The Corpse on the Dike by Janwillem van de Wetering Page A

her. Maybe you could handle her.” He looked at de Gier as if he was weighing him. De Gier didn’t feel comfortable, the large brown eyes seemed to be piercing through his skull. The man’s personality was definitely powerful. The Cat looked majestic sitting straight up now, the wide shoulders sloping slightly, the massive head erect with its mane of hair, the fierce nose pointed at de Gier’s forehead. And he wasn’t dressed so funny after all. The velvet gold-colored suit sat very well on the large body and the boots were elegant and shiny. De Gier noticed a thick, gold earring on the Cat’s left earlobe. A few hundred years back in time and the Cat would have been easy to place: a gentleman-pirate or highwayman, sporting a sword with a jeweled handle. A courageous man, a gallant man.
    An immoral man, the commissaris was thinking. A profiteer, but perhaps with a code of honor. Not a man who would betray a friend, or his own people, to an enemy, but still… “Do you have an officially registered business, Mr. Cat?” the commissaris asked.
    The Cat took his eyes off de Gier and fixed them on the commissaris; they were pleasant now and the voice drawled. “Yes, sir. Diets Trading Company, registered since 1945. My father started the business; he dealt in hair creams and wigs and combs—things like that. I still have a small trade in that line but my talent is different: I like buying anything that looks cheap.”
    “Tom Wernekink,” the commissaris said. “We can have some coffee while you tell us about your friend. De Gier, you can pour the coffee; it’s on the tray over there.”
    “Just a friend,” the Cat said in the same drawling voice. “I saw him arrive on the dike and helped to unload the furniture. He interested me. We drank some beer after we had shifted the lot into his house and I kept coming back. He was a strange man, you know. I am really sorry they got him; I like strange people; there aren’t too many around, not even in Amsterdam, which is the lunatic asylum of Holland.”
    “ They got him?” the commissaris asked.
    The Cat shrugged. “Somebody did, didn’t he? Or she? Didn’t you lock that van Krompen woman up? She hasn’t confessed, has she, or I wouldn’t be here now.”
    “You don’t think she did it?”
    “I don’t know. According to the newspaper, Tom was shot between the eyes from a distance. Mary is a crack shot, so she could have done it. The people on the dike don’t think so. They want her back by the way; she’s popular. We had a street party some months ago and she organized it all. I think she has helped a few people who needed something. Yes, they want her back. They have been sending things to the police station, cakes and newspapers and cigarettes. You let them through, didn’t you?”
    “Certainly,” the commissaris said, “but it wasn’t necessary; we’re looking after her. But it is nice to have friends, of course; she appreciates the gifts.”
    “Are you any good with a gun, Cat?” de Gier asked.
    “No,” the Cat grinned, or rather, showed his teeth. The thick beard separated from the mustache and there was a white gleaming line. The Cat looked ferocious for a few seconds, like a tiger crouching under a tree, not meaning to attack but asserting its presence.
    “No,” the Cat said, “I wasn’t even in the army. There is something wrong with my left eye and I have to wear glasses when I drive or read. The eyes don’t focus properly, I believe. The only time I ever handled a firearm was in Australia when I shot at clay pigeons with a shotgun; I didn’t hit them.”
    “Tell me more about Tom Wernekink,” the commissaris said, pushing a cup of coffee toward the Cat. “Help yourself to sugar and milk.”
    The Cat sipped his coffee and smacked his lips. “Not much to tell. Tom never said more than he had to. He came from Rotterdam. He’d worked in an office over there, silly work, filling in forms for export orders. I have to do that too at