•The Hague houses the various government centers of the Netherlands. Amsterdam is the country's capital.
2
THE PLANE'S WHEELS SEEMED BOUND TO TOUCH THE TOPS of the tall pines bordering the tiny airstrip and the commissaris had to force himself to keep his eyes open. His ideas about America had changed once the stewardess walked him across the vast hall of Boston's airport and pointed at a two-engined plane. The plane looked old, with bulging lines dating some thirty years back. A young man in a heavily padded jacket and an oil-stained cap with earmuffs was wheelbarrowing a suitcase through the snow.
"Is that my plane?"
"Yes, sir," the stewardess said brightly. "Prestige Airlines, a small private company. They fly to most of the small airports in Maine. They've been going for years. I'm sure they're very reliable."
The young man had got the wheelbarrow stuck and was pushing it with all his might. He was shouting, but his words didn't penetrate through the plate-glass walls of the airport building. The stewardess giggled. "That's your pilot, sir. He'll come back in a minute; he also takes care of the desk here."
"Good God," the commissaris muttered. The stewardess studied the tired, drawn face of the little old man leaning on his bamboo cane. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Yes, miss, just tired. I couldn't sleep, they were showing a movie while we crossed the Atlantic."
"Where are you going again, sir?"
"Jameson, Maine."
"Jameson," she said. "That's a nice town, I spent a holiday there once. It's on the seashore, rather popular in summer but nobody would want to go there this time of the year. It'll be all snow and ice, I imagine."
The pilot had come back and took the commissaris' ticket and suitcase. "Jameson?" he asked. "That'll be three, three and a half hours maybe, hard to say in this weather, and they may not have plowed the strip. They hadn't last time and I had to circle while they pushed the old plow around. I suppose they thought I wouldn't come in and their radio had broken down again."
The commissaris' cane dug into the hall's wall-to-wall carpeting, its tip sinking away in the thick yellow strands.
Another young man, in overalls, gum boots and a peaked cap, had arrived. "Is the old crate ready, Bob?"
"Sure," the first pilot said. "As ready as she'll ever be. She was hard to start and we should really get some new cables. Another storm like this and she'll blow right away —that left cable is badly chafed, did you notice?"
"Really?" the commissaris asked.
The man addressed as Bob laughed. "Only the anchoring cable, sir. The plane itself is sound enough, old army stock and we've been looking after her. We'll be ready in a minute. Would you like to go to the bathroom before we take off? There's no toilet on the plane."
But the trip hadn't been too bad. The other two passengers, stocky middle-aged men with brilliant red hats and shotguns in leather cases, had passed a bottle of strong, raw-tasting whiskey around and nobody had objected to the commissaris' small but smelly cigars. The plane flew low and the commissaris was impressed with the landscape, or seascape, for they followed a rugged coastline with many islands dotted in a cold and wild-looking sea. The pilots had pointed and shouted names, and he looked at a map he had been given as the hunters traced a course that ended in a small spot and the cursive letters JAMESON.
"There!" the pilots shouted. The plane dived. It had taken the commissaris a few seconds to see the airstrip, a brown cross in the all-pervading whiteness.
"Anyone meeting you?" the hunters asked as they kicked their duffelbags out the small door. "We have a truck here, can give you a ride."
But the commissaris thanked them and refused. He waved at the huddled shape standing near the wooden shed —an old woman, bent, loaded down under a fur coat and a wooly hat and wrapped in mufflers. It could only be Suzanne, he decided when the shape began to shuffle toward him and a high voice mumbled words of welcome.
"Oh, Jan, did you have a bad trip?"
He had to look the other way, for the icy wind was cutting into his face. "Yes," he heard himself say, "or no, it was a good trip. I saw the coast, very beautiful. How are you, dear?"
She cried. The pilot handed his suitcase down and his fingers hurt through the thin leather glove as he tried to grab its handle.
"Let me take that." He looked up gratefully. He was rid of his suitcase, which was carried away by a wide-shouldered man in a long coat topped by a hood. He took his sister's arm and was led toward a long, gleaming car.
