Outsider in Amsterdam by Janwillem van de Wetering

gave up and stalked into the kitchen, pawing the refrigerator and howling for his daily helping of chopped heart.
    Grijpstra faced the chief inspector in the Hindist Society’s restaurant. The chief inspector listened, while Grijpstra, limiting himself to the official language of a police report, summed up the events of the day.
    “So you allowed her to go to Rotterdam?” the chief inspector asked.
    “Yes sir,” Grijpstra said.
    “Let me see now,” the chief inspector said and looked at the cast-iron ceiling of the restaurant, studying the golden garlands of stylized flowers. “She admits she hates him. She admits that she threw a heavy book at his head. You even have that in writing, nicely signed. A bruise, it could be attempted manslaughter. I’ll have to look at the doctor’s report again. And seventy-five thousand guilders are missing. And she is pregnant with Piet’s child. And he never did anything for her and everything he gave her she had to return.”
    “Yes sir,” Grijpstra said.
    “Yes sir,” the chief inspector repeated. He was still looking at the ceiling. “Well, all right,” said the chief inspector. “When we need her you’ll be able to find her, I suppose. And we are short of cells. And she is pregnant.”
    Grijpstra said nothing.
    “You still think it was murder?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    “There’s no news from the detectives who are hunting the two drug dealers. Or rather, there is some news. One of the detectives phoned me. According to the underworld there can’t be any connection between the drug fellows and the murder. Nobody has ever heard of Haarlemmer Houttuinen number five.”
    “But that’s the address where we found them,” Grijpstra said in a flat voice.
    “Yes,” the chief inspector said. “Perhaps they were members of the Society. There must be a list of members somewhere. Did you see it?”
    “No,” Grijpstra said. “I think Piet pocketed the membership fees. I’ll have to check with the accountant if the fees were part of the Society’s income. Probably not. I did find a tearbook with membership certificates but there are no stubs. Piet just grabbed the twenty-five guilders each time and gave the new member his bit of paper. He didn’t like to pay tax.”
    “Who does?” the chief inspector said. “Very clever man, our Piet.”
    Grijpstra grinned.
    “Something funny?” the chief inspector asked.
    “For a clever man he made rather a stupid picture, dangling from his own beam on a piece of rope.”
    The chief inspector grinned as well.
    “So why would he have needed all that money?” he asked. “Perhaps he wanted to get away. The accountant claims that he might have had to pay some fifty thousand in taxes and fines. And according to the two boys and the two girls, and also to van Meteren, he didn’t believe in the Society anymore. Perhaps he wanted to disappear and leave the Society as an empty hull, mortgaged up to the hilt and in debt to its suppliers. With seventy-five thousand he might have made a new start. He has lived in Paris so he must be adapted to living in other surroundings than Amsterdam.”
    “Possibly,” Grijpstra said, “but he never left. He died, and the money is gone.”
    The chief inspector looked around the room.
    “Funny atmosphere here, don’t you think? Did you see the statue in the corridor downstairs? There are other statues as well. There is a proper Buddha statue somewhere upstairs.”
    “Very nice statues,” Grijpstra said.
    “A matter of taste. A chap sitting still all the time. So what?Is it recommendable to sit on your arse all day contemplating God knows what? Floating thoughts? Dirty dreams? One has enough of that, without sitting still.”
    He looked at his hands on the table.
    “But it is a quiet pastime. Yes. Perhaps we are too busy. Perhaps we should have some of those statues in Headquarters, to teach a lesson to the colleagues who want to solve everything right away. Perhaps it is better to sit