de Gier asked. "Happens all the time. This will be some new sex club or gambling joint, or a hotel for hanky-panky. The old lady is in the way. If she moves out, there will be three houses available, nicely arranged. Knock the inside walls out, call the interior decorators, install strobe lights and sunken whirlpool baths, bring in the band."
"The band is already there." De Gier stepped up on the sidewalk and looked into the windows of the downstairs apartment. "Look at those drums."
"Better than ours," Grijpstra said. "There's a good-quality guitar, too. See the staircase? The musicians have the second floor, too, which leaves the third and fourth floors for the old lady. There are two front doors, so each apartment has its own entrance."
"So the rifle was fired from the second floor?" de Gier asked. "Drummer and guitar player are suspects. We're doing well, Adjutant. We've got this thing almost licked."
"You sure?"
"You don't think so?"
"I'm not too bright," Grijpstra said. "What we've come up with is pure conjecture. I still have the missing pistol, and the bullet that maybe got swept away, and Halba's and Guldemeester's verdict of suicide, and Guldemeester refusing to hand over the key, and this small detail of the three dead junkies, and then one of them seeing Cardozo a while ago and babbling about murder before fading away."
"It'll all fit in," de Gier said. "Care to check out the boat? We might need a warrant, but the door is probably open."
Together they contemplated the houseboat's state of disrepair. Once a sturdy steel vessel used for transport of the city's waste, it had been topped by a superstructure built of discarded boards painted in a garish variety of colors. Broken furniture had been pushed up front, perhaps in an attempt to arrange a sun deck. Ripped plastic bags containing indefinable mush were heaped in the stern. A stovepipe, stained with soot, hung at an angle across the cabin's roof. The gangway consisted of overlapping strips hacked out of soggy particle board.
"Palace of pipe dreams," Grijpstra said.
De Gier read the boat's name. Rhinoceros of Doubt.
"Don't get it," Grijpstra said. "Do you?"
De Gier read the name again, stenciled fairly neatly on the vessel's side. "Not yet. Check the gangway. If it carries your weight, it may support mine, too."
The boat's interior was damp and dark. "There you are," the commissaris said. "I thought you'd show up here." His old-fashioned shantung suit made a patch of light in the long narrow cabin. The commissaris sat on a rocking chair that creaked slightly as he moved.
"Hello, sir." Grijpstra dropped his hand, which had gone halfway toward the gun in his armpit. De Gier, legs slightly apart, hands dangling, relaxed.
"Just me," the commissaris said. "I've been here awhile, wondering a bit. Rather an unpleasant atmosphere here, don't you think? Can you feel it?"
Grijpstra sniffed, and de Gier moved about slowly. "Yes," de Gier said. "Death. Decay. Fear, too, I imagine."
Grijpstra cursed. His foot had kicked a doll's head that rolled about, staring in all directions with one curious eye, winking slyly with the other.
"Evil?" the commissaris said. "The inhabitants sold their souls to the drug's genie?" He pointed at a low bed in the middle of the cabin, covered with rags. "That's where they must have been found-three promising young people who became shadows of themselves. Notice any inconsistencies? Not everything here is bad. There's still some live thought about, showing up as the remnants of a different activity, perhaps."
"These?" de Gier asked, studying framed examples of Chinese calligraphy hanging on a wall, each representing a single character drawn in strong brushstrokes.
Grijpstra mumbled, "Well done."
"One black junkie, one female, and Mr. Jimmy Floyd, student of Chinese," de Gier said. "These must have belonged to him."
"What's this?" Grijpstra asked. De Gier looked round. Grijpstra pointed out his find, a head of a rhinoceros, hung like a trophy above the commissaris's chair, an expressive shape assembled from odd bits of wood, fitted craftily together. De Gier went over to study the object close up.
"Fascinating visualization," the commissaris said, still comfortable in his rocking chair. "A completed puzzle assembled from random parts. The artist had a good eye, don't you think?"
De Gier's eyes had become more accustomed to the dim light filtering through the cabin's single small window. "The colors are good too, sir." He admired the long sharp horn, slightly curved upward, of a light orange color that contrasted strikingly with the various grays of the head's gnarled cheeks and forehead. "A rather strong image."
"Of doubt?" the commissaris asked. He got up, holding on to the sergeant's arm. "Strange. A well-made piece of what I would classify as modern primitive art, dominating a miserable floating shack. Artful creativity suspended in terminal negativity. We'll have to figure out the contrast sometime soon. Shall we leave? All this moisture in the air makes me feel my legs."
De Gier held his arm around the commissaris's shoulders while he steered the frail old man along the ramshackle gangway. "This boat is a danger to the city's health," the commissaris said. "You can alert the Water Police when you're near a phone. They should drag it away forthwith. Adjutant, would you mind bringing the rhino's head along? We'll hold on to the sculpture for the time being; maybe it'll turn out to be a clue. Lock it in the trunk of your car."
While the commissaris and the sergeant waited for the adjutant to return from the car, parked in an alley farther along, de Gier reported. The commissaris looked at the giant carp below the bridge. "Amazing, Sergeant."
"Alleged deliberate loss of evidence," de Gier concluded brightly. "There may be witnesses, however, and we could still work on possible suspects. I daresay we can still find some."
"It's the Japanese," the commissaris said. "I can't understand why they're getting such a bad press in the West. We should be grateful to those dexterous people."