The Maine Massacre Read online

  "Why don't we stay here?" the commissaris asked when they were back on Main Street. "That came to half of what any Amsterdam restaurant would have charged and some sloppy waiter would have popped the bill under my nose before I had finished the pie. Good pie too. She must have baked it herself in that museum piece."

  "But they seem a little slow here. We spent hours in there."

  "What's time, sergeant? There must be a lot of time here; back home there isn't anymore. The telephone rings it away and people like you grab it. With questions and bits of paper. Grijpstra takes my time too. With his scheming and conniving."

  "He meant well, sir."

  "Yes. Here we are, sergeant. I haven't got my glasses on. What do those cards say? Here, they are stuck in the door."

  De Gier read the signs. The first said, "Out, back in ten minutes," and the second said, "Closed for the winter."

  The commissaris tried the door and found it unlocked. A girl opened the second door for them. "Come in, gentlemen. It's very cold out there. I've finally managed to get this office warm. Please sit down. What can I do for you?"

  De Gier gaped at the girl while the commissaris stated his business. He knew the girl, he knew her very well, he knew she wouldn't be in his day-to-day memory, but he had gone deeper down already. His dreams, but further back. Madelin's face seemed to be all eyes, large dark eyes. He had seen the eyes before. And the small slender body too, in tight corduroy jeans and a soft sweater, so supple that he was sure it would wilt if he breathed out with force. He guessed her age, twenty-five perhaps. He admired the smooth skin, stretched over small cheekbones and a dainty but firm jaw, and her pointed chin, a perfect base for the triangular face. He looked back at her eyes and recognized the girl: the princess caught and kept by the dragon. He had lost the book but the page came back in full detail. The girl was in a cave, chained to a rock, and the dragon was breathing foul fumes at her. She was staring bravely into the dragon's face. When he had the book he couldn't read—he must have been four or five years old. His mother and his older sister had read the story to him so many times that he knew the words by heart, but he still carried the book around and made them read the tale. The dragon was slain by a knight with long black hair. He had hated the knight almost as much as he had hated the dragon, and he finally destroyed both by rubbing the page with a wet finger, patiently, until the images faded away. But he hadn't rubbed out Madelin.

  She was dressed differently then, in a semitransparent dress. She had excited him then. She still excited him now.

  She wasn't in a cave now. He looked about. The office could have been anywhere. The best and most expensive metal and imitation wood desks. A thick wall-to-wall carpet. Brand-new office machinery. Walls paneled in veneer. One wall carried a map of Woodcock County, an antique map, cracked in places, with a wealth of detail and handwritten place names. He got up and found Cape Orca and the bay and studied the fish that had been drawn into the bay's waves. A large fish, black on top, white below. Smooth, sleek, with a wicked mouth full of grinning teeth, on its leisurely way to take another tasty morsel off the rapidly approaching shore.

  "The Opdijk house," Madelin said thoughtfully. "And you are Pete Opdijk's brother-in-law. What a terrible accident that was. We were all very upset. Dad went to the funeral. I didn't know Pete so well and I didn't want to see his wife cry. I am sure my father is interested in the Opdijk house. I'll telephone. We live in a house just behind this office. Just a minute, please."

  She replaced the telephone. "He's on his way. So Suzanne wants to go back to Amsterdam, does she? I've heard about Amsterdam, a magical city, I believe. Are you and your friend from Amsterdam, sir?"

  "We are, miss."

  "You're in business out there?"

  "No, Miss Astrinsky. I am a police officer and so is Sergeant deGier."

  Madelin's voice stayed on the same polite level. "Police officers? How exciting! What branch of the police, sir?"

  "Homicide, Miss Astrinsky."

  Madelin smiled at the sergeant, and de Gier was preparing to return the smile when the back door of the room opened.

