"Guldemeester must be your age, Adjutant. Fifty or so?"
"Celine isaround thirty," deGiersaid. "They haven't been married long, and they won't be married long, either, I would guess. Guldemeester likes to drink- as we all do, of course-but I felt rather uncomfortable, so I only had a few."
The commissaris looked at Grijpstra. Grijpstra nodded.
"I hate birthday parties," de Gier said. "I don't particularly like Guldemeester, either. I should never have gone, but he invited me and I thought it would be rude to refuse."
"I always refuse," the commissaris said.
"Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at me," de Gier said. "Everyone was quite drunk by then. Except me, as I mentioned."
"You got drunk?" the commissaris asked Grijpstra.
"Grijpstra threw up on the goats," de Gier said. "But that was afterward. Guldemeester keeps goats. Mini-goats, strange-looking specimens, from Mongolia, I believe."
"They all died," Grijpstra said.
"Probably a rare breed," the commissaris said. "Couldn't stand your treatment."
"No, no," Grijpstra said, "nothing to do with me. Some disease, it must have been. I got drunk because that household made me unhappy. De Gier and I are different that way. He won't drink when he's unhappy."
"So Mrs. Guldemeester made a pass at you, Sergeant?" the commissaris asked. "And that upset you? You should be used to that sort of thing by now."
"Our hero," Grijpstra said. "It's because of that ridiculous mustache. It makes women curious, they want to lift it up."
"It's my high cheekbones," de Gier said. "Anyway, I didn't respond, so Celine stripped on the table."
"She what?" asked the commissaris.
"She did, sir," Grijpstra said. "Cardozo liked that. He gave her the idea. He kept talking about how he would like to infiltrate that nightclub, or gambling joint, or whatever one would like to call it, that belongs to the Society for Help Abroad and gets written up in the papers a lot. Best striptease in town. Guldemeester said he'd been there several times in the line of duty and the the show was truly excellent. Meanwhile, his wife had been making up to the sergeant, who just sat there and called her 'ma'am' and-"
"Well, what did she expect?" de Gier asked. "She is Guldemeester's wife."
"More, probably," the commissaris said. "Perhaps she expected more. Go on, Adjutant, you've made me curious."
"Well, sir," Grijpstra said, "so Celine said that Cardozo could see a striptease right then and there, but she kept looking at de Gier."
"Then what happened?"
"We went home," de Gier said. "After Grijpstra threw up on the goats."
"Oh," the commissaris said, "so Mrs. Guldemeester didn't really perform?"
"She did," de Gier said. "It took forever, too. She must have practiced. She had special music for her act. 'Pyramid' by the Modern Jazz Quartet. You know the piece? It takes quite a while."
"Good composition," Grijpstra said. "We should try that sometime. Some very tricky passages, though; maybe you won't be able to follow."
"No," de Gier said. "I'll be thinking of that party again."
"From what I hear," the commissaris said, "the experience might have had some pleasant aspects. De Gier, you've been here from time to time while we were away. Have you heard anything about reorganization at Headquarters here?"
"I hope there won't be," Grijpstra said. "Reorganization makes the mess worse."
"There'll be an investigation, sir," de Gier said. "State detectives have been called in by the mayor. They're supposed to concentrate on corruption and on cases that have been recently handled in an unprofessional way."
"I hope they won't ask for my cooperation," the commissaris said. "I wouldn't like to intrigue against colleagues."
De Gier stared at the commissaris.
"Yes, Sergeant?"
"No, sir." De Gier shook his head. "I was just thinking. Anything else you have in mind? I'd like to send that message off and see what Halba and Guldemeester have done, exactly. Shall we meet here tonight?"
"I'll meet you at Martin IJsbreker's house," the commissaris said. "At seven. No, make that eight. I'd like to look around the area a bit first, I think."
\\\\\ 5 /////
"Very nice," Adjutant Grijpstra said. "Beautiful, in fact. Lovely example of Golden Age architecture." The adjutant stood solidly at the extreme edge of the quay, his head tilted to obtain an optimal view. De Gier leaned against a tree. Together they observed a slender four-story gable built up out of varnished bricks, holding tall windows in bright white frames. A seagull had just landed on the gable's tip and was silhouetted sharply against the sky, which was still sparkling blue, but tinged with the first hue of coming darkness.
"Got the key?" de Gier asked.
"Sure," Grijpstra said. "He wouldn't give it, of course. Wanted to know why and so forth. Colleague Guldemeester can be quite awkward when pressed."
"So you had to press him, eh?"
"Leaned on him with my full weight," Grijpstra said. "Threatened and cajoled. Still had to find the key myself, in the end." Grijpstra lowered his head. "You know Guldemeester is a squirrel? He must keep a hundred ballpoints in his desk, filched from everywhere. He had a hundred keys, too."
"So how do you know you got the right one?"
Grijpstra held up the key. "Labeled. See? Guidemeester just stood there while I searched his desk. Wouldn't play at all."
"Did you see his notes, too?"
"No notes," Grijpstra said. "No gun. Remember that carton filled with weapons that disappeared from Ballistics, the one you told me about?"
"No," de Gier said. "Not our gun. You mean the Walther PPK that IJsbreker shot himself with went out in the missing carton?"
Grijpstra nodded. "Lifted by a Turkish charwoman, or so they claim at Ballistics. It's all hushed up. The chief constable doesn't want the papers to know. There was a dismantled machine pistol in that carton, too, and a couple of Magnums. Weapons taken from a Turkish drug-running gang. There's a thought that the Turks pushed some of their women into Headquarters to retrieve the guns."
De Gier was still admiring the gable. "Cops sell guns, too. My neighbor bought a pistol from a constable who stopped him for drunken driving. As it would be his second conviction, the sucker paid a small fortune in cash and the cop took pity and. threw in the gun. My neighbor told me about it when I asked him to take care of my cat. I had to stay overnight up north."
"Makes you proud of your profession," Grijpstra said. "So, no gun to check with the bullet in IJsbreker's head. Did you see the pathologists?"
"That was another negative," de Gier said. "Notice how the entire gable was rebuilt, not just patched up somehow, as you usually see in a restoration. Must have cost a pretty penny. I wonder if IJsbreker owned the house."
"We can check with the Registry of Deeds tomorrow." Grijpstra walked around parked cars. "The Banque du Credit may own the place. If IJsbreker has shares in the bank, he may have wanted to avoid property tax. No businessman in his right mind owns anything in his own name anymore. Personal property is mere weight these days. All you want is to have the use of the stuff."
"At no cost," de Gier agreed. "Borrowed interest-free wealth that will last until one's death. In IJsbreker's case, death came rather early. Want to hear something?"
De Gier produced a small cassette recorder and held it near Grijpstra's ear. He clicked its switch. "Hello," a rich baritone voice said, "this is Martin IJsbreker's answering machine. Please leave a message. I'd just love to have your message. I'll answer as soon as I can. Wait for the beep."
Grijpstra looked surprised. "When did you get this?"
De Gier pocketed the little machine. "Just now. IJsbreker's phone is still connected. Doesn't he sound jolly?"
"A good powerful voice," Grijpstra agreed. "Arrogant, strident, authoritative, I would say. Not depressed at all. Perhaps the tape is old. Maybe he has been using it for years."