"Does it?" Grijpstra asked. "I thought it was a wage, a small wage. I was talking to a garbage collector the other day; he earns as much as I do."
"There are no garbage collectors anymore," de Gier said, trying to coax fire out of his old-fashioned battered lighter. "There are only sanitation engineers nowadays. And their jobs are similar to ours. They keep the place clean."
"Clean," Grijpstra said, and replaced the drumstick which de Gier had left on his desk. "Have you looked at the canals lately? There is so much rubbish floating around that the ducks have to peck a hole before they can settle down. And it is the same with crime. The chief inspector of the old city was telling me that they had thirty-two armed robberies during the weekend, right in the street."
De Gier shrugged.
"You don't believe it? I have the reports here somewhere, in the Telex file. You haven't been reading the file, have you? You should, it is part of your duty."
"Yes, yes, but they exaggerate, you know. A drunk swaggers up to somebody in the street and says 'Your life or your money.' The drunk is seventy years old, he limps and he can't stand up properly. Our citizen shits himself, gives the drunk his pocketbook with a tenguilder note in it and runs to the police station. Armed robbery, right in the street. The drunk may have had a pocketknife in his hand, clasped most probably."
"Yes. What's the time?"
"On your watch," de Gier said. "Lift your wrist and look at it; you are awake now."
Grijpstra looked at his watch. Five o'clock. He got up and walked to the door. "What about our pretty lady?" he asked as he opened the door.
"I am taking her to the station in a minute. Cardozo is there already. I introduced her to him so he knows who he is supposed to protect. The commissaris is being very thorough about the case. Do you think these yakusa or whatever they call themselves will try to have a go at her?"
"I don't think," Grijpstra said. "Officers think. I am going home to change and shave and later I will go to the Japanese restaurant. You are supposed to chase those two jokers tonight, aren't you?"
De Gier nodded.
"Let me know if something happens. You can reach me at the restaurant, I wrote the number down for you. Here you are. Maybe I can join you."
The temperature had dropped to a comfortable level and Grijpstra was smiling to himself as he crossed Leidse Square aiming straight for the huge silhouette of a gigantic plane tree towering gently at the edge of the square, its foliage creating a roof of peace next to the growling traffic of cars and buses taking people to restaurants and cinemas. It was almost seven o'clock when Grijpstra reached the protection of the tree, and he stopped to look around, glancing at the cubist concrete sculpture which the city fathers had placed under the tree some thirty years ago and which was showing an interesting growth of moss and lichen. An elderly man was sitting on the sculpture, dangling his legs. Grijpstra stared at the man who nodded and grinned. Grijpstra nodded in response. He had recognized the old fellow, a petty thief and burglar, in and out of jail for many years, but that was long ago now.
"All right?" he asked, and the man dropped down and ambled toward him.
"Yes, adjutant, all right now. How are you?"
"Busy," Grijpstra said, "and I don't want to be busy; it's a beautiful evening. How have you been keeping?"
"I am too old for the game now," the man said, and offered a cigarette. Grijpstra took it and the man struck a match, holding the box carefully as if it might explode. Grijpstra inhaled and did his best not to make a face. It was a menthol cigarette. A polar bear fart, Grijpstra thought, holding the cigarette away from his mouth.
"I am fine really," the man said. "They give me welfare now and I have a sort of job too. Cousin of mine is a parking attendant at the museum, but he drinks a bit and he doesn't like to work too much, so I replace him every now and then."
"Good tips?" Grijpstra said, forgetting himself and taking another draw on the cigarette. This time he made a face.
"Yes, good tips, especially when I wash their cars."
"That's hard work." Grijpstra said, and smiled sympathetically.
"Burglarizing was harder," the man said, "especially setting up for it. I would spend hours and then I would still forget something or other and have to go back again. Washing cars is easier; all you need is water and a cloth, and a brush. I have some fine brushes."
"Good," Grijpstra said. There wasn't much more to say, and they shook hands and Grijpstra strolled on.
The Japanese restaurant was only a few blocks away and he followed the canal, keeping close to the water side. He was thinking about old movies, movies he had seen before the war. There had been Japanese in those movies, wicked silent men who lived in quiet luxury, pulling strings that made other men act and suffer. He was trying to remember what sort of evil those bad yellow men had gone in for. Opium, he supposed. Blackmail perhaps. He couldn't remember. He saw a vague picture of a small man sitting in a large chair, his face partly hidden by cigarette smoke. When the police came he dropped through a hidden trapdoor and there had been a chase through sewers. The man was shot at the end of the chase and he died. Had he smiled when he died? A leering evil smile?
Grijpstra threw the menthol cigarette away and stopped to look at a gull, grazing the canal's surface, and grinned. It would be funny if he should walk into a situation like that now. But things had changed and trapdoors were no longer in fashion and he very much doubted if the sewers were wide enough to allow for a chase. But there was still evil, he reassured himself. Mr. Nagai, the shy intellectual sitting in a cane chair with a stack of pocketbooks near his feet, had undoubtedly been shot, and heroin was moving through the city, heading east to the American garrisons in Germany, corrupting young men into the vague stupor that leads to hell. He knew that the drugs department estimated that they were catching a tenth part of the traffic. Maybe they couid raise the percentage a little now. A bit of luck, he thought, and shrugged, pushing himself into motion again. A little bit of luck that might peter out again if they weren't careful. The wicked men called themselves yakusa, and he had floundered into their maze. He thought of de Gier, who would be checking hotel registers now and of the commissaris who would be on his way to The Hague to see the ambassador and of the State Police cars trying to find tracks of the white BMW. Somebody would have to come up with something and they would go from there.
He stopped again and looked at the gable of a narrow house. He was in a side street, a one-way street with hardly any traffic, and the sounds of a clavichord came flooding out of a first floor window. Bach, a prelude. He was familiar with the piece. De Gier had the record; he remembered listening to it some months ago in de Gier's small apartment in the suburbs. But this was no record. The musician had to be a professional and the sad exact melody came through beautifully. A few notes stumbled and were repeated. Very nice, Grijpstra said aloud. A very nice evening altogether. His wife hadn't been home and he had been able to shave in peace. His favorite shirt had been on the shelf. He had drunk coffee and looked at the fuchsia flowering in the living room. He had been worrying about the fuchsia lately, but it was doing very well now. It had been pleasant under the plane tree in the square. The music stopped, Grijpstra waited. It began again. Bach's Italian Concerto, very fast but still exact. The notes were so close that they touched, but each note had its own identity and roundness.
Lovely, Grijpstra said, and looked down the street. He saw the Japanese restaurant, marked by a sign hanging under an awning. The sign was a single character, brushed on a white background. He began to walk toward it, feeling for the note that was crumpled in the side pocket of his jacket. He could feel his pistol through the lining of his pocket and the image of the wicked character in the old movie flashed through his mind again.