The Maine Massacre

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  Clever Sergeant de Gier. But did he want to be clever? The question split through his throbbing skull. The answer split back. He did not want to be clever. He wanted to make sure that the commissaris survived his mission and he wanted to see America. He got up and looked out the window. He saw snow on the branches of several trees, on the ground, on roofs, and on the ice of the bay below. Well, fine. American snow. And it doesn't snow in Holland; the climate has changed. It used to snow, but it doesn't anymore. He was seeing a novelty. Exotic faraway snow, and he was right in the middle of it.

  He found the sheriff in the room below. The sheriff's boots rested on the shelf between the radio and the telephones.

  "How are you feeling? Headache?"

  "A little."

  "You went through half a bottle of bourbon. If you had drunk half a bottle of anything else you wouldn't have a head at all now, you'd have a big sore. Coffee?"

  Albert came in to pour the coffee.

  "Breakfast, sergeant?"

  "Yes," de Gier said. "Breakfast, that would be nice."

  "What would you like?"

  De Gier tried to think.

  "We have no eggs," the sheriff said to Albert. "But there's fresh bread and a bit of bacon and some parsley on top and a raw tomato. More coffee. That'll clear your head, sergeant."

  Breakfast came as ordered, and de Gier ate and felt better.

  "You remember our conversation of last night?"

  "I do."

  "Cape Orca?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you still interested?"

  De Gier cleaned his plate with the last piece of toast. "Was I interested last night?"

  "Yes, we both were. I still am, but I'm a little more used to bourbon than you are, so you can back out."

  De Gier thought. "Yes," he said. "Let me go and see the commissaris first. You said I could use a car, a Dodge, I believe. I think I should discuss the case with him. He may have ideas. He'll have talked to his sister. If we were right, if our conversation last night was getting us anywhere, then he may confirm our, eh..."

  The sheriff grinned. "Our, eh... dreams, hey? Or our, eh... facts?"

  "You have facts, Jim. I am not from here. What do I know?"

  "You know what you know. I can use what you know. But go and see—what did you call him again?"

  "Commissaris."

  "Go and see him. The key is in the Dodge. Be careful. We had a thaw during the night, but it froze up again. The roads are supposed to be sanded, but the town is short of sand, although there should be some on the way."

  "Yes," de Gier said, but he hadn't listened. He found the Dodge, started it, and waited for the engine to warm up. He wondered what the commissaris would do if he saw his trusted sergeant appear out of the snow. What sounded like a good idea in Amsterdam might turn out to be a very bad idea in America. Perhaps the commissaris was perfectly capable of looking after himself, even if he had been very ill a week ago and even if he was under doctor's orders not to exert himself in any way.

  The Dodge slid out of the parking place and into the road. De Gier turned the wheel, but the car didn't respond. It responded a little later, but it overresponded and slid to the other side of the road. Then it spun and de Gier was facing the jailhouse for a second. He saw a stop sign and braked, but the car continued, just missing a truck. It spun around once more, heeled over on two wheels, hit a snowbank, and fell back. De Gier reversed and touched the accelerator, but the rear wheels wouldn't grip. He tried another time. The engine whined, the wheels whirred. He switched the engine off, got out, slipped, and fell on the ice. He was trying to get on his feet again when a red station wagon stopped behind the Dodge. A small old man in an oversized furlined overcoat and a raccoon hat complete with tail came out of the station wagon and shuffled toward the Dodge on enormous rubber boots held together by bright yellow laces. The hat was in the old man's eyes, and he tried to push it up with a hand covered in a mitten that reached to his elbow.

  De Gier pushed himself up. He stared at the little old man in the coat and the hat and the boots and the mittens. His eyes grew until they were perfectly round. He put his hands over his face and breathed in deeply. He dropped his hands.

  "Need some help?" the old man asked. "Maybe I can pull you out with Opdijk's station wagon. It has four-wheel drive. I've just figured out how to operate the extra gears." The old man spoke Dutch.

