By Peter de Zwaan
Een handvol losse papiertjes: dat is de buit van dagenlange jachtpartijen door delen van het Duitse platteland en Berlijn. De gestolen Saab is terug, maar de dieven van de motorblokken zijn nog steeds zoek. Wel is zonneklaar dat er sprake is van een tamelijk omvangrijke bende, van een netwerk met tentakels van Berlijn tot Frankfurt aan de Oder. Zelfs in Polen zijn de autodieven actief. Bob moet halsbrekende toeren uithalen als hij wordt gevolgd door losgeslagen jongeren. Arie ligt een halve dag naar paarden te kijken om te ontdekken dat hij de hele tijd vlak naast een motorblok was once en Jan wandelt een storage binnen die het hol van de leeuw blijkt te zijn. Na slimme achtervolgingstrucs in een tram belanden de jongens, through een markt in de Poolse stad Slubice, bij een gebouw dat door de bende als verzamelpunt wordt gebruikt. De ontknoping van het motorblokkenmysterie vindt plaats in een soort bunker die eigendom is van de Stripman en die ligt in… een volkstuin!
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Extra info for De stripman van Slubice
I gathered up the pages and handed them to him, not daring to meet his gaze. Don Basilio sat down at the next table and turned on the lamp. His eyes skimmed the text, betraying no emotion. Then he rested his cigar on the end of the table for a moment, glared at me, and read out the first line: Night falls on the city and the streets carry the scent of gunpowder like the breath of a curse. Don Basilio looked at me out of the corner of his eye and I hid behind a smile that didn’t leave a single tooth uncovered.
He then hugged me until there was no strength left in his arms and lay down, stretched out on the floor with the hypodermic needle still stuck in his skin. I pulled out the needle and covered him with a blanket. After that, he began to lock himself in. We lived in a small attic suspended over the building site of the new auditorium, the Palau de la Música. It was a cold, narrow place in which wind and humidity seemed to mock the walls. I used to sit on the tiny balcony with my legs dangling out, watching people pass by and gazing at the battlement of weird sculptures and columns that was growing on the other side of the street.
And you’ll be right to do so, because you’re not a journalist and you never will be. But you’re not a crime novelist yet, even if you think you are. ” At that moment, my guard down, I was so overwhelmed by gratitude that I wanted to hug that great bulk of a man. Don Basilio, his fierce mask back in place, gave me a steely look and pointed toward the door. “No scenes, please. Close the door. ” … The following Monday, when I arrived at the editorial room ready to sit at my own desk for the very first time, I found a coarse gray envelope with a ribbon and my name on it in the same recognizable type that I had been typing out for years.