He peered at the sergeant. 'Katrien thinks I am ill and you and Grijpstra think I am silly.' His chopstick pointed between his eyes. 'Daft in the head. I now need an attendant.'
The chopstick pointed at de Gier's forehead. 'Do you know that I attended a hit and run lecture this afternoon and that I couldn't concentrate on skid marks?'
'Well now…,' de Gier soothed.
The commissaris spat urchin meat into his napkin. 'You like raw fish, Rinus? Yes? That's good.' He pushed his plate away. 'Could be I'm stressed out. Or depressed maybe. Last puzzle of my career and I feel obliged to solve it. But so far it's all nonsense, and I have this damned flu, and there are all these lectures. Trying to pay attention. For what? You tell me.' The comrnissaris's faded blue eyes stared through de Gier's head. 'Improve my knowledge when I'm just about out?'
De Gier smiled. 'Oh, but you will be with the police academy soon, and at Interpol and whatnot,' de Gier said. 'Policemen everywhere will benefit from your teaching.'
'On deadly golf balls,' the commissaris said. 'Well, I know that much now. No golf in Central Park.'
'You've seen the NYPD, sir?'
The commissaris, in between sneezing and coughing, reported on his conversations with Chief O'Neill and Detective-Sergeant Hurrell.
'A noncase,' the commissaris concluded, 'about to be closed. You type up a report and fax it home. Grijpstra, in due course, informs complainant that Uncle just fell over. Such things happen. Can't be helped.' The commissaris felt his throat. 'There is folded sandpaper in here, Rinus. It grinds together when I swallow.' His next sneeze made his spectacles fall off. De Gier caught them.
'Thank you, Sergeant. Case about to be closed. Even so…,' the commissaris shivered, '…I feel we might look further. Try to do a good job. Just for the record. Or for no reason at all. For the hell of it, Sergeant. See the mounted policewoman. Call on Bert Termeer's landlord and neighbor, Charlie. Maybe we will do that tomorrow.'
'You don't have a lecture tomorrow, sir?'
The commissaris checked his program. 'On trace evidence, in the afternoon.' He put the paper away. 'Reminds me of the Maggotmaid case, which you should know about, Sergeant. Let me tell you why.'
De Gier ate his raw octopus and boiled rice rolls while the commissaris related the story, featuring Detective-Sergeant Hurrell, as told by Chief O'Neill.
'Crawling maggots, eh?' de Gier asked.
The commissaris's teeth chattered.
'I'll take you to the hotel, sir.'
The commissaris grimaced courageously. 'An early night, a hot bath, try again tomorrow, Sergeant.'
'Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow,' bellhop Ignacio said. 'I thought millionaires like you guys wouldn't use that expression. I thought it was just us. I thought it was because of tomorrowism that guys like us will be hundredaires forever.'
Ignacio, out of the Cavendish Hotel uniform, wearing a black silk suit, an open white shirt and high-heeled boots, seemed a different being.
The commissaris tried to smile between coughs. 'Ignacio? From the hotel?'
'Happened to see you sitting here at the window,' Ignacio said. 'I often stop in here. I know one of the cooks. He gives me discount dinners.'
'Care to join us?' the commissaris asked approvingly.
Ignacio declined with thanks. He pointed at the sushi. 'Don't care for the Cavendish nouvelle cuisine undefinables, do you? Grind up and color, serve with a leaf of purple cabbage at fifty bucks a plate.'
'It's all right,' the commissaris said.
'Our breakfast is all right,' Ignacio said, 'but you like to eat that out too, don't you? With Mamere, the naked doggie lady?'
The commissaris looked surprised. 'How do you know?'
'Bellhops,' Ignacio said solemnly, 'know everything.' 'There is always an explanation,' de Gier said.
'For the thinker and the seer.' Ignacio looked at the commissaris. 'Le Chat Complet is across the street. I saw you there yesterday. I know Mamere. After you left, Mamere said you'd had bad dreams lately. That's why I gave you the voodoo spiel earlier. She thinks you should see her.'
The bell hop wished them a pleasant evening, then walked to the sushi bar to talk to the cook.
Chapter 11
De Gier, using the subway map Antoinette had lent him, figured out a quick way to get to Bleecker Street. After the ride he walked down Christopher and up Hudson and got to his bed and breakfast on Horatio by 8:00P.M. After the loud bars and New Age display windows of the neighborhood's main streets Horatio looked neat. There were trees, the quaint houses were in excellent repair, cool fresh air wafted down from the Hudson River. The house he wanted had an imposing front door of varnished oak, decorated with a brass knocker. The establishment's owner, a small balding man in his fifties who introduced himself as Freddie, was happy to show his guest a well- equipped and tastefully furnished apartment. The bedroom viewed treetops. Freddie and his live-in friend, Antonio, a hospital nurse, a heavyset man with a big black beard, remembered Antoinette and her husband, Karel.
'Lovely couple,' Freddie said. 'I showed Karel around some of the galleries in SoHo. Admirable fellow, a spastic stutterer and yet in such good command of himself. Good artist. Showed me photos of his sculptures. So Karel and his wife recommended you? That's nice. And you are a policeman? You're here on business? Antoinette telephoned. She told us to be of use. Care to tell us about your mission?'
Antonio was enthusiastic too. He liked to read true crime stories and occasionally indulged in mystery fiction.
'We both like puzzles,' Freddie said. 'You have pieces we can fit together?'
The drinks, served on the tiny lawn, between hedges of wild roses, were all juices. Freddie and Antonio admitted to being recovering alcoholics.
'You mind?' Freddie asked.
De Gier said he had been thinking of cutting his own habit.
'Cutting down?'
'Cutting out.'
'The only way,' Antonio said. 'And your case?'
De Gier explained.
Antonio was interested. He knew Central Park well. He sailed his model sailboat on the Model Boat Pond, kept it there in Kerb's Model Boat House. Being around Central Park on weekends he had seen most of what he called 'the crazies.' 'An exhibitionist, you say? Could you let us have some details?'
De Gier provided the details he remembered from Reserve Constable Jo Termeer's description and the Lakmakers' report.
'I think I know the guy,' Antonio said. 'He stopped me once. Very nicely. Told me to 'watch it.''
'Watch what?'
Antonio shrugged. 'Just 'it,' I guess. To be aware, you know? To pay attention?'
'Like in the Boy Scouts,' Freddie said. 'Awareness is the key. Lord Baden Powell thought of that. Noble- looking old codger. What ever happened to the Boy Scouts?'
'Watch the bullshit going on,' Antonio said. 'I think your guy was telling me to watch all the bullshit.'
'Like your own?' Freddie asked, winking at de Gier.
'Right.' Antonio, ignoring Freddie's wink, nodded pleasantly. 'Watch my own bullshit. Might save me some trouble. Think for myself.'
De Gier, after restating his facts briefly again, proffered a theory that might interest his hosts. The theory aimed at explaining why Termeer might have been murdered. De Gier's hypothesis proposed that there were sexual overtones here. Even though Chief O'Neill claimed Termeer wasn't into nudity the man was obviously a performer. Also possibly demented. Standing still for hours, in some contorted attitude, and then dashing off, frolicking.'
