Aunt Coba gazed at the garden. De Gier kicked Grijpstra's ankle, too hard, because his leg jumped out of control. Grijpstra began to get up, but de Gier pushed him back. De Gier's lips formed the word 'home.'
'What else did he do at home, ma'm?'
'He read. He wasn't allowed to read, the doctor said he shouldn't. He had to play. He was given a box of toy bricks, an electric train, and a teddy bear. He refused to play, although he would pretend to play. He attached strings to the bricks and kicked the string while he read, and meanwhile the train moved around and around. They gave him another train with a clock-work he would have to wind now and then, but he worked out a defense. Do you know what he did with that train?'
'What did he do, ma'm?'
'My sister-in-law came into the room one evening, and there were no lights in the room. The curtains were drawn. Frits had inserted matchheads into the locomotive and the little carts and wagons, and lit them. A big flame rushed around the carpet. It frightened his mother and she tripped over the rail. Half the house burned down.'
'Is that it, ma'm?'
Aunt Coba shrank in her armchair. Her eyes glistened behind her gleaming glasses.
'You know what he did with his teddy bear?'
'No ma'm.'
'The teddy bear was called Brom. It was a big bear, of good quality and expensive. One day Brom disappeared. Frits's parents couldn't understand what had happened to it, and they didn't trust Frits's peculiar answers to their straightforward questions. Do you know where Brom was found?'
'No ma'm.'
'Buried in the garden in a shallow grave. And do you know what else Frits had done?'
'No ma'm.'
'He had beheaded Brom.'
7
Grijpstra danced. Two little steps ahead, a little step to the right, then to the left, to the rear, and repeat. He sang sidewards and backwards.
'Weedeeho. Weedeeha.'
'Don't do that,' de Gier said, 'or do you want me to dance too? I will if you insist, although I see nothing but misery. What is the matter with you?'
'Good luck comes to those who keep on trying,' Grijpstra said, performing a fresh set of steps with care, 'and whoever insists will win in the end. I've been trying for a long time. So here it comes. A chance encounter, you will say, providing incidental information. In a way you are right, but I see more. Bull's-eye I see, thanking fate meanwhile, and you too. If you hadn't stopped last night… I don't want to think about what would have happened then. But you stopped the car, dear friend, and activated yourself and handed me the murderer, solemnly in your inimitable way. You raised him from the water for me to receive and appreciate your gift, decorated with weeds. 'There you are,' you said, and 'thank you kindly/ I replied. And you made your gesture so naturally.'
'Are you done?'
'Weedeeha. Weedeeha.'
A patrol car rode by with a tall male constable at the wheel and a young female, impeccably uniformed, most of her long dark blond hair tucked away under a small round cap, in the observer's seat. She observed Grijpstra's dance and waved. De Gier waved back.
'Nice girl,' de Gier said, 'but very young for a constable. I think she knows you.'
Grijpstra no longer sang and lowered his foot. He stood.
'Her name is Asta. She's not so nice. She seduces older men. Men like you, sergeant. From forty years old upward. She would even seduce me. Sergeant Jurriaans told me about her. He managed to escape her clutches, but she wounded him, I think.'
'Ah.'
'Ah what?'
'Interesting,' de Gier said.
Grijpstra's heavy forefinger pressed against the sergeant's chest.
'For you perhaps, I will introduce you. If you won't smoke, you can still have Asta. She would be a minimal risk to you, and you would keep her away from others.'
De Gier's large brown eyes dreamed away.
'Sparkly eyes,' he whispered, 'dominating an intellectual face, alive with sensual unfulfilled longing, A good mouth with the fullness of the lower lip restricted in the tight curve of the upper edge.' He shrugged. 'Too young.'
Grijpstra's finger dropped away.
'Let me tell you what Jurriaans had to say about her.'
De Gier listened, then nodded.
'Yes, I see. Drunken driving, indecent exposure, adultery, lesbian cavorting. Not all of it is punishable, but he should watch it all the same, arid he shouldn't tell you. The relationship still continues?'
'No,' Grijpstra said. 'She's all yours.' The adjutant's voice trailed away. His feet shuffled.
'Please,' de Gier said. 'Not again.' He pointed at a display window. 'Look, adjutant, final sale. Just the store for you, elegant and expensive. See that cap? For ten guilders? A gift. But maybe your head is too fat, you think your head is too fat for that classy cap?'
Grijpstra danced into the store. He tried the cap. The fit was a little tight. He left a ten-guilder note near the register and danced out of the store.
'Weedeeho. Weedeeha.'
'Please, Grijpstra, that'll be enough. Let's sit on that nice tree over there. You can't dance on it, for you'll fall into the canal. Let's go look at the geese. A moment of peace and quiet, Grijpstra.'
De Gier guided the adjutant to the fallen tree. Grijpstra balanced carefully on the fairly wide trunk. De Gier followed. They sat down.
'What happened is clear,' Grijpstra said.
'What happened?'
'You described it yourself when we visited the suspect. Frits and Rea are sitting down together, man and wife. Togetherness in the living room, without harmony. A conflict situation about to change into turmoil. Rea Fortune is a woman of fantasy. She pictures herself in a chauffeured Mercedes automatic, silver sheen finish.'
De Gier looked up. 'The driver is German.'
'If you like.'
'Fat? Bald? Rolls of bacon for a neck?'
'Whatever your choice, a chauffeur, may I continue?'
'Yes.'
'Rea Fortune, she wants to go out. She wants to eat snails in a wine sauce, brought by waiters with Byzantine profiles. A Gypsy plays the violin, right into her ear. High notes, glassy, harp in the background. Fortune said so himself. A woman of fantasy, unfulfilled.'
'He gave no details.'
'I give you details so that you can see how it happened. Unfulfilled fantasy leads to frustration, frustration leads to tension, tension translates itself into deeds. Misdeeds. She attacks the suspect, sucks the blood from under his fingernails, chips at the last shred of his discipline. I understand both sides. I'll write some of this into my report. A horrifying circle; woman irritates man, man hides in his habits, he works even harder, reads even more, talks even less, irritates her even more. They'll never go on holidays, they'll never have any fun. She becomes more aggressive. Tension increases, becomes unbearable. The woman shrieks her insults. The poodle yaps. The man's nerves snap. Bam! Sometime earlier this week. The poodle escapes into the street, while Fortune gets rid of the household goods, beg pardon, the contents of the house, in a hired van, with the help of a couple of illegal migrants, Pakistanis maybe, Turks maybe. The poodle returns. Fortune is pleased; he takes the animal into the house, tries to