"So you could come after all?" he asked cheerfully. "That's good. Is that Opdijk's car?"
"No, that's one of Janet's cars. She's my neighbor. I can't drive, Jan."
"And the man, is he your neighbor too?"
"That's Reggie, he works for Janet. He's very nice, they're all very nice. Oh, Jan, are you really going to take me out of here? To Holland? Are we going to Holland, Jan?"
The path was iced over and he had trouble staying on his feet.
"Certainly."
"I can't believe it, Jan. Opdijk always said we would stay here forever. It's so cold, Jan, and the summers... all the insects. We live behind double windows in winter and behind wire netting in summer. It's so cruel out here, Jan."
"Cruel?" the word seemed wrong to him. He had been treated very well so far. By the plane's staff, by the personnel of the airport, by the pilots and the hunters. He almost slipped again and stopped. The white silence comforted his tired mind. Huge pines towered above him and two black birds fluttered down a branch and spread their wings and soared off. Crows—no, they couldn't be. Too large. Ravens! "Ravens! "He had shouted the word. A species long extinct in Holland but still alive in tales and legends. And here they flew around. Amazing. One of the birds seemed to answer his shout and croaked. He thought of the crows in his neglected back garden in Amsterdam. They woud crackle. This croak was very different, a powerful and majestic utterance, a promise. "Those are ravens, Suzanne." His sister turned and blinked.
"What was that, Jan?"
"Ravens, the birds!"
"Are they?"
"Don't you know? How long have you been here?"
She was pushing against his arm, leading him to the safety of the car. The man called Reggie was coming back.
"I never went out much, Jan. Opdijk liked to go out."
Reggie had stripped off a mitten and was offering his hand. The commissaris shook it, a hard hand with dirt ingrained in the lines and with strong square nails. The man's hood had fallen back. The face didn't go with the hands. A sensitive face, the commissaris thought, but reserved. A man who has been hurt many times but who perseveres. A lonely man who has found a way to live with his loneliness. The commissaris was reminded of de Gier. De Geir was a hard man too, and sensitive. But this man's eyes lacked the gleam that made de Gier's face lively. The commissaris was aware of his own thoughts as he shook Reggie's hand and heard his full name. "Reggie Tammart, at your service." An old-fashioned way of greeting, a noble salute. Yes, nobility. He remembered American nobility, for he had met some of the officers of the liberation troops riding into Holland at the end of the war. The officers had told him that they were from the South—perhaps Reggie Tammart was a Southerner.
"Are you from the South, sir?"
"New Orleans, Louisiana, sir. Pleased to meet you."
The commissaris tried to place the name on a map. A coastal place, a port. And in the South, he had been right. He marched on, pleased with himself. A new environment, but he had some knowledge to relate to—the new facts might drop into a pattern.
"Beautiful country you have here, Mr. Tammart."
"Yes, sir. You can call me Reggie if you like. Beautiful country indeed, sir, but when the snow covers the ground there isn't much to do except hunting and logging."
"Is that what you do?"
"I am Janet Wash's gardener, sir, amongst other things. I only hunt woodchucks because they ruin the gardens, but they're asleep in their holes now."
"So you are 'logging'
?" The commissaris didn't know what the word meant, but he thought the man would tell him. He had been trained not to show his ignorance but to let others fill him in, through their answers to his carefully planned questions.
"Yes. Janet has woodstoves, she doesn't believe in oil. The stoves in the house go through a quarter of a cord a day and then there are the barrel stoves in the garage and the cabins. I have twenty cords out, but we'll need a lot more if the winter goes on like this."
"You do all that on your own?"
"No, sir, I have some help."
