couple of Magnums. Weapons taken from a Turkish drug-running gang. There's a thought that the Turks pushed some of their women into Headquarters to retrieve the guns.'
De Gier was still admiring the gable. 'Cops sell guns, too. My neighbor bought a pistol from a constable who stopped him for drunken driving. As it would be his second conviction, the sucker paid a small fortune in cash and the cop took pity and. threw in the gun. My neighbor told me about it when I asked him to take care of my cat. I had to stay overnight up north.'
'Makes you proud of your profession,' Grijpstra said. 'So, no gun to check with the bullet in IJsbreker's head. Did you see the pathologists?'
'That was another negative,' de Gier said. 'Notice how the entire gable was rebuilt, not just patched up somehow, as you usually see in a restoration. Must have cost a pretty penny. I wonder if IJsbreker owned the house.'
'We can check with the Registry of Deeds tomorrow.' Grijpstra walked around parked cars. 'The Banque du Credit may own the place. If IJsbreker has shares in the bank, he may have wanted to avoid property tax. No businessman in his right mind owns anything in his own name anymore. Personal property is mere weight these days. All you want is to have the use of the stuff.'
'At no cost,' de Gier agreed. 'Borrowed interest-free wealth that will last until one's death. In IJsbreker's case, death came rather early. Want to hear something?'
De Gier produced a small cassette recorder and held it near Grijpstra's ear. He clicked its switch. 'Hello,' a rich baritone voice said, 'this is Martin IJsbreker's answering machine. Please leave a message. I'd just love to have your message. I'll answer as soon as I can. Wait for the beep.'
Grijpstra looked surprised. 'When did you get this?'
De Gier pocketed the little machine. 'Just now. IJsbreker's phone is still connected. Doesn't he sound jolly?'
'A good powerful voice,' Grijpstra agreed. 'Arrogant, strident, authoritative, I would say. Not depressed at all. Perhaps the tape is old. Maybe he has been using it for years.'
'Old tapes are usually scratchy.' De Gier turned away from the house. 'I say there's a hint here that IJsbreker was in no way depressed. Let's cross the bridge and have a look at that houseboat where the junkies were found. I'll tell you about the pathologists on the way.'
De Gier stopped on the bridge linking the two quays that framed the canal. Some little boys were paddling an old canoe along. They wore folded paper hats, and the boy in the bow waved a wooden sword, ordering his crew onward. His thin shouts were drowned in the rumble of a heavy diesel engine propelling a cargo vessel along. Its bow wave made the canoe bob jerkily. The boys screamed with joy. 'I used to do that,' de Gier said.
'You still do that,' Grijpstra said. 'That's your trouble. We aren't playing games, you know.'
'That's your trouble.' De Gier patted Grijpstra's shoulder. 'You won't see the fun. Did you read that bit in the paper about a whole new cluster of galaxies that some wise-ass discovered? A billion new worlds to choose from? Anything you can imagine will be out there, any game you can possibly play.'
'Can't get there,' Grijpstra said, 'and if I could, it would be serious too. Self-centered beings breaking reasonable rules. I don't care whether they're small and green. It'll be the same horror, endlessly repeated, with types like me running about forever, hopelessly trying to restore order.'
'What's hopeless?' de Gier asked. He pointed down. 'See that? A fish. Big fish.'
Grijpstra peered. 'You're putting me on. That water is polluted.'
'Carp or something,' de Gier shouted. 'I saw him whopping his tail. Look! Another one.'
'My fishing rod broke,' Grijpstra said. 'I won't get another one. They're too expensive now.'
'And yesterday,' de Gier said triumphantly, 'there was a great crested grebe in front of the Hotel l'Europe. There used to be only garbage there. A grebe, I tell you.'
'Bird?' Grijpstra asked.
'With a tuft on his head.'
Grijpstra pushed his bulk off the bridge's railing and moved on slowly. 'It's still shit, Sergeant. The whole thing is shit. We're losing.'
