'That's right,' Grijpstra said. 'Herons catch small fish and swallow them. He'll never get that whopper through his throat. But how did he manage to catch a goldfish? There aren't any goldfish in the river and he's on the wrong side of the road anyway, the river is behind us.'
'Must be a fishpond behind that mansion,' the constable said. 'The bugger sneaked in there and took his chance.'
'Let's go,' the commissaris said.
Grijpstra caught on five minutes later. The commissaris hadn't said anything and seemed half asleep, hands on knees, head reclining against the top of his seat.
'A heron is a lovely bird,' Grijpstra said, 'and that heron was a beauty.'
'Indeed,' the commissaris said.
'One doesn't often see a heron with a goldfish in his beak.'
'Quite,' the commissaris said.
Grijpstra tried once more. 'I am glad you stopped the car, sir.'
'Why?'
'The beauty of it, sir.'
The commissaris waved at the river. 'The river is beautiful too, Grijpstra, and it's there all the time. So are the trees, so is that old windmill over there. We are surrounded by beauty. Even the new blocks of apartments we saw this morning are beautiful, and not only at sunset or early in the morning.'
'It's not the same,' Grijpstra said.
'Yes. The heron was different. He had a goldfish in his beak. Most unusual. Maybe the sudden unlikely image shocked something free in you. It's only when we get shocked that we can see something, but it's tricky. Like a man suddenly being knocked down by a car. He is crossing the street, dreaming away, and wham, there he is, flat on his back, with a wound somewhere or a broken bone. I've seen it dozens of times. They cry, they hold your hand, they are all upset. So they are rushed to the hospital and are shot full of dope, and whatever they were able to understand, because their world broke up, is drugged away again.'
'That bird looked pretty stupid, sir,' the constable at the wheel said gleefully.
'Like us,' the commissaris said. 'We've got a beautiful case, stuck right up our throat, but we are damned if we know what to do with it.'
Dinner took an hour. They had half a dozen snails each and fresh toast and strong red wine from an unlabeled bottle. Grijpstra poked about suspiciously, extracting the small black rubbery lumps from their shells, frowning while he slowly chewed them.
'Well?' the commissaris asked.
'Very nice,' Grijpstra said, carefully cleaning his plate with a piece of toast. 'Good sauce this.'
'More?'
Grijpstra thought. The commissaris nodded encouragingly.
'Yes.'
Grijpstra ate another half dozen. He also ate half a chicken and a plateful of strawberries and asked the waiter for more whipped cream.
'If I can get it on your plate,' the waiter said.
'Try.'
The waiter ladled on more whipped cream.
'You can leave that pitcher on the table,' the commissaris said, 'and put it on the bill.'
'You'd better not kiss your wife tonight,' the commissaris said as they left the restaurant, 'That sauce you liked so much was solid garlic.'
'I never kiss my wife,' Grijpstra said and burped. 'Excuse me, sir.'
'Never mind, but don't burp in the car. You'll knock out the driver and we still have to see that other girl.'
Grijpstra nodded gravely but he wasn't listening. A second burp was forming itself at the bottom of his gullet and seemed stuck sideways, sideways and askew. It burned and cut simultaneously and he began to pat his chest anxiously in a vain attempt to dislodge the bubbly obstacle. The commissaris was still talking and the Citroen waited for them at the end of the path with the constable at the door.
Funny fellow, don't you think?' the commissaris asked. 'He always refuses to eat with me, poor chap still lives in the last century. He probably had a cup of coffee and fried eggs on toast on the terrace while we stuffed ourselves inside. I'll see if I can get his bill. Can't let him pay for himself, can I?'
Grijpstra was still patting his chest.
'What's wrong?'
'I'll be right back,' Grijpstra said and turned off the path. Hidden behind a thicket of young ash trees he thumped his chest and wriggled his large body but the burp stayed where it was, obstinately lodged below an invisible impediment. Determined to free himself Grijpstra jumped up and down, flapping his arms and suddenly the burp, having grown meanwhile into a full-grown belch, roared out and touched his vocal cords, vibrating first into a growl and reaching the impact of a thunderclap at its summit.
Grijpstra dropped his arms and staggered back.
'Well done,' the waiter said. He had been watching Grijpstra ever since he turned off the path.
'Beautiful,' the waiter said now. 'Never heard any* thing like it. I am surprised there are still leaves on the trees. Try a fart now. Go on.'
Grijpstra felt too relieved to be hurt. 'Shouldn't you be inside working?' he asked mildly.
'I should be,' the waiter said, 'but I am not. I am here, taking five minutes off and smoking a cigarette. It's my last day at this establishment. I am starting a little snack bar in town next week.'
'Where? Maybe I'll come and try it.'
'Not you,' the waiter said, threw down his cigarette, stamped on it, and walked away.
13
'We are early,' the Commissaris said to the constable. 'You can drive about for half an hour if you like. There's a nature reserve close by. I've been there before, I even have a special pass. It isn't open to the public.'
He fished around in his wallet and gave the pass to the driver. The constable turned it around and studied the little map on its reverse side.
'I can find it, sir. It shouldn't be more than a few kilometers from here.'
Grijpstra was still exhausted and happy to let events take their course. The soft suspension of the car was lulling him to sleep and when he woke up because the commissaris touched his arm they were in the reserve. Once a graveyard, the place had lain untended for a hundred years or so; then the municipal authorities had discovered it again and promoted it into a special area, enlarging the land by buying the surrounding farms and a small estate, complete with the ruins of a castle and a moat leading into an artificial lake. The city had dipped into a wildlife fund for the money, and botanists and biologists now roamed the reserve, trying to find out what supposedly extinct flora and fauna they might run into.
'Untouched by filthy hands,' the commissaris mumbled as he gazed at the landscape. The constable was driving slowly so that they could enjoy the sight of beeches and oaks grown to gigantic sizes, a glade, covered with the lush yellow of gorse, undergrowth bustling with rabbits and a lone pheasant standing on a rock. 'Look,' the commissaris said, and pointed at a spotted deer, watching them quietly from the cover of a broken gravestone.
'I could hit him easily from here,' the constable said and touched the automatic pistol, resting in its holster under his blazer. 'A perfect shot, sir.'
'You're joking,' Grijpstra said grumpily.
'A policeman is a hunter,' the commissaris said good-naturedly. 'Don't scold the constable, adjutant. The thought occurred to me too.'
He pointed his index finger at the buck. 'Bam,' the commissaris said. 'You are dead. We'll have venison for
