Blond Baboon by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B

were fixed on Bergen’s face.
    “Violent?”
    “Yes. Are you a violent man?”
    Bergen’s voice faltered. His left cheek seemed to sag more than before. The underlip had suddenly become slack and he was making an effort to answer the question. “No, no. I don’t mink so. I got into some fights at school and I had a scrap or two when I was in the army but that’s gone now, I think it’s not in me anymore.”
    “We’ll have to ask you whether you can prove where you were last night, Mr. Bergen. I realize these are unpleasant questions but we have to ask them.”
    “I was at home, it wasn’t the sort of night to go out.”
    “Were you alone?”
    “Yes, my wife is staying with relatives, she is having a little holiday in the country. My children are married already. I was alone.”
    “No visitors? Nobody telephoned you?”
    “No.”
    “Well, that was only for the record.” The commissaris was going to elaborate on his statement, but the telephone rang and Bergen walked to his desk to answer it.
    “Mr. Pullini? Has he come already? Ask Miss Gabrielle to talk to him for a little while, I’m busy now. And don’t send any calls through; if you take the numbers I’ll phone diem back.” He put the phone down with some unnecessary force and turned to face his visitors again. “Pullini,” he said slowly. “It’s a day of problems.”
    De Gier’s eyes hadn’t left Bergen’s face for the last few minutes. He was studying the deterioration of the left side of the man’s head with fascination. The muscles of his cheek and mouth were slackening rapidly and he didn’t think that Bergen had modified what was happening to his face. The sergeant thought of drawing the commissaris’s attention to the phenomenon in some way when Bergen began to speak again.
    “Pullini. If only the man himself had come again, but he sent his darling son.”
    “You’re having trouble with your supplier? Pullini is still your main supplier, isn’t that right?”
    “Yes, we buy more than half our stocks from him. A good factory, steady and quick deliveries, excellent quality, but his prices are too high these days. That’s why young Pullini is here, he has been here for two weeks already. I have found another factory in Milan that can supply us and they are more competitive than the Pullini concern. They also give a little more credit—credit is important to us, we have to hold large inventories.”
    “And Pullini doesn’t want to come down in price?”
    “Not so far.”
    “So why doesn’t young Pullini leave? Or is he liking Amsterdam?”
    Bergen grinned. The grin was definitely lopsided and de Gier wondered if the commissaris was aware of their suspect’s transformation. “Yes, he likes the high life here. Italians are still old-fashioned. The boy is having a good time, but he is hanging on for another reason. Old Pullini is also retired, like Elaine, and his concern is run by Francesco now, and Francesco has done a little underhanded maneuvering, or so I think, I can’t prove it.”
    “Stealing from his father’s business?”
    “Perhaps. Papa Pullini is a tough old bird. He keeps his son on a short leash and Francesco has expensive ways, a brand-new Porsche, the best hotels, a little gambling—you know how it goes. Since Francesco took over we are given two invoices for every purchase. An official ninety percent invoice and an under-the-table ten percent invoice. I don’t mind. On the ten percent invoices we have more credit; we keep them in a stack and pay them at the end of the year, in cash.”
    “And the ten percent goes into Francesco’s pocket. I see. That’s probably why he can’t lower his prices, he’s taking ten percent off already.”
    Bergen was nodding rapidly. He was evidently pleased that the commissaris saw the point so quickly.
    “But,” the commissaris said and raised a finger, “you say that you pay at the end of the year and we are in June now.”
    “I didn’t make last year’s