The Corpse on the Dike by Janwillem van de Wetering

people up and if he can’t do anything physical, he teases. Didn’t he tease you, sergeant?”
    “Yes.”
    “Yes?” the commissaris asked, amused. “And what did he do?”
    “There was no petrol in the tank so we got stuck in the middle of the tunnel under the river. He told me I couldn’t drive.”

    “Ah,” the commissaris said. “There was a telephone call about that, I meant to tell you. The chief of the tunnel phoned to ask whether you were on duty today.”
    “I hope you told him I was,” de Gier said sulkily.
    “I did. What was the trouble?”
    “They wouldn’t believe me, thought that the Cat’s girlfriend was my wife and the child our child.”
    “New regulations,” the commissaris said. “Apparently somebody has been waving his police card around too often and there have been complaints to the chief constable; you didn’t have to pay, did you?”
    “No, sir.”
    “Just as I thought,” the Cat said sadly, “so she did get you into trouble. She didn’t have any money I’m sure and made you pay for the petrol. How much was it, sergeant?”
    “Twenty-five.”
    The Cat brought out a fat wallet and peeled a note out of one of its compartments.
    “What is your business, Mr. Cat?” the commissaris asked.
    “Call me Cat, commissaris, everybody does.” The Cat put the wallet back and turned the ends of his large mustache. “I am a buyer and seller. Odd lots mostly, anything people want to get rid of. I have a warehouse in town that is full of carpet tiles right now—bought them from Sharif Electric where the sergeant found me today. They had an exhibition and had to buy a few square miles of carpet but now it’s of no use to them so they sold it to me.”
    “For cash?”
    “Always for cash. It’s the only way to buy. Nobody resists bank notes. The wallet and this costume are tricks of the trade.”
    “Costume?”
    “Yes,” the Cat said. “I know I dress crazy but it gives me the right image. Nobody forgets me, once they have seen me. I give them my card with my photograph, address and phone number, and if there’s anything to sell I usually get first chance. I joke and wave the wallet about and I get the goods.”
    “You look funny,” the commissaris said, “but you don’t look like a hippie or a provo or a bird-of-protest.”
    “No. I have no quarrel with the world. The world is wrong, of course; anybody who can see and think knows it is wrong. The wrong place and we do the wrong thing. But I don’t mind. I’m not a fighter; I’m a buyer and seller. I make a profit and I spend some of it.”
    “Who do you sell to?”
    “People come to me. The merchants from the street markets, and the secondhand shops, and the discount stores. I have a lady in the warehouse and she knows the prices. Usually I’m there as well, if I’m not on holiday. I often go away—I’ll go anywhere and usually I manage to buy there as well. The world is full of merchandise; it’s amazing it’s still turning with all that weight attached to it.”
    “And Ursula is your girlfriend?”
    The Cat nodded. “Yes. I found her in Australia and she wanted to come to Amsterdam; she is half-Dutch, half-Russian.”
    “And she is beautiful,” de Gier said.
    The Cat smiled. “She is, isn’t she? But she is crazy too. Did she try to make you?”
    De Gier looked silly and the commissaris smiled.
    “I hope she didn’t succeed, de Gier,” the commissaris said.
    “No, sir.”
    “There’s a good fellow.”
    “She always says she is going to leave me,” the Cat said, “but she hasn’t so far. She is free to do as she likes. I don’t collect anything. My house is like my warehouse: its contents come and go.”
    “You want to get rid of her?” de Gier asked.
    “No. If she stays, she stays. I like her, and she isn’t a useless type. She’s a good musician and she sometimes plays in town. Maybe she’ll be invited to travel and then, perhaps, she’ll go. She needs to meet other men, men who can handle