van de Wetering's Tumbleweed

"Have you noticed that nothing ever happens in Amsterdam?"

Doesn't that just tell you something's about to happen?

The beautiful Maria van Buren is found murdered on her houseboat when a neighbour becomes worried about her cat, who doesn't seem to be getting food at home.

It's Grijpstra and de Gier, Amsterdam detectives, hanging around, bored at the office, who catch the case when the request comes to check up on von Braun. That's Grijpstra complaining above.

But they'd already been keeping an eye on the von Braun houseboat since the Dutch Secret Service had asked them to. So they arrive with a warrant, break a window, and discover the dead woman with a British commando knife that has been thrown, not plunged, into Maria von Braun's back. 

Maria von Braun had her luxurious houseboat because she was sleeping with three well-to-do men, a senior American Army officer, a Belgian diplomat, and a Dutch industrialist. That combination was why the Secret Service was interested. She was estranged from her family in Dutch Curaçao who disapproved of her lifestyle. And she was engaged in sorcery.

All that provides a decently satisfying list of suspects. Who wanted to do it? Who has an alibi? Who had access to a commando knife and knew how to throw it?

Grijpstra and de Gier are protagonists of a series of fourteen novels, plus a volume of short stories, by Janwillem van de Wetering. De Gier is the bachelor who likes motorcycles and has a cat of his own; Grijpstra is the married one, a bit more sensible, though now running to fat. They make a good team. The Commisaris (which, I assume, is Dutch for commissioner) who is their boss, has a significant part in this one. He's never given a name, but he's a likeable character. This is the second in the series and dates from 1976. It was a strong entry, I thought, and may be the best of the ones I've read. I'd say the series is more about mood than particularly tricky or thrilling plots, though this had both some trickiness and thrills.

I haven't been reviewing many books lately (though reading lots) and need to knock off a few for my European Reading Challenge:

Hadn't been to the Netherlands yet this year, but now I have!

 

Sportif

Scottie is glowing with excitement.

 

Sportif

Prescott, press my Ascot waistcoat--

Let's not risk it

Just to whisk it:

Yes, my Ascot waistcoat, Prescott.

Worn sub-fusc, it's

Cool and dusk: it

Might be grass-cut

But it's Ascot,

And it fits me like a gasket--

Ascot is the waistcoat, Prescott! 

Please get

Off the spot of grease. Get

Going, Prescott--

Where's that waistcoat?

It's no task at

All, an Ascot:

Easy as to clean a musket

Or to dust an ivory tusk. It

Doesn't take a lot of fuss. Get

To it, Prescott,

Since I ask it:

We can't risk it--

Let's not whisk it.

That's the waistcoat;

Thank you, Prescott.

 

-David McCord

 

There was a comment  on my blog the other day that referenced the Library of America Poetry Project volume American Wits, edited by John Hollander, and I thought there's a book I haven't looked at in a while. (Twenty years ago, says the database.) I nearly read it through again tonight. Lots of fun stuff.

 

You'll have to decide how Prescott should be pronounced. Among other things it's a town in Arizona. I can only note that, after my parents retired there in '95, I told a colleague at work (who was from Arizona) that they'd moved to Press-cot, and he told me they'd actually moved to Press-kit. And it's quite possible our servant is, at least some of the time, Press-coat. 

Hilaire Belloc

Ballade of Hell and Mrs. Roebuck

I'm going out to dine at Gray's

  With Bertie Morden, Charles, and Kit,

And Manderley, who never pays,

 And Jane who wins in spite of it,

 And Algernon who won't admit

The truth about his curious hair

  And teeth that very nearly fit:--

And Mrs. Roebuck will be there.

 

And then tomorrow someone says

  That someone else has made a hit

In one of Mister Twister's plays,

  And off we go to yawn at it;

  And when it's petered out we quit

For number 20, Taunton Square,

  And smoke, and drink, and dance a bit:--

And Mrs. Roebuck will be there.

 

And through each declining phase

  Of emptied effort, jaded wit,

And day by day of London days,

  Obscurely, more obscurely, lit;

  Until the uncertain shadows flit

Announcing to the shuddering air

  A darkening, and the end of it:--

And Mrs. Roebuck will be there.

 

Envoi

 

Prince, on their iron thrones they sit,

  Impassable to our despair,

The dreadful guardians of the pit:--

  And Mrs. Roebuck will be there.

 

-Hilaire Belloc

 

 

Ooh. That awful Mrs. Roebuck. One wonders what she's actually done.

 

Fortunately I'm not often forced into proximity with high society--and this week, when this post appears, least of all. We're off to the Internet-free zone and it's more likely Mrs. Beaver than Mrs. Roebuck. Should we see any species of deer, it will be white-tailed rather than red.

 

I do like Hilaire Belloc's light verse as well as the ballade form. 

 

Pretty off-topic, but thoughts of High Society always remind me of:

 

Rivier-eh and Missour-eh is such a great rhyme. The original Tammy Wynette and George Jones version is pretty good, too, but since I've seen both John Prine and Iris DeMent live...

And while I have the Belloc volume in my hand:

Habitations

Kings live in Palaces, and Pigs in sties,

And Youth in Expectation. Youth is wise.

 

-Hilaire Belloc