The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem van de Wetering Page A

Invent microbe poop.
    “I see,” the commissaris said, puzzled.
    Whatever happened, Carl said, the
Rodney
would dock in Key West for repairs. Any day now. The
Rodney
was a perfect vessel but oversights will occur and the ocean does not forgive weakness. Everything would be taken care of in due course. Sometime soon they would all be on their way to the Antilles, to see some action.
    “Not all of us,” the commissaris said and filled his client in about a jeep hitting Lobster Lateta and the Key West Police holding on to de Gier for further questioning.
    “I hope he brought his gloves,” laughed Carl.
    “Beg pardon?”
    It was okay, Carl said, he had to hang up now. The boatswain was reporting seaweed in his vessel’s exhaust.
    Carl sounded nervous. “He has to lower a diver.”
    “Good luck,” the commissaris said.
    “You think de Gier will be arrested?”
    “Could be.” The commissaris’s aching legs were bothered by an onshore breeze. He lay down and covered himself up with a cotton blanket. Grijpstra rested on the next enormous bed. Together they analyzed the confrontation at Lobster Lateta. Grijpstra’s theory, an arranged simultaneous failure of brake and accelerator, seemed acceptable. The gentleman/cowboy wasnot drunk. He didn’t look like a substance abuser either. De Gier, before he was escorted to the police van, had reported on its mechanical malfunctions, but the jeep was new with not two thousand miles on the odometer.
    “Not logical as a mishap,” the commissaris concluded.
    Grijpstra’s theory included a “hellish machine,” a Dutch legal term, indicating a device intentionally installed to cause physical harm.
    De Gier entered the room after midnight.
    “Gallivanting?” the commissaris asked.
    The enquiry had taken up some time. De Gier had been told not to leave town and to be prepared to be picked up at any given moment.
    “Trying to be clever,” Grijpstra said. “To the police of all people. To the
American
police. Don’t you watch movies? They kill you here for being clever.”
    “Sergeant Symonds,” de Gier said, “takes us for big players. Our profiles are wrong. We can’t be tourists. We’re a godfather with two lieutenants. We’re here to be
bad
.”
    The commissaris sat up. He smiled gleefully. “Is that so?” He rubbed his hands. “So what’s the Key West Police sergeant like?”
    De Gier reported. “Black female, mid-thirties, tall, attractive, lot of strong white teeth, efficient, intelligent, can think for herself.”
    “Did you charm her?” Grijpstra asked.
    “Not the type.”
    De Gier had, after spending over an hour in a badly ventilated cell, spoken the truth to Sergeant Ramona Symonds. He and his two friends were eating lobster tail and stone crab clawat their cozy little table in the classy restaurant when a jeep careened off Duval Street and aimed straight for them. Subsequently, as a former Amsterdam Murder Brigade detective, now self-employed as a private eye, de Gier had alerted Harry, the bicycle-cop, to technical points of interest. Harry, however, seemed to have a personality disorder. An extreme case of paranoia? Or someone who likes to annoy his betters?
    “Harry is a dear,” Ramona said. “So what brings you here, my former colleague?”
    De Gier and his associates, an ex-police non-com and a retired chief-detective, had been invited by the shipping firm of Ambagt & Son to join the directors on their yacht for a journey to the Netherlands Antilles.
    Yes, the invitation was connected to a professional project.
    No, de Gier could not divulge further information.
    No, nothing illegal. “Really, Miss. No? You prefer to be addressed as Sergeant? Really, Sergeant.”
    What was Ambagt & Son’s business?
    Crude oil in tankers.
    No, no drugs.
    So far the to-and-fro had been easy, rhythmic, a round of table tennis, ping-pong, ping-pong.
    After that some tension occurred. “No kidding,” the sergeant said, straightening her shirt, adorned on the