The Corpse on the Dike Read Online Free

him. There should be a switch somewhere but he didn’t see it. There seemed to be a lot of furniture in the room. Grijpstra slowly revolved on his heels. Bookcases, cupboards, a large old-fashioned TV, several easy chairs, two round tables, a couch, a sideboard. Wherever the wall had offered space a painting had been hung, paintings with gold frames, frilly frames. The furniture was ornamental as well. There were cushions on the chairs and the couch—cushions made of thick gleaming velvet, a tassel on each corner.
    Grijpstra moved. He had to find a switch, even if he would be destroying footmarks and prints. His hands groped along the wall; he stumbled against a chair and hurt his shin. He felt cold and his hands were sweating. His neck itched. The light helped, but not much. A weak bulb illuminated the room, but there were still shadows and the corpse grinned on.
    “Silly man,” Grijpstra said again.
    He sat down on the couch. Why? he asked himself. What had happened? A fight? A disagreement about something? Had the other man threatened the occupant of this rotting, crumbling little hovel? “I’ll kill you for that!” Had he shouted? Hissed perhaps? Had he handled the pistol or revolver dramatically, waving it about? Or was this a cold, bam, you-are-dead affair?
    Grijpstra told himself to observe. First observe, then draw a conclusion perhaps. No. No conclusion. Observation. What did he observe? A dead man, undoubtedly. A man thirty years old, with thick black hair, a heavy mustache and large white teeth, protruding like a rodent’s. No, not a rodent. No mouse or rat. A rabbit. A nice animal. The man looked nice, pleasant, even in death. The grin was horrible, but it was a grin of fear. And surprise. The man had been surprised to meet his death that evening. Evening? Why evening? He might have been shot early in the morning, or in the afternoon. Some time ago now, a day, two days perhaps. Flies had been busy on the face. And the river rats too? No. Grijpstra wiped his face with his large white handkerchief. Not rats. Something strange. What? The furniture. Why would a poor little hovel consisting of a few rooms—a lean-to rather than a house—a shack tottering against the dike, have such a wealth of furniture? There was something else to support this observation. What? Yes; the sports car outside. An expensive new model. The man was a man of property, so why live in a shack? And why was everything so dusty? What else had been dirty? Right, the sports car again. The car was caked over with mud. A year-old car, never cleaned.
    He got up so that he could see the corpse better. He wanted to see its clothes. The corpse was wearing a suit: an old-fashioned suit with a waistcoat. No tie. Dirty shirt, frayed collar. He could see one of the cuffs. Frayed too. Old shoes. Grijpstra moved a little. Hole in the sole. A line of logic. Rich man who doesn’t look after himself. Yes. Look at that enormous easy chair facing the TV. Probably the only chair the man ever sat in. Watching TV. Grijpstra saw the ashtray. Filled with stubs, ash, crumpled empty cigarette packs. The ashtray had overflowed. Empty beer cans too. No glasses, just cans. How many? Grijpstra counted and stopped at fifty; there would be more. A very untidy man. No. Something didn’t click again. What was it? Yes. The garden. He took a step forward and could see the garden through the open windows. A beautiful garden. Neat rows of dahlias, daisies, asters. Shrubs at the side. The cobblestones under the tree had been swept and the garden chair looked clean as well. What had the girl said? “Always in the garden.” So—neat outside, messy inside. Crazy. Why?
    But there was something else that didn’t click. Where was de Gier?
    “Grijpstra,” de Gier said. He was standing in the open door.
    “Yes?”
    “They’ll be a while. I telephoned but I couldn’t locate anyone except the sergeant at the desk. They are all over the town. There was a corpse in the canal,