  "Morning, sir," de Gier said. "Yes, that would be nice. I've got this car stuck. It's slippery."

  "There is a chain in Opdijk's car. I'll get it."

  The sergeant tried to help the commissaris, but his leather soles had no grip on the ice and he skated around, getting in the way until the commissaris told him to sit in me Dodge. The station wagon pulled and the Dodge made feeble attempts to extricate itself from the snow bank. When the commissaris stepped on the gas the chain snapped. He reversed the wagon and got out and knotted the chain. The second attempt made the chain break again and the station wagon got stuck in the bank too.

  The commissaris and the sergeant got out of their vehicles and stood on the ice, arms linked, studying the situation.

  "It's very good of you to come here and help me out, sergeant."

  "Do you think so, sir?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "I don't think so, but I am polite sometimes and try to say the right thing. You have a chief constable and God knows what American superstars behind you. Grijpstra told me a little last night. He moved heaven and earth to bring you here. Do you think he spoke to the queen too?"

  "No, sir."

  "So you are helping me out. That's nice. But I got the Opdijk car stuck too now. I am on my way to a real estate agent called Michael Astrinsky to sell the Opdijk house. Do you know where Astrinsky's office is?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "You do?"

  "There's only one important street in Jameson, sir, Main Street. Mr. Astrinsky will have his office on Main Street. Main Street is over there, sir."

  De Gier let go of the commissaris and pointed. He slipped and fell and dragged the commissaris down with him.

  A jeep stopped and a thin-faced young man jumped out, a lanky young man in a short leather jacket, an open-necked thin cotton shirt, and no hat. His light brown curly hair had been cut in a strange fashion and stiff tufts pointed above his ears.

  "You from California?"

  "No," the commissaris said. "We are from Holland, the Netherlands. Over there." He pointed at the bay.

  "Really? No ice over there?"

  "Not much."

  "Is that so? Want me to pull you out?"

  "Please. If it's not too much trouble."

  "It's trouble all right," the young man said and walked back to the jeep and backed it to the station wagon. It took a little over a minute to free the wagon and a little over five minutes to extricate the Dodge. The young man put his spade, ash bucket, and chain back into the jeep, waved the commissaris' thanks away, and drove off. De Gier noted the registration on the jeep: BMF ONE. Only letters, no figures. The commissaris had read the registration too.

  "BMF," the commissaris said. "Suzanne said something about BMF. a gang of sorts. Troublemakers. How did that helpful young man get his registration? Are they made-to-order here?"

  A small red compact passed. The license plate said curs. There was a middle-aged woman at the wheel, heavily made up.

  "Made-to-order," the commissaris said. "Incredible. But true, BMF."

  "BMF ONE, sir. That young man was number one. The boss. Boss of the gang. The sheriff told me about the gang."

  "What else did he tell you?"

  "A lot, sir. He made me tell him what I was doing here, and I thought that the truth might answer all his questions at once. He didn't believe me. He has a file on Cape Orca. Your brother-in-law is the fifth corpse, sir, and a sixth victim ran away."

  "Is the sheriff doing anything about that file?"

  "He is new, sir. Three months in office. The old sheriff didn't care perhaps. He retired. He l
ives in Boston now."

  "No," the commissaris said.

  De Gier nodded energetically. "Yes, sir."

  "No, sergeant. I've done the paperwork for my sister. The letters are posted. I am going to sell her house and get out of here. We were hired to take care of a city with one million peaceful citizens in it, in our own cozy little country, six thousand miles away. I've never heard of a town called Jameson. I happen to be here and I happen to be selling a house, but it's all most unreal, unsubstantial. Let's go to this man Astrinsky. We can leave the cars. But I'd like some coffee first. Would there be coffee in this town?"

  They struggled across the street and inquired at Robert's Market. A bland-faced young man directed them to the town's only restaurant: "Beth's Diner. Country style food, all we have." "And a store where we can buy some clothes?"

  "Next door, only other store in town."

