“Evening, sergeant. Haven’t met for a while, have we? Different routes. My mate is waiting for you inside. The lady’s daughter is a bit upset, he is keeping her quiet. The two ladies live by themselves, no man in the house. And there is something with a dog. Poisoned, so the young lady says.”
“The wind,” Grijpstra said hopefully, “the bloody gale. Sure the gale didn’t grab your lady?”
“No, adjutant.” The health officer’s face showed helpfulness and apology neatly blended. “The gale can’t reach into the gardens here. The houses are high, you see. The wind may be getting at the tops of the trees but it can’t reach down to the garden stairs. I’ve been out in die garden awhile, nice and quiet. But maybe she slipped. It had been raining earlier on and the stairs are wet and she was wearing high-heeled shoes and a long dress.”
“A party?”
“Could be. There’s a smell of alcohol and an empty bottle. The daughter says there was no party. Lady liked to drink by herself.”
“Wasn’t she with her mother when it happened?”
“No. The young lady has her own apartment, top floor. She said she came down to check if everything was all right before going to bed. The garden door was open and her mother… Well, you’ll see.”
De Gier was looking at the closed door. A good-quality door with simple dignified ornamentation. Varnished oak with a garland of leaves. Two nameplates and two bells. Elaine Camet. Gabrielle Carnet. Hand-painted nameplates, white on green. Polished brass bells. A polished brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
The door moved as his hand reached for the lower bell.
This is a bad night, de Gier thought, and he waited for die door to open altogether. A very bad night. I should be home to safeguard the balcony’s plants and to comfort Tabriz and to have a hot shower and several mugs of strong tea. It wouldn’t be a bad night if I were home. But I am not, and this is a killing.
He couldn’t be sure, of course, but he was. As sure as Grijpstra, who was standing just behind him. Each profession develops its devotees. The detectives of Amsterdam’s murder brigade are trained to be suspicious, but that doesn’t mean much more than that they are always suspicious. They ask mild questions and they look at faces and dig about in the endless chain of cause and event, but their eyes are quiet and their voices soft and their manners mild. Not always. There are moments when the detectives quiver, when little fiery stabs touch their spines, when they sweat slightly, and when their eyes open and stare fiercely.
Gabrielle Carnet stepped back quickly and nearly stumbled. De Gier’s long arm shot out and steadied her.
“Evening, miss,” he said, forcing himself to keep his voice down to the prescribed level of politeness. “We are the police.”
Grijpstra had walked past the sergeant. He followed the other health officer through a long corridor, a central hall, into an enclosed porch, to the garden door.
Elaine Camet, a soaked sad shape, lay crumpled at die bottom of the steps. The health officer pulled the blanket away. The head had snapped back at a most unnatural angle. The woman’s dead eyes stared out of a messy arrangement of sodden make-up smears. Her double chin was stretched tight by the position of the head. The hair, neatly puffed up into fluffy curls only a few hours before, clung to the wet scalp. The wide mouth was smiling, and the gold fillings of two canines sparkled in the light filtering from the porch windows. The smile seemed genuine, a joyous surrender to an unexpected but welcome visitor.
Grijpstra stepped over the corpse and squatted. The light fell differently now and the smile had become a snarl. The sudden change upset him and he went back to the steps. A smile again, definitely.
It was only later that he remembered a common feature of the two facial expressions. The common denominator was victory. Something had pleased Elaine Camet, some event had elated her seconds before she died. The thought sparkled through his brain but didn’t ripen just then. He had already settled down in his routine. He was observing his surroundings.
“Leave her here?” the health officer asked.
“Sure. I’ll get the experts. We want some photographs.”
There was a phone on the porch and he dialed. “Commissaris?”
“Yes,” a soft voice answered.
“I know you are ill, sir, but I thought I would phone you all the same. We’ve run into something, Mierisstraat Fifty-three. It’s a bad night, sir. Shall I phone the inspector?”
“No. I’m feeling better. Send de Gier to fetch me-there’s a tree blocking my garage and there won’t be any taxis tonight. What have you got, adjutant?”
“A poisoned dog, sir, and a dead lady.” Grijpstra moved to the window and looked out. Big raindrops were clattering down on the corpse. “A very dead lady, sir.” * The ranks of the Amsterdam municipal police are: constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris. An adjutant is a noa- commissioned officers. * Criminal tovertgatioii Department.
\\ 2 /////
“Miss?” De Gier asked as he steadied the girl. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Gabrielle, that’s my name, Gabrielle Carnet. You are the police?”
He showed his card but she wasn’t interested. She looked at it, and he put it back into the breast pocket of his tailored denim jacket. The rain had gotten into his silk scarf, and he pulled it free and refolded it before tucking it back into his open shirt. The scarf was a very light shade of blue. The denim jacket and the matching tight trousers were dark blue. She followed his movements dreamily. Her eyes came up to his face, noting the full brushed-up mustache and the high cheekbones and the large glowing brown eyes.
“Are you really a policeman?”
“Yes. I showed you my card just now. Detective-Sergeant de Gier. Rinus de Gier. We answered the health officer’s call. Was it you who phoned the ambulance service?”
“Yes.” Her voice was low. It had an interesting quality. He tried to determine what it was. Silky? No. Something with texture. Velvety. A purring voice. The voice she would use on men, not on women. She would have a different voice for women.
“What happened, miss? Would you tell me, please?”
She still seemed unsteady on her legs, and he looked around for a place to sit down. The corridor was bare except for a carpet and a small table next to the coat rack. He put a hand under her elbow and guided her to the stairs.
“Sit down, miss. You’ll feel better.”
He automatically noted her particulars. Small, five foot perhaps, a little over, but that was due to the high heels of her stylish soft leather boots. Dungarees tucked into the boots. Tight dungarees hiding slightly bowed legs. A very short blouse that showed skin at both ends. A narrow waist with a little bellybutton and the shine of a gold chain. A fashionable girl. The blouse’s top button was open, he could see the curve of her breasts. Long, dark brown hair, glossy. No jewelry. A pointed small face, uninteresting if it hadn’t been for the eyes, but the eyes were cleverly made up, they weren’t as large as they seemed. The color was startling, a shiny green. Metallic bright eyes. The possibility of drugs immediately presented itself but he could see her arms. No pricks. Perhaps she sniffed cocaine or took pills. But the feverish shine of her eyes could be just due to anguish. The young lady’s mother had died.
When she began to speak he noticed the purr again. It couldn’t be natural. She was acting, showing off, so the shock of her mother’s death had already worn thin. She had taken time to adjust her make-up. The thin penciled lines around the eyes weren’t ten minutes old.
“I live upstairs,” Gabrielle Carnet was saying, “in my own apartment. Mother and I split up last year. The house was remodeled. My apartment is self-contained.”
“Can you hear your mother’s doorbell, miss?”
“Not when I am in my kitchen or bathroom.”
“Do you know whether your mother had a visitor?”
“I don’t know.” She sobbed in between the words and her hands twitched. Her hair had fallen over her eyes and she pushed it away, smearing the mascara. A genuine rection. But genuine about what? Was she sorry she
