The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem van de Wetering Page B
Authors: Janwillem van de Wetering
Ads: Link
sleeve with three small gold chevrons. “Crude oil? That’s not a big product here in Key West, you know that? And I know the FEADship you mentioned. The
Admiraal Rodney
, right? She destroyed one of our quays, behind the Hotel Singh, not six blocks from here. That was last year. A FEADship is just about the most expensivetype of private yacht that plies our seas. Made in Holland. Just like you.
“And you live in …” she checked de Gier’s passport, “… in Amsterdam. Isn’t that where heroin is supplied, free of charge, by the city?” Sergeant Symonds rummaged through a stack of papers. “It so happens that I just read something on that. Here. A newspaper clipping, an article on Amsterdam drug use.
Heroin Heaven
.” She nodded angrily. “Something my kid brother from Detroit would like to try out. It would make him happy.”
De Gier said that drug
trafficking
in Amsterdam was illegal.
“But isn’t the city a hub for the international trade?” Sergeant Symonds asked. De Gier denied it. She didn’t hear his answer as her phone was ringing. She picked up the receiver, listened, thanked the speaker, replaced the receiver. The large brown eyes under artfully curved eyebrows searched de Gier’s face. Her soft voice vibrated. De Gier’s spine vibrated too. He assumed she sang, in a choir in a church perhaps. “The jeep driver was murdered,” the soft vibrating voice said. “You knew that.”
De Gier knew nothing.
“Didn’t you tell me just now that you’re a private eye?” the sergeant asked. She curved her thumb and index finger around her eye.
De Gier said he was.
“And before that you were a Murder Brigade detective?”
He was.
“Many years?”
Many years.
Amsterdam, Sergeant Symonds said, was a lovely city, she had spent a week there, as a Police Academy student, during an exchange program. She had stayed in the youth hostel nearVondel Park. Low priced. Nice people. Free beer at the Heineken brewery and a harpsichord and two flutes concert at the cathedral, the Wester Church it was called, she believed. Beautiful music. Raw herring at a street stall, with onions, hold the capers.
De Gier said he was glad she had liked his city.
“But there was quite a bit of trash floating in your canals.”
The trash problem had been handled since then, de Gier said. Dogs had been trained to use the streets’s gutters. Car theft was down somewhat and street crooks playing the shell game were now being detained and lectured on human values. The problem of stolen bicycles would be next. Mugging was an exclusive now, done only by foreigners who could not obtain free heroin at city clinics. When caught these unfortunates were promptly deported.
“You retired early?” Sergeant Symonds asked. “How come? Col-league?”
De Gier thought that the sergeant pronounced the syllables in an irritating manner.
“No pension?”
De Gier admitted to not having waited for his pension.
She poured from a green metal thermos. De Gier tasted. “Delicious.” She said that she had bought the coffee at the Fleming Street supermarket. She wheeled her chair back, half-opened the lower drawers of her desk and used them as foot rests. She looked innocent, friendly, across the rim of her coffee mug. She asked if de Gier, an experienced criminal investigator, would care to think along with her. Now wasn’t this an interesting case? Where to start though? At the presence of three foreign ranking for-mer po-lice-men? Okay?
“Okay,” de Gier said, disturbed somewhat by the way she cut up the words “former” and “policemen.”
Okay, Symonds said. She was pleased he was thinking along with her so nicely. And these three pension-ignoring former policeman, sorry, the commissaris was collecting his pension, yes? Good. But the other two disdained a monthly income for the rest of their possibly long lives? How come? Did the new born private eyes enjoy private resources? And another thing, the trio arrived in Key West,
Admiraal Rodney
, right? She destroyed one of our quays, behind the Hotel Singh, not six blocks from here. That was last year. A FEADship is just about the most expensivetype of private yacht that plies our seas. Made in Holland. Just like you.
“And you live in …” she checked de Gier’s passport, “… in Amsterdam. Isn’t that where heroin is supplied, free of charge, by the city?” Sergeant Symonds rummaged through a stack of papers. “It so happens that I just read something on that. Here. A newspaper clipping, an article on Amsterdam drug use.
Heroin Heaven
.” She nodded angrily. “Something my kid brother from Detroit would like to try out. It would make him happy.”
De Gier said that drug
trafficking
in Amsterdam was illegal.
“But isn’t the city a hub for the international trade?” Sergeant Symonds asked. De Gier denied it. She didn’t hear his answer as her phone was ringing. She picked up the receiver, listened, thanked the speaker, replaced the receiver. The large brown eyes under artfully curved eyebrows searched de Gier’s face. Her soft voice vibrated. De Gier’s spine vibrated too. He assumed she sang, in a choir in a church perhaps. “The jeep driver was murdered,” the soft vibrating voice said. “You knew that.”
De Gier knew nothing.
“Didn’t you tell me just now that you’re a private eye?” the sergeant asked. She curved her thumb and index finger around her eye.
De Gier said he was.
“And before that you were a Murder Brigade detective?”
He was.
“Many years?”
Many years.
Amsterdam, Sergeant Symonds said, was a lovely city, she had spent a week there, as a Police Academy student, during an exchange program. She had stayed in the youth hostel nearVondel Park. Low priced. Nice people. Free beer at the Heineken brewery and a harpsichord and two flutes concert at the cathedral, the Wester Church it was called, she believed. Beautiful music. Raw herring at a street stall, with onions, hold the capers.
De Gier said he was glad she had liked his city.
“But there was quite a bit of trash floating in your canals.”
The trash problem had been handled since then, de Gier said. Dogs had been trained to use the streets’s gutters. Car theft was down somewhat and street crooks playing the shell game were now being detained and lectured on human values. The problem of stolen bicycles would be next. Mugging was an exclusive now, done only by foreigners who could not obtain free heroin at city clinics. When caught these unfortunates were promptly deported.
“You retired early?” Sergeant Symonds asked. “How come? Col-league?”
De Gier thought that the sergeant pronounced the syllables in an irritating manner.
“No pension?”
De Gier admitted to not having waited for his pension.
She poured from a green metal thermos. De Gier tasted. “Delicious.” She said that she had bought the coffee at the Fleming Street supermarket. She wheeled her chair back, half-opened the lower drawers of her desk and used them as foot rests. She looked innocent, friendly, across the rim of her coffee mug. She asked if de Gier, an experienced criminal investigator, would care to think along with her. Now wasn’t this an interesting case? Where to start though? At the presence of three foreign ranking for-mer po-lice-men? Okay?
“Okay,” de Gier said, disturbed somewhat by the way she cut up the words “former” and “policemen.”
Okay, Symonds said. She was pleased he was thinking along with her so nicely. And these three pension-ignoring former policeman, sorry, the commissaris was collecting his pension, yes? Good. But the other two disdained a monthly income for the rest of their possibly long lives? How come? Did the new born private eyes enjoy private resources? And another thing, the trio arrived in Key West,
Similar Books