  "Good," the commissaris said when they were back on the sidewalk. "I hate shopping around. No choice simplifies life. You can wear these clothes, sergeant. They won't fit you either, but they'll look better on you than on me, especially the hat. Opdijk had a big head and you have a lot of hair. It may sit on the hair."

  They got to the store holding hands and were served by a young girl. "A coat," the commissaris said. "Warm, and boots, please, miss."

  "Would you look around, sir? Coats are on the racks. And there are boots under the racks. I'm minding the store. I don't know much about the stock, but everything is priced."

  "Here, put my coat on, sergeant. There, the hat too." The hat turned and the raccoon's tail hung over de Gier's face. "Other way around, sergeant. It fits in a way. Take the boots."

  The commissaris stepped out of his boots and began to rummage about. It didn't take long. He came back. "These boots fit. What do you think about the coat, sergeant? Not that it matters, I'll take it anyway."

  "Yes," the sergeant said. "Very nice." It was a hooded navy coat, heavily lined. The commissaris' thin, small face peeped out of the hood. The sergeant looked away.

  "All right. How do I look? I wasn't so nice to you just now. You can tell me the truth, Rinus. How do I look? You can laugh too if you like. I am sure I look perfectly ridiculous."

  "You look like a movie star, sir."

  "A comic character. A Marx Brother? Chaplin? My favorite? Buster Keaton?"

  "No, sir."

  "Who? Be honest, Rinus. You may not have another chance for a while."

  "Walt Disney character, sir. Out of Snow White."

  "A dwarf? Smiley? Grumpy? The fellow who sneezes?"

  "Dopey, sir."

  The commissaris clapped his hands. There were just the two of them between die racks. The girl was waiting behind the counter for them to come out.

  "Exactly. Well seen, sergeant. That's exactly how I feel and no doubt how I look. We are always the projection of what we think. Dopey. Here I am, with the puzzle of a lifetime staring me in the face. How many corpses? I made notes last night. If I read them I'll remember again. Five, I believe. This is America. Do you know that we get one real corpse every two months in Amsterdam? The others are accidents, suicides. These corpses are part of some web, a spider's web, with threads going everywhere, probably right into this store. But they are transparent and thin, although not quite invisible, I am sure. We'll find them if we apply the usual tested methods and persevere. And then there is this incredibly beautiful setting. I am not just referring to the landscape, sergeant. There's far more to it. You should have seen the car that picked me up yesterday, an elegant car. Who says there is no elegance in America? We've been misinformed. I have been anyway. Perhaps you know more, you read a great deal. What am I telling you anyway? You were flown in on a special jet. Did you see the two men who passed us in the street just now? They had guns on their belts, big revolvers. It's lawful here to carry arms. Even the police don't show their arms anymore in Amsterdam. Our pistols are hidden under tunics and coats. If you touch your gun, sergeant, you are expected to write a report and I have to countersign it."

  "Yes, sir."

  "All very well, of course. Our society functions in a way. But I have been thinking about other societies, and their possibilities, and here we seem to have die superb example of everything we haven't got. A bay. Hills. Mountains even. Gun-toters. Corpses. Lawmen in outdated uniforms. And you, of all people to pop up here, in that hat."

  "Yes, sir."

  "And I have to sell a house. There's nothing I can do here, sergeant, and there's nothing I will do either. I'll sell the house and go back and see what Grijpstra has been doing. A corpse in the canal, no doubt, some young man who uses drugs and had an argument with a friend and they poked at each other with knives. No identification, so we'll search about for a week and get a dozen well-trained detectives on the job and turn up all sorts of other misdemeanors that will interest other specialists. And meanwhile this has been going on here. Five corpses. Or six? I forget."

  "One of them is your brother-in-law, sir."

  The commissaris stopped waving his arms. "Yes, sergeant, thank you. I hardly knew the man, of course, and I suspect that my sister is quite pleased about the whole thing, since she can go back to Holland now. If I can sell the house. I'll pay that young lady and we can go and have coffee and see the real estate agent. You'll have to carry your coat. Didn't you bring any warm clothes at all?"

