The Corpse on the Dike Read Online Free PDF Page A

studying the stranger who had projected himself into their routine. They noted the curly hair, the blue eyes and the delicate hawk’s nose. De Gier looked back at them and was reminded of a painting by Brueghel. The faces he saw seemed to belong to nitwits, idiots. The man closest to him was wearing torn black corduroy trousers and a dirty shirt, open and showing the gray hairs on his thin chest. There were no hairs on the shining skull, gleaming in the electric light of the dike; and the toothless mouth was a dark hole below the bulbous nose, puffed and violet by a million glasses of raw jenever that had oozed through its veins. The man inspired little confidence but he was, de Gier thought, perhaps the best of the small crowd facing him.
    “You,” de Gier said, touching the man on the shoulder, “do you know the man who lived here?”
    “I know his name,” the man said, “Tom Wernekink is his name.”

    “Lived here long?” de Gier asked.
    “A year maybe, or longer. Not much longer. He bought the house when the fellow who lived in it before was taken away.”
    “Jail?”
    “No. The madhouse. Old granddad who did a bit of drinking.” The toothless mouth tittered. “Ambulance took him away and he never came back. His children sold the house. Too cheap. I heard the price later. Should have bought it myself. Houses are worth a lot of money nowadays.”
    “Was he working?” de Gier asked. “This Tom Wernekink? Did he ever have a job?”
    The little fellow was shaking his head. “No. He was always here, in his garden. Maybe he was collecting unemployment benefits. He went away in his car sometimes but he was always right back again.”
    “Did you ever talk to him?”
    “No. He didn’t talk. Said good morning and good afternoon, that was all he said.”
    “OK,” de Gier said, wondering why he was wasting his time. He could always ask the girl with the nice breasts who lived next door.
    “If anyone has any information that may help us, please leave your name and address with the constables here,” he said in a loud voice, addressing the crowd. He turned to the two uniformed policemen. “You’d better stay here and guard the door. There’ll be more cars coming in a minute. There is a dead man inside. Perhaps somebody knows something. You can call me if you think you should; I’ll be inside or in the house next door.”
    “Did he cop a bullet?” one of the constables asked.
    “Yes, right between the eyes.”
    “Look for his wife or his girlfriend, sergeant,” the constable said. “I have a collection of newspaper articles at home; whenever there is a crime in the paper I clip it out. I was reading through all the manslaughter stuff I have the other day and every time it seems to be the husband or the wife or the lover, especially in Amsterdam. Strange, isn’t it?”
    “My wife wouldn’t kill me,” the other constable said.
    “Why not?”
    “Well, I work for her, don’t I?”
    “You also irritate her,” the constable said, “and you are always around. Every evening, the weekends, the holidays.”
    De Gier laughed.
    “You don’t agree, sergeant?” the constable asked.
    “Sure,” de Gier said, “but I was thinking that I haven’t got a wife.”
    “Girlfriends do it too,” the constable said.
    “I haven’t got a girlfriend right now,” de Gier said, “but I think I irritate my cat. Look.” He showed a deep scratch on his wrist.
    “Exactly,” the constable said. “Proves my theory. Your cat gets frustrated, or depressed, or just a little crazy, and who does he attack? You. You are the first thing in his way so he goes for you.”
    “Good reasoning, constable,” de Gier said. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
    “Probably read it somewhere,” the other constable said, and posted himself at the door, legs astride and clasped hands on his back. He straightened himself and looked at the crowd from under his cap.
    “All right, get going, get going,” the other constable shouted.