Cardozo forgot to check out a ring, he said you would know about it. The ring is on his desk and you’ll have to go to the morgue with it.” Grijpstra looked at the phone.
“Adjutant?”
He growled.
“And the commissaris and the sergeant have gone to the Pulitzer Hotel to talk with a Mr. Pullini, they will visit a Mr. Vleuten later today.”
“Everything topsy-turvy as usual,” Grijpstra said. “I need Cardozo to go and talk with Miss Camet.”
“Shall I get him back to headquarters, adjutant?”
“No. I’ll take care of that damned ring first. I’ll call you later.” He slammed the phone down before remembering that this was going to be a good day.
\\ 8 /////
You can go back to bed if you like.” there was A fatherly note of concern in the commissaris’s voice. Francesco Pullini’s almond-shaped dark eyes stared at the little old man unbelievingly.
“Police?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant de Gier and I are police officers investigating the death of Elaine Carnet. May we sit down?”
Francesco gestured dumbly. He undid the knot of the tasseled belt around his dressing gown and tied it again. The commissaris and de Gier had sat down. The room in the Pulitzer Hotel was well furnished-it should be, at the price Pullini was paying. The room was quiet and spacious, high enough not to be bothered by the traffic murmuring below on the canal’s narrow quay. An enormous double bed showed a slight dent where Francesco’s slim body had been resting.
Francesco had had time to line up some thoughts. “Police, what for you come here?”
The commissaris didn’t answer. He was observing the young man. His glasses reflected the sun so that a bright spot danced on Francesco’s long, wavy, ink black hair.
De Gier was watching his suspect too. A female man, he had thought at first, but he remembered that Francesco was Italian and that Italians are daintier than the northern European male. There was some strength in the suspect’s face, a well-shaped wide mouth and a good nose, straight and firm. The daintiness was mostly in the eyes, partly hidden by long lashes, and in the wave of the hair that touched the striped shoulders of the dressing gown. The door to the bathroom was open, and de Gier saw an array of jars and bottles and several leather cases, one of them would contain a hair dryer.
Francesco sat down. “What for you come see me, yes?” His naked feet crossed, high-arched dancer’s feet; a thick mat of dark hair showed on his calves as he moved his legs.
“Mrs. Carnet’s death,” the commissaris said softly. “You must have heard, you visited the Carnet firm this morning, didn’t you?”
Francesco’s head came forward so that his hair fell and joined the carefully clipped beard, then shot up again. “Yes, I heard. Everybody very sad. Me, I also sad but, me, I don’t know Madame Carnet well. My business always with Franco Bergen. Franco and me, us good friends. Madame Carnet, she somebody I say hello-how-are-you to. Kiss hand, give flowers, that all. What for police come see me?”
The commissaris’s hands came up slowly and dropped back by their own weight. “Routine, Mr. Pullini. We are seeing everybody who knew Mrs. Carnet. You knew her.”
“I knew her.” Francesco jumped up from the bed and stood in the middle of the room with his arms spread, a miniature biblical prophet addressing the erring faithful. “So what? So does milkman, yes? Greengrocerman, yes? Man who cleans street?” He pushed an imaginary broom.
“Morning, Madame Camet. Nice day, Madame Carnet. You go and see cleaning man too? What is this, yes? Maybe you should leave this room, this my room.”
Francesco was still pushing the broom. De Gier laughed and Francesco swung around, eyeballing the sergeant, poking the broom at him.
“Ha,” de Gier said, and Francesco laughed too.
“You think I funny, yes?”
“Very funny, Mr. Pullini. Why don’t you lie down? Are you ill?”
Francesco coughed, held his chest, and coughed again. “Yes, cold, the storm yesterday. Make me cough, so today I rest. Today I see Franco Bergen, maybe tomorrow I leave. In Milano much to do, I cannot wait forever for Bergen to change mind. Bah.”
“The business isn’t going well, Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco turned to face the commissaris. His right hand came up, balled, and made a turning movement. “Ehhhhh. Business, it always the same. Sometimes I screw Franco, sometimes Franco he screw me. Doesn’t matter, we still friends. Same name, same character. His name Franciscus, my name Francesco.”
“So you didn’t know the Carnet family very well, did you Mr. Pullini?”
Francesco was reading the card the commissaris had given him. “Commissaire, eh? You big shot?”
There was a friendly light in the Italian’s liquid eyes and the commissaris responded. He balled his hand, turned it, and pulled up the corner of his mouth. “Ehhhhhhh.”
Francesco smiled. “A drink!” There was a sly smile on the noble face. He reached for the telephone. “Gin, yes?”
“Orange juice,” the commissaris said.
“One orange juice, two gin?”
“One gin, two orange juice.”
The drinks came almost at once and Francesco squatted on the bed, toasting his guests.
“You were out last night and caught a cold?” The commissaris had gone back to his original concern. De Gier’s eyes swept over the old man’s face. An act again, of course, but he never knew how far the commissaris acted. What was an Italian’s cold to the chief of Amsterdam’s CID? But the commissaris was always concerned with the health of others and would regularly check the cell block at headquarters and sometimes made sure that prisoners were moved to one of the city’s hospitals.
“I walk around, visit some bars, eat something, but then I come back, storm very bad. Cough.”
“Did anyone see you come back, Mr. Pullini? The desk clerk? Do you remember who gave you your key? And the time of your return, perhaps?”
“I come back ten, ten-thirty, but I no ask for key. Key he in my pocket, forget to leave at desk, always forget.” He pointed at the key on his night table. It was connected to a plastic bar that was only three inches long, it would fit into a pocket.
“Do you know Gabrielle Carnet, Mr. Pullini?”
“Sure.” The sly smile moved the clipped beard again. “She nice girl, yes? I take her out once, twice maybe, not now, before. Now I married. Gabrielle, she know. Also bad business. Gabrielle, she daughter of Madame Carnet; Madame Carnet, she own Carnet and Company. Franco Bergen, he only owns little bit. He my friend, but he not say yes or no in end. Madame Carnet, she is God, yes? Maybe I better not play around with daughter of God.”
“Really? I thought Madame Carnet wasn’t very interested in her business anymore, that she was retired.”
“Retired?”
“Yes, not work anymore?”
“I know word. Me, I know many words but I forget when I speak, I know when I hear. Madame Carnet, she not retired. She work, she chooses furniture, new models, she says to Franco Bergen ‘not buy now, yes buy now.’ She sometimes cut order in half. Me, I always get shits when Madame come in. First big order than… pfff!” He blew something off his hand. “Then nothing. I go back Milano and tell Papa ‘no order,’ then maybe order comes later but price is wrong. Low price. Madame Carnet, she clever.”
“I believe Carnet and Company owes you some money, Mr. Pullini. Do you think you will get it before you go home?”
A slight tremor moved from the eyes and disappeared into Francesco’s beard. “Money? You know, yes?