  A blusterer, de Gier thought when it was his turn to shake the heavy man's hand. The realtor had a loud, deep voice that hooted sonorously, as if he had swallowed a Swiss Alpine trumpet. Michael Astrinsky said the right things. Very sorry that the accident happened. Opdijk had been a good friend. Good old Pete. A fellow Blue Crustacean. Friendship based on many years of mutual understanding. Would sure miss him. Poor Suzanne. Glad to meet her brother. Suzanne often talked about her brother. Here he was, all the way from across the ocean. House to be sold. A pity that Suzanne would leave too, but understandable under the circumstances. Yes.

  "Did you know that Suzanne's brother is a police officer, dad?"

  Astrinsky lit a cigarette. He dropped it. "No, are you really?"

  "Yes, Mr. Astrinsky. From Amsterdam."

  Madelin looked at de Gier. "Homicide, dad. Mr. de..."

  "Gier," de Gier said.

  "The sergeant is also a police officer, dad."

  Astrinsky had lit the cigarette at the wrong end. Madelin took it out of his mouth and killed it in the ashtray on the desk.

  "The sergeant is studying with the local police, Mr. Astrinsky, and I came out to help Suzanne. The house is to be sold as soon as possible. Suzanne asked me to come and see you," the commissaris said.

  Astrinsky lit another cigarette and looked sad. "A quick sale, yes, that could be arranged. I might be interested myself, but, unfortunately, values aren't what they used to be some years ago. This is a cold comer of the country, with a very short summer season. We used to have a lot of people summering up here, but the fashion has changed. They seem to prefer the warmer states in the South; Florida, California. The sun states offer holidays all year round and here, well, you can see for yourself. The climate is so fierce that it seems to be out to kill us all some times. Just too damn cold."

  "I see."

  "I could list the house, of course, and try to sell it in the summer."

  "No, Suzanne wants to buy an apartment in Amsterdam, and she needs a lot of cash now."

  Astrinsky walked around his desk, his hands in the pockets of an immaculate tweed jacket. A well-dressed man, but flabby.

  "I could take the house off her hands for cash, but I couldn't pay more than, say, thirty thousand."

  "Thirty thousand," the commissaris said.

  "In summer I might get a little more perhaps, but it wouldn't be cash. The trouble with the Cape Orca properties is that they don't seem to move at all. There are a number of empty houses on the cape. There's some problem with the right of way. The rest of the cape belongs to Janet Wash, and, technically, she owns the roads. They're maintained by the town, but Janet gets the bill. She has never been difficult about allowing other residents to use the roads, but newcomers don't like to feel restricted."

  "I see."

  Astrinsky brightened up. "But I would like to do something for Suzanne. The station wagon will be for sale too, and I can buy it at a good price. My own car is ready to be junked. I would pay whatever it's worth. The car is a year old. I would spend, say, sixty percent of the new price."

  "Thank you. Very good. I can't decide without consulting my sister, of course, but I will contact you soon."

  Madelin showed them to the door. When de Gier turned, he saw Astrinsky studying the map on the wall. The muscles in the realtor's big face were working.

  "Your statement as to what we do for a living shook him somewhat, sir, but he recovered quickly."

  The commissaris marched on, enveloped in his coat.

  "So what, sergeant," the commissaris said when they had reached their cars. "So Astrinsky feels guilty. But we all feel guilty. Don't you remember that you would feel a tremor down your back when you were a little boy and a constable passed you on his bicycle? You hadn't seen him, but suddenly he is there. It is drizzling and the road is wet and the bicycle's tires make that soft nasty hiss. And there's the
uniform and the man's eyes, watching you. Didn't you feel guilty?'

  "Yes, sir."

  "About something you had done a long time ago. Maybe you broke a window and didn't tell anyone. Or you stole something. The constable doesn't know, doesn't care. He is just riding his bike. I am just selling a house."

  De Gier opened the door of the Dodge.

  "What are your plans, sergeant?"

  "Nothing in particular, sir. The sheriff told me to familiarize myself with the scene."

