The Maine Massacre

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "A spy," de Gier said. "Here you are, sir. I put a shell in it. That shed is a sort of emergency hut. It has a dinghy with paddles and a first-aid kit and other equipment. Do you want to fire the gun, sir?"

  "No, you can handle the gun, sergeant. But wait for the raven to get back. We don't want to startle the bird with a display of fireworks. Let me have a look at that shed first."

  The sergeant waited, weighing the gun in his hand. The commissaris came back. "Well-organized hut, sergeant. Usually vandals interfere with that type of emergency arrangement, especially if it is provided by the municipality, the enemy. One might expect our gang to monkey with the boat and the pistol and the lines and grapples and so on. But it hasn't. Everything is spick-and-span in there." He shook his head. "We must be misinformed, or we have jumped to the wrong conclusions."

  The sergeant pointed at the channel. The powerboat was turning out of sight behind the curve of the cape. "There's part of the gang now, sir. I think I recognized them. Our friend the fox and Albert. Albert was released from jail today."

  "Really? On their mischievous way, eh? Go on, sergeant, fire away."

  De Gier aimed for a point a hundred feet above the top of the island's hill and pulled the gun's heavy trigger. There was a sharp retort and the flaming projectile whizzed off, slow enough to be followed by the eye. It disintegrated above the hill into a burst of bright green sparks.

  The commissaris whistled softly. "Most impressive, sergeant. So now we wait. If the hermit doesn't want to see us he doesn't have to show himself, but I hope he does. Fascinating, a man living by himself in the midst of nowhere. How big would that island be?"

  'Ten acres the sheriff said, sir."

  "Acres? Let's see. We used to measure in acres when I was a child. There was a vegetable garden next door to my father's house and that was supposed to be a half acre. Twenty times that garden; that's quite a sizable area and Jeremy has it all to himself. That must be him now, that black dot coming down the path on the hill, but there's something following him. Can you see what it is? My eyes aren't what they used to be."

  "A dog, sir. A big black dog. And the raven is with him too, flying a little to the side."

  The commissaris peered at the island, screening his eyes with his hand.

  "Must be a Doberman pinscher, sir. Nasty dogs."

  "Because we train them to be nasty. Can't blame the dogs, sergeant. Cigar?"

  They smoked peacefully while the man on the island pushed his boat off the ice and came rowing toward them. The dog was left behind, the raven hovered above the boat.

  "Now what are those spots next to the boat, sergeant?"

  The sergeant peered. Two round objects, bobbing on the waves.

  "Seals," the commissaris said when the boat was much closer. "Must be seals. Silver seals too. They are particularly beautiful. I saw them off the British coast once. And they swim with the boat. Our hermit must be very good with animals. Look at those whiskers on them."

  The seals turned abruptly when the boat stopped some ten feet off the jetty. The man spun the little boat around and leaned on his oars. An ageless man with a smiling face, dressed in a checkered jacket and heavy blue trousers. The face was weathered, a red rough face with a web of wrinkles that tightened around the eyes. A woolen cap had been pushed back on his shiny bald head.

  "I'm called Jeremy, gentlemen, and I saw your signal, a green signal so there's no emergency, which is good. There's enough trouble in the world. What can I do for your

  "I am Pete Opdijk's brother-in-law, a police officer from the Netherlands, and this is my assistant, Sergeant de Gier. We would like to visit with you."

  "Police officers," Jeremy said. "A breed I've tried to steer clear of. Are you here in your official capacity?"

  "I am here to take care of my sister, sir. She wishes to return to Holland. The sergeant is temporarily attached to the sheriff's department."

  "You wouldn't have brought a warrant, would you?"

  "No, sir."

  Jeremy laughed. There was a glint of strong white teeth between the man's cracked lips. "Very welL so I can refuse. I won't refuse and I am sorry about your relative's death, although I never knew Opdijk well. I don't know too many people. Please get into my boat, gentlemen, but be careful not to tip her over for it's a cold sea. The seals would try to push us back into the boat, but they'll only manage to push us under again. It's happened to me before, but it didn't matter then, it was summer. If they try their tricks now they'll kill us."

