'You have seen Mrs. van Buren, haven't you?' Mr. Holman asked.
'I saw her corpse, in the mortuary.'
'I see. Well, she was very beautiful when she was alive.'
'Did you get to know her well?' de Gier asked.
Mr. Holman was sweating. He took out a large handkerchief and dried his face. 'No. Not the way you mean.'
'How do you know what I mean?' de Gier asked.
'I know what you mean. But it wasn't like that at all. I just went to see her again and again. Always on Sunday mornings, and my little son was with me. She used to give me a cup of coffee and my son had his lemonade. We would stay half an hour maybe.'
'You just talked?' the commissaris asked.
Mr. Holman was silent.
'No intimate relationship?'
'No sir.'
The room was very quiet.
'Did your wife know about your meetings with Mrs. van Buren?'
Mr. Holman giggled again. 'Yes. My son was always telling her about the nice lady. My wife wanted to go and meet the nice lady.'
'Did she meet her?'
'No.'
'She was killed on Saturday night,' Grijpstra said.
'Saturday night,' Mr. Holman said. 'That's bad.'
The policemen waited.
'I was in my office all Saturday afternoon and all Saturday evening. Only came home at eleven.'
'Was there anyone with you at your office?'
'No,' Mr. Holman said. 'I was alone. I often work on Saturdays, best day of the week for me, no telephone, no visitors.'
'Have you been in the army?' Grijpstra asked.
'No, I have a weak spine. Why?'
'I was just asking,' Grijpstra said. 'And you don't like sports, you were saying. You wouldn't play ball with your son.'
Mr. Holman shook his head. 'I am very fond of sports.'
'Any particular sport?' the commissaris asked.
'Darts,' Mr. Holman said. 'I am good at darts. It isn't a popular sport in Holland but I like it. I have a special room in my house where we play. I am chairman of the society, you know.'
'Darts is a throwing game,' Grijpstra said slowly. 'Can you throw this, you think?'
The stiletto gleamed in his hand; it had flicked open as he had pulled it out of his pocket.
'Sure,' Mr. Holman said. 'Where do you want me to throw it?'
'Into the cigar box,' the commissaris said, 'but wait a moment. I'll take the cigars out first.'
The commissaris put the empty cigar box on a filing cabinet. 'Right,' he said.
Mr. Holman had got up and was balancing his feet. He half-closed his eyes, weighing the knife in his open hand. 'There,' he said.
The movement had been very quick. Grijpstra's stiletto had hit the cigar box squarely in the middle, and had pierced the flimsy wood. There wasn't much left of the box.
As Grijpstra began to walk toward the filing cabinet to retrieve his knife, Mr. Holman understood.
'The knife was thrown, wasn't it?' he asked in a whisper.
'It was,' the commissaris said.
'I didn't kill her,' Mr. Holman said, and began to cry.
The room was quiet again. Mr. Holman had left, loudly blowing his nose. He had been answering questions for more than an hour.
'Well?' the commissaris asked after a few minutes.
Grijpstra and de Gier stared at him.
'Well?' the commissaris asked again.
'Difficult,' Grijpstra said.
The commissaris chose a cigar from the disorderly heap on his desk.
'Must get a new cigar box,' he muttered to himself, and aloud, 'You shouldn't have that stiletto, Grijpstra.'
'No, sir,' Grijpstra said.
'No motive,' de Gier said loudly. 'No motive at all. Why should he want to kill a woman who gave him cups of coffee and who gave his little boy glasses of lemonade? He wasn't a client of hers and she couldn't have blackmailed him.'
'Why not?' the commissaris asked.
'He wouldn't be visiting her on Sunday morning if she was playing whore for him during the week.'
'Quite,' Grijpstra said.
'Perhaps he didn't have to pay,' the commissaris said. 'Perhaps they were lovers.'
'That meatball?' de Gier said.
'Women,' the commissaris said in a lecturing voice, 'are not mainly attracted by a man's looks.'
De Gier looked hurt and Grijpstra looked amused.
'Maybe he gave her flowers,' Grijpstra said, 'and recited poetry and paid her compliments.'
'All right,' de Gier said. 'He was her lover. He sang songs to her. And then he threw a knife into her back.'
'We'll have to see him again,' the commissaris said. 'Phone him at his office tomorrow morning and ask him to be here at three in the afternoon.'
He got up and opened the door.
'He is liking this case,' Grijpstra said as they walked back to their room.
'I am not,' de Gier said. 'Are you?'
'Yes,' Grijpstra said. 'It's a nice case, nice and complicated. Let's go to a cafe and have a drink and go through it again. We have a lot of information now.'
'No,' de Gier said.
8
The rain was thick and cold and thoroughly unpleasant but the commissaris, a dapper pedestrian in a black oilcloth coat and a floppy hat, didn't mind. The only concern that his brain was registering was a concern about die pain in his legs. Rain aggravated his rheumatism and his limp was obvious that morning, in spite of his efforts. He was forcing himself to breathe slowly. Slow breathing improved his resistance. He was also forcing himself to think about something that had nothing to do with his pain. He was thinking about the Secret Service and his thoughts amused him so that his expression was a mixture of joy and suffering, resulting in an odd grimace. He wondered how many people knew that the Secret Service had a local head office that was separate from its three rooms at Police Headquarters, and he wondered if there would be any people who would care.
He had seen the chief constable that morning, to ask for an introduction to the director of the Secret Service. The introduction had been arranged within a few minutes. And now he was on his way. He knew the address, had known it for some years but there had never been a reason to penetrate into this seat of mystery.
He stumbled on a cobblestone and supported himself against the cast-iron railing of a bridge. He cursed, a long full-blooded curse, venomously pronounced, each syllable stressed. The pain was now a little worse and he waited until he had regulated his breathing again.
He wished he could have avoided this visit but had to agree with himself that he couldn't have. The Secret
