"That's understood," Cardozo said.
What lovely ladies, Cardozo thought, shuffling about in the hushed pink light of the prostitution quarter. No Chinese anywhere-a pity, maybe. He did see Adjutant Oppenhuyzen, who, peaceful and content, lumbered out of a red door while the lady he'd enjoyed only a few minutes ago tore open her curtains and arranged herself diligently on the cushions of her wide windowsill. The adjutant winked and was about to comment cheerfully on his recent excitement, but Cardozo turned away. Policemen have the urge too, he was aware of that fact, and if the adjutant happened to be in Amsterdam and was tricked into a slight deviation from the path, between attending to his duties, well… Not well at all, Cardozo thought. I'm not doing it, so why should he? The hell with the bastard.
I won't even look at them, Cardozo thought. I don't have the money anyway. I'm also hindered by having to carry a pistol and a portophone.
He did look a little. No! There She was, not too visible in the rear of a cozy little room, lit from below, in a red glow that warmed her slender shins and billowing thighs. And She returned his stare from one inviting eye; the other was hidden by combed-down thick hair. She wanted him. Her longing made her tremble.
Just another show. Cardozo walked on.
When She offered herself again, She was Thai, from the golden country far beyond bis reach. The ocher-tinted skin of the small, lithe body that writhed toward him was covered only in one spot, by a small square orange silk attached to a cord, moving all the time, covering nothing, really. Will you join me, Cardozo?
And now She was dark, dancing to a rhythm that penetrated through the glass, stretching her long arms, begging him-him, the lover named Cardozo.
An Egyptian slid past in profile, moving out of tapestry, a temple maiden who had cut her white cotton dress so that the priest could ceremonially possess Her. The priest's name was Cardozo.
An icy German ordered him in, dressed in jackboots and an army hat, the whip ready in her small but strong hand. She accepted applications from slaves to work themselves to death in her camp, so that the last feelings of guilt might be dissolved in pain. At this moment She was interested in Simon Cardozo.
Good day to you, Cardozo thought.
Where could the Chinese be?
He found a crescent connecting two lesser alleys, where a surrealist had plied his trade. A toilet bowl, mortared into a crumbling wall, housed a sturdy and healthy goldfish. A baby doll with pointed teeth and long eyelashes, with live worms crawling out of dear little nostrils, was being smothered slowly by ivy. In a burned-out shop window a sign was displayed with a neatly lettered text. Balthazar does not bark, but bites when provoked.
The surrealist himself was available, a trim elderly man in an impeccable three-piece suit, who addressed the passersby. "Please, dear people, can you tell me where the Bardo Todol is? I've been silly enough to lose my way. I'm dead, you see. Should I turn right or left here? Could you direct me, if you please?"
"Any Chinese around here?" Cardozo asked.
"Oh yes," the surrealist said. "Next alley. A barber's salon, go right at the fork, can't miss."
The indicated passage was overgrown with smelly weeds rustling with vermin. A sign in Chinese dangled from a rusty bar. Under the sign a rotten door was hung in a partly broken frame. The cracked window in the door was covered by a dirty cloth. Rough voices shouted inside. The cloth was torn and Cardozo could peek.
The portophone jumped into his clawing fingers. "Karate? Ketchup?"
That there was no immediate answer could only mean that the colleagues had been properly trained. They heard him but didn't acknowledge so that their suddenly ringing voices would not disturb the already delicate situation. Cardozo whispered his position and became active at once. Kicking in the door and jumping ahead, he found himself in a low whitewashed room. Cardozo's pistol pointed at four Chinese in turn. Two sat, two stood. The Chinese tied down in barber's chairs couldn't turn around, but the two who were standing did, following Cardozo's crisp order. They clasped their hands to their necks when he barked at them again.
"Hello?" Cardozo said. "Ketchup? Karate? Come quickly. I've got them."
The portophone crackled emptily.
One of the sitting Chinese was Wo Hop. "Untie me?" Hop asked.
"Me help you?"
"That'll be all right," Cardozo said. "Karate? Ketchup?"
He grabbed a stool with his foot and moved it closer. He sat down. There was a clock on the wall. The minute hand moved once in a long while, creaking loudly. "Hello?" Car-dozo asked after every creak.
"Hello? Hello? Hello?"
Cardozo got a little tired. The pistol's weight increased. Flies moved about sleepily. The Chinese facing the wall moved now and then. "Keep still," Cardozo shouted. "Hello? Hello? Hello?"
His arm began to hurt.
"Friends no come?" Wo Hop asked. "Untie me now?"
"Hello?"
"Symie?" Karate asked. "You there? Over."
Cardozo cleared his throat.
"Nothing doing, right, Symie? We're signing off and will return to the station. Join us there. We're off now. Buy you a drink?"
"Hello!" Cardozo yelled.
"You're there," Karate said. "See you in a minute. Over and out."
"Come here!" Cardozo yelled.
The portophone creaked.
"You hear me?"
"Quiet," Karate said. "Mind my eardrums. Where are you?"
"Here." Cardozo gave his position. "Hurry up. Bring any assistance you can find. Every cop in the station. Do hurry. Emergency."
"Understood," Karate said.
Cheerful sirens tore the air near the Inner Harbor. Jolly running footsteps cut the silence in the passage outside.
"Hurrah!" Karate shouted.
"Victory at last!" Ketchup shouted. "Four fried noodles. Two double fortune cookies. Step right up. Take your pick."
The assistance, eight officers in uniform and four in jeans and leather jackets, untied the prisoners and handcuffed all four suspects. A minibus transported the catch to the station. An inspector, raised from his bed, patted Cardozo's shoulder. "Two counts of deprivation of liberty, two counts of illegal firearms, one plastic bag containing a hundred grams of high-grade heroin. Nobody seems to have the proper papers. Good work, detective."
"Sir?" an officer in a leather jacket said.
"Let's have it, old chap."
"I'm Drugs, sir. Something about this heroin."
"Not the real thing? Don't disappoint me."
"Good quality, but not Chinese."
"And how do we know?"
"Packing, sir."
"And what do we notice when we study the packing?"
"Chinese heroin, sir, is never supplied in this type of thick yellow plastic wrap."
"No disturbing details now," the inspector said. 'Tomorrow, maybe. I'll be reading the reports. Have a good night, the lot of you." The inspector went home.
"Turkish heroin," the expert explained. "Coarse grains, see?"
Cardozo was invited to type out his report. Wo Hop was sent home. There was no need to detain his mate, either. The two other Chinese were lodged in a small cell.
Karate and Ketchup changed clothes. "A drink, Car-dozo?"
Why not? In Jelle Troelstra's bar, a stone's throw away. "I can't stay long," Cardozo said in the street, "for tomorrow I bicycle to Friesland."