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awkward when pressed."
    "So you had to press him, eh?"
    "Leaned on him with my full weight," Grijpstra said. "Threatened and cajoled. Still had to find the key myself, in the end." Grijpstra lowered his head. "You know Guldemeester is a squirrel? He must keep a hundred ballpoints in his desk, filched from everywhere. He had a hundred keys, too."
    "So how do you know you got the right one?"
    Grijpstra held up the key. "Labeled. See? Guidemeester just stood there while I searched his desk. Wouldn't play at all."
    "Did you see his notes, too?"
    "No notes," Grijpstra said. "No gun. Remember that carton filled with weapons that disappeared from Ballistics, the one you told me about?"
    "No," de Gier said. "Not our gun. You mean the Walther PPK that IJsbreker shot himself with went out in the missing carton?"
    Grijpstra nodded. "Lifted by a Turkish charwoman, or so they claim at Ballistics. It's all hushed up. The chief constable doesn't want the papers to know. There was a dismantled machine pistol in that carton, too, and a couple of Magnums. Weapons taken from a Turkish drug-running gang. There's a thought that the Turks pushed some of their women into Headquarters to retrieve the guns."
    De Gier was still admiring the gable. "Cops sell guns, too. My neighbor bought a pistol from a constable who stopped him for drunken driving. As it would be his second conviction, the sucker paid a small fortune in cash and the cop took pity and.threw in the gun. My neighbor told me about it when I asked him to take care of my cat. I had to stay overnight up north."
    "Makes you proud of your profession," Grijpstra said. "So, no gun to check with the bullet in IJsbreker's head. Did you see the pathologists?"
    "That was another negative," de Gier said. "Notice how the entire gable was rebuilt, not just patched up somehow, as you usually see in a restoration. Must have cost a pretty penny. I wonder if IJsbreker owned the house."
    "We can check with the Registry of Deeds tomorrow." Grijpstra walked around parked cars. "The Banque du Credit may own the place. If IJsbreker has shares in the bank, he may have wanted to avoid property tax. No businessman in his right mind owns anything in his own name anymore. Personal property is mere weight these days. All you want is to have the use of the stuff."
    "At no cost," de Gier agreed. "Borrowed interest-free wealth that will last until one's death. In IJsbreker's case, death came rather early. Want to hear something?"
    De Gier produced a small cassette recorder and held it near Grijpstra's ear. He clicked its switch. "Hello," a rich baritone voice said, "this is Martin IJsbreker's answering machine. Please leave a message. I'd just love to have your message. I'll answer as soon as I can. Wait for the beep."
    Grijpstra looked surprised. "When did you get this?"
    De Gier pocketed the little machine. "Just now. IJsbreker's phone is still connected. Doesn't he sound jolly?"
    "A good powerful voice," Grijpstra agreed. "Arrogant, strident, authoritative, I would say. Not depressed at all. Perhaps the tape is old. Maybe he has been using it for years."
    "Old tapes are usually scratchy." De Gier turned away from the house. "I say there's a hint here that IJsbreker was in no way depressed. Let's cross the bridge and have a look at that houseboat where the junkies were found. I'll tell you about the pathologists on the way."
    De Gier stopped on the bridge linking the two quays that framed the canal. Some little boys were paddling an old canoe along. They wore folded paper hats, and the boy in the bow waved a wooden sword, ordering his crew onward. His thin shouts were drowned in the rumble of a heavy diesel engine propelling a cargo vessel along. Its bow wave made the canoe bob jerkily. The boys screamed with joy. "I used to do that," de Gier said.
    "You still do that," Grijpstra said. "That's your trouble. We aren't playing games, you know."
    "That's your trouble." De Gier patted Grijpstra's shoulder. "You won't see