The Perfidious Parrot Read Free Page A

the nothing that the Lord created things from and that still shines through.”
    “I don’t really get it,” de Gier admitted.
    They also liked to make music together, in a jazz cellar at the Endless Prayer Alley, Grijpstra on drums, de Gier behind his mini-trumpet. Leisurely. “Leisure” was the key. Cool. Relaxed.
    We won’t be busy
.
    The one who agreed to join de Gier “in doing by not doing,” after finding the second Blood Alley treasure, was Free Grijpstra. There were, however, other Grijpstras.
    Busy Grijpstra, run to earth by oil-tanker-charterer Carl Ambagt, noted Free Grijpstra’s objection to Carl’s proposal. There was a conflict there. Continue daily relaxation or dip into some exciting action maybe?
    Piracy near the Netherlands Antilles? Busy Grijpstra liked that.
    Free Grijpstra was fading. Busy Grijpstra took over. Busy Grijpstra regressed to a modus operandi learned during sometwenty years of daily police work. Busy Grijpstra noted that the client, albeit unsympathetic, appeared to be energetic and intelligent. Carl, although short, had wide shoulders and, inside the blazer’s sleeves, bulging muscles. Sporting type? A gymnast? Weightlifting maybe. Ambagt’s flannel trousers had been neatly pressed. His shirt was made to measure, out of bleached linen. Its collar, in keeping with the current fashion, was buttoned down. The silk necktie, printed or maybe handpainted with—Grijpstra put on his glasses—the image of a nude woman, glowed under a massive golden pin shaped like an erect penis. Unsympathetic, intelligent, energetic, short, flashy fellow in his early forties.
    While showing the complainant in, Grijpstra had noted Ambagt’s pigskin half boots, and while shaking hands he’d noticed a platinum bangle and a watch decorated with jewels. Rich little fellow. Powerful little fellow.
    Complainant was still being emotional. “Poor sailor Michiel, riddled with bullets.” Ambagt wrung his small childlike hands. “That’s what you get when assholes use arms.” Ambagt’s gold fillings sparkled. He spoke easily, forgot to use his Rotterdam accent, added fewer question marks, toned down his arrogance.
    “Action movie. There’s something for you, Mr. Detective. Last time we talked to Captain Souza he gave the tanker’s position as just south of Saba. After that we lost contact. Got us all worried, started up the old chopper-top, flew off, nosed about everywhere. Me and Dad in the chopper. Went back twice to refuel. Helicopters don’t fly far you know. Looked about for hours we did, checked out all the islands, starting at St. Maarten, all the way down to Barbuda, then Antigua; we counted off the French, the British, the Dutch Antilles, chopperedback north again, right up to Anguilla. At last, there she was, the old hulk. Drifted away from Saba, got herself tucked between Nevis and St. Kitts. You have to be careful there, lots of reefs and rocks and what have you. Had to put down the chopper on that little rear deck. You should have seen me and Dad, sliding about on the
Sibylle
. A real situation. Had to get that huge unwieldy tanker away from the reefs; steering all that bulk isn’t easy you know, even if I do have captain’s papers. There was a stretch where we didn’t have half a fathom under her keel. Fortunately the old cow was empty. High as a church tower and last time we’d seen her she was up to her chin in water. So where, for fuck’s sake, was her cargo?” Ambagt dried off his forehead with a silk handkerchief that he had unfolded angrily. “Nothing moved on board except two cats racing about like crazy. We heard them yowl as soon as we switched off the chopper’s engine.”
    Grijpstra was distracted. “You caught the cats?”
    “Found them a home on St. Maarten,” Carl said. “They weren’t much fun in the chopper. Dad wanted to toss them.”
    “And you had been on St. Maarten?” Grijpstra asked. “You and your father happened to be flying about in your