woman, but I didn't mind.'
'You didn't go anywhere with him?'
'No.'
'Would you have liked to?'
She held his shoulders and pushed him round. 'Of course. I love him. I would do anything for him. Even dance on tables and play on rugs.'
'With another lady?'
'If he wanted me to. Shall we go? I'm ready.'
De Gier was uncomfortable, but the ride didn't take long. The German wasn't in the hotel but pushed his bulk through the revolving glass door as they were ready to leave an invitation for him to come to Headquarters.
'Police? I don't want to speak to the police. Or is it about my car? Did you find my car?'
De Gier's German was slow and painful; the fat man didn't understand until Asta helped out. Her German wasn't much better than the sergeant's, but her pronunciation was better.
'We found the car, but we have to speak with you. Take us to your room.'
The room was spacious and well furnished. The German didn't offer them chairs, although he sat down himself. He opened a thermos flask and filled its cup with lemonade.
'You found my car, where is it?'
'Do you know Mr. Boronski, Jim Boronski?'
'Yes. No. What is that to you?'
'What is your name? Show us your passport.' De Gier found it impossible to be polite to the man. He caught the passport the German threw at him and opened it. 'Karl Muller. What is your profession?'
'My firm imports wood. I buy from Mr. Boronski. He ships me wood from Colombia and Peru. We are men who do business together, no more.'
'Mr. Boronski was found dead in your car this morning.'
'What?'
De Gier looked at Asta.
'Tot,' Asta said, 'in your car.'
Herr Miiller's pudgy red hands trembled. He replaced the flask and cup on a side table.
'Tot, Herr Boronski tot?'
'Quite dead.'
'How did he die? Was he murdered?'
'We don't know yet. We came to ask you if you knew anything.'
Miiller's cheeks trembled. Sweat ran down his face. He tried to say something but the words stuck in his throat. De Gier pushed his chair closer.
'He died during the night. Where were you last night?'
'I was out. In a bar and a club. I came home late.'
'How late?'
'Two o'clock maybe, or a little later.'
'You remember where you were?'
'Yes.'
'Write down the names of the establishments and the times you were there.'
While Mtiller wrote, de Gier considered the next move. The man's answers were acceptable so far. There was no charge, for if the doctor was right, Boronski wasn't murdered. Muller's passport seemed to be in order. To attempt to arrest the man might cause all sorts of unpleasantness. He looked at the passport again. The man originated in Hamburg. They might check with the Hamburg police.
He took the slip of paper from the table and read the names of the bar and the club. He knew the bar, a fairly respectable place. The club was a sex club, expensive and supposedly high-class. He had never been there and couldn't remember if the place had ever figured in police reports. If Muller said that he'd been there, he was probably speaking the truth.
'I'll have to hold your passport, and I must ask you not to leave this hotel until you hear from us. Tell us all you know about Mr. Boronski.'
'Shall I make notes?' Asta asked.
'Please do.'
The girl crossed her legs and pointed her ball pen at a new notebook. De Gier smiled and looked away. She had slender legs and slim ankles.
Muller seemed to have come through his crisis and talked easily. He had corresponded with Boronski's firm in Bogotd, Colombia, for years and done regular business with him ever since he began importing wood from that part of the world. Gradually the shipments had grown to sizable proportions, and as even larger deals were envisaged, he had thought that he should meet his supplier. Boronski said that he would go to Amsterdam and they had agreed to stay at the same hotel.
'So you came here specially to meet him?'
No, Miiller also had other business in Amsterdam.
'What do you know about Boronski's private life?'
Not much. Boronski wasn't married, had no relatives in Holland, and hadn't been to Holland for many years. He drove a Porsche that he had just bought and meant to take back to Colombia.
Was there anything wrong with him physically?
Yes, he complained about stomachaches.
Did he drink a lot?
Yes, but not to the point of getting very drunk.
Girlfriends?
Not that Muller knew of.
Visiting sex clubs?
Yes.
Had he been seeing a doctor?
Muller didn't know.
Could Muller show any correspondence with Boronski's firm?
No, not here. Muller claimed that the correspondence was on file in his office in Hamburg.
'Where is my car?' Muller asked.
De Gier explained where the car was. 'You can have it back. It was shorted and the lock of the trunk was forced, but the door lock wasn't. Did you forget?'
Muller nodded. 'I forgot to lock the door. In Amsterdam they steal everything. Bad city, bad food, too expensive.'
'You should have stayed home.'
'Can I go and pick up my car?'
'Yes, you can move within the city as long as you leave a note at the hotel desk to say where we can find you.'
'When do I get my passport back?'
'Soon.'
'I was planning to leave. You'll have to pay for any extra time I have to stay at the hotel.'
'Let's go,' de Gier said and held the door open for Asta. He left without saying goodbye, closing the door behind him with a little too much force.
'A pig,' Asta said. 'Shall we make inquiries about Boronski at the desk?'
The hotel manager let them into his private office and ordered coffee. He was both polite and precise.
'Mr. Boronski? Dead? How unfortunate.'
'Very. He lived in Colombia and had no relatives. It may be difficult for you to collect his bill.'
'Perhaps, but it's a risk of the trade.'
'Did he do anything that caused special notice?'
'Yes,' the manager said, 'on several occasions, he bothered us and I contemplated asking him to leave. There was that business with the girl and the trouble about his car. He seemed very upset, and in pain too. I
