degree."
"We might check her clothes for blood spatters."
"No, no," the commissaris said. "I saw her; she isn't the type to jump about waving a good-day."
"That young fellow you were talking about?"
"No, not him either."
The fingerprint man shrugged.
The commissaris felt obliged to explain. "A man who has killed another man an hour ago will be nervous. Louis was nervous. The corpse, the crying sister, the police tramping about. He was suffering from a slight shock, but I didn't see any signs of a real mental crisis."
"You are the man who knows," the fingerprint man said.
"No," the commissaris said, and drained his glass a little too quickly. "I don't know anything. Whoever says he knows is either a fool or a saint, a blithering fool or a holy saint. But I have observed a number of killers in my life. I don't think Louis has killed a man this afternoon, but I could be wrong. In any case, he has handled the corpse, he has been in the room. There'll be some blood on his clothes, explainable blood, not enough to raise a serious suspicion. The judge won't be impressed."
Nellie came back with a full percolator and five mugs. They drank the coffee in silence.
"Thank you," the commissaris said, and wiped his mouth with his hand. "We'll go now. You have been very helpful, Nellie."
"Any time," Nellie said graciously, "but not when I have clients."
"We won't bother you. Grijpstra, would you mind asking about in the street? Perhaps the neighbors saw something. De Gier!"
"Sir."
"You come with me, I have another call to make tonight. I should take Grijpstra but you have more to learn.''
They shook hands with Nellie and trooped out. De Gier was last.
"You are lovely," de Gier said quickly. "I would like to come back one evening."
"A hundred and seventy-five guilders," Nellie said, and her face looked cold and closed. "That'll be for the topless service, and the same for another bottle of champagne if you want more."
"Three hundred and fifty guilders?" de Gier whispered incredulously.
"Sure."
He closed the door behind him. The commissaris was waiting for him but at some distance. Grijpstra was closer.
"Did you try?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes."
"Any luck?"
"Three hundred and fifty guilders."
Grijpstra whistled.
"What's the matter with the woman?" de Gier asked fiercely.
Grijpstra grinned.
"Well?"
"Her husband was a handsome man. Same size as you. Thick curly hair and an air force mustache. Could have been your brother. He invented that bar for her and lived off the spoils. Until he got knifed one night, by a Canadian sailor who wasn't used to jenever."
"De Gier," the commissaris called.
"Coming, sir," de Gier said.
THE SUDDEN TRANSITION SHOCKED DE GIER INTO consciously registering his surroundings. The small bar, in spite of its cheap gaudiness, had protected him somewhat and the lush femaleness of the hostess had lulled and excited him simultaneously, but now he was outside again, exposed to the clamor of shrieks and thuds and revving engines on the Newmarket and the plaintive wail of ambulances taking battered bodies to hospitals and racing back again. The clamor was far away, and half a mile of solid buildings, gable houses and warehouses and a few churches and towers shielded him from immediate violence, but the conflict's threat was all around him. His fear surprised him because he had never disliked violence before and he had certainly never run away from a fight, so why should he be glad to be out of it now? There would be plenty of opportunity on the square to practice his judo throws, to dodge attacks and have opponents floor themselves by their own weight and strength.
Perhaps it was the intangibility of the threat that unnerved him; the Straight Tree Ditch was quiet enough, guarded as it was by leather-jacketed riot police in pairs, strolling up and down, respectfully greeting the commissaris by either saluting or lifting their long truncheons. The elm trees were heavy and peaceful, their fresh foliage
"We might check her clothes for blood spatters."
"No, no," the commissaris said. "I saw her; she isn't the type to jump about waving a good-day."
"That young fellow you were talking about?"
"No, not him either."
The fingerprint man shrugged.
The commissaris felt obliged to explain. "A man who has killed another man an hour ago will be nervous. Louis was nervous. The corpse, the crying sister, the police tramping about. He was suffering from a slight shock, but I didn't see any signs of a real mental crisis."
"You are the man who knows," the fingerprint man said.
"No," the commissaris said, and drained his glass a little too quickly. "I don't know anything. Whoever says he knows is either a fool or a saint, a blithering fool or a holy saint. But I have observed a number of killers in my life. I don't think Louis has killed a man this afternoon, but I could be wrong. In any case, he has handled the corpse, he has been in the room. There'll be some blood on his clothes, explainable blood, not enough to raise a serious suspicion. The judge won't be impressed."
Nellie came back with a full percolator and five mugs. They drank the coffee in silence.
"Thank you," the commissaris said, and wiped his mouth with his hand. "We'll go now. You have been very helpful, Nellie."
"Any time," Nellie said graciously, "but not when I have clients."
"We won't bother you. Grijpstra, would you mind asking about in the street? Perhaps the neighbors saw something. De Gier!"
"Sir."
"You come with me, I have another call to make tonight. I should take Grijpstra but you have more to learn.''
They shook hands with Nellie and trooped out. De Gier was last.
"You are lovely," de Gier said quickly. "I would like to come back one evening."
"A hundred and seventy-five guilders," Nellie said, and her face looked cold and closed. "That'll be for the topless service, and the same for another bottle of champagne if you want more."
"Three hundred and fifty guilders?" de Gier whispered incredulously.
"Sure."
He closed the door behind him. The commissaris was waiting for him but at some distance. Grijpstra was closer.
"Did you try?" Grijpstra asked.
"Yes."
"Any luck?"
"Three hundred and fifty guilders."
Grijpstra whistled.
"What's the matter with the woman?" de Gier asked fiercely.
Grijpstra grinned.
"Well?"
"Her husband was a handsome man. Same size as you. Thick curly hair and an air force mustache. Could have been your brother. He invented that bar for her and lived off the spoils. Until he got knifed one night, by a Canadian sailor who wasn't used to jenever."
"De Gier," the commissaris called.
"Coming, sir," de Gier said.
THE SUDDEN TRANSITION SHOCKED DE GIER INTO consciously registering his surroundings. The small bar, in spite of its cheap gaudiness, had protected him somewhat and the lush femaleness of the hostess had lulled and excited him simultaneously, but now he was outside again, exposed to the clamor of shrieks and thuds and revving engines on the Newmarket and the plaintive wail of ambulances taking battered bodies to hospitals and racing back again. The clamor was far away, and half a mile of solid buildings, gable houses and warehouses and a few churches and towers shielded him from immediate violence, but the conflict's threat was all around him. His fear surprised him because he had never disliked violence before and he had certainly never run away from a fight, so why should he be glad to be out of it now? There would be plenty of opportunity on the square to practice his judo throws, to dodge attacks and have opponents floor themselves by their own weight and strength.
Perhaps it was the intangibility of the threat that unnerved him; the Straight Tree Ditch was quiet enough, guarded as it was by leather-jacketed riot police in pairs, strolling up and down, respectfully greeting the commissaris by either saluting or lifting their long truncheons. The elm trees were heavy and peaceful, their fresh foliage
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