a taxi. He waited in the corridor but the taxi didn't arrive.
"Never mind," he said in the end. "I suppose they are busy, everybody wants a cab with this rain. Tell the driver, if he does arrive, that I couldn't wait."
The doorman saluted and the door opened and closed again.
* * *
"I am getting a lot of information," the commissaris told himself as he walked back to Headquarters, "and all of it is negative. We are getting nowhere."
The conclusion cheered him; he had been wishing for a difficult case.
He thought of his time limit. The chief inspector would be back within ten days. It would be awkward to have to tell his assistant that a murderer was still wandering about. But he shrugged the thought off. He would proceed as dictated by the rules. No hurry. Hurry is a fundamental error. Where did I get that? the commissaris asked himself. He remembered, he had got it from a Chinese story, a wise story. He had begun to read books about ancient China at about the same time that his rheumatism had started to fire the nerves of his legs. "Pain and wisdom," he thought. "Perhaps there is some connection."
The idea occurred to him that perhaps he should be grateful for his pain, it was leading him to discoveries, but, as he slowly turned the next corner and began to follow another canal, he rejected the conclusion. He would rather have no wisdom and no pain. He walked for another quarter of an hour thinking of the days when he had no wisdom. He saw himself entering the brothel again, on an evening in September of 1938, a young man, freshly bathed and filled with anticipation. The night of the room with the mirrors, the champagne, and the girl with the narrow hips and the full breasts.
"Morning, sir," a uniformed sergeant at Headquarters said. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine," the commissaris said. "Lovely day."
"For frogs and officers," the sergeant said softly.
* * *
"Try thepolice again," the commissaris said to the girl at the switchboard. "Chief Inspector da Silva in Willemstad."
Within ten minutes the phone rang.
The connection was bad and the commissaris had to shout a good deal. The chief inspector was very helpful. Yes, he had gone into the matter. Yes, Mrs. van Buren was a daughter of Mr. de Sousa of. Yes, Mr. de Sousa was an important citizen. No, nothing was known on the island, nothing that could be a cause of Mrs. van Buren's untimely death in Amsterdam. Chief Inspector da Silva was sorry but that was all he could say.
The commissaris sighed and dialed a two-digit number. "The chief constable, please," he said politely.
He waited. "Morning, sir. The Secret Service knows nothing."
"It never does," the chief constable said.
"I think I should go to."
There was a short silence and the commissaris found himself staring hard at his telephone.
"Well, if you think it is necessary."
9
"B UTTON UP YOUR SHIRT, " GRIJPSTRA SAID. "I CAN SEE your undershirt. Your orange undershirt."
He sounded surprised.
"Have you never seen an orange undershirt?" de Gier asked.
"No. Don't want to either."
De Gier fumbled with his shirt.
"The button is gone," Grijpstra said, leaning closer. "Ha!"
"Ha what?"
"You are getting fat," Grijpstra said triumphantly.
De Gier jumped up and left the room. Grijpstra ran after him. He found de Gier staring at himself in the large mirror which had been placed in the corridor by a chief constable who wanted his men to look neat.
"Stand normally," Grijpstra said. "Breathe out! You'll choke if you breathe in only."
"Fat," de Gier said.
"A little fat," Grijpstra said. "It's your age. The muscles go soft and gradually the stomach begins to pop out. Don't worry."
"No."
"But it may get worse. I had an uncle who had a figure a little like yours. He had to wear a corset in the end."
"What happened to your uncle?" de Gier asked.
"Oh, he died, why?"
"What age?"
"Forty-eight, forty-nine, I believe."
"What of?"
"Vanity," Grijpstra said. "Plain vanity. Looking in the mirror. He
"Never mind," he said in the end. "I suppose they are busy, everybody wants a cab with this rain. Tell the driver, if he does arrive, that I couldn't wait."
The doorman saluted and the door opened and closed again.
* * *
"I am getting a lot of information," the commissaris told himself as he walked back to Headquarters, "and all of it is negative. We are getting nowhere."
The conclusion cheered him; he had been wishing for a difficult case.
He thought of his time limit. The chief inspector would be back within ten days. It would be awkward to have to tell his assistant that a murderer was still wandering about. But he shrugged the thought off. He would proceed as dictated by the rules. No hurry. Hurry is a fundamental error. Where did I get that? the commissaris asked himself. He remembered, he had got it from a Chinese story, a wise story. He had begun to read books about ancient China at about the same time that his rheumatism had started to fire the nerves of his legs. "Pain and wisdom," he thought. "Perhaps there is some connection."
The idea occurred to him that perhaps he should be grateful for his pain, it was leading him to discoveries, but, as he slowly turned the next corner and began to follow another canal, he rejected the conclusion. He would rather have no wisdom and no pain. He walked for another quarter of an hour thinking of the days when he had no wisdom. He saw himself entering the brothel again, on an evening in September of 1938, a young man, freshly bathed and filled with anticipation. The night of the room with the mirrors, the champagne, and the girl with the narrow hips and the full breasts.
"Morning, sir," a uniformed sergeant at Headquarters said. "How are you feeling this morning?"
"Fine," the commissaris said. "Lovely day."
"For frogs and officers," the sergeant said softly.
* * *
"Try thepolice again," the commissaris said to the girl at the switchboard. "Chief Inspector da Silva in Willemstad."
Within ten minutes the phone rang.
The connection was bad and the commissaris had to shout a good deal. The chief inspector was very helpful. Yes, he had gone into the matter. Yes, Mrs. van Buren was a daughter of Mr. de Sousa of. Yes, Mr. de Sousa was an important citizen. No, nothing was known on the island, nothing that could be a cause of Mrs. van Buren's untimely death in Amsterdam. Chief Inspector da Silva was sorry but that was all he could say.
The commissaris sighed and dialed a two-digit number. "The chief constable, please," he said politely.
He waited. "Morning, sir. The Secret Service knows nothing."
"It never does," the chief constable said.
"I think I should go to."
There was a short silence and the commissaris found himself staring hard at his telephone.
"Well, if you think it is necessary."
9
"B UTTON UP YOUR SHIRT, " GRIJPSTRA SAID. "I CAN SEE your undershirt. Your orange undershirt."
He sounded surprised.
"Have you never seen an orange undershirt?" de Gier asked.
"No. Don't want to either."
De Gier fumbled with his shirt.
"The button is gone," Grijpstra said, leaning closer. "Ha!"
"Ha what?"
"You are getting fat," Grijpstra said triumphantly.
De Gier jumped up and left the room. Grijpstra ran after him. He found de Gier staring at himself in the large mirror which had been placed in the corridor by a chief constable who wanted his men to look neat.
"Stand normally," Grijpstra said. "Breathe out! You'll choke if you breathe in only."
"Fat," de Gier said.
"A little fat," Grijpstra said. "It's your age. The muscles go soft and gradually the stomach begins to pop out. Don't worry."
"No."
"But it may get worse. I had an uncle who had a figure a little like yours. He had to wear a corset in the end."
"What happened to your uncle?" de Gier asked.
"Oh, he died, why?"
"What age?"
"Forty-eight, forty-nine, I believe."
"What of?"
"Vanity," Grijpstra said. "Plain vanity. Looking in the mirror. He
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