"Reggie?"
The commissaris nodded. 'There's an inconsistency there too. A young man spending all his time in the service of an older woman. Would he be well paid, do you think, sheriff?"
The sheriff shook his head. "I don't know. I can't check with the bank, although I might try. I know the manager, not too well though. But Reggie doesn't strike me as being very interested in money. The few times I've met him he only talked trees and shrubs. He's a dedicated gardener. The azalea gardens he made are beautiful. Even I can see that, and I know some of the men who work on the Wash's property in summer, Leroux, for instance. I have him in jail now. They all say that Reggie has done good work on the cape."
"But he was a guerrilla fighter in Vietnam. Perhaps he likes violence. Did Reggie make that sort of impression on you, sergeant?"
"No, sir. He seemed very quiet and well behaved."
"Jeremy," the sheriff said.
"Jeremy is a hermit and he doesn't like people bustling about. He shifted his cabin to the other side of the island. He may also be a violent man since he carries a revolver and has a rifle in his cabin. Not an ordinary rifle—I saw quite a big clip on it."
"That island is a fortress, sir. I've sailed around it. Jeremy's dogs followed my boat, running along the island's shore. The raven was out, and even the seals seemed interested in my movements."
"Paranoid?" de Gier asked.
"Yes, but perhaps he has a reason to be paranoid."
"The man is not insane," the commissaris said quietly. "I wouldn't even call him a dreamer. A practical man who has reasons behind whatever he does. Good reasons."
"That leaves us with Michael Astrinsky, sir."
"Another prime suspect, sheriff. And he left for the Bahamas the minute he saw the sergeant and myself sniffing about."
The sheriff got up. "I did some thinking last night, sir. About Astrinsky among others." He checked his watch. "I'll phone Bern. She has a little traveling agency, sells tickets for Enterprise Airlines from her restaurant. I'll give her a ring."
He dialed. "Beth?
"Sheriff here. Listen, Beth, you sold a ticket to Astrinsky the other day. Where to?
"Boston? Open return? Good. What's that?"
The sheriff found a pad and a pencil. "Yes. Thank you, Beth.
"Michael Astrinsky didn't go to the Bahamas. He's in Boston. Beth booked him into the Fosterhouse Hotel."
"A lie," the commissaris said. "Lies are what we have been looking for. Can I trouble you for another cup of coffee, sheriff?"
The sheriff poured and the commissaris stirred his cup triumphantly. "You did excellent thinking last night, sheriff. Can you come up with a reason why Astrinsky would have lied about the destination of his trip?"
"Yes, sir. Astrinsky is holding the land he bought from the murdered people's estates for a third party. Madelin told the sergeant as much, although her information wasn't definite. But you and the sergeant had marched into his office, introducing yourselves as police officers. I would deduct, from his behavior and the information his daughter supplied, plus the facts the cape is giving us, that Astrinsky is no longer interested in protecting the real owner of the land. He knows that we can find out whose name the deeds are now registered in. I obtained that information yesterday from the town clerk. The name on the deeds is Michael Astrinsky. But if Astrinsky forces the real owner to register the deeds, then Astrinsky is cleared, not all the way but part of the way. His behavior is still suspicious. He may not be the killer, but maybe he's working with the killer."
"We know where Astrinsky is, sheriff. If you like I can go to Boston, or the sergeant can go. The sergeant has some experience in following people. He can shave off his mustache and wear different clothes."
"My mustache?" De Gier asked.
"Why not, sergeant. Your trip was financed by the exchange fund. Shaving your mustache off would be a way to show your appreciation for the fund."
The sheriff stared at the wall. He got up, and felt a knot in the paneling.
"What do you think, sheriff?"
"It would be a long shot, sir. Astrinsky has probably seen the third party already. But perhaps he'll see him again. I don't want to waste your or the sergeant's time."
The commissaris got up too. "You can think about it, sheriff. I confess that I didn't want to get into this case at first, but its many aspects have been changing my mind. I'm certainly quite willing now. And the sergeant has his duty to consider, and the police fund that has been financed by taxpayers' money. Your taxpayers and ours. Let's be off, sergeant. Madelin will be waiting for us. Perhaps we can find that unfortunate lady's boat."
