Free Blond Baboon by Janwillem van de Wetering Page A

pleasantly, holding a respectful expression that belied the accusation in his question. He was the favorite nephew visiting his two old aunties and he wanted to know why they did things.
    “Oh, but that would have been terrible. We did think about it but we didn’t, you see, because they would have been so unhappy.”
    “Really?”
    “Really.”
    “But you could have told us, the police.”
    Yes, they could have, but they didn’t have a telephone and it was such a long walk to the nearest station and they weren’t so young anymore.
    “I am seventy-eight,” Alice said.
    “And I am eighty-two,” Alice’s sister said.
    Cardozo brought out his notebook and prepared two statements. They didn’t want to sign them. They didn’t want any trouble.
    “But Paul is still alive, he’ll be playing in the garden soon. You don’t want Mr. de Bree to poison him again, do you?”
    “No.”
    But they still didn’t want to sign the statement. Mr. de Bree wouldn’t like it. He had bumped Alice’s leg once with his car and he hadn’t even got out to help her up. He was a nasty man, maybe next time he wouldn’t just bump Alice, maybe the next time he would kill her.
    “Never,” Cardozo said. “Not with us around. We are the police, you see, we protect you, but we can only protect you if you help us.” He waved the ball-point encouragingly. “Just a little signature, right here.”
    Alice signed, and then the sister signed too. They didn’t want to read the statements, they didn’t have their spectacles on.
    “Where are my spectacles, Alice?” the sister asked. “You always mislay them.”
    “What?” Alice asked in a suddenly shrill voice.
    “Thank you very much, ladies, thank you very much.”
    The argument went on as he ran down the stairs. He had come up with something, something positive, concrete, undeniable. He whistled as he banged the front door, and turned the corner. He waved at the de Bree door as he ran past it.
    He remembered that there was a telephone booth at the end of the street. Grijpstra wasn’t in but he was put through to the commissaris’s secretary. “You are not to go and see Miss Carnet just now but to report to the commissaris later. He has gone away with the sergeant and the adjutant isn’t back yet.”
    “So what am I to do?” Cardozo’s voice shot up in indignation.
    “Well, I don’t know,” the secretary’s voice said coolly. “Surely you can find some work? The detectives’ city patrols are always short of men, Sergeant Sietsema was asking for you. He’s on duty this afternoon and he needs company.”
    “Oh, very well, I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
    “Good boy.” She hung up.
    “Aren’t I?” Cardozo asked the street. The telephone booth’s door slammed behind him. “Aren’t I? I got what they wanted me to get and I want to tell them about it and they aren’t there. They’re drinking coffee and smoking cigars and passing the time of day.” He glared at the peaceful street.
    But Amsterdam is a helpful city, it provides comfort in subtle ways. A woman came past, pushing a perambulator containing identical twins facing each other solemnly from their pink wraps, vaguely resembling Grijpstra in his better moments. An old man with long hair strode on the opposite pavement whistling a Bach cantata. A girl on a red bicycle came around the corner. She wore a sleeveless blouse, un-buttoned, and nothing underneath. A well-shaped girl. Cardozo winked at the girl and she winked back and he began to walk to his car. Not such a bad day after all.
    But he felt a little uptight again when he started the Volkswagen. A constable at the next intersection raised his hand. The Volkswagen drove on slowly. The constable whipped out a whistle and blew it. Cardozo’s foot stayed on the accelerator. He crossed the intersection and stopped, watching the constable in his rearview mirror. The constable was running.
    “Didn’t you see me?”
    “Sure. I don’t know what’s the