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Grijpstra was good at looking mean for he often had to read stories to his two youngest children and they liked him to pull faces as he read. He now pulled his meanest face, reserved for really wicked characters. He bared his big square teeth, lowered his eyelids and twisted his upper lip so that the ends of his bristly mustache came up a little.
    "She wanted to put a spell on her clients," he hissed.
    "Sha," de Gier said, "don't do that."
    "Do what?"
    "Talk like that."
    "I wasn't talking like that," Grijpstra said. "I was trying to explain something."
    "Do you think she can fly on a broomstick?" de Gier asked.
    "Could," Grijpstra said. "She is dead now."
    "Her soul is still alive," de Gier said, and shuddered.
    Grijpstra didn't reply. He had seen the shudder and was wondering whether the shudder was real. He had never been able to really get to know his colleague, for as soon as Grijpstra had labeled de Gier's behavior and fitted him into a certain pattern, de Gier would do something in direct opposition to the newly found definition. But perhaps, Grijpstra thought, the shudder was real. They had, after all, discovered Mrs. van Buren's dead body that morning and there had been the smell and the three evil blue-bottomed, gigantic flies. And de Gier had been nauseated. Since then they had discovered the weeds, witch weeds, black-magic weeds.
    They had reached the door of the small houseboat. The door opened as de Gier reached for the bell.
    "Sorry it took so long," de Gier said.
    Bart smiled. "It's all right, please come in. You can have some coffee if you like."
    "That would be very nice," Grijpstra said gratefully.
    "You can have some sandwiches as well," Bart said.
    "That would be even nicer."
    The houseboat consisted of one room only. Bart cut the bread and poured coffee.
    The boat's interior was remarkable, remarkable because there was hardly anything in the boat. The walls, made of large strong planks, were painted white and left bare. There was a large table and a chair and a wooden bench on which the policemen were now sitting, looking neat and obedient, like boys at a well-disciplined school. There were some books on the table. De Gier got up and looked at them. Three had been written by highbrow writers and the other two contained reproductions of modern paintings. All five books had been borrowed from the public library. There was a bed in the boat, an army bed, and the mattress and blankets were army as well. A comer of the room was arranged as the kitchen. There was an old fridge, a simple electric stove and a large sink, and another table on which Bart was now preparing a salad. There was also an easel with a half-finished painting.
    "You like olives?" Bart asked.
    "No, thanks,' 1 Grijpstra said.
    "Please," de Gier said.
    "I like to cook," Bart explained as he quickly set the table. "If I had known you would be coming for lunch I would have produced something better. I have two good meals every day, it makes up for being alone."
    "You have never been married?" Grijpstra asked.
    "Yes. A long time ago now."
    "Any children?" Grijpstra asked.
    "No. I wouldn't have left her if there had been any children, I think. My father left me when I was a baby."
    "I see," Grijpstra said.
    "Nice boat," de Gier said, taking a bite out of the thick slice of freshly baked bread which Bart had amply covered with a piece of smoked sausage and a lettuce leaf, "but a bit bare."
    "A poor man can't afford to have things," Bart said.
    De Gier shook his head. "I don't agree," he said, "I have been poor but I have always had things Too many, in fact. Clutter the place up. God knows where they come from but before you know it the room is full of them and you have to start throwing them away. And you live in an empty boat. How do you manage living without things?"
    "Oh, I don't know," Bart said. "I do have things. Bed, table, chair, a complete kitchen. I paint and I need brushes and canvas and frames and lots of paints, of course. I have all