  "No, sir. I don't have any. Just a short coat. I never had a hat."

  "Neither did I. I always hated winter sports, but this is different."

  The commissaris paid and the girl took de Gier's coat. "I'll drop it off at the jailhouse on my way home."

  "You know I stay here, miss?"

  She smiled. "Aren't you staying with the sheriff?"

  "Yes."

  "Are you Canadian? I thought I heard you speak Canadian just now, when you were between the racks."

  "No, miss, we spoke Dutch. We are from the Netherlands, in Europe."

  "I don't know languages. We only hear Canadian here."

  "Don't Canadians speak English?"

  "Some do I believe, but not here they don't."

  "French Canadian," the commissaris said when they had arrived at Beth's Diner and were eating cream pie near a large square cookstove in the middle of the small restaurant.

  "That's right, sir. I helped arrest a French Canadian yesterday, on the way from the airstrip. Speeding, drunken driving, and theft of the car. The suspect harassed the sheriff, but he was only charged with speeding. The other charges somehow disappeared. The sheriff said that the suspect wouldn't be able to pay the fines and released him on bail."

  "Don't they jail suspects for car theft?"

  "May have been joy-riding, sir. The car belonged to a friend."

  The commissaris didn't seem eager to leave the warm room and he ordered more pie and coffee.

  "That sheriff, sergeant. Tell me about him. Did you get close to him at all? He showed you that file. That would be an act of trust. Did you make any contact?"

  "He made the contact, sir. He wanted to know what I was doing here and he used liquor to make me open up. I didn't mind—the liquor was whiskey, a very good brand, and I have nothing to hide. I don't think I convinced him; I am sure that he still thinks that I came in on the Orca angle. He must be supposing that your sister told you that she thought her husband was murdered and that you rushed out here to see for yourself and that you got the proper authorities to back you up. I came as a bodyguard and to be of help perhaps, a liaison between you and him. He asked me questions and I answered them truthfully. He knows that I work for the Amsterdam murder brigade and that you are a division chief, specialize in homicide, and are my direct boss. So..."

  "So he talked too. Well, tell me what he told you, any detail, anything. My interest is theoretical, of course. Did the two of you get drunk?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Well," the commissaris said an hour later. "Maybe there is something you can do, but I don't see where I fit in. I don't have a general who make
s telephone calls on my behalf. Was the name Astrinsky mentioned at all?"

  "Not last night, sir, but I saw a plane land, a very small plane, earlier on today, on an island just off Cape Orca. The jailhouse is on a hill and has a good view of the bay. I asked about the plane and the sheriff said that it belongs to Michael Astrinsky, the real estate agent here, and is often flown by his daughter, Madelin. She is friendly with a man who lives on that island. The man is old, used to be a New York businessman, and has been living here twenty years. Madelin sometimes flies in supplies. The man on the island is called Jeremy, and the island is called Jeremy's Island. He lives like a hermit, but he has some contact with the town."

  "I saw that island, sergeant, from my bedroom window. Very beautiful, especially at night. I saw no lights, but there is a jetty. A hermit, you say. I've always wanted to meet a hermit. I could go and see him. Try to see him. Maybe he doesn't want visitors."

  The commissaris asked for the bill and Beth brought more coffee. The two hunters who had flown in with the commissaris came in, sat down at the same table, and talked. Beth sat down and talked too. The commissaris said something pleasant about the large woodstove and Beth, a big-breasted woman in a tight sweater, took him by the hand and showed him the stove, explaining its various functions. The stove didn't just give warmth and cook food, it also baked bread, dried socks, and had what Beth called a waiting area for simmering soups and boiling water. The hunters joined the audience and everybody learned about what to use for firewood and what not, unless there was nothing else. Pine crackles, Beth said, and spruce pops, and alder bums too fast and gives so much heat that the stove may come apart. Birch, that's what should be used, and maple. Oak? the hunters asked. Yes, oak, but oak is expensive. Beech is even more expensive. There was more coffee again, and finally the commissaris was allowed to pay.