The sheriff hadn't been listening. "You mentioned that your sister had given you some information, sir."
"Ah yes. It may be nothing, but there is a lie involved, so it could possibly be of interest. When the sergeant and I had drinks at the Wash mansion, Mrs. Wash told us that Reggie had overturned her station wagon some time ago. But my sister tells a different story altogether. She claims that she was in her garden when she saw Jeremy coming ashore, accompanied by a dog. At about the same time she saw the Wash station wagon driving along with Janet Wash at the wheel. She didn't see anybody else in the car. The trees obscured her view, but she heard a commotion and went to the end of her garden to get a better look. There had been an accident. I asked Suzanne to take me to the exact place from where she had seen the accident and she also walked me to the spot where the event took place. There's some considerable distance so she can't have had a really close look, and as I said, mere are a lot of trees in the way. What happened was that the wagon slipped and careened off the road. It turned over several times until it was stopped by some alders. Suzanne did see that Jeremy ran to the wreck and helped Janet to free herself. There seemed to be nothing wrong with Janet. And Suzanne, being what she is, remembered that she had a roast in the oven and returned to the safety of her home."
The sheriff thought. "I see, sir. I see the lie. Reggie wasn't involved. Right. But I don't see that the lie fits in with any of our possible theories. Perhaps Janet didn't want to admit to being a bad driver and blamed Reggie. Was Reggie present when Janet told you that he had wrecked the car?"
"Yes, sheriff."
The sheriff scratched his chin. "A strange relationship indeed."
"Very," the commissaris said brightly. "Thank you for a truly marvelous breakfast, sheriff. I won't forget that lamb stew."
The sheriff smiled. "You're welcome, sir. Come again. Any time."
12
THE SMALL PLANE DROPPED A FEW FEET AND STEADIED ITself shakily. The commissaris smoked his cigar and watched the sea gulls, white specks above the open ocean. De Gier was studying the point of Cape Orca, approaching rapidly.
"Once more," Madelin said. "Monotonous, isn't it? Like ploughing a field. On and on, and back, and on and on."
"No matter," the commissaris said. "I am enjoying it." He looked back at the airplane's tail, a flimsy fin, probably made out of plastic. A toy plane, but it performed well.
De Gier pointed. "That must be the fox and his friends." They saw three black dots, busy with a tree in a white clearing. The flat motorboat had been anchored to the ice off the cape.
"And there's Janet," Madelin said, pushing the small two-handled gadget that steered the plane. "Behind the garage. And Reggie is splitting wood. She's supervising him I guess. Let's see what Jeremy is doing." The plane banked and reached the bay.
"Marvelous," the commissaris said. Madelin had pushed the throttle back and was circling. They saw Jeremy's house. It looked like a bird feeder. The bird was present too. It flew a hundred feet below the Cessna's wheels.
"He is playing with his dogs," de Gier said. "There they are, all three of them."
The plane headed out toward the ocean. "We can't go on for too long, gentlemen. There's more snow due. We've been at it for nearly two hours. I'm afraid the search is useless. Three dogs you said?"
"Yes, three."
"There should
be four of them."
"Three," the commissaris said. "We saw only three when we were on the island."
"There are four. Osiris and Isis, the parents, and Seth and Ra, the children. But you're right. Last time I was on the island I didn't see Osiris. Osiris is the best of them all. Jeremy always takes him when he goes to town. Shall we continue the search?"
The commissaris shook his head. "No, we can't go on forever. Look, there's Suzanne's garden. I saw Suzanne too, but she just went back into the house. Would you do me a favor, Madelin?"
"Certainly."
"The sergeant tells me that you buzzed Opdijk once when he was fishing off his shore. Would you mind repeating that performance?"
"You'll have to fasten your seat belt. You too, sergeant." The latches clicked.
"Ready?"
The commissaris was rubbing his hands. He bit his cigar.
"Ready."
