"I'll do some fancy driving now," Lieutenant Sudema said cheerfully. "To the neighbor lady. She has a cupboard too."
"He can't drive," Hylkje said to de Gier.
"Amazing," de Gier said. "Yesterday I was at his house. I thought he was everything that I should have been. My mother's dream for my future that kept missing me. An upstanding gentleman, sane in body and mind, completed by just the right sort of spouse. When I saw them together I was almost ready to change my ideas. And now look at this."
The lieutenant had fallen off his stool and knelt toward the counter. He talked. Doris hung over the bartop. "A devout social worker qualified in psychiatry?" Doris asked.
"In the cupboard," Lieutenant Sudema said. 'They shared their togetherness in there, and their joy, and inner longings."
"On a shelf?" Doris asked.
"I'm not going to drive all the way to Dingjum now," Hylkje said. "I'm working early tomorrow."
"Dump him in a motel."
"In his condition? They'll never accept him," Hylkje decided. She knelt next to the lieutenant. "Darling?"
"Beloved?" Lieutenant Sudema asked.
"Doris is closing up. Are you coming with me?"
The lieutenant sneered. "You stock no liquor."
"But I do, I do. A choice. Anything you care to name."
"I'm going all the way, do you have communist vodka?"
"With the label that falls off?"
"That and no other."
"I have it," Hylkje said. "The worst kind. All yours."
"The foulest," Lieutenant Sudema said. "The wickedest. The shortest path to hell. You sure you have that now?"
"A cupboardful," Hylkje said, narrowing her eyes.
"But that's where they did it." The lieutenant began to cry.
"No, not in a cupboard, on a shelf under my sink. Come along, my dearest."
De Gier pulled the lieutenant up. "You don't have to join us," Lieutenant Sudema said.
"Never. I'm just taking you there. I'll say good-bye at the door. She loves you. I swear."
"He'll rape you," de Gier whispered into Hylkje's ear.
"Promise?" Hylkje asked.
"I don't really mind you," Lieutenant Sudema said to de Gier. "I'll make sure you get more tomatoes. Come fetch them tomorrow." He grabbed hold of de Gier's arm. "And then you should plan a trip to the island of Ameland. Just the place for you. Speak to the Military Police and ask for my nephew. Same name. Hey-ho!" He didn't have to find his legs again, for de Gier's hold was firm.
"Nephew?" de Gier asked.
"Private Sudema. The copper deal. The AWOL fellow. Hey-ho!"
Lieutenant Sudema was lowered into the back seat of Hylkje's car.
"In exchange for sole," the lieutenant said. "Don't forget now. Bring the sole back. The Water Police or whoever is around, no need for the ferry. You got all that now?"
Halfway up the stairs to Hylkje's apartment, the lieutenant fell asleep. When he woke up on her bed, he wasn't feeling too well. He wondered if there might be a bucket around. De Gier greeted a passing rabbit. He picked it up. "Don't," Hylkje said. "That rabbit is loaded."
Small hard pellets ricocheted off the floor and twanged against the lieutenant's bucket. "Messy," de Gier said, "both of them. Yachf He swept up the pellets while Hylkje mopped the floor.
"Never shake Durk," Hylkje said. "He manufactures them so fast, and his tube is always full. If you touch him they'll shake free."
Lieutenant Sudema sat on the bed. "Coming, darling?" He dropped backward and stretched, rumbling into a snore. "You undress him," Hylkje said. "I don't know about suspenders and such."
De Gier tucked the stripped lieutenant in.
"I'll take the couch," Hylkje said. "Consider yourself thanked."
"Am I welcome some other time?" de Gier asked, putting the broom away in the cupboard where Hylkje arranged her mop. Hylkje pushed him away.
"No kiss?"
"Whatever for?" Hylkje asked. "Why did I get into this mess? Let's try again, call me tomorrow."
\\\\\ 10 /////
" Are you giving it to me or not?" Cardozo asked.
"Never," his brother said. "Buy your own bicycle. Everybody has a bicycle except our Symie. So what does Symie have? A bound edition of the collected adventures of Tintin, the child detective. Sell that bundled nonsense and take the train tomorrow. At the comic-book store they'll give you the price of the ticket."
"Mother?" Cardozo asked.
"Samuel!" Mrs. Cardozo said loudly.
"He wrecked my boat, complete with outboard," Samuel said, "also to restore public order, and now the bicycle will go, to be demolished on the dike. Never. Not again."
"If we all only think of ourselves…" Mrs. Cardozo said.
"He only thinks of himself," Cardozo said. He walked along the rampart of the Old Fortress, in the direction of the Inner Harbor. A detective is irrevocably attracted to where the crime was accomplished. Now where would that be, exactly? Scherjoen could have been shot through the head in any location, and dragged afterward to the slow-moving water of the Inner Harbor. Had there been a mere unfortunate coincidence of negative powers resulting in impromptu manslaughter? Or had the intention been there all the time and had the guilty party simply waited for an opportune moment? Cardozo stopped, weighing and comparing definitions, under the Montelbaen Tower, which pointed at low clouds with its elegant peak, between tall, slender mansions that, leaning forward in an interested manner, observed the contemplator. Murder, to a detective working on Amsterdam's most serious crimes, might be the ideal solution, but the verdict hardly mattered at this time. Who had been manipulated by self-willed fate? This was the way it went: Scherjoen was forever grabbing the competition's loot, and his victims had decided to minimize future adversity. When and where had they acted? At a time and place that suited them best. Armed, they had lurked on Scherjoen's path.
Now here we have Scherjoen, weakened by alcohol and unsteadily pointed in the direction of his Citroen, parked halfway on the pavement. The avengers touch elbows. It's late, the street is theirs. A shot rings out on the deserted quayside. Scherjoen stumbles and Ms. Is that it? No, Douwe has to be done away with altogether. No corpse, no pursuit. Whatever disappears completely has never been. Who will miss Douwe? Only Douwe's wife, but Mem had no idea where Douwe could have gone. Where, then, would Douwe's body be looked for? And when? The later the better.
Clever rural types from the far north. What are they doing now? They leer innocently from under their flat caps. They pick up Scherjoen from two sides and walk on. Three rural types from a distant province, the one in the middle heavily under the weather.
Where is a body best disposed of in Amsterdam? In the water. The harbor's current will most likely push it out to sea. But wait, there's a dory over there. A much better plan indeed. Gasoline is poured on the remains, and a match is scratched to life.
But where, Cardozo thought, did the gasoline come from? A gun fits into a pocket, but the pedestrian cannot easily lug a gasoline can. Did they have one ready in a car? Did the empty can then go back into the vehicle?
Cardozo looked at the smooth movement of the Inner Harbor's surface. The swell broke up in whitecapped waves. He walked along the water's edge, found an old broomstick, and moved it slowly through floating debris.
"Got him!"
The detective, jumped from both sides, waved helplessly with his stick.
"In the name of the law," two rough voices growled. "What's this here? You're behaving in a suspicious manner. What are you digging in the filth for?"
"Hi, Karate. Hi, Ketchup."
"The Frisian corpse?" The uniformed officers helped in the search, Karate with a branch, Ketchup with a broken fishing rod found on the spot.