The Perfidious Parrot by Janwillem Van De Wetering

Author:Janwillem Van De Wetering [van de Wetering, Janwillem]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-56947-826-4
Publisher: Soho Press
Published: 1997-03-03T16:00:00+00:00

15

THE LOWER LEVEL

“The lower level?” the commissaris asked at breakfast on the Eggemoggin Hotel’s terrace. “Isn’t American an expressive language? What do they mean? A hellish cellar? What do the police want with you on the lower level, de Gier?”

De Gier wiped his mustache with a napkin handed to him by Grijpstra, swallowed the rest of his coffee, put half a bagel with salmon, cream cheese, onions, and capers into his mouth, spread his hands in a gesture of innocence and followed the waiter who had delivered the message.

The commissaris’s cellular telephone in his pocket rang. “Hello-ooh,” said Carl Ambagt. “Rain, drizzle and fog, did you hear the weatherman say that this morning? He likes saying that, but it is clearing up nicely. You bothered by bugs there? I’ve been slapping mosquitos all morning. We have arrived. We’re in dry dock. Close to you. Within walking distance. Repairs to the Rodney won’t take up much time. Throw out bad parts, put in good parts. Costs an arm and a leg though. But who cares, eh? With a bit of luck we can leave before sunset. Are you ready?”

“Yes, Mr. Ambagt, sir,” the commissaris said, watching a mosquito sucking blood from his right hand. His left hand held the phone. He turned the bitten hand and tried to squash the mosquito on the tablecloth but the mosquito saw that coming.

“Beds are made,” Carl Ambagt said, “drinks are iced. Sailors have changed into crisp uniforms. We are eating crêpes with powdered sugar tonight, and Dad isn’t all that drunk today.”

“Crêpes,” the commissaris said, snapping his telephone shut. He missed the blood-digesting mosquito. “What did we get ourselves into? Culinary kindergarten?”

Grijpstra accepted more plum compôte, served by a smiling waiter. Spooning cream into his bowl he reminded the commissaris of what had been done to them. “Feather removed from your hat. De Gier still can’t breathe deeply. And I …” Grijpstra coughed.

“Vengeance,” the commissaris said, swiping at the mosquito. The animal landed slowly, nursing a broken wing. The commissaris smashed it. “We should not give in to our lower emotions, Grijpstra. This project is no more than a character exercise. Our adventurism is pure, like that of the knights of old.” He watched the bloodstained tablecloth with satisfaction. “What did the waiter call the location where Sergeant Symonds is lurking, waiting for fearless de Gier?”

“The lower level,” Grijpstra said.

The commissaris nodded. “We are not of the lower level, Grijpstra, we have vanquished egocentricity, small-mindedness, the need to revenge insults and pain inflicted on our illusionary egos.”

“Sir,” Grijpstra said.

The lower level was a parking lot contained by concrete corner pillars holding up the hotel’s main building. The lot had a wide view of the sea. Sergeant Symonds had assumed the lotus position on the saddle of her Harley Davidson. She wore shorts. She was watching pelicans planing elegantly above the blue-green surface, ready to drop like rocks as soon as they spotted shoals of small fish. The sergeant laughed. “Bunch of flying comedians. I am glad they are back.

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