Reggie spoke in a slow drawl, pondering his words. His friendliness was close to politeness, not the open cordial approach of the pilots and the hunters. Not an easy opponent, the commissaris thought as he slid into the back seat of the car. But the man wasn't an opponent, of course. He thought of his objective in coming to America. All he had to do was sell his brother-in-law's estate. The face of Suzanne's dead husband formed itself in his memory. He hadn't known the man well, but they had met a few times, when Opdijk was in Amsterdam on leave, or on business. A blunt man with a red face, not at all the polished banker he was supposed to be. A man who drank a lot and who told coarse but not unfunny jokes. The commissaris didn't think he had ever bothered to find out what Opdijk's position in the bank was. Ah, he remembered now, Opdijk had been an accountant, with a university degree. An expert on financial strategy. An inner-circle job most likely, checking computer charts in a room on the top floor of some New York skyscraper. An unlikely match for sad Suzanne. He also remembered what Suzanne had done during her short vacations in Amsterdam. She had bought antique chinaware in little stores, one piece at a time, after endless deliberation. Opdijk probably held her on a short leash. Well, anyway, the man was dead now. He wondered if Suzanne minded very much. She only seemed eager to get back to Holland. Perhaps Opdijk's death was a release for her.
He mistook the blurred shape in the corner of the back seat for a bundle of blankets so that the sudden words startled him.
"I am glad to see you are all in one piece. That little plane is a real bone rattler, don't you think?" A careful, pleasantly slow voice, as cool and firm as the hand that reached out for him and which he held for a moment as he lowered himself onto the seat and found a place for his cane.
"Not at all, madam. I liked the plane, and the pilots know their job."
"Good. And you had a clear sky."
"Yes, and a wonderful view. It was very good of you to drive my sister to the airport and to meet me here, but you shouldn't have put yourself out. There were some gentlemen on the plane who offered me a ride to town."
The long slender hand touched Reggie's shoulder. "Friends of ours, dear?"
Reggie had the car in gear and the commissaris saw the pines slip away while the car turned into what seemed to be a bumpy country lane. Suzanne was in the front passenger seat, turned around and peering at him. He smiled encouragingly.
"Not friends, Janet, acquaintances. The two Boston businessmen who bought that camp on Bartlett's Bay. They've come for the deer again."
The refined voice acquired an icy edge. "The deer, of course, the hunting season. Every year I forget and every year there they are again, with their horrible red hats and orange jackets and coarse faces and dirty hands and their cartons of beer and their big cannons, banging away at the poor things. How many did they get last year, Reggie?"
"Thousands, I believe, Janet."
Janet sighed. "Thousands of the lovely creatures, it's unbelievable and yet they don't die out. In the old days the predators would catch them, I suppose, the bears and the bobcats and the mountain lions. But now there aren't too many of those, so we horrible humans have to do the job. Oh well. Dear me, I haven't even introduced myself. I am Janet Wash, your sister's nearest neighbor. We were all very saddened when we heard the awful news about Pete Opdijk's accident. Any neighbor would have driven Suzanne to the airstrip to meet you, but as I am closest I grabbed the honor. We are so glad you could rind the time to come out here."
The commissaris wondered whether he could light a cigar. The ashtray in the armrest was empty and clean, so perhaps not. He noted the details of the car. Old, but in excellent condition. He had recognized the car's make as he got into it. A Cadillac, of the type the mayors of Amsterdam had used many years ago before they switched over to compacts and pretended to be economizing. A smooth car, built well, with great headlights sitting on the sleekly curved mudguards. He patted the leather of the armrest.
"I should have come earlier." Suzanne's hand Wept over the back of the front seat and he held it affectionately. "Suzanne asked me often enough, but America seemed so far then."
"It is far," Janet said, "and out here we are very far indeed. The Canadian border is close. We're almost falling out of the country. Will you stay awhile?"
"As long as it takes. There is some work waiting in Amsterdam. I would like to stay awhile but..."
"It shouldn't take long, Opdijk was always very meticulous about his affairs and we'll all be glad to help. My house is close and you can use Opdijk's car, I am sure, if you don't mind driving on slippery roads, and there's always the telephone."
He squeezed his sister's hand. "You'll be back in the old country soon. I wonder if your house will be easy to sell. Do you know if it is mortgaged, dear?"
