Just a Corpse at Twilight Read Online Free PDF

commissaris said.
    She snuggled next to him on the bed. "Why do you keep saying 'no wonder,' Jan?"
    "What artificial means, Katrien?"
    "Some electrical gadget."
    The commissaris hissed his surprise. "They have them for men too?"
    "Yes, dear. Artificial vaginas. They squeeze and throb.
    You switch them off afterward and they never argue. You want to hear the rest of this?"
    The commissaris grimaced.
    "So," Katrien said, "de Gier gets impressed easily, that's why he bought those lace-up boots. He'd seen a movie. The boots were stylish. Wearing them made him think he was out in the desert fighting Nazis. After he had been relieved he wanted not only to put his boots on again but to lace them up too so that he could shoot Field Marshal Rommel in the Sahara. The woman helped him with one boot but he got mouthy with her so she put him outside, and then he walked home, one boot on, one boot off."
    "To his apartment?"
    "Right."
    "From the whore's quarter?"
    "Yes, Jan."
    "No cabs?"
    "He was swaying so badly no cabdriver would risk it."
    "Yes," the commissaris said. "They don't like passengers throwing up on their back seats. Poor de Gier. Totally out of control. Oh dear."
    The commissaris slept badly that night, tossing, turning, mumbling to himself.
    "Who is DArtagnan?" Katrien asked, shaking his shoulder.
    The commissaris had been a musketeer, one ofthe three in the French novel; de Gier was D'Artagnan, his pal, but de Gier had got shot.
    "Why are you speaking German?" Katrien asked, shaking his shoulder again.
    The commissaris was replaying a talk show where elderly German middle-class people, on TV, were asked to review their lives. They kept saying that, looking back, they saw nothing but mistakes and calamities; looking ahead they saw only death.
    "Please," Katrien said, "stop rubbing your feet. Now what are you doing?"
    He mumbled that he was cleaning off dog poop. He'd been walking through the city, barefoot, the last citizen left. All others had fled because Holland's dikes were about to break behind them, due to global warming that melted the polar ice caps. On his way out he kept getting stuck in dog poop. Katrien made hot milk and honey and sprinkled cinnamon on top. She watched him sip.
    "Calms the nerves." She patted his cheek. "Feel better now?"
    A little later he was mumbling again. "Rinus? I'm coining. Hold on, my boy."
    "Go for it, mon Capitaine," Katrien whispered.
    The commissaris slept well after that, and woke up with a plan. He unfolded his plan.
    "Maritime maps of the Maine coast? A tape recorder that connects to a phone?" Katrien asked. "Where do I get those? Connect the gadget to Nellie's phone? Help her to tape her conversations with Grijpstra? Tell her what to ask him? Please . . . where do you think you are? At your ofHce?"

Chapter 4
    "Bright and early," Grijpstra said.
    El Al had left Amsterdam's Schiphol at 2:00 A.M., flown quietly for five and a half hours, a nice tail wind pushing, and touched down at Boston's Logan at 1:30 A.M.
    "Wow," Grijpstra said. He had traveled back in time, he was half an hour younger, he could start part of his life again. If he kept doing this he'd be a baby, still remembering everything, ofcourse. Then what would he do? Be an artist? Stay away from de Gier? Make quite sure he'd never arrive at Boston's Logan at 1:30 A.M. again, with no one to take him nowhere?
    There was an agent still on duty but she wanted to go home. "I'm sorry, sir, there's no connection to Maine." She checked her screen. "Flights begin at eleven A.M. but they're all booked up for today and tomorrow." She smiled sadly.
    "It's the season, sir."
    "Bus?" Grijpstra asked. "Please?"
    She thought there might be one at 8:30 A.M. but it might be full and he'd have to connect to at least one other bus and the total trip might take twelve hours, stop-over time not included.
    "Air taxi?" Grijpstra asked. "Please?"
    All the numbers the agent dialed played recorded messages that suggested waiting for beeps.
    The