before.'
'What time did he leave?'
The manager closed the file and placed it on the right corner of his desk, tapping it with his finger so that it was parallel to one side and perpendicular to the other.
'He left early. He wanted another girl, but we had so many clients that the girls could make their own choice, and nobody wanted him. Sometimes I'm able to obtain free-lance help but usually not on Mondays; the ladies are resting then after the weekend. I made a few unsuccessful phone calls and the gentleman left.'
'What time?'
'Hard to say, there was so much coming and going. Around midnight, I would think.'
'You'll have to sign a statement to that effect, and I also need a statement from the girl who wouldn't get into the bath. She'll have to confirm the time he left.'
The manager puffed on his cigarette. His eyes evaded the demon that was pestering him.
'I'm afraid that will be impossible.'
'As you like,' Asta said. 'Let me use your phone. I don't care how many sex clubs there are in Amsterdam, they're still illegal. I'm going to get my sergeant and some uniformed cops and we'll go through the place. Don't leave this room until my colleagues have arrived.'
There were two telephones on the desk; the smaller model was pseudoantique. He picked it up.
'Ask Willemine to come into my office, will you? It's urgent, I don't care if she is busy.'
The knife flashed past Asta and hit the center of the circle that had been painted on the cupboard door. De Gier walked from the other side of the room to retrieve it.
'You might have hit me,' Asta said.
'No, I missed you by a foot. I'm accurate within an inch, and I've been practicing for a year. I've always been bad with knives. Grijpstra is better, he's never more than a centimeter off, but he is slow on the draw. That part I've got right, I think, you didn't see me draw the knife, did you?'
'No.'
'Good, but not good enough. Your results aren't good enough either. So MuIIer left the club at midnight, two hours earlier than he told us. The difference doesn't constitute a crime. He had been drinking, didn't know what the time was. We still can't arrest the slob. What happened to Grijpstra?'
'Here,' Grijpstra said. The knife came again. Grijpstra took off his jacket and hung it on the knife. 'I've been to the hotel; the girl we're looking for gave a false name. It isn't in the computer. The address she gave is in Rotterdam. I telephoned the police there, and a patrol car drove to the street; the street exists but the number doesn't.'
'Harassment,' de Gier said, 'and she had help inside the hotel. Boronski must have stayed in room 12. Did you check the register?'
'Yes. The entries are made with pencil. The pencil hadn't been pressed down and the handwriting wasn't too clear. It's easy to change a 2 into a 4. I took the register with me and the lab looked at it. They say that the 2 of 12 may have been erased and replaced by a 4, but they won't swear to it.'
De Gier took Grijpstra's jacket off the knife and hung it on a hook. He replaced the knife in a sheath that had been sewn to the lining of his jacket.
'Inside help, probably the same person who changed Boronski's dry-cleaned clothes and then changed them again; he or she must also have lifted his watch from the bathroom and replaced it.'
Grijpstra walked over to a battered set of drums and picked up two tapered sticks. He played on the side of the largest drum, lightly bitting the center in the middle and at the end of each bar.
'No,' Asta said. 'Do you often do that here, play drums?'
'Ever since the lost and found department gave him the drums,' de Gier said. 'Grijpstra gets everything free, I had to pay for this flute.' He had taken the flute from his desk and blew a single note. Grijpstra sat up and started a fairly complicated rhythm. Asta couldn't hear who followed whom. The music seemed to become more intricate. The two men played for no more than five minutes. De Gier dropped the flute back into his desk, Grijpstra finished the way he had begun, with slowing taps on the side of the main drum.
'Wow! What was it? An improvisation?'
'Of course,' Grijpstra said. 'Ibaniz composed this for piano. He never thought of us, we can't play the piano.'
Asta shook her head. 'Sergeant Jurriaans told me that you two are musicians, but I never believed him. Most of what he says isn't connected with daily life.'
'I should hope so,' de Gier said. The telephone rang. 'Right, I'll come and pick it up.'
He was back within minutes, waving paper. 'Hear this. In German but I'll try to translate it. Karl Mtiller, businessman, import and export of lumber, apart from legitimate business possibly active in unproved drug dealing on large scale. Please let us know immediately if you can produce charge. Hamburg Police, Criminal Investigation Department, Narcotics Branch, signed Inspector Hans Wingel.'
Grijpstra read the teletype message and gave it to Asta. He began to pace the room.
'So now we have some sort of construction. Ever since I heard that Jim Boronski lived in Colombia, I suspected drugs. We know that the stufi coming from Turkey is being intercepted too often, and the supply is irregular anyway. Colombia is a new source that seems more efficient, and the hashish and marihuana that originates there is of good quality. The Colombians also sell cocaine, and cocaine ranks about as high as heroin, in price, that is. A smart man like Boronski and another smart man like Miiller would prefer to deal in cocaine; just a few pounds make a golden deal. So now let's assume that Boronski played foul and that Miiller got annoyed. He harasses Boronski to the point where he drops dead.'
'In Miiller's car,' de Gier said.
'RIGHT!' shouted Grijpstra. 'That's where we go wrong. Every time. The whole silly thing is impossible. Boronski is sick, he gets sicker, he dies. That's all we have. We should close the case and go home. There's no logic in it. See you tomorrow.' He put on his jacket and stamped out of the room.
'I haven't got a car,' said de Gier, 'but I could walk you home. You'll be safe, your landlady doesn't approve of male visitors.'
'You can kiss me here.'
De Gier bent down and kissed her.
'Is that the way you kiss? Just smack?'
She embraced him. 'Can't you bend your knees? Or shall I stand on a chair?'
'No.'
'All right, I'll take you home. My car is only two blocks from here and you live in the southside of the city; you have no car and it's a long bus ride.'
'Who told you that?'
'Sergeant Jurriaans. I know that you are single and that you live with a cat in a luxurious apartment and that you have no current girlfriend.'
'I'm married, I have four kids, and my wife worries about me.'
'No.'
'Didn't you say that Jurriaans can't be trusted?'
She opened the door. 'Let's go, darling.'
The car was an old compact Ford, battered and rusty. The inside was cluttered with clothes, cartons of cigarettes, and frayed wicker baskets containing odd objects. She made room on the passenger seat. The dashboard was cluttered too. A faded cloth tiger was glued to the loudspeaker. De Gier counted three boxes of tissues of different brands, all opened.
'How can you look so neat when you drive about in this junk pile?'
'Different parts of my mind manifest themselves in different ways. There's nothing wrong with this car, everything works.'
She drove fast and paid little attention to traffic lights. De Gier hardly noticed. Her hand was on his shoulder. I'm in love, he thought. I haven't been in love for years. It's as if I knew the girl since the day I began my first life. He looked at the tiger, rooted solidly in the framework of the loudspeaker. Maybe we hunted saber-toothed tigers together when we were still apes. This is absurd. I don't want to be in love.
'This is south, am I going the right way?'