Suzanne's watery eyes blinked above the little nose, which was an exact copy of the commissaris'. "I, I really don't know, Jan, he never discussed such things with me, but I know where he kept his papers. There are some boxes and files—perhaps you can find out."
"Yes," the commissaris said. The car had reached the top of a hill and had stopped to let an oncoming car pass. Below the hill the forest stretched as far as the sea, and the commissaris identified some of the trees. Naked white trunks of birches clustered around high maples that seemed frozen in gigantic movements of joy, and everywhere there were the strange pines that he had also seen around the airstrip, reaching up with delicate long needles, like the sleeves of an Oriental dancer in the middle of an exuberant movement. The other car had stopped alongside and Reggie pushed a button so that the window on Suzanne's side eased down. The window of the driver's seat in the other car also slid open.
"How are you doing?"
"Good," Reggie shouted. "How are you, sheriff?"
The commissaris stared at the long cruiser, spotlessly polished and with an array of blue lights attached to a bar on its roof. A very neat and a very dangerous-looking car that reminded him of a pike in a Dutch moat, a ponderous fish but quick to attack and gobble its prey. The young man at the wheel, in a uniform that looked like a Boy Scout's, was slender and fairly small, but he bore his authority naturally. The commissaris noted the clipped moustache, the clean angular lines of the face, and the calm, clear eyes.
"On my way to the airstrip," the sheriff said.
"The plane has come and gone."
"I don't want the regular plane. The high brass in New York are sending me a Dutch police officer; the state police are flying him in. There they are now." He pointed, and the commissaris opened his window and looked up. A blue aircraft was circling about a thousand feet up.
"A minijet," Reggie said. "Amazing, the police must have money to burn these days."
Janet's quiet voice spoke into the commissaris' ear. "Did the sheriff say a Dutch police officer?"
"Yes."
"Aren't you a Dutch police officer? I believe Suzanne told me so yesterday."
"I am," the commissaris said.
"But you have already arrived."
"So I have."
It was too much of a coincidence. The commissaris wondered how many men were employed by the various Dutch police services. Fifty thousand? More? But what would any of them be doing in Woodcock County, Maine, USA? He smiled. He remembered having seen Grijpstra going into the corridor where the chief constable had his office. What would Grijpstra have wanted the chief constable to do for him? If Grijsptra wanted to deal with the top he would, normally, go
via the chief of his own division. That chief was he, the commissaris. So why would Grijpstra have bypassed him?
He looked back. The blue plane was coming down, gracefully. An elegant machine.
"If you like we can go back." Janet Walsh was saying. "Whoever that man may be, you are sure to know him, don't you think so? Wouldn't it be nice for two Dutch police officers to meet in the middle of nowhere?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, "but I won't delay you. I will meet my colleague later on, no doubt."
So they were flying Sergeant de Gier in. He thought a little further. The chief constable knew a number of high American police officers. Amsterdam had become a city of interest, ever since it had been classified a throughport for drug traffic. The chief constable also knew the American CIA chief in the Netherlands. A single telephone call from the chief constable's desk would arrange a temporary transfer for the sergeant. He frowned. Something was wrong. He wouldn't accept official recognition of his own invalidism, even if he was an invalid, even if his rheumatism was crippling him. He didn't need a bodyguard, or a nursemaid. He was traveling at his own expense, in his own time. He felt that he was falling asleep and struggled to stay awake.
"We'll have you in bed soon," Janet's low voice said, "with a cup of good strong tea. You must be exhausted, poor man."
"I am a little tired," he said and fell asleep. His last thought was that he would find a way to deal with the sergeant. It wouldn't do to disappoint de Gier, but he certainly wasn't going to encourage him either.
3
THE BLUE JETS ENGINES ROARED WHOLE ITS WHEELS screamed to a stop on the carelessly plowed and badly leveled strip. The hands of the impeccably uniformed pilot moved over his controls and the engines whined into silence.
"Jameson," the pilot said gruffly and pointed at a weathered sign dangling on a long rusty nail. "One of the world's forgotten assholes. You sure you want to come here, sergeant?"
The Maine Massacre Page 2