The plane lost height rapidly and the Opdijk house and grounds grew. De Gier forced himself to keep his eyes open. The trees behind the cliffs rushed the small airplane. He saw the white bulge that was Opdijk's boat parked upside-down behind the cliffs. Then the engine roared and mere was nothing but pale blue sky and clouds.
The commissaris was laughing. "Excellent. You must have given him the fright of his life. Thank you." He turned around. "How did you like that, sergeant?"
"Fine," de Gier said and tried to smile. He had looked away as the plane shot up, convinced that they were about to hit the pines on the Opdijk grounds. But while his head was turned away in fear he had seen something.
"I think I saw an orange spot, sir. Over there, near those rocks with the broken pack ice around them."
"Good," Madelin said. The plane found the rocks. There was a definite orange spot. "Could be the boat," Madelin said. "Could be something else. There are a lot of empty plastic containers floating about. I suppose the big factory vessels throw them out, the Japanese and Russian fishing fleets that rob our seas empty. They're soap containers I believe, and some of the floats the lobstermen use are orange. Let's check again. I'll fly as low and slow as I can."
The commissaris and de Gier peered down. The orange spot, pushed up by the ice, was clearly visible. Madelin made the plane circle the rocks. "Yes, I know Mary's boat. That should be it. Eleven feet long, bright orange. The current must have brought it back, but it took its time. But it's caught by the ice. The sheriff will have to get at it with a pick. Shall we go back now?"
"One more favor, Madelin. Please circle Jeremy's Island before you return to the town's airstrip. Would you do that?"
The commissaris giggled when they saw the raven take off and wheel up in defiance and the dogs running on the path between Jeremy's cabin and the shore on the cape's side. "God must feel like this, high and comfortable, puffing on his cigar while the puny beings he created run about and get through their lives. Yes, a divine experience. I must really try to get on a Dutch police plane when we get back, sergeant. We'll watch the lawbreakers from above and wiggle our fingers at them. Tsk, tsk. Don't do this, don't do that!"
"It won't be very effective, sir."
"No, but it will give us a powerful feeling. Soaring while they grovel. What's Jeremy carrying there, a sign?"
"Yes, sir, a board on a stick. Could be a sign."
"He is propping it up between some rocks."
"Probably a KEEP OFF sign," Madelin said. "If I buzz it we can see what it says."
"Wait for him to get away."
She looked at the clouds. They were closer and lower, but most of the sky was still clear. "All right, we'll fly over the cape again and come back. We'll give him a few minutes." The fox and his helpers were rolling logs toward their boat. Reggie was still splitting wood. Janet came out of the house carrying a tray. "Coffee time. That reminds me, I brought a thermos. Would you pour, sergeant?"
De Gier poured three plastic mugs of steaming coffee while the plane followed the coastline, revealing clusters of small islands, long thin peninsulas of evergreen woods and patches of what appeared to be dry sticks, birches mostly, and everywhere the white ice, sometimes broken up into twisted patterns by the currents and the tides. They sipped the coffee and gazed at the desolate but majestic scene.
"Hold on to your mugs. I'll have to go over the hills, and there may be air pockets." But the plane flew on quietly, controlled by the light, adjusting touch of Made-lin's fingers. The commissaris looked at the girl's hands and at the small triangular face with the dark eyes smiling back at him. He wondered what she had been like when she was with the sergeant and was amazed that he didn't feel the slightest twinge of jealousy. He was really getting old. He wondered whether the absence of desire was just due to the gradual ebbing away of his life force or whether he had reached some other level, where the mind indulges in abstractions rather than in actual activity. He shook his head sadly. The possibility wasn't encouraging.
The plane flew toward the sea and continued its swing, leveling out slowly. The cape was in view again and Jeremy's Island beyond the cape. They could see the sign standing by itself on the island's bare ledge. Jeremy, escorted by the three Dobermans, was halfway between his cabin and the sign.
"Down we go." The commissaris glanced at the speedometer. Over a hundred miles an hour and going up. Then he looked at the sign. There were big white letters on a dark background: BEWARE THE BEAR.
