'We're doing well together,' the commissaris said. 'How's Fleur?'
Fernandus pulled back his foot. 'Don't rightly know. Haven't seen her for a while. When I do, she whines.'
'You're not taking care of Fleur?'
'Fleur has always been a dead loss. I got sick of dragging her about.'
'I see.' The commissaris made the letter opener reflect a ray of sunlight. 'So you got rid of her, like you got rid of Martin. Strip them of their belongings first, eh?'
'Of course,' Fernandus said. 'Property always ends up in the hands of those who can handle wealth. Fleur cost me more than her shares in the bank were worth. I got them out of her when we divorced. IJsbreker's shares I bought from his wife.'
'IJsbreker wasn't divorced?'
Fernandus laughed. 'You didn't know? Here I'm giving you free information. Do you see now that you're bluffing? No, Martin and his wife, Trudy, still had hopes of getting together one day. She's in Rotterdam now, staying at her parents' house. My accountant figured out the worth of Martin's shares, and she was pleased to sell them to me.'
'Not at their real worth.'
'What's real worth?' Fernandus asked. 'With present taxation, no business shows the profits it makes. Most gains are paid out in benefits. Martin had benefits because he was an officer of the bank. Why should I pass those along to truant Trudy?'
'But Martin's wife has kids, they need education.'
'Bah,' Fernandus said. 'One dropped out of college and the other should have graduated from high school years ago. Two more helpless brats that socialism can take care of. Martin's boys are as useless as the junkies you're crying about. Be realistic, Jan. Drugs are part of the present, as slavery was a hundred years ago.'
'Disgusting,' the commissaris said softly.
'I agree,' Fernandus said. 'You started this meeting off by calling me evil. I've always been the bad guy in your eyes, from the moment I pushed you off Miss Bakker's lap, but all I have ever done is see things as they are. You think I enjoy looking at filthy young people wandering about, breaking into my Daimler at night? Human garbage that stinks up the streets of this fair city? Our forefathers didn't enjoy the smell of slave ships, either, but a lot of the money that went into the splendid architecture that makes up our town today was made from the slave trade. The helpless will be exploited. Look at the extremes today, Russia and America-do you see any essential difference? Only the elite lives well. I'm part of the elite. So are you, in a small way. If you hadn't been so wishy- washy, you would have stayed with me and done a lot better.'
'You wouldn't, by any chance,' the commissaris asked, 'have helped to finance the manufacture of poison gas used in the death camps, would you now?'
'Don't think so.' Fernandus flicked some ash off his leg. 'Might have, of course. The bank invested in German chemical shares before war broke out. In the first war, the Banque du Credit financed the Fokker airplanes that did so well in the Luftwaffe. Your grandfather owned part of the bank then. There must have been profits, and some of them have paid for that nice house you live in on Queen's Lane.'
'Dad sold his shares, Willem.'
'To my dad,' Fernandus grinned. 'Proves my theory that idealism weakens your position. It's the curse of your family. If you held those shares now, you'd have a grip on me.' He got up and walked about the room. 'Can I go, or am I officially detained? I've got things to do.'
'If you go now,' the commissaris said, 'I'll put more force into my attack. You'll topple within two weeks.'
'You'll be back on Miss Bakker's lap?' Fernandus asked on his way to the door. 'Is that what you're after?' He put his hand on the knob. 'You won't be, Jan. I'm not joking, either.' He turned as he opened the door. 'I'll put you in the corner of the classroom again, with a pointed hat on your head. Back off now, and maybe I'll let you be. Give you a rest so that you can still totter about a bit. What do you say? Deal?'
The commissaris's small head was illuminated by late-afternoon sunlight that made the entire room shine. The flowering plants on the windowsills added a profusion of bright color. Fernandus retreated into the shadow of the corridor. * A Dutch guilder equals about thirty-eight cents in U.S. currency. picked up those biblical ideas. Your parents weren't Christian.'
\\ 11 /////
When Adjutant Grijpstra marched into the Headquarters courtyard at 7:00 P.M. sharp, a mustachioed athletic plumber, dressed in sky-blue overalls, started up a cream-colored van proclaiming on both side panels that the sturdy vehicle belonged to Jansma amp; Son, plumbers since 1949. The van rumbled up and stopped.
'Get in, Dad,' the younger Jansma shouted. 'You can change in the back.'
Adjutant Grijpstra clambered into the vehicle. 'Switch your engine off-I don't want to bang about in here. Where are my overalls?'
'On top of the toolbox, Dad.'
There were muffled remarks. 'Too large… can't get my gun in. .. too tight… what is this thing… zipper?… zipper got stuck… stupid… must be an easier way.'
The younger Jansma waited peacefully. 'All done?'
The older Jansma fell into the passenger's seat. 'Drive easy, now. Stay away from the tram rails.'
Young Jansma eased the van into traffic. 'Yes, Dad.'
'I'm not your father,' Old Jansma said.
'Just for now,' Young Jansma said. 'How's the painting? Were the bones I found you of any use at all?'
'Got them all in.' Old Jansma bounced uncomfortably on his hard seat. 'The ducks' skeletons are acceptable now. Floating nicely in the slosh, but the background's still wrong. Whoa. You passed the house.'
'Yes, Dad.' Young Jansma backed up the van, turning the unwieldy vehicle cleverly until it almost touched the curb. He grabbed the toolbox and bounded down to the sidewalk.
A fat, pimply young man opened a window on the first floor. 'You better get to it.'
'To what?' Old Jansma asked, lowering himself ponderously from the van'icabin.
'To the filthy fluids,' the fat young man shouted. 'Dripping through our ceilings. The old woman upstairs leaks.'
'Would you be paying our bill?' Old Jansma asked. 'No? Then shut your mouth, young sir.'
Young Jansma, lugging tools and assorted tubes, joined his elder. He studied the young man's face. 'Would that be venereal?'
'What?' the fat young man shouted.
'Your facial moonscape,' Young Jansma said. 'Maybe you should cover it with ointment. Or wear a mask.'
'You see,' Old Jansma said, 'you don't see yourself. Others do. You might save us having to look at you.'
The window banged shut. Young Jansma rang the doorbell. The door creaked open and the Jansmas looked up a narrow bare staircase. A little old lady peered down from the landing on the third floor.
'Mrs. Jongs?'
'You the plumbers? Come up quickly. The sink…'
The Jansmas climbed the stairs. 'You're the cops?' the old woman whispered loudly, holding bony fingers behind her ear to catch the answer.
'At your service, ma'am.' Old Jansma briefly held a gnarled little claw protruding from the woman's well- worn shawl.
Mrs. Jongs led the way to her kitchen. 'I empties out the bucket six times.' She cackled. 'Ain't they complaining downstairs? They're banging on my door just now, but I don't open for nobody but the fuzz. Heehee.'
'Now,' Old Jansma said. 'My partner will clean up all these puddles nicely, and you and I will have a little
