with a short chain. Would explain the marks on the wall and the windowsill, a weapon like that covers a sizable area. The killer swung it and he hit the wall with the backward stroke. What do you say, doctor?"
The doctor nodded.
"So the killer left and took the weapon with him. Nobody saw him, nobody heard him. The riots on the Newmarket may have drowned the noise."
"His sister heard nothing," de Gier said. "She was upstairs part of the time and in the kitchen part of the time. And that young fellow was upstairs too."
"Could have been one of them," Grijpstra said.
"They both benefit by the death," the commissaris said. "His sister inherits and the young man might believe he could take over the business. And we may assume that it was murder as there seems to have been some planning. The riots may have been used as cover and the weapon is unusual."
"Not necessarily," Grijpstra said. "There may have been a good-day on the wall, as a decoration. Someone lost his temper, grabbed it and..."
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "We'll have to find out, but I don't want to go back now. Tomorrow. You or de Gier, or both of you. There are a lot of suspects* These hawkers lived outside the law. They don't pay much tax, sales tax or income tax. They always have more money than they can account for, put away in a tin or hidden in the mattress, or under a loose board. We may be dealing with armed robbery."
"Or a friend had a go at him," de Gier said. "His sister was telling me that he had a lot of arty friends. They would come for meals and drink and talk and he would play games with them, psychological games.
They had to admit they were fools."
"What?" the commissaris asked.
De Gier explained.
"I see, I see, I see," the commissaris said, then smiled at Nellie.
"Another glass?" Nellie asked.
"No, coffee perhaps, or would that be too much trouble?"
"Coffee," Nellie said, "yes. It would be the first cup I ever served here. I can make some upstairs and bring it down."
The commissaris looked hopeful. "Does everybody want coffee?"
The five men agreed they all wanted coffee, eagerly, like small children asking for a treat. Nellie changed with them. Her smile was motherly, she wanted to care for them. The feeling in the pink whore's hole changed; the soft-shaded lights, the chintzy chairs, the two low tables with their plastic tops decorated with frilly doilies, the sickening disharmony of pinks, mauves and bloody and fleshy reds no longer inspired the urgency of sex but softened down into an unexpected intimacy; five male disciples adoring the goddess and the goddess cares and gives and flows and oozes and goes upstairs to make coffee in a percolator. Grijpstra reached across the bar and grabbed the stone jar of jenever. The glasses were refilled.
The commissaris sipped. "Yes," he said, and looked over his glass. "Strange place this. So all we have is questions. That remark of yours interested me, de Gier."
De Gier looked up, his thoughts had been far away. "Sir?"
"About Abe Rogge trying to make fools out of his friends. A powerful personality no doubt, even the corpse looked powerful. So he humiliated his entourage. The king and his court. One of the courtiers killed the king."
"We only met one courtier," Grijpstra said, "that young anarchist. Another strong personality."
"Intelligent young man," the commissaris agreed, "and with a grudge. But a grudge against us, the police, the State."
"Against power," Grijpstra said hesitantly.
"And Abe meant power to him?" the commissaris asked. "No, I don't think so. It seemed to me he liked Abe. Did that young lady you talked to like her brother, de Gier?"
De Gier hadn't been listening. The commissaris repeated his question. "Oh yes, sir," de Gier said. "She liked him, and they weren't in each other's way. They lived separate lives, each on a separate floor. They only had an occasional meal together."
"She wasn't dependent on him?"
"No, sir, she works for the university, has a
The doctor nodded.
"So the killer left and took the weapon with him. Nobody saw him, nobody heard him. The riots on the Newmarket may have drowned the noise."
"His sister heard nothing," de Gier said. "She was upstairs part of the time and in the kitchen part of the time. And that young fellow was upstairs too."
"Could have been one of them," Grijpstra said.
"They both benefit by the death," the commissaris said. "His sister inherits and the young man might believe he could take over the business. And we may assume that it was murder as there seems to have been some planning. The riots may have been used as cover and the weapon is unusual."
"Not necessarily," Grijpstra said. "There may have been a good-day on the wall, as a decoration. Someone lost his temper, grabbed it and..."
"Yes, yes," the commissaris said. "We'll have to find out, but I don't want to go back now. Tomorrow. You or de Gier, or both of you. There are a lot of suspects* These hawkers lived outside the law. They don't pay much tax, sales tax or income tax. They always have more money than they can account for, put away in a tin or hidden in the mattress, or under a loose board. We may be dealing with armed robbery."
"Or a friend had a go at him," de Gier said. "His sister was telling me that he had a lot of arty friends. They would come for meals and drink and talk and he would play games with them, psychological games.
They had to admit they were fools."
"What?" the commissaris asked.
De Gier explained.
"I see, I see, I see," the commissaris said, then smiled at Nellie.
"Another glass?" Nellie asked.
"No, coffee perhaps, or would that be too much trouble?"
"Coffee," Nellie said, "yes. It would be the first cup I ever served here. I can make some upstairs and bring it down."
The commissaris looked hopeful. "Does everybody want coffee?"
The five men agreed they all wanted coffee, eagerly, like small children asking for a treat. Nellie changed with them. Her smile was motherly, she wanted to care for them. The feeling in the pink whore's hole changed; the soft-shaded lights, the chintzy chairs, the two low tables with their plastic tops decorated with frilly doilies, the sickening disharmony of pinks, mauves and bloody and fleshy reds no longer inspired the urgency of sex but softened down into an unexpected intimacy; five male disciples adoring the goddess and the goddess cares and gives and flows and oozes and goes upstairs to make coffee in a percolator. Grijpstra reached across the bar and grabbed the stone jar of jenever. The glasses were refilled.
The commissaris sipped. "Yes," he said, and looked over his glass. "Strange place this. So all we have is questions. That remark of yours interested me, de Gier."
De Gier looked up, his thoughts had been far away. "Sir?"
"About Abe Rogge trying to make fools out of his friends. A powerful personality no doubt, even the corpse looked powerful. So he humiliated his entourage. The king and his court. One of the courtiers killed the king."
"We only met one courtier," Grijpstra said, "that young anarchist. Another strong personality."
"Intelligent young man," the commissaris agreed, "and with a grudge. But a grudge against us, the police, the State."
"Against power," Grijpstra said hesitantly.
"And Abe meant power to him?" the commissaris asked. "No, I don't think so. It seemed to me he liked Abe. Did that young lady you talked to like her brother, de Gier?"
De Gier hadn't been listening. The commissaris repeated his question. "Oh yes, sir," de Gier said. "She liked him, and they weren't in each other's way. They lived separate lives, each on a separate floor. They only had an occasional meal together."
"She wasn't dependent on him?"
"No, sir, she works for the university, has a
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