Madelin laughed. "Bear! Jeremy has no bear."
"Bear?" the commissaris asked. "There are bears here, aren't there?"
"Certainly, but they'll all be asleep now, hibernating in their caves. Sure we have bears, big black bears, up to five hundred pounds, over five hundred pounds sometimes."
"And Jeremy never had a bear?"
"No. A bear would be hard to keep on the island. It would swim ashore. And bears are sexy. They become bad tempered when they don't have a mate. To keep two bears, and their pups, would be a major undertaking."
"It rhymes," de Gier said. "Maybe he likes poetry. Beware the bear. Take care, take care."
"A joke," the commissaris said. "That's nice. To make a sign and carry it for a long distance, and set it between rocks, and go home again. That's the way to live, to have time to play."
"He is fun," Madelin said. "He spent months last year building a pile of firewood. He had a lot of twisted logs and he stacked and restacked them, and made all sorts of weird shapes, and then he got some cow skulls from a farmer and stuck them on, and he had driftwood on top of the pile. It became a gigantic structure. He was using a ladder in the end. I used to fly out specially to follow die pile's changing manifestations. He even took the whole stack down again and rebuilt it because he wanted the moon to light it up from a certain angle. I came out at night to see the final effect. It was gruesome. The three skulls stared and caught the moonlight, and the driftwood was like manes on a lion, a prehistoric, three-headed lion."
"We didn't see that," de Gier said.
"No, it was firewood, and when the winter came he ripped it all apart and sawed it into foot-and-a-half logs for his cookstove."
"Good," the commissaris said. "He didn't take photographs?"
"No. He just likes to play around. But there's a lot of sense in what he does. Only it takes time to understand what he means, and he never likes to explain."
The plane was landing. The sheriff's cruiser was parked next to the corrugated iron hangar.
The sheriff helped the commissaris down. "Have a good flight, sir?"
"Very. Beautiful land, sheriff, and sea."
"Did you find the boat?"
"Yes, the sergeant saw it when we were ready to give up."
"Near the rocks on the southeast side of the point of the cape, sheriff," Madelin said. "Here." She showed him a map.
"I'll go out this afternoon. Can I have a word with you, sir?"
He guided the commissaris by the elbow in the direction of the airfield's office while Madelin and the sergeant pushed the plane into the hangar. The sheriff looked over his shoulde
r.
"I didn't want to talk in Madelin's presence. This has to do with her father. I know she doesn't seem to like him much, but still... I ran into the town clerk this morning and he told me he had a special-delivery letter from Boston, sent by a company called Boston Better Holdings. The envelope contained all the deeds of the dead people's property, except Opdijk's, of course, and the letter asked the clerk to register them. I checked the dates of sale. Michael Astrinsky sold the various properties to Boston Better Holdings, in each case about a week after he bought them. Astrinsky made no profit on the deals, so I imagine he worked on a percentage paid to him by the sellers."
"You have the address of this Boston company, sheriff?"
"Yes, sir. 73 Varsity Street. I've lived in Boston. Varsity Street is a shimmy alley, not too far from the Beacon Hill area. I drew a map for you. Perhaps you'd like to go there, you and the sergeant, and speak to the president. He signed the letter. His name is James D. Symons."
"Very good, sheriff. I suppose we should go as soon as possible."
"Yes, sir. That's why I came out to die strip. I booked the two of you on the afternoon flight of Enterprise Airlines. I spoke to their pilot on the radio. The weather is deteriorating but he's coming in all the same. He'll be here in about an hour and a half. I thought we might go back and pick up your and the sergeant's luggage. I've also booked you into the Fosterhouse Hotel, the same hotel where Astrinsky is staying. But I can cancel the bookings if you want to go later, or not at all. This is my job, but I can't get away from Jameson. Or the sergeant could go by himself if you prefer."
"No, no, we'll go, sheriff. Let's get the sergeant."
The sheriff looked at the hangar. "He'll come, sir. We can wait in the cruiser."
The Maine Massacre Page 15
