wanted to experience it again. Something to do with the garden, and with the small fishpond at the foot of the poplar, and with a splash. He sucked his cigar and the dream came back to him. He had been in the garden but his garden had been much bigger, spreading far into the distance, and the fishpond had been a vast lake. And the poplar was a forest, and the turtle was close. The turtle was his ordinary size, small, compact, self-contained and friendly, with a lettuce leaf in his mouth. The commissaris had been expecting something and so had the turtle, for it was craning its leathery neck and chewing excitedly. It had been staring at the blue metallic sky and the round white moon flooding the lawn with soft downy pale light.
And then it came. A purple spot growing quickly in size. Mauve and moving. Splitting into two individual but similar shapes. Female, with large wings. They were so close that he could see their long limbs, curved breasts, calm faces. He saw their features, high cheekbones and slanting eyes. Quiet faces but intent, purposeful. Wings fluttered as they turned above him, him and the turtle, who had lost his benign solitude and was trying to dance in the high grass and had dropped his lettuce leaf. The commissaris was squatting down, holding on to the turtle's shield. He recognized the winged shapes' faces. They resembled the Papuan who had once been arrested by the murder-squad detectives and who had escaped again without leaving a trace. Perhaps they were his sisters. Or his messengers. Or his thoughts, reaching out from wherever he was now. The commissaris lost his association. The apparitions were so close above him now that he could have touched their slender ankles if he had reached out. The wings moved again and they were gaining height. They hovered above the lake and then, first one, then the other, folded their wings, and dropped. They hit the surface of the lake like arrows and plunged right through.
The turtle had lost all self-control and was capering about at the commissaris' feet, distracting his attention. When he looked up again the mauve figures were with him on the grass, with spread wings, observing him and showing a glimmer of amusement in their sparkling eyes and softly smiling mouths. That was the dream. He rubbed the bald spot on his skull, amazed that the dream had come back to him. He didn't like purple or mauve and he had never been particularly impressed by naked winged angels. Where had the images come from? He now also remembered the events of the previous evening. Nellie's bar. Nellie's colors had been purple and mauve too, and pink, of course. He saw Nellie's large solid breasts again and the cleavage the doctor had been so poetic about. Had Nellie so impressed him that she had helped form this dream, together with the sympathetic presence of his turtle and the glorified version of his garden and the Papuan, a man he had liked once and whose attitude had puzzled him at the time?
The commissaris sighed. It had been a good dream. He picked up the phone and dialed a number. The phone rang for a long while.
'De Gier.' The voice on the phone sounded deep and throaty.
'Morning, de Gier.'
'Sir. Good morning, sir.'
'Listen,' the commissaris said. 'It's early and it's Sunday, and judging from the way you talk you were asleep when your phone rang. I want you to get up and wash and have some coffee and shave perhaps. When you are ready you can phone me back. I'll be waiting for you.'
'Yes, sir. Ten minutes.'
'Make it twenty. You can have breakfast first if you like.'
'Right,' de Gier said.
The commissaris replaced the phone and stretched out. Then he changed his mind and got up and fetched some lettuce leaves from the kitchen. The turtle was waiting for him in the garden and bravely left the grass and marched ponderously on the flagstones leading to the open door of the commissaris' study.
'Morning sir,' de Gier said again.
'Tell me,' the commissaris said, 'about last night. Anything worthwhile?'
'Yes,' de Gier said. 'Miss Rogge gave me three names and three addresses. Do you have a pen, sir?'
The commissaris noted the names and addresses. De Gier talked. 'Yes, yes, yes,' the commissaris said.
'Perhaps Grijpstra and I should call on these people today, sir.'
'No. Grijpstra can go and Til go with him. I have other plans for you. Are you ready?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Right. Go to our garage and ask for the gray van. Then go to the stores. We have some confiscated textiles, bales of cloth, a good assortment. They are due for auction next week but we can have them. I'll phone the chief clerk at his home later this morning.'
'Textiles?' de Gier asked. 'The gray van? Do you want me to take the textiles somewhere?'
'Yes. To the street market tomorrow. A detective should be a good actor; tomorrow you can be a hawker. I'll contact the market master at the Albert Cuyp and he'll give you a stall and a temporary license. You won't need more than a few days. Make friends with the other hawkers. If the killer comes from the market you'll be able to pick up a trail.'
'Just me, sir?' De Gier didn't sound pleased.
'No. You can take Sergeant Sietsema with you.'
'Can't I have Cardozo?'
'Cardozo?' the commissaris asked. 'I thought you didn't like Cardozo. You two are always quarreling.'
'Quarreling, sir? We never quarrel. I have been teaching him.'
'Teaching. O.K. Take him. Perhaps he's the right choice. Cardozo is Jewish and Jews are supposed to be good traders. Maybe he should be the hawker and you can be his assistant.'
Til be the hawker, sir.'
The commissaris smiled. 'Right. Phone Cardozo and get him to join you today. Better phone him right now before he leaves for the day. And what about Esther Rogge, was she in a good state of mind when you left her last night?'
There was no answer.
'De Gier?'
'I have her here with me, sir, in my apartment.'
The commissaris looked out the window. One of the magpies was sitting on the grass, looking at the turtle. The turtle was looking back. He wondered what the two could have in common.
'It isn't what you are thinking, sir.'
'I wasn't thinking, de Gier, I was looking at my turtle. I had a dream last night, something to do with the Papuan. Do you remember the Papuan?'
'Yes, sir.'
'A strange dream. Something about his two sisters. They had wings and they flew into my garden. There was a full moon and my turtle was in the dream as well. My turtle was excited, jumping about in the grass.'
'In your dream, sir?'
'Yes. And it was real, more real than the conversation I am having with you now. You dream too, you told me last night.'
'Yes, sir. I'd like to hear more about your dream sometime.'
'Sometime,' the commissaris said, and stirred the coffee which his wife had put on the little table next to his bed. 'Sometime we'll talk about it. I often think about the Papuan, possibly because he was the only suspect who ever got away after we had caught up with him. You'd better get Miss Rogge home, I suppose. I'll phone you tonight and tell you what Grijpstra and I found out, or you can phone me. My wife will know where I am.'
'Sir,' de Gier said, and rang off.
By eleven o'clock the commissaris' black Citroen was parked outside Grijpstra's house on the Lijnbaansgracht opposite Police Headquarters and the commissaris had his finger on the bell.
'Yes?' Mrs. Grijpstra's tousled head shouted from a window on the second floor.
'Is your husband in, madam?''
'Oh, it's you, sir. He'll be right down.'
The commissaris coughed. He could hear the woman's voice inside the house and Grijpstra's heavy footsteps on the narrow wooden staircase. The door opened.