  The seals had ventured closer and their large luminous eyes stared curiously between the long glistening hairs sprouting sideways on the smooth, earless heads.

  "They are tame, are they?" the commissaris asked once he had settled himself in the bow of the boat.

  "No, they're quite wild, but they've known me a long time. I've been here twenty years now and I tried not to scare the animals off when I arrived. The animals are good friends. That's more than I can say for most of our own species."

  Jeremy rowed back in silence broken only once when de Gier mentioned the small airplane that he had seen from the jailhouse at daybreak the previous morning and that had landed on the island.

  "Yes, Madelin. She comes once in a while. She brought the mail and a cake. We can have the cake with tea."

  He ran the boat onto the ice. The silence had returned again, but the faraway crack of a rifle spoiled it.

  "Hunters," Jeremy said and spat. "It's their season. Drinking themselves silly and potting away at the deer with their automatic arms."

  The seals swam along the edge of the ice and turned away, diving out of sight, but the light caught their glistening sides and their short, hairy flippers waved. The raven hopped down to Jeremy's feet. The dog danced around in the snow by the rocks. Jeremy bent down and touched the raven lightly on the head.

  "Clever. You saw the green light and came to tell me about it, didn't you? You always worry when there are strangers about."

  "He is yours, sir?"

  "No, I share the island with him. I don't own anything, just the ground here, and I really only have the use of it. The Indians had the right idea about ground. That's why they couldn't understand when we tried to buy the land from them and just gave it away. How can land be sold? But I live with the times and I have a paper somewhere with words on it that says that the island is mine, all mine. Bunk, but I can use the paper to keep the idiots away."

  The commissaris was waiting patiently.

  "Don't you agree?"

  "Yes."

  "But my ideas may be silly and hypocritical. I made the money to buy this island out of real estate. For twenty years I wheeled and dealed in the State of New York. Every penny I spend is made out of land deals and here I preach idealism and forgotten insight. All I can say for myself is that I got away and try to ignore the stink, a possibility when a man lives by himself. I had a drunken friend once who was a biologist and who claimed that we are a mistake. Nature should never have allowed apes to become people and people to become a plague. He was a logical man and he blew his head off one nice spring afternoon in his garden. Used a shotgun. I thought of following his example, but then I took the sly way out. I had an idea that there was beauty about and I set out to find it. In a way I succeeded. It is beautiful out here, although it takes a while before it can be fully appreciated and I'm still learning.

  "Well, gentlemen, would you care to follow me? My cabin is on the other side. It used to be here, but when the shore got built up I decided to move my living quarters."

  The path circled the hill and Jeremy and the sergeant regulated their speed to the slow progress of the commissaris, who was limping badly. The sergeant didn't mind the slow pace. He looked at the smooth, wide curves of the snow, covering glades between the trees, and at the bay below, shimmering between the island and the cape. The dog ran ahead and waited for them on the path. De Gier extended a hand, but Jeremy held him back.

  "Don't trust the dogs. You'll see another two on the
other side. The young ones like to stay near the house. They have to get to know you real well before you can play with them. Now they'll attack without warning, and they bite to hurt. I had to save a hunter last year. The man had been stupid enough to ignore my KEEP OUT signs. The bay was completely frozen over then, so he could walk across. The dogs attacked him all at once and pushed him over and held him down until I came. They bit him too, but fortunately he had thick domes on and had tolled over so they couldn't get at his face."

  "Didn't he have a gun?"

  "He might have shot them if they'd barked or showed their teeth, but Dobermans don't waste time, not if they have been properly trained."

  "Did you train them, sir?"

  "Yes. I got the mother as a puppy and her puppies were born here."

  They had to cross a steep ravine in order to get to the house. The drawbridge over the ravine was narrow. The cabin stood on posts, in a large clearing, and a small peninsula had been leveled so that it could be used as an airstrip. Smoke crinkled from the cabin's chimney and from a small shed at the edge of the clearing.

