The Mind-Murders by Janwillem van de Wetering Read Free Book Online

exactly, maybe the sewer burst, or a gas pipe. They suddenly had to dig a hole and my car happened to be in the way. I telephoned, and a polite lady told me where they had left the Citroen. But who cares? I'm talking about something else. We don't have earthquakes here, which is a pity. To be reminded that even the ground isn't safe, that we are forever suspended in undefinable space; very heartening, adjutant. To assume that we rest on gravity tends to make us dullish. It must be fun to see the planet sway and bubble and crack up into holes, for then we know where we are, and, presumably, what's to become of us."
    Grijpstra looked blank, de Gier tittered.
    "Very well, adjutant. Pursue your investigation if it makes you happy, but do try to find some serious suspicions before you trip over yourself and others. And, by the way, has it occurred to you that Rea Fortune may just have left? To get away is legal, you know. It's a right guaranteed by our democratic constitution."

4

    "Listen here," Frits Fortune said, "you're really not all that welcome. Why don't you leave?"
    The suspect was lying down on his side on an air mattress under the open windows of the largest room in the apartment. De Gier sat opposite him, crosslegged. Grijpstra, unable to find a suitable spot, walked about, becoming visible every now and then through open doors. Fortune still wore the same clothes, a linen suit of good quality, crumpled and stained. He smelled mainly of damp rot but the stench mingled with the fragrances of soap, shampoo, and aftershave. Fortune smoked, spilling ash on the shiny parquet floor.
    De Gier admired the glowing cigarette. The pack was within reach of his right hand. It still contained nineteen cigarettes. De Gier wanted to grab it, tear off the paper and silver foil, spread his hand around its entire contents, and light all cigarettes at the same time. He would then inhale the combined smoke into the extreme depths of his lungs. Afterward he would feel better.
    "Won't you leave?" Fortune asked again.
    "We'd rather not," de Gier said, "but if you insist, we'll have to, for to stay, after having been told to leave by the legal possessor of living space, constitutes a crime and would, in our case, being police officers and having identified ourselves as such, be punishable by a double maximum penalty, or six months in jail. But if we leave, we'll have to return with an order signed by a high-ranking officer. We have a car and it wouldn't take me longer than half an hour to obtain such an order. With a warrant you'll have to admit us, and if you refuse, youll be punishable."
    "But what do you want of me? Is it because of last night? I remember vaguely that I fought with policemen, including yourself. You were in the canal too, but I don't believe you were in uniform."
    "I'm a detective."
    "You are? I'm sorry if I hurt you with my crutch. Did I hurt you?"
    "You only intended to. Any charges the constables may have come up with have been dropped. We aren't here to remind you of last night, we only want to know the whereabouts of your wife."
    Fortune rested his head on his arm. "Gone."
    "Gone where?"
    "Doesn't a detective detect? I've tried, but being an amateur I failed. I could only think of telephoning everybody who knows Rea. I made a list; here it is. It's been in the water too, which hasn't improved my handwriting. I checked off all the names, which means that I telephoned those people. I borrowed the telephone book of my neighbor downstairs, Mrs. Cabbage-Tonto and . . ."
    Grijpstra reappeared and held up his hand.
    "Is that her name?" de Gier asked. "Cabbage-Tonto?"
    "The lady who lives below this apartment?" Grijpstra asked.
    "Yes."
    "Cabbage-Tonto," Grijpstra said thoughtfully. "The right name. If I had to name her I couldn't do better."
    "Of Italian origin and married to a dead Englishman," Fortune said.
    "There's always a superficial explanation."
    Fortune nodded at the adjutant's disappearing back.
    "How . . ." De Gier