Chapter 25
"When we pointed the bone," Katrien had asked the commissaris the evening before Grijpstra and de Gier returned, "the party the bone points at was supposed to die?"
"I'm afraid that's correct, Katrien."
"We weren't playing?"
"No, Katrien."
"The party the bone points at dies straightaway?"
"Soon," the commissaris said.
"You really believe that?"
"Katrien," the commissaris said. "Of course I really believe that. Pointing the bone, if done properly, according to rules that de Gier left with me, is terminal magic. And we did it right. All conditions were met. We were serious. You and Nellie, in spite of what you two pretend to be sometimes, are evolved and powerful spirits. You assisted me voluntarily. The tribe requested our help and empowered our action by appropriate ritual. Of course Hairy Harry and Billy Boy terminated their temporal projections."
"How, Jan?"
"Quickly," the commissaris said.
"You sure?"
"That's what I asked for when I pointed the bone."
Katrien was knitting. The needles ticked peacefully. Sparrows chirpedin the garden. An ice cream truckplayedits chimes in the Queen'sBoulevard at the other side of the house.
"Why do you think I sent de Gier to New Guinea?" the commissaris asked.
Katrien put her knitting down. "You're arrogant, Jan. De Gier wanted to live with warriors, Papuans engaged in tribal warfare. He talked about it for years. Palm trees and jungle glades and naked women and tom-toms and hallucinogenic plants…"
"I nurtured de Gel's desire on my own behalf," the commissaris said. "I couldn't go myself I am getting too feeble."
"So de Gier is your extension?"
The commissaris sat quietly.
"I asked you a question. You're being rude."
"No," the commissaris said. "I'm too old to be rude. I want to tell you this, Katrien. I've often wondered whether there was anything we could do to make things happen a little bit better, and how far we should go once we learned how to use real power. For mutual benefit, of course."
"As defined by who?"
The commissaris sat straight in his chair, hands on his knees, eyes wide open.
"Jan?"
"Yes, Katrien."
Katrien was knitting again. Her voice was casual. "Tell me, where did Grijpstra and de Gier get all that money?"
"I think they found it, Katrien."
"Where?"
"I could tell you," the commissaris said.
"Tell me."
"I don't think it would be a good idea if you told Nellie."
"I thought Nellie was advanced and all that."
"Grijpstra should tell her himself," the commissaris said.
"I won't tell Nellie. Now tell me, Jan."
The commissaris told Katrien that he was reasonably sure the money had been found in an antique townhouse, in Amsterdam's Blood Alley, in the inner city, a little over two years ago. Grijpstra and Sergeant de Gier, who had investigated a bar in Blood Alley at that time, announced their resignation a few days later.
"An investigation to do with a body?" Katrien asked.
With a missing body, a Japanese tourist, who later turned up safe and sound. The found Japanese missing person liked to drink in a Blood Alley bar.
"You followed up?"
The commissaris shrugged. Of course he followed up. Didn't hejust love mysteries? His very own trusted assistants, suddenly resigning, citing that as he, the commissaris, was about to be pensioned off, they couldn't stay on. "A likely story, Katrien."
"I thought it was touching, Jan."
"Grijpstra retiring on his savings? A couple of hundreds? And de Gier on his inheritance from his mother? A couple of thousands? Next thing Grijpstra is remodeling Nellie's house and de Gier is off to New Guinea."
"I remember," Katrien said. "You were running about in your father's broad-brimmed felt hat and Uncle Pier's little round glasses and that oversize overcoat you found in the garbage and you smelled ofjenever when you came home late." Katrien sniffed. "Retired, ha! Otium cum dignitate indeed." She found her smile again. "So what happened in Blood Alley that made millionaires out of our musketeers?"
Information is found in bars. The commissaris told her that while illegally investigating his former associates' sudden wealth, he had visited the bar in Blood Alley, assuming the persona of a retired city clerk, a drinking man, sitting quietly at the counter, hearing the alley's seasoned drinkers discussing a house further along the alley, about to be impounded for nonpayment of taxes, where three middle-aged black males used to live, citizens of Suriname, a former Dutch colony on the South American East Coast. The three men drove Maseratis that were traded for new Maseratis as soon as ashtrays filled up or tape decks malfunctioned. A Maserati is a very expensive Italian brand ofsports car. Those citizens of the republic of Suriname, a very poor country, just loved driving their ever-new Maseratis.
"Subjects left their station, Jan?"
Nobody had answered the door of the Blood Alley house. The telephone had been disconnected. The cars, abandoned and vandalized, were still in the alley. Grijpstra and de Gier had had the vehicles towed to Headquarters. A search turned up unpaid traffic tickets. The Maseratis were auctioned off by the city.
"The owners didn't show?"
No. The commissaris, at that time, recalled a narcotics case that mentioned the Maserati owners as suspects.
"Suspected of what, Jan?"
Of importing frozen fruit juice that wasn't. The product hidden in the fruit juice cans was cocaine. Strangely enough, the alleged smugglers were heroin users. Suspects had been brought in on charges a few times but released for lack of police cells, a common Amsterdam problem, but they were still being harassed by detectives, asked to visit Headquarters to answer questions, waylaid in the street, telephoned at odd times.
"Aha," Katrien said.
"You see possibilities?" the commissaris asked.
"Panic?" Katrien asked. "The addicted Suriname suspects, driven crazy by being constantly under surveillance, ran home? Leaving their treasure?"
The commissaris confirmed that addicts often react erratically because of the narcotics side effect, paranoia. Having come that far, the commissaris had asked a former Murder Brigade assistant, Sergeant-Detective Simon Car-dozo, to check with Suriname, where the Dutch Ministry of Justice pays off informers. There was a rumor in Suriname's capital that the three suspects were arrested by the military police on their return to Paramaribo. The rumor said that the military police, who handled the "frozen fruit juice" flow from Suriname to Amsterdam, wanted their share of the profits. The three suspects hadn't brought any money with them. They were tortured inefficiently and died before they could tell the MPs where the Amsterdam treasure, the proceeds of sales of narcotics, was hidden.
"Ach," Katrien said. "And Grijpstra and de Gier found the lost millions? Hidden in that Blood Alley house? Oh dear."
The commissaris said fortunes in cash left by drug dealers had been found by his department before and had been turned over to the administration.
"Aha," Katrien said. "Yes, I remember. You thought the money either disappeared outright or got squandered somehow."
The commissaris sighed as he held her hand. The old couple thought about the declining police reputation, unreported serious crimes, killer psychopaths released for bureaucratic reasons, unemployed youth gangs robbing the weak and elderly. Katrien was shaking her head. "So Grijpstra and de Gier just kept the cash? And you approve?"