may have wanted to defend his cache and he got killed."
"By a spiked ball swung at his face?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "why not? Maybe the killer is a man who is clever with his hands. A carpenter, a plumber. Maybe he made his own weapon, invented it."
"But he never took Abe's wallet," the commissaris said. "There was a lot of money in the wallet. If he came for money he wouldn't have left a few thousand right in his victim's pocket. He only had to reach for it. An inventive man, you said. Louis Zilver is inventive. Remember that figure he was trying to create out of beads and wire?"
"He threw it into a dustbin," Grijpstra said, "made a mess of it. But the idea was inventive, true."
Grijpstra looked out of the window of the car. They were in the southern part of Amsterdam now, and gigantic stone-and-steel structures blocked the sky, like enormous bricks dotted with small holes.
And they are full of people, Grijpstra thought. Little people. Little innocent people, preparing their Sunday lunch, lounging about, reading the paper, playing with their kids and with their animals, making plans for the rest of the day. He looked at his watch. Or having a late breakfast. Sunday morning, best time of the week.
The car stopped at a traffic tight and he found himself staring at a balcony, populated by a complete family. Father, mother, two small children. There was a dog on the balcony too. One of the children was making the dog stand up by dangling a biscuit just above its head. The toddler and the small dog made a pretty picture. The geraniums in the flower boxes attached to the balcony's railing were in full flower.
And we are chasing a killer, Grijpstra thought.
"Louis Zilver," the commissaris said, "not a very well-adjusted young man perhaps. I had him checked out last night. He has a previous conviction, for resisting arrest when caught making a drunken racket in the street. Happened a few years ago. He attacked the constables who tried to put him into a patrol car. The judge was very easy on him, a fine and a lecture. What do you think, adjutant? Do we put him on the list of prime suspects?"
Grijpstra's thoughts were still with the family on the balcony. The harmonious family. The happy family. He was wondering whether he himself, Adjutant Grijpstra, flat-footed sleuth, bogey-man of the underworld, restless wanderer of canals, alleyways, dark cul-de-sacs, would like to be happy, like the young healthy father enthroned on his geranium-decorated balcony on the second floor of a huge transparent brick, facing a main thoroughfare.
"Grijpstra?"
"Sir," Grijpstra said. "Yes, definitely. Prime suspect. Surely. It's all there. Motive and opportunity. Maybe he was greedy, wanted the business for himself. Or jealous of Rogge's interminable successes. Or he might have wanted Esther and Abe wouldn't let him. Or he was trying to get Esther through Abe. But I don't know."
"No?" the commissaris asked.
"No, sir. He's a bungler, that's what he is."
"A bungler?" the commissaris asked. "Why? His room seemed well-organized, didn't it? Bookkeeping all neatly stacked on a shelf. The bed was made, the floor was clean. I am sure Esther didn't look after the room for him; he must have done it himself. And his clothes were washed; he even had a crease in his trousers."
"Because of Abe," Grijpstra said. "Abe pulled him together. Before he started hanging on to Rogge he was nothing. Dropout from university, sleeping late, drinking, fooling around with beads. He functioned because Abe made him function. I am sure he can do nothing on his own."
"Can't make a weapon that shoots a spiked ball, you mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"I think the killer may be some connection at the street market, sir, and it seems to me you are thinking the same way, or you wouldn't be pushing de Gier and Cardozo into their masquerade tomorrow. They are going to be hawkers, didn't you say so?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, and smiled.
"This
"By a spiked ball swung at his face?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "why not? Maybe the killer is a man who is clever with his hands. A carpenter, a plumber. Maybe he made his own weapon, invented it."
"But he never took Abe's wallet," the commissaris said. "There was a lot of money in the wallet. If he came for money he wouldn't have left a few thousand right in his victim's pocket. He only had to reach for it. An inventive man, you said. Louis Zilver is inventive. Remember that figure he was trying to create out of beads and wire?"
"He threw it into a dustbin," Grijpstra said, "made a mess of it. But the idea was inventive, true."
Grijpstra looked out of the window of the car. They were in the southern part of Amsterdam now, and gigantic stone-and-steel structures blocked the sky, like enormous bricks dotted with small holes.
And they are full of people, Grijpstra thought. Little people. Little innocent people, preparing their Sunday lunch, lounging about, reading the paper, playing with their kids and with their animals, making plans for the rest of the day. He looked at his watch. Or having a late breakfast. Sunday morning, best time of the week.
The car stopped at a traffic tight and he found himself staring at a balcony, populated by a complete family. Father, mother, two small children. There was a dog on the balcony too. One of the children was making the dog stand up by dangling a biscuit just above its head. The toddler and the small dog made a pretty picture. The geraniums in the flower boxes attached to the balcony's railing were in full flower.
And we are chasing a killer, Grijpstra thought.
"Louis Zilver," the commissaris said, "not a very well-adjusted young man perhaps. I had him checked out last night. He has a previous conviction, for resisting arrest when caught making a drunken racket in the street. Happened a few years ago. He attacked the constables who tried to put him into a patrol car. The judge was very easy on him, a fine and a lecture. What do you think, adjutant? Do we put him on the list of prime suspects?"
Grijpstra's thoughts were still with the family on the balcony. The harmonious family. The happy family. He was wondering whether he himself, Adjutant Grijpstra, flat-footed sleuth, bogey-man of the underworld, restless wanderer of canals, alleyways, dark cul-de-sacs, would like to be happy, like the young healthy father enthroned on his geranium-decorated balcony on the second floor of a huge transparent brick, facing a main thoroughfare.
"Grijpstra?"
"Sir," Grijpstra said. "Yes, definitely. Prime suspect. Surely. It's all there. Motive and opportunity. Maybe he was greedy, wanted the business for himself. Or jealous of Rogge's interminable successes. Or he might have wanted Esther and Abe wouldn't let him. Or he was trying to get Esther through Abe. But I don't know."
"No?" the commissaris asked.
"No, sir. He's a bungler, that's what he is."
"A bungler?" the commissaris asked. "Why? His room seemed well-organized, didn't it? Bookkeeping all neatly stacked on a shelf. The bed was made, the floor was clean. I am sure Esther didn't look after the room for him; he must have done it himself. And his clothes were washed; he even had a crease in his trousers."
"Because of Abe," Grijpstra said. "Abe pulled him together. Before he started hanging on to Rogge he was nothing. Dropout from university, sleeping late, drinking, fooling around with beads. He functioned because Abe made him function. I am sure he can do nothing on his own."
"Can't make a weapon that shoots a spiked ball, you mean."
"Yes, sir."
"Yes, yes, yes," the commissaris said.
"I think the killer may be some connection at the street market, sir, and it seems to me you are thinking the same way, or you wouldn't be pushing de Gier and Cardozo into their masquerade tomorrow. They are going to be hawkers, didn't you say so?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, and smiled.
"This
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