'To lose,' de Gier said cheerfully, striding along. 'Not a bad idea either. Anarchy would be fun. With my back to the wall.' De Gier stopped and gestured. 'The enemy everywhere, in relentless pursuit of good guys like you and me. Superbly armed, they hunt us down, but you and I melt into the shadows. We live furtively on catfood.'
'Why catfood?' Grijpstra asked.
'That's all we could find in the deserted supermarket,' de Gier whispered.
'You've been going to the movies again.'
'Okay,' de Gier said. 'The catfood came from a movie. Or was it dogfood? I forget now. But the lone warrior seemed to enjoy it, licking his fingers and all, and he had this great car, and some nice-looking woman got raped, they showed that quite well. I think he saved some others from the bad guys and then raced off again.' De Gier prodded Grijpstra's belly. 'You know, maybe you're right, you shouldn't be in on this. You're too slow and sad. We'll have you killed in the adventure's beginning. You're just dead weight, but I'm sorry to be rid of you. You can see it on my face.' De Gier stared sadly, looking down at Grijpstra's corpse. He sat down on his haunches. His hands felt through the air.
'What're you doing?' Grijpstra asked. 'Leave my body alone.'
'You may have something of value,' de Gier said. 'Some shells for my shotgun. I'm alone now and could use your knife.'
'You wouldn't last a minute on your own,' Grijpstra said.
De Gier straightened up. 'You sure you want to be in on this? I've a feeling the present situation doesn't agree with you. My fantasies aren't as far out as you think. The present may prove me right.'
'Tell me the negative about the pathologists,' Grijpstra said.
'Weird tale, Adjutant. There's no autopsy report at all, nor will there ever be. The doctor who did the job won't talk, and the other can't substantiate what he claims to have seen. There were two bullets in IJsbreker's head, against one cartridge found on the floor.'
Grijpstra thought. He raised a hand and declaimed,
'The dead banker struggled to his feet and shot himself again.'
'Two bullets,' de Gier said. 'But only one hole. The hole was in the middle of IJsbreker's forehead.'
'That's against statistics,' Grijpstra said. 'People shoot themselves through the temple or the mouth or, once in a while, between the eyes. Not through the forehead as a rule.'
'Two. 22-caliber bullets.'
'The missing gun was a. 22,' Grijpstra said. 'The fellow at Ballistics remembered. The empty cartridge ejected by the pistol was. 22, too. But if two bullets penetrated the same hole, an automatic weapon was used, capable of producing extremely rapid fire. A Walther PPK is only semiautomatic. Admittedly, the trigger is set finely so that shots can be fired at minimal intervals, but even so, the second bullet would cause a second hole. I say an assault rifle was used, either American or Russian, and IJsbreker was shot from there somewhere.' He pointed at the north quay.
'From across the water, Adjutant?'
'Sure,' Grijpstra said. 'Remember the report? IJsbreker was found in front of an open window on the third floor. From where we were standing just now, opposite from here, on the south quay, we had to tilt our heads back even to see the third floor. A shot from that position would have been too tricky. If two bullets made one hole, the weapon must have been extraordinarily steady. The rifle was set on a tripod, I say. You're sure there were two bullets?'
'One got lost,' de Gier said. 'That's why the chief pathologist is so upset. They gave him IJsbreker's corpse late in the day, and he rushed the job. Apparently everything went wrong. The other pathologist was bitching at him. The electric saw he uses for opening up skulls broke down. Our doctor threw up his hands in despair and went home, halfway through the job, leaving the two bullets he found in IJsbreker's head near the edge of the table. One of the illegal alien charwomen came in early the next day and cleaned the floor, perhaps inadvertently sweeping away one bullet that must have rolled off the table.'
'The chief won't sign a report that states one bullet was lost.'
'He won't even talk to me,' de Gier said. 'The other guy, the one who isn't paid as well and isn't responsible for the department, talked, but that's only because he likes to make trouble for his chief. He won't make a
