The sergeant grunted as he shifted his tripod into a new position. De Gier watched a constable adjusting the position of the doll. The fact that the doll's face showed no features made it look even more sinister.
'That cat must still be in the bushes somewhere, sergeant, shall I hunt for it?' the constable asked.
'Cat?' de Gier asked, as he felt his body grow cold. 'What cat?'
'A Siamese cat,' the sergeant said. 'A witness told us. The cat lives in one of those apartments up there. Somebody left the door open and it got away. The lady who lives in the apartment went after it, but it got as far as here before she caught it and got hit. She was concentrating on grabbing the cat, of course. Bloody great truck hit her, truck was speeding, we can prove it from the brake tracks, see, they are over there. I have photographed them already. I think he was going at eighty kilometers. Can't blame him too much though, the lady must have practically run into his front bumper. She was holding the cat as he hit her, he says. Poor bloke is sitting in his cab now, crying his eyes out.'
He pointed at a stationary truck, parked half on the footwalk, some two hundred yards ahead.
De Gier's mouth felt very dry. 'How old was the lady?'
'Thirty, I would say. Quite nice-looking, I think, although it is always hard to say when they are dead.'
'Color hair?'
'Dark.' The sergeant suddenly looked up, almost upsetting his tripod. 'Shit, she isn't yours, is she? You have a cat, I remember now. A Siamese. They were telling me at the station. One of the constables had seen you playing with it on your balcony. You were holding it in your arms and he thought it was a baby at first.'
De Gier wasn't listening, he was walking to the bushes, dreamily, his mind only partly functioning. She is dead, he thought. Esther is dead. She let Oliver escape. I warned her. I even told her never to go after him if he gets away. He got me almost killed too, once. He always runs to the park and he can be caught in the park, it is too dangerous to catch him on the road. Too much traffic. But she went after him all the same. She is dead.
His mind was giving him all sorts of disconnected information. How long had he known her now? About a year. Whether he loved her. He did. She had never really surrendered completely. She held on to bits of her freedom here and there. She would spend her nights with him, but not always. She hadn't given up her own house. She hadn't allowed him to marry her. But he had accepted her conditions and had enjoyed the pleasant side effects. They had never quarreled. Their love life had been fairly passionate. They hadn't bored or irritated each other. He was wiping his face as he stumbled about the bushes. He had thought the woman very beautiful. A slender neck, long black hair, long legs and very slim ankles. He had never understood how such thin bones could support her, but she walked graciously. He saw her sensuous wide lips and the nose with the delicate bridge.
The cat was stretched out on the edge of the lawn. De Gier knelt down and caressed its wet skin. A bleeding paw came up and touched his cheek. Oliver was aiming for his nose but it seemed he couldn't focus, the eyes were glazed and the cat was breathing with short painful gasps. The cat always liked to pat him on the nose.
'Oliver,' de Gier said. The cat lifted its head but had to let it drop back. De Gier felt the skin again, Oliver's fur was wet with blood and sweat, the sweat of fear and pain. The eyes had closed, but the gasping continued. De Gier felt for his pistol, withdrew and loaded it mechanically and pressed the muzzle against the Siamese's ear. The shot was loud in the breathlessly still park. He got up and replaced the pistol under his armpit and walked away. He hadn't seen what the bullet had done to the cat's head.
Running footsteps on the path brought the sergeant and two constables. The sergeant's arm caught de Gier's body as it began to crumple up.
'No,' a constable said. 'He has shot the cat, not himself.'
De Gier's brain hadn't stopped completely. He mumbled a name and a telephone number. The sergeant called the number on the radio in his van. The commissaris answered.
'Yes,' the commissaris said. 'I see, sergeant. Put him on a stretcher or something, it won't take me long to get there. Til take him to my house. Do you have some strong drug you can inject into him?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Do that then; keep him warm and quiet. I'll be there in ten minutes.'
The sergeant wanted to ring off.
'Sergeant?'
'Sir?'
'Remove the cat's body. He shouldn't see it again.'
'I have a spade, sir. I can bury it in the park.'
'Yes. Bury it properly and mark the grave.'
\\ 7 /////
Six men had gathered en the Chief Constable's sitting room. They all suffered from the clammy late afternoon heat and had been glad to take off their jackets. The Japanese ambassador, uncomfortable in his unwieldy plus fours-he was planning to play a little golf afterwards-sighed and wished for air conditioning. There was no air conditioning in Amsterdam Police Headquarters, and there probably never would be. Dutch summers usually don't last long, but this particular summer had lasted for some time and showed no signs of abating. Mr. Johnson, the CIA chief, shared the Japanese ambassador's desire, but he managed to look cheerful, in his unobtrusive way. There was nothing striking about Mr. Johnson, a property which had saved his life on numerous occasions and in several countries. Everything about him was gray, even his skin, maybe even his teeth, but Mr. Johnson never showed his teeth. His cheerfulness was strictly limited to movements of the muscles that controlled his eyes and lips and didn't include laughter or even smiling. When he spoke he mumbled. He was mumbling now.
'Your cousin is being taken care of, commissaris,' Mr. Johnson said. 'He is staying in a very nice hotel in Hawaii. He was flown out of Hong Kong last night, in a military plane. Nobody saw him leave. All you have to do now is fly to Hong Kong and take his place for a day or so, to familiarize yourself with the cover. After that you can board any passenger plane for Japan. A passport will be given to you in Hong Kong at your arrival.'
'My cousin liked the idea?' the commissaris asked, looking concerned.
More wrinkles appeared around Mr. Johnson's eyes. 'Sure,' he said. 'We made it worth his while. He will have a most enjoyable stay in one of the lesser known islands.'
'No risk when he comes back?'
Mr. Johnson made a smoothing gesture. 'There is always a risk, but maybe we can be of help.'
The commissaris continued looking worried. The chief constable, an elegant gray-haired man of some fifty years old, smiled. He didn't think the commissaris was worried, but the chief of his murder brigade often looked as he was supposed to look, and he was supposed to look concerned at this particular moment. The public prosecutor also smiled, and the smile set off a grin on the bland gleaming face of the Dutch ambassador, who felt that something was going on and tried to analyze what it was. He succeeded in a few seconds. The old bird doesn't care a hoot, the ambassador thought. He put his hands on the table and looked around. The chief constable nodded in response.
'Right,' the ambassador said briskly, 'so we can go ahead. My Japanese colleague, whom we are honored to have with us, has expressed agreement with our plans, our somewhat half-baked plans, so far I should say.' He turned toward the Japanese ambassador and bowed ponderously.
The small oriental gentleman took his cue immediately. 'Not at all, not at all,' he assured his audience. 'My government is very appreciative of your efforts and will do all it can to be of assistance. We are most grateful that you will go to so much trouble to break this pernicious traffic.' He looked down at a sheet of paper lying next to his coffee cup. 'Yes, pernicious. Drugs and stolen art. We are very sorry that a Japanese organization, even if it is an unlawful organization, seems to be implicated in this traffic and are most anxious to smash same. Yes. Smash it completely. But we need proof. If you can supply us with such proof we will be most thankful, and if, by chance, proof will be unavailable we will still be eager to realize the worth of your endeavor. In any case we will do everything possible to be of assistance.' He had come to the end of his notes and his golden canines flashed.
The commissaris had been listening carefully. He was quite taken by the speech. The formal words were, he thought, sincere. He studied the Japanese ambassador's eyes and saw intelligence and compassion. His right hand raised itself a little, and the ambassador made a slight bow in response.
'About the two suspects we are holding in jail at present,' the chief constable said quietly. 'I believe the
