"And a bit of a bastard," the corporal said. 'The lieutenant is another, but he's been easing up a lot. I can thank Gyske for that."
"If we don't bend, they'll break us," de Gier said. 'Take that Scherjoen, for instance. He didn't want to bend."
The corporal was taller than de Gier, and wider. His chin resembled a granite rock. "They don't just want to break us," the corporal whispered.
"Are Frisian women more fierce than ours?"
"I won't say more," the corporal said.
They might be listening in."
The Land Rover parked behind the Citroen. De Gier slid behind the sleek car's wheel, and the Citroen flashed away.
\\\\\ 4 /////
The Commissaris, wandering about his elegant office, was not content. A Frisian dies. In Amsterdam. What was the next move? Would he go to Friesland? Why look far away if it happened here?
Because there was this new car and he wanted to drive along the Great Dike? He could indulge himself, but there was also the necessity to sniff about here. He could delegate the local search to his very best men and take off himself. The commissaris pushed out his thin lips. He attempted to whistle.
"The other way round," he mumbled sadly. His best men were enjoying themselves in Ding…Dingjum. And bothering the widow. He got up and wandered over to his desk, looking for an article in the Police Gazette. "Instructions for Superior Officers." He read the relevant passage. Make sure your temperament, skills, interest, and competency fill the job. Wasn't he supposed to be good at interviewing old ladies? So why wasn't he interrogating Mrs. Scherjoen?
His leg glowed and hurt. He rubbed the painful spot, not too hard, for that would increase the trouble. Suppose he went home and immersed his painful body in hot water spiced 37 with herbs? He might as well; maybe this wasn't a day for work.
He limped to the corridor. The uniformed girls in the computer room looked up. "Sir," they said. "Ladies," the commissaris said. He was given a chair. He thought. The policewomen waited.
"Douwe Scherjoen," the commissaris said.
"Adjutant Grijpstra asked us to check him out, sir," a constable first-class said. "There's nothing on Scherjoen."
"How good is your computer?" the commissaris asked.
"Our computer," the constable first-class said, "knows everything."
"So what would the computer tell us if you activated it with the key words 'Friesland' and 'crime'?"
'Too much, sir. It would tell us about all the wrongdoings of all the Frisians, it would go on forever."
"And what if you limited it to Frisian crime in Amsterdam?"
"It would still go on and on."
"Let's see," the commissaris said.
The constable first-class typed in the two words. The commissaris watched the screen. A small green square trembled.
"Well?" the commissaris asked.
"The computer is searching, sir. It will tell us about its findings any minute now, at incredible speed."
The little green square trembled.
"Well?" the commissaris asked.
The constable first-class pressed a few buttons.
"It's broken," a constable said. The constable first-class stared at the girl. "Down," the girl said nervously. "That's what I meant. Honestly. The computer is down."
"Not broken?" the commissaris asked.
"Just down," the constable first-class said. "It'll be up in a second, it just fell down a little."
"When will it be up again?"
"It could take a while," the constable first-class said. "This does happen now and then. I'll phone and the supplier will send an engineer. He may be busy for an hour or longer- it does take longer once in a while. Maybe the terminal is down too, then we'll have to wait a little while longer."
The commissaris was back in the corridor. He used a wall phone. "Can you find me that Frisian detective, what's his name now? Fokkema, maybe?"
"He's in Spain sir, on holiday, with sick leave added. Detective Fokkema may be away for a while."
"Any other personnel of Frisian origin around?"
"I wouldn't know, sir, did you try the computer?"
The commissaris was back in his room. He thought. Frisian. Frisian what? By happenstance a Frisian cop sees something, and a Frisian park official sees something too?
He picked up the phone.
"Please, dear, Constable First-Class Algra of the Red District Station, and afterward I'd like to speak to Chief Wiarda of Municipal Parks."
His secretary couldn't find either party; Algra had gone off somewhere and Wiarda hadn't yet returned.
They won't know anything either, the commissaris thought; he thought a little further. Frisian convicts, locked up in jail somewhere? Who could locate Frisian convicts? The computer? Hurriedly he changed thoughts. The new thoughts were pushed back by something else again, burped up from memory. "Jelle Troelstra," his memory kept repeating.
"Who?" the commissaris asked.
"You know," his memory insisted.
"I don't."
"SS?" his memory asked.
Right, the commissaris thought, for now he did remember. A limping SS man at large. In 1945, that was a long time back now. Troelstra had fought on the Eastern Front, had been released from duty because of serious wounds, had returned to Friesland just before the liberation, and was wanted afterward by the Dutch police on charges of treason. Traitor Troelstra. The suspect didn't want to be shot, so he hid with relatives, and was seen by neighbors. The neighbors alerted the local police, and Troelstra fled to Amsterdam, where he hid again, this time in a girlfriend's house, at the Old Side Alley. Tired of being hunted, Troelstra asked the girlfriend to phone the police to tell them that he would be ending his life, but would like to talk to someone first, a qualified authority preferably. The commissaris was an assistant inspector at the time and answered the call in person. He took a streetcar. The girlfriend opened the door. Jelle was in bed, with a German pistol in his hand. Jelle Troelstra, ex-hero. The commissaris nodded. Not a bad chap at all, rather an idealist, but on the wrong side, of course. Misdirected loyalty. Hitler, a devil masquerading as an angel, Troelstra saw that now. And subject hadn't committed atrocities, because he was a decent fellow, quite incapable of evil deed.
He listened to Troelstra in those late days of 1945, and encouraged him somewhat, telling him he wouldn't be shot, that he might still live a useful life and that the punishment would be bearable, since subject was turning himself in. Self-confessed traitors were sent to the colonies then, to New Guinea, the enormous island in Indonesia's utmost East, a Dutch possession still, and much in need of roads. Subject would have served there and been returned in due course.
The commissaris picked up his phone again. "Dear?"
"Sir?"
"Please, Jelle Troelstra in… Anjum. Try to locate the man. If he isn't listed, try any other Troelstra in Anjum and ask where we can find Jelle. Is that understood? If you please?"
"You said it at the beginning, sir. One 'please' will suffice."
"At your service," the commissaris said. "You're welcome."
The phone rang. "Yes?"
"Mr. Troelstra lives in Amsterdam, sir. He's on the line now."
"Mr. Troelstra?"
"Yes," a gravelly voice said.
"You'realive," the commissaris said. "I'm pleased to hear that. It's me, the policeman who fetched you in '45. Your girlfriend called and we had a talk. Do you remember?"
"And you're a commissaris now?"
"And I would like to talk to you."
"I've got a cafe\" Troelstra said. "In my girlfriend's house. She left last year, for good, because of cancer. I'm still around for a little bit."
"May I visit? Will that be all right?"
The two men observed each other attentively, in the dark narrow barroom. "Jenever?" Troelstra asked.