  "The doghouse. I have a potbellied stove in it that will bum for a whole day if I put the damper on. But the door is ajar so that the dogs can get out. They don't like to be cooped up."

  Two big dogs, larger than the one that had met them on the path, were running around the clearing, keeping their distance. Jeremy whistled and they darted up to him, touched his legs with their noses, and shot off. The first dog joined them and they barked briefly and pushed each other and split up again, each seeming to take responsibility for his share of die grounds.

  "My home, gentlemen. I'll go ahead, and you can try your luck with die ladder."

  The ladder was well made, and de Gier noted how it could be pulled up to slide underneath the cabin floor. He turned in the open door to take in the view. The horizon, broken only by a few small islands, was packed with puffed clouds. The open sea seemed like a gigantic, quiet pond and moved only with the swell, rising and falling away without a ripple on its smooth surface, stretching away forever.

  Jeremy looked at the clouds. "More snow tonight or tomorrow. I'll have some shoveling to do. Some of the paths must be kept open. I've been snowed in before. It's not a bad feeling, but I have to buy stores from time to time and I don't want to repeat the ordeal of being without salt and tobacco for a week on end."

  "You go to town often, sir?"

  "As few times as I can possibly manage, but this old body of mine houses a lot of desires. I grow my own vegetables and potatoes and I keep summer goats for meat and I fish, but some of the staples and luxuries I have to buy and in winter my stocks run low."

  He had taken off his jacket and hung it on a peg. An open holster was strapped to his belt and a long-barreled revolver pointed at the floor. The commissaris looked at the sidearm and at a rifle, hung from a hook above the door.

  "You are well armed, sir."

  Jeremy smiled.

  "And well protected. It would take an amphibious attack by a number of men to dislodge you."

  "Yes, it would. The water is on the boil and the cake is on the table. If the sergeant cuts the cake I'll busy myself with the tea."

  The commissaris made no further efforts and let the quietness of the cabin seep into his mind. The tea was hot and strong, and he sat back, grunting with pleasure. The cabin was sturdy and beautifully finished with paneling on all sides and a high whitewashed roof, carried by rafters of handhewn pitch pine. The paneling consisted of assorted boards, but their shades and colors blended well. There were several bookcases and more books piled on the floor. Several shelves were filled with jars containing grains and dried herbs. Smoked meats and fish hung on strings attached to the rafters.

  "You see why I won't let the dogs in here. They're good jumpers, and they like a change of diet every now and then. I feed them on what's called trashfish here, suckers and alewives, but they thrive on it."

  "You built the house yourself?"

  "Yes. I had a bit of help, but not too much of it. It took a long time though. I wasn't a handyman when I arrived. I was the opposite, in fact, the proverbial idiot, the man from the city who knows it all but can't do anything. I had to live in a tent for a year or two, an army arctic tent with a kind of funnel for an entrance. Hard to get in and out of, but it was the only thing I could find that would allow for local conditions. I was very grateful when I could move into the cabin, even if it was drafty. I hadn't learned about insulation. I thought I just had to nail a lot of boards together. I had to wreck and rebuild the house twice and get help from shore, and all in all it's cost me five times as much as I calculated. And the best joke was that I had to pull it down again, just when I'd decided that it was perfect. That was when the neighbors began to arrive and to litter up the cape with their noise and monstrosities. I pulled it down, moved it bit by bit, and built it again, for the third and last time, I hope. A monotonous occupation. It took all spring and all summer."

  "Excuse my curiosity, sir," the commissaris said, "but I am a police officer and addicted to asking questions. Did you buy the island from Mr. Astrinsky when you arrived?"

  "Through another agency that used to have a branch office here. The previous owner was a gambler who had no idea of what he was throwing away. The poor fellow liked the pink, crumpled bills around Las Vegas. I paid what was considered to be a high price in those days, but I imagine I could get a good deal more now. Islands are in short supply, and the summer people all seem to be millionaires. They'll give a thousand dollars for a rock with a tree on it. I have ten acres of rocks and trees."

