both bad. The cat was the terror of the gardens and the main source of the torn ears and bad wounds of other cats. He had also heard reports on Paul, the Carnet clog. Paul was nice. An intelligent, jolly dog who had successfully defended his domain against the de Bree cat, until he was poisoned.
“There he is,” the old lady called Alice said and tugged at Cardozo’s sleeve. He saw the cat, jumping leisurely across the liguster hedge dividing the de Bree and Carnet properties. “Big, isn’t he? Twenty pounds of bad cat.”
And then they told him, whispering, hissing, glancing over their shoulders to see if some mysterious shadow in the room were listening in. They had seen de Bree feeding Paul. Chopped steak, they were sure of it. They had trained their binoculars on him, they had seen every detail of the murderous attempt. Two days ago now, in the afternoon. The Carnet ladies weren’t in and Paul was playing by himself in the garden, snapping at flies and dancing about, throwing his little pink rubber ball. And de Bree had come out with the meat and Paul had eaten it.
“But why didn’t you tell the Carnet ladies?” Cardozo asked pleasantly, holding a respectful expression that belied the accusation in his question. He was the favorite nephew visiting his two old aunties and he wanted to know why they did things.
“Oh, but that would have been terrible. We did think about it but we didn’t, you see, because they would have been so unhappy.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“But you could have told us, the police.”
Yes, they could have, but they didn’t have a telephone and it was such a long walk to the nearest station and they weren’t so young anymore.
“I am seventy-eight,” Alice said.
“And I am eighty-two,” Alice’s sister said.
Cardozo brought out his notebook and prepared two statements. They didn’t want to sign them. They didn’t want any trouble.
“But Paul is still alive, he’ll be playing in the garden soon. You don’t want Mr. de Bree to poison him again, do you?”
“No.”
But they still didn’t want to sign the statement. Mr. de Bree wouldn’t like it. He had bumped Alice’s leg once with his car and he hadn’t even got out to help her up. He was a nasty man, maybe next time he wouldn’t just bump Alice, maybe the next time he would kill her.
“Never,” Cardozo said. “Not with us around. We are the police, you see, we protect you, but we can only protect you if you help us.” He waved the ball-point encouragingly. “Just a little signature, right here.”
Alice signed, and then the sister signed too. They didn’t want to read the statements, they didn’t have their spectacles on.
“Where are my spectacles, Alice?” the sister asked. “You always mislay them.”
“What?” Alice asked in a suddenly shrill voice.
“Thank you very much, ladies, thank you very much.”
The argument went on as he ran down the stairs. He had come up with something, something positive, concrete, undeniable. He whistled as he banged the front door, and turned the corner. He waved at the de Bree door as he ran past it.
He remembered that there was a telephone booth at the end of the street. Grijpstra wasn’t in but he was put through to the commissaris’s secretary. “You are not to go and see Miss Carnet just now but to report to the commissaris later. He has gone away with the sergeant and the adjutant isn’t back yet.”
“So what am I to do?” Cardozo’s voice shot up in indignation.
“Well, I don’t know,” the secretary’s voice said coolly. “Surely you can find some work? The detectives’ city patrols are always short of men, Sergeant Sietsema was asking for you. He’s on duty this afternoon and he needs company.”
“Oh, very well, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“Good boy.” She hung up.
“Aren’t I?” Cardozo asked the street. The telephone booth’s door slammed behind him. “Aren’t I? I got what they wanted me to get and I want to tell them about it and they aren’t there. They’re drinking coffee and smoking cigars and passing the time of day.” He glared at the peaceful street.
But Amsterdam is a helpful city, it provides comfort in subtle ways. A woman came past, pushing a perambulator containing identical twins facing each other solemnly from their pink wraps, vaguely resembling Grijpstra in his better moments. An old man with long hair strode on the opposite pavement whistling a Bach cantata. A girl on a red bicycle came around the corner. She wore a sleeveless blouse, un-buttoned, and nothing underneath. A well-shaped girl. Cardozo winked at the girl and she winked back and he began to walk to his car. Not such a bad day after all.
But he felt a little uptight again when he started the Volkswagen. A constable at the next intersection raised his hand. The Volkswagen drove on slowly. The constable whipped out a whistle and blew it. Cardozo’s foot stayed on the accelerator. He crossed the intersection and stopped, watching the constable in his rearview mirror. The constable was running.
“Didn’t you see me?”
“Sure. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. I saw you, I saw you giving the stop sign, but I kept on driving. I must be going crazy.”
The constable bent down and peered into Cardozo’s face. “It sometimes happens,” he whispered confidentially. “I see it every now and then. I’ve thought of several explanations. Some subconscious protest, perhaps, or a hidden aggression, something like that. Have you done this before “No.”
“First time, eh? Well, maybe it means nothing. Maybe you’re just tired. But if it happens again you might see a psychiatrist. What do you do for a living?”
“I’m a police detective.”
The constable’s eyebrows shot up and he stepped back to study the car. He jumped forward and pushed his head into the window. Cardozo pointed at the police radio under the dashboard and fished out his plastic identification.
“Get away,” the constable said.
“But…”
“Come on, get off. Off!” The constable walked back to the intersection. He was looking at the pavement and dragging his feet.
\\ 7 /////
Wertheym, the plate on the door read, portrait painter.
There was nothing particular about the door and there was nothing to prevent Adjutant Grijpstra from pressing the hell but he didn’t. He stood with his hands folded and waited. He had been enjoying himself so far and he didn’t want to interrupt the steady flow of well-being that had begun to soak into him from the moment he had left his little house that morning. There was a small black cloud at the end of the flow and he meant to keep it away for as long as he could, a process that would be possible if he consciously experienced the small moments that his working day would present The black cloud was his return home. He definitely didn’t want to go home.
His wife, the blob of semi-solid fats, dirty and bad-tempered, that had grown slowly out of the girl he had once married, was gradually filling the two floors of their home, pushing him to the wall, seeping into his peace, the peace he built up during the day. One day he wouldn’t go home anymore. He didn’t want to see her leaning on the kitchen table that squeaked under her weight, leaning on the creaking railing on the stair landing, leaning on the cracked windowsill. It was hard for her to stand now. It was also hard for her to sit down, for the effort of getting up again might break the few chairs that were still in one piece.
But, where could he go if he didn’t go home? He was spending afterhours’ time in his room at headquarters, he was eating out as much as he could, but he still had to go home to sleep. He cursed slowly, articulating the
