'No. We got to this Magda, or whatever her name was. The lady was asleep but seemed overjoyed to see us. Broke out the champagne. Served us in a tight black dress that was mostly transparent. I saw it all, even when she wasn't standing with the light behind her. She suggested a game on the Oriental rug in the living room.'
'So?' Grijpstra was whispering too. He was leaning across the table. Jurriaans straightened up. 'So nothing. The game started, but I don't know how it finished. I woke up eight hours later on that damned rug. Asta and Magda were having breakfast on the porch. I was sick; Asta took me to the bathroom and home afterward. I missed it. Maybe they did it together.'
Grijpstra gaped, then frowned, 'Yes?'
'That's it.'
'No ending?'
'I just told you the ending. You don't think I would go out with that girl again, do you? My wife only talks to me since yesterday. That particular evening spent itself a week ago.'
'Tell me another story with a better ending.'
Jurriaans raised his voice to a normal level. 'No. These are working hours. You tell me about your possible murder, and about what you did since your theory got away with you.'
'De Gier and I visited Beelema's last night as part of our preliminary investigation as to the whereabouts of Rea Fortune, wife of the suspect we found in the canal.'
'Ha.'
'She's missing, isn't she?' Grijpstra asked.
Jurriaans shrugged. 'She is not. She isn't home but what does that mean? There have been some lifestyle changes you know; married women sometimes leave their homes without asking permission.'
'While removing all household goods?'
'So what? Maybe it makes it special but not very special. You still haven't got a case. What does de Gier think about your theory?'
Grijpstra gestured. 'Not much, but de Gier is never impressed by subtle reasoning.'
'He consents to going ahead?'
'Of course. He's a simple sergeant and I'm an adjutant. I'm telling him what to do. He wants to work, he can't sit still in his present predicament. That's why he wouldn't come in with me. He's outside somewhere, watching tobacconists' windows.'
'A murder,' Sergeant Jurriaans said. 'All right. I'm a simple sergeant too and I can't see your view; you have an elevated position. But I would think that you need serious suspicions. I learned that when I still learned. Nobody can be designated as a suspect without serious suspicions that the person has committed a crime. You don't have any.'
Grijpstra grunted. 'No? If a lady disappears, suddenly and without leaving a note, while all household goods are removed-that's a nice clause, I'm keeping it for my report-then I have serious suspicions.'
'No,' Jurriaans said.
'No what?'
'It's not a nice clause. Household goods are pots and pans. You're talking about everything, including the tiling that keeps the door from slamming against the wall and the chromium nut that prevents the toilet-paper bar from slipping.'
'You know better words?'
'All contents of the house.'
'Thanks.'
'See? I'm quite willing to help you. I can help you too, for I know the suspect.'
'Because you've got him in your dungeon here?'* Grijpstra asked.
'No, I let him go this morning, with a sermon. But I've known him for years. I know the other actors on your stage too. I've been around for a while, adjutant, the environment is familiar to me and cafe' Beelema is where I go when the universal guilt becomes too much to carry.'
'You know,' Grijpstra said slowly, 'when I hear that a woman has gone completely, and that nobody, except one particular person, has the slightest idea where she may have gone to, if such knowledge comes to me and I notice that the husband of the lady behaves in a most unusual manner…'
'What do you mean, unusual?'
'What? You weren't there. Frits Fortune didn't just behave strangely, he misbehaved. De Gier was trying to save his life… I mean, really… and the man was actually trying to brain my sergeant with his crutch.'
'Man kills wife,' said Jurriaans, 'it has happened before in my practice. The other day, for instance. Man goes to his work, to some horrible daily drudge, and just before he leaves the apartment, his wife thrusts a verbal barbed dagger in his neck, liberally dipped in poison. The man wheels around, grabs the shrew by the neck, presses and shakes…'
'Dead? No!'
'As dead as a doornail. Man drops the body, telephones us and sits in a chair until my constables rush to him. Ketchup and Karate, of course, there happened to be nobody else available. They were throwing up when they came back. Ketchup had to visit the shrink a few times; he kept breaking into tears. That's odd behavior in a police station, I won't put up with it.'
'Were you ever tempted to throttle your wife?' Grijpstra asked.
'Sure. Why?'
'Just thought I'd ask.'
A slight tenderness moved the lines on Jurriaans's face. 'She isn't too bad, and she's beautiful too, much younger than I am. She's been looking for a last fling lately, but she doesn't dare to make the break. Makes things awkward at times.'
Grijpstra coughed.
'I don't help much,' Jurriaans continued. 'I have similar thoughts myself. As you know.'
'Right,' Grijpstra said. 'Didn't mean to pry really. So you let Frits Fortune go. Pity, in a way. After a night in the drunks' cell, suspects interrogate easily.'
'True, weakens their defenses. He didn't look in great shape, a little crumpled and his mouth was all dry and caked with filth.'
'De Gier says he was blowing peculiar bubbles, like gum bubbles; they flew away.'
'Because of the medication. He explained it to me. That's why I let him go. Extraordinary and extenuating circumstances. The doctor prescribed tranquilizers and they don't mix with alcohol. Probably explains his aggression, but this morning he was peaceful. He said he felt fine, wouldn't even take his crutch, didn't limp when he left.'
Grijpstra's jaw hardened. 'Really? There we go again, the man behaves in a suspicious manner. First he limps and the next morning he runs like a deer.'
'That's correct; I watched him leave, nothing the matter with him.'
'You said you knew him before. What's he like? Has he ever been in trouble?'
Jurriaans removed a cigar from Grijpstra's breast pocket and lit it. 'He owns a warehouse further along the Brewerscanal where he has his business, and he used to live in one of those concrete blocks in the south. He didn't like it there and bought some horizontal property in a remodeled mansion next to the Oberon. Spent a lot of money to get it right and just when he wanted to move in, a bum broke into the place. Fortune came to see me about it, but you know that there's little we can do. The city fathers are socialists and they feel that a bum who finds an empty living place has a right to grab it. Property is theft and all that. The law states that such an act is illegal, but the authorities who employ us feel differently. A ticklish situation and I do what the chief constable tells me to do. He tells me to do nothing, and besides I'm busy, for the police are corrupt and we spend all our time taking bribes from the drug dealers. Right?'
Grijpstra sucked his cigar.
'That's what the papers say we do,' Jurriaans said, 'and I've learned not to argue. So I tell Mr. Fortune that regretfully there is nothing I can do to get his bum out of his brand new apartment. But because I know the guy, as I've met him at Beelema's and we've bought each other drinks, I blow into his ear that Beelema is known to be God's other son.'
'So Fortune goes to see Beelema.'
