humanity with their cramped quarters and stark, forbidding rooflines.
A sign, hung from a cast-iron bar, read CARNET amp; CO., FURNITURE, IMPORT amp; WHOLESALE in small neat lettering. Through several open windows on the first floor the clatter of electric typewriters could be heard. An elderly couple, probably a storekeeper and his wife, were received at the narrow green front door of the first gable by a smooth-looking young man in a tailored suit. A salesman welcoming customers. Elaine Carnet had obviously built up a good business. He felt sorry now that he hadn’t taken time to study the corpse’s face more carefully. From the glimpse he remembered he could detect neither efficiency nor the polite ruthlessness that marks a success in business.
He grinned, maybe he was too hard on the trade. But he had always felt the cutting power of the traders’ brains whenever he had dealt with them. There might be more friendliness, more understanding, in the smaller merchants, the dealers who were in direct contact with consumers. When business works on wholesale and factory levels facial expressions change. He would have to base himself on what he had seen during that brief moment when the constables carried Mrs. Camet’s body out to the hearse. He had only seen an elderly woman, lonely, defeated, unconcerned about such matters as turnover and profit margin and cost control. The business would have been built up by others, although she might have owned the lion’s share of the company’s stock. But he had also seen that extraordinary expression of ghoulish delight.
De Gier came running around the corner. “Sorry, sir, I parked her at some distance.”
“It’s a pity my legs always trouble me, otherwise I could use a bicycle again. To try and use a car these days is more fuss than pleasure. Let’s go in, sergeant.”
Bergen came to the door. He had been advised to expect a visit from the police by the commissaris’s secretary. The man fitted in with the image die firm presented. Not a young man, somewhere between fifty and sixty-the energetic way in which he carried himself might blur a few years. Short silvery gray hair, brushed till it shone, heavy jowls, close shaven, eyes that shone with nervous energy behind heavy lenses framed in gold. An impeccably dressed man, there was no fantasy in the clothes. A dark blue suit, a white shirt, a tie of exactly the same shade as the suit. The sort of man who is chosen by TV commercials to tell the ladies about a new washing machine or some other expensive item that requires some faith before it can be purchased. Mr. Bergen’s voice confirmed the impression he was making, a warm deep sound coming from a wide chest.
“Commissaris, sergeant, please follow me. My office is on the top floor, I’ll show the way if you’ll excuse my going ahead.” He must have said it a thousand times, to customers, to suppliers, to tax inspectors.
De Gier was the last to climb the stairs and the commissaris was some six steps ahead of him. As he watched the commissaris’s narrow back he hummed, “Creepy creepy little mouse, Trips into Mr. Bergen’s house.”
Bergen didn’t know what he was up against. De Gier thought of the chief inspector who had been in charge of several murder cases some years before. He had liked to use an innocent, almost stupid approach to lure suspects into talking freely, but he had a sadistic side to his character. He always seemed to take pride in demolishing the suspects’ defenses and to show mem up, finally, for what they were, and the suspects, being human, invariably showed themselves to be little more than brown paper bags filled with farts, a term the chief inspector liked to use. It had never seemed to occur to him that he himself might also fit that definition, and that he might burst or tear if enough pressure were brought to bear on his flimsy outer shell. The commissaris, although he played the game along the same general lines as his colleague, never enjoyed his kills. De Gier wondered if Bergen were a legal prey. So far they had no reason to expect more than some information.
They were ushered into a vast room, half showroom, half office. There was a profusion of leather furniture, couches and easy chairs, and the commissaris and the sergeant were directed to a low settee apparently made of some very excellent cowhide, a choice piece that was no doubt worth a fortune, a perfect example of contemporary Italian design.
“Gentlemen,” Bergen said slowly, keeping his voice on a low pitch that was clearly audible, “some coffee perhaps? A cigar?”
The coffee was served by Gabrielle, dressed in a khaki jumpsuit.
The policemen stood up to shake her hand and Gabrielle smiled and purred. They were asked to be seated again and she bent down to give them their cups. Her breasts were almost entirely visible in the low top of her suit. De Gier was interested, but only mildly. He couldn’t understand the girl’s preference for trousers, the outfit accentuated her rather short bent legs, the way her jeans had the night before. He noted a glint near her neck and concentrated to see what it was. Gabrielle saw his interest and paused longer man necessary. A plastic thread, de Gier thought, very thin, and some object at the end of it, small and brown and shiny, partly hidden by the breasts, stuck in between. A button, perhaps. Why would she wear a wooden button between her breasts? The thought didn’t go deep and hardly registered.
“You work here too, Miss Carnet?”
“Only sometimes, when Mr. Bergen expects important customers in the showroom or when the firm is very busy. We’re having a visitor this afternoon who buys for a chain of department stores, and Mr. Pullini is in town, of course.”
The commissaris came to life. “Pullini? That’s an Italian name, isn’t it? Didn’t you tell me yesterday that your mother started the business with furniture imported from Italy?”
Bergen had sat down near them, balancing his coffee cup gracefully. “That’s right, commissaris. Most of our merchandise still comes from Italy, but in this room we only show the expensive items. We also sell a lot of mass- produced furniture and we have been specializing lately in chairs and tables that can be stacked. We started selling to restaurants and hotels and canteens and so forth, and last year we began doing business with the armed forces.”
“You must be doing well, yet we are having a depression, are we not?”
Bergen smiled widely. That’s what the merchants say who fail, they’ll always have a depression. I don’t think mere is any real trouble, apart from the high taxes, of course, that’s one factor mat may squeeze us all out of existence.”
“How much are you selling?” the commissaris asked. “Just a rough idea, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I’m being curious, mat’s all.”
“Eight million last year.” Bergen beamed. His polite awareness was clearly weakening, the policeman had made a good impression. But that was a particularly good year, and a lot of that was army and navy business. Even so, we should do well again this year, even without any big contracts. The business is steady, fortunately. There will always be a good demand for furniture and we are well placed in the market.”
The commissaris was nodding, a proud father admiring the antics of a child. The conversation flowed along until Bergen interrupted himself. “Mrs. Camet,” he said sadly, “my longtime partner, you are here to investigate her death, I presume?”
“Indeed.”
“Do you suspect foul play, commissaris?”
The commissaris’s head bent and the gesture reminded de Gier of his cat, Tabriz. Tabriz would drop her head to the side if she wasn’t quite sure if she liked what he had heaped on her dish. “Perhaps not. There are some indications we can’t explain at mis point but they may fall into place and the death may very well be due to an accident. If that is so we would like to come to that conclusion with a minimal delay so that the case can be closed. What can you tell us about Mrs. Caraet, Mr. Bergen? Did she have any close friends, and did any of them visit her, perhaps last night, or did anybody at all visit her last night?”
Bergen’s tight mouth curved downward. He appeared to be thinking hard. “No. I don’t know what she did last night. I was home, working on a tree in my garden that was bumping against the roof. Elaine didn’t come to the office yesterday, but then she hardly ever does these days. She is really semiretired and leaves the running of the business to me. We used to have a lot of contact in the old days, when we were making the firm grow, but mat’s all over now and has been for several years.”
“Mother didn’t have much of a routine,” Gabrielle said. “She liked to get up late and then she would have breakfast in a restaurant somewhere and do some shopping and go to the hairdresser and she sometimes went to the movies. She only had her evening meal at home.”
“I see.” The commissaris got up, looked about, and sat down again.
“More coffee?” Gabrielle asked.
“No, erhm, no. I wonder if you would mind very much, Miss Carnet, if I asked you to let us talk to Mr. Bergen