  "But you wouldn't sell, I take it."

  "No, I'm here for the rest of my life."

  De Gier had got up and was looking at die airstrip.

  "You had an airplane once, sir?"

  "I intended to have one. I thought it would be fun to fly around, but it turned out to be too much trouble. Or perhaps I was too old to learn. The instructors gave up on me after I broke the wheels of one plane and the wing of another. It doesn't matter. I have the rowboat, and when it gets really cold, in January and February, I can walk across. I have a backpack and any car will give me a ride into town. But the airstrip was made and I left it. Michael Astrinsky used to come out and visit me until I told him that his blustering bored me. Now Madelin comes sometimes."

  "You don't mind her visits?"

  "On the contrary, she's an exception to my rule. She doesn't talk much and we share a meal and we go for a walk. She's good with the animals and she never stays long. I keep the strip clean for her."

  "I see. And you have no other contacts?"

  "Very few. If the Indians were still around I might be tempted to be sociable again, but what can the people here teach me? Your brother-in-law was high up in the Blue Crustaceans, a club. Bah. To sit around and try not to get drunk and then make the effort to try and get home in one piece. I can get drunk here by myself, just by watching the bay. I get a lot drunker here than I used to in New York and I don't need a bottle to do it now. It took time. The first few years were hard."

  "Indians," the commissaris said. "They've all gone?"

  "Yes, to the reserves. We have the land. An Indian needs land, lots of it. An Indian could go into the woods naked and come back a week later with a suit of clothes, good shoes, a bow and arrows, a canoe even. And all they used were twigs and bark and the furs of the animals. They didn't need shotguns that take five shells and fire them all in three seconds."

  "About those people on the shore," the commissaris said, "the people that made you move your house. They aren't there anymore. My brother-in-law fell and slipped and died. His neighbors got shot, drowned, were chased away, froze in the woods, drank themselves to death." The commissaris' voice was low and sleepy.

  "Yes, so I heard."

  Jeremy shifted in his chair. His gnarled hands played with the mug.

  "Do you have any idea how all these accidents came about, sir?"

  "Oh yes," Jeremy sa
id, and the words came calmly and matched the slow turning of the mug. "Ideas I have, the ideas of a moron marooned in Orca Bay. The old sheriff may have had better ideas, and the new sheriff may be having them now."

  "Murder," the sergeant said quietly. "Wouldn't you think so?"

  "But I won't tell you what I think," Jeremy said, his eyes gleaming, "although I might give you some advice if advice is wanted."

  "We are new here," the commissaris said and stuck his fork into his cake. "As new as you were once. But we are interested, of course, and your advice will be appreciated. We looked just now at the chain saw my brother-in-law was working with moments before he died. An unfamiliar tool to us. The Netherlands have few woods left and we try to leave them alone. The chain saw was stuck in a tree."

  "Nipped it. He probably didn't make a proper cut and the weight of the tree was leaning on the saw so that it couldn't be moved."

  "Exactly. So he pulled and pulled and slipped and fell. The snow was frozen hard, turned to ice. There wouldn't have been any tracks had somebody been with him."

  "He would have worn gloves. With gloves the hands don't slip on the saw's handle." Jeremy was staring at the commissaris. He seemed fascinated and amused.

  "He might have slipped all the same. Perhaps he wasn't a good man with the chain saw," the commissaris was saying.

  "No, he wouldn't have been. But even so, hard to prove something, isn't it?" Jeremy got up and stretched, rummaged about on the table, and found his pipe. "You might, mmpf mmpf, try to work on another victim, mmpf mmpf, seems you have choice enough."

  "Another victim? Which victim would you recommend?"

  The pipe was lit and sweet smoke crinkled through the cabin. "Let's see now," Jeremy said. "Who would I recommend? Mary Brewer, I think."

  There was a tap on the window. Jeremy opened it and let in the raven, which flew up and sat on one of the rafters, peering down at de Gier.

  "The lady who was drowned."

  "Yes. I saw her go out that day. The wind was getting stronger and she wasn't wearing a life jacket, as usual."