  "Fine. Leave your car and come with me. My sister and I are invited by a lady called Janet Wash, any time this afternoon or evening, for a drink. Since she owns most of Cape Orca, we should meet her. I already have, but I was half asleep then. I am sure she won't mind if I bring an extra guest. She is curious about you anyway, since she saw your plane and the sheriff said something about you."

  "Ah, so that's how you knew, sir."

  "Yes, sergeant, and Grijpstra confirmed my suspicion. I phoned the poor man."

  "The scheming and conniving poor man, sir."

  The commissaris put a hand on de Gier's arm. "All right, sergeant. I know I am a cripple, but 1 can still get around. And I was pleased to see you. It's just that I get a little depressed sometimes, as you well know."

  "Yes, sir. I know, sir. I understand."

  "That's very good of you. Now, we'll go and have this polite drink with Mrs. Wash. We should also find our way to that island, Jeremy's Island. What did you think of the price Astrinsky mentioned?"

  "Thirty thousand, sir?"

  "Yes, it sounds like a lot, but I am sure it isn't. I don't share Opdijk's taste, and I certainly won't have anything to do with Suzanne's complete lack of taste. But the house is comfortable, well-built, spacious, with several bathrooms and central heating and more rooms in the basement and a garage and a woodshed and a swimming pool even. What would they want with a swimming pool? The bay starts at the end of their grounds. No, thirty thousand can't be right."

  "You might get somebody else to look at the property, sir. Jim would know, the sheriff I mean."

  "You have a radio in your car. Didn't you say so just now?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "See if he can send out another realtor. Even if the man doesn't want to buy it, we can get an idea of the right price."

  "Certainly, sergeant," die sheriff said. "I have a friend in the next county. I'll ask him to come over tomorrow morning."

  "Thank you, we'll ask the commissaris' sister to be sure to be home then."

  "Okay. I am glad you've started. You're doing well so far. I am glad you met Madelin. She's the local beauty, but she would be a beauty anywhere. Did you like her?"

  "Yes, Jim. We're going to have a drink with Mrs. Wash now, and the commissaris is thinking of visiting Jeremy's Island some time, maybe tomorrow. We lost some time at Beth's Diner."

  The sheriff chuckled. "That place is a trap. You're a true deputy already. If I can't find any of my men I phone Beth, they're sure to be there. Did you say Jeremy's Island?"

  "Yes. We'll visit the hermit."

  "If the old gopher lets you. Be careful, he keeps dogs. You know how to make contact with him?"

  "No."

  "Go down to the shore. There's a path leading down close to the entrance of the cape. A path marked by red reflectors on rods. You'll find a shed at the end of the path. You'll find a Very pistol in the shed. Fire a green shell over the island and he should come out. He has a rowboat to cross the channel with."

  "Thank you, Jim."

  "You're welcome. Good hunting."

  6

  A SUDDEN BUMP KNOCKED THE RACCOON HAT INTO DE Gier's eyes and he took it off and put it on the empty seat next to him. The station wagon was performing well. They had been driving for some minutes through the interior of Cape Orca on a narrow lane that followed the contours of the land, winding wildly. The commissaris was handling the car as if it were a vehicle on a planet in another galaxy. He kept on changing gears and only braked if there seemed to be no choice. De Gier amused himself by watching the old man's antics. Suzanne sat next to her brother, and her small head bobbed with the movements of the car. From the back the two heads looked identical. De Gier felt a deep admiration for the commissaris, an admiration that had grown through the many years that he had worked under him, and he had difficulty in accepting that the commissaris' sister was stupid. But he could find no other word. The woman seemed to have no interests at all, with the exception of her craving for porcelain objects. He had entered her house briefly. The commissaris had introduced him. Suzanne had smiled. How nice, another Dutchman. She had touched his hand but hadn't bothered to memorize his name. She had prattled on about her coming departure and had asked about her brother's visit to the real estate office. De Gier had seen her living room and its fearful quest for coziness, for protection, for being away from bad things and clinging to good things. Everything in the room was nice, nice and warm, nice and colorful