got fatter and fatter and he kept on buying stronger corsets and one day the veins in his neck burst. But what do you care about my uncle? Did you read the commissaris' note on my desk?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "I read all the notes on your desk. He has gone to Curacao and he won't be back for a few days and we are to continue our investigations."
Grijpstra nodded.
"So what do you plan to do?"
"Follow me."
De Gier followed and they landed up near the coffee machine where Grijpstra waited until de Gier had found the right coins. The machine worked.
"I have followed you," de Gier said. "Now what?"
"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "We could telephone Mr. Holman again and ask him to come to see us."
"We did that yesterday."
"And the day before yesterday."
"If he comes today he'll cry again."
"He hasn't done it," de Gier said.
Grijpstra leaned against the whitewashed wall and sipped his coffee. "Why hasn't he done it? He has admitted that he has seen Mrs. van Buren by himself, hasn't he? First he said that he always took his little son but later he admitted mat he has been to the houseboat by himself."
"On Sunday mornings only."
"So he says but why shouldn't he have made love to her on Sunday mornings. What's wrong with Sunday mornings?"
"That fat fellow?"
"Come off it," Grijpstra said. "He isn't so fat, no fatter man you will be in a few years' time. And he has a nice pleasant face. Perhaps he gave her a feeling of security. Perhaps she cuddled him. She could never have cuddled her paying lovers. The colonel, the diplomat, and our friend Drachtsma are all over six feet and wide-shouldered and dynamic and handsome. Perhaps she got tired of their profiles and muscles. So jolly Mr. Holman became her true lover. On Sunday mornings.
"Right," de Gier said. "Wonderful. Romantic. They had coffee or hot cocoa or milk with honey and nutmeg and they made warm cozy love to each other and then he bounced home again."
"Yes. But he got tired of her and she threatened to tell his wife so he sweated for a day or two and made up his mind and practiced with his darts. And then he found that lovely wicked knife in a second-hand store in the inner city and he took it home and threw it for an hour or so and then he went to see her last Saturday night and threw it right into her back. Swish. Plop."
"No," de Gier said.
"Why not? He is a violent man. Some little boy steps on a plant in his garden and he gives the little fellow such a wallop that he lands up in hospital with a cracked skull. And he is untrustworthy. His boss trusted him and he stole a couple of thousand guilders when he thought nobody was looking. You have read his file, haven't you?"
"I have read his file."
"So?"
De Gier walked over to the window and looked down into the courtyard where four stolen cars, found by the night patrol, were waiting for their rightful owners. He thoughtfully scratched his bottom.
"So?"
"Maybe. But I don't think so. Perhaps you are right. He is in a terrible state. Every time we ask him a question he wipes his face with that large handkerchief and he gets tears in his eyes and finally he cries. He hasn't got an alibi. But he threw that stiletto of yours into the commissaris' cigar box. That was really silly, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "that was silly. But we would have found out about his darts anyway. He knew we would, so perhaps it was very clever to play along with us."
"A lover and a genius," de Gier said.
"He deals in nuts, remember? He set himself up in business after he had been in jail twice. He runs his own business so well that he owns a nice house in a good area and a brand-new red Rover. A Rover is a pretty posh car. I have spoken to two of his clients pretending I wanted some information about his commercial reliability. They spoke very highly of him. He does all his own selling and buying and he has only one employee, an old spinster who answers his phone when he isn't there. I am convinced that he is an intelligent
"Yes," de Gier said. "I read all the notes on your desk. He has gone to Curacao and he won't be back for a few days and we are to continue our investigations."
Grijpstra nodded.
"So what do you plan to do?"
"Follow me."
De Gier followed and they landed up near the coffee machine where Grijpstra waited until de Gier had found the right coins. The machine worked.
"I have followed you," de Gier said. "Now what?"
"I don't know," Grijpstra said. "We could telephone Mr. Holman again and ask him to come to see us."
"We did that yesterday."
"And the day before yesterday."
"If he comes today he'll cry again."
"He hasn't done it," de Gier said.
Grijpstra leaned against the whitewashed wall and sipped his coffee. "Why hasn't he done it? He has admitted that he has seen Mrs. van Buren by himself, hasn't he? First he said that he always took his little son but later he admitted mat he has been to the houseboat by himself."
"On Sunday mornings only."
"So he says but why shouldn't he have made love to her on Sunday mornings. What's wrong with Sunday mornings?"
"That fat fellow?"
"Come off it," Grijpstra said. "He isn't so fat, no fatter man you will be in a few years' time. And he has a nice pleasant face. Perhaps he gave her a feeling of security. Perhaps she cuddled him. She could never have cuddled her paying lovers. The colonel, the diplomat, and our friend Drachtsma are all over six feet and wide-shouldered and dynamic and handsome. Perhaps she got tired of their profiles and muscles. So jolly Mr. Holman became her true lover. On Sunday mornings.
"Right," de Gier said. "Wonderful. Romantic. They had coffee or hot cocoa or milk with honey and nutmeg and they made warm cozy love to each other and then he bounced home again."
"Yes. But he got tired of her and she threatened to tell his wife so he sweated for a day or two and made up his mind and practiced with his darts. And then he found that lovely wicked knife in a second-hand store in the inner city and he took it home and threw it for an hour or so and then he went to see her last Saturday night and threw it right into her back. Swish. Plop."
"No," de Gier said.
"Why not? He is a violent man. Some little boy steps on a plant in his garden and he gives the little fellow such a wallop that he lands up in hospital with a cracked skull. And he is untrustworthy. His boss trusted him and he stole a couple of thousand guilders when he thought nobody was looking. You have read his file, haven't you?"
"I have read his file."
"So?"
De Gier walked over to the window and looked down into the courtyard where four stolen cars, found by the night patrol, were waiting for their rightful owners. He thoughtfully scratched his bottom.
"So?"
"Maybe. But I don't think so. Perhaps you are right. He is in a terrible state. Every time we ask him a question he wipes his face with that large handkerchief and he gets tears in his eyes and finally he cries. He hasn't got an alibi. But he threw that stiletto of yours into the commissaris' cigar box. That was really silly, wasn't it?"
"Yes," Grijpstra said, "that was silly. But we would have found out about his darts anyway. He knew we would, so perhaps it was very clever to play along with us."
"A lover and a genius," de Gier said.
"He deals in nuts, remember? He set himself up in business after he had been in jail twice. He runs his own business so well that he owns a nice house in a good area and a brand-new red Rover. A Rover is a pretty posh car. I have spoken to two of his clients pretending I wanted some information about his commercial reliability. They spoke very highly of him. He does all his own selling and buying and he has only one employee, an old spinster who answers his phone when he isn't there. I am convinced that he is an intelligent
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