The Streetbird Read Free Page B

Beirut. I'll just walk about a bit, to see what's going on, and if anything goes wrong, I'll call a constable. There are hundreds of them in the district."
    "And if the pain bothers you? What if you fall, won't you be mugged?"
    "I won't be mugged, and I can call a cab."
    She took his hand in hers and followed a blue vein with a gentle finger. "You like going there, don't you? Those women? Some of them are beautiful."
    "Really, dear, at my age."
    "You haven't changed, Jan. On the outside, perhaps, a little. But not really."
    "I have been faithful."
    "Since when?"
    "Since a long time."
    Her hand slid up his sleeve and patted his shoulder. "Yes, because of lack of choice."
    "Because of much love. Will you help me now?"
    "No," she said in the bedroom. "That jacket is worn through the elbows. I don't even like to see you wear it in the garden. Can't you take the gray suit? That is worn too, but at least it hasn't got holes."
    "And this hat?"
    She had to laugh. "That used to belong to my father."
    "It fits." The commissaris looked at the mirror. "And it has a good wide brim, to hide my face. Do you know what happened to those round glasses I used to have?"
    "The spectacles for the retarded?"
    He found them in a drawer. "You do exaggerate. Not the retarded, the tough. I bought them when I was learning unarmed combat. I always got beaten up, but the spectacles didn't break."
    "Take this." She offered him his pistol, carefully, on the palm of her hand.
    "Too big," the commissaris said. "Why we had to change over to that monstrosity is still beyond me. The Walther P5, worth its weight in gold, bought in bulk without a discount, hits anything at two hundred meters, doesn't rust because most of it is plastic, is quite impossible to hide." He opened his jacket and held the gun under his armpit. "Even a long-gone junkie can see it from the other side of the street."
    She crossed her arms. "I won't let you go unarmed."
    The commissaris waved his cane. "But I am armed, dear. The handle is weighted with lead. The sergeant of the arms room has been teaching me. Watch this."
    He turned the cane around and swished it a few times. "See that ashtray?"
    "Don't, Jan."
    The cane struck. The ashtray exploded. The glass plate under the ashtray cracked. "Ha," the commissaris said. He looked at his wife. "I'm sorry, dear. More deadly than I thought."
    His wife left the room and came back with a dustpan and a brush. He helped her, by indicating shards with his cane. She got up, pressing the small of her back. He caressed her arm. "I beg forgiveness, dear. I know you shouldn't bend down, but my leg is so stiff."
    "And you shouldn't be fighting muggers with that silly stick. You really think they'll allow you to hit them? They'll throw a knife at you."
    The commissaris narrowed his eyes. "I'll catch it between my teeth. Now all I need is that bag. The bag I took fishing once and dropped into the lake. Grijpstra retrieved it hours later. Thank you, dear. It looks suitably disreputable."
    She helped him into a coat. "That was my father's too. It's too large for you, but it'll keep you warm."
    "But it's summer, dear."
    "The nights are chilly. Where do you think you'll sleep?"
    He examined himself in the corridor's mirror, bag in hand, leaning on his stick. "In a nice room. I'll find a hotel. I'll let you know where."
    "Can I come and see you?"
    "If you must." He peered at her from under the hat's turned-down brim. "But I'd rather you didn't. Grijpstra and de Gier will be about, they might see you. Cardozo too."
    "They won't recognize you?"
    The commissaris shuffled through the corridor, bent, prodding the rug with his cane. "Like this? They're not looking for me, they're looking for a despicable character who can mow down a brother in crime with automatic fire. Why should they look for me? I'm in Austria, with my bum in a bath."
    "Oh!" She stamped her foot.
    He pushed up his hat with his cane. "You said 'oh'?"
    "Oh, Jan. Why can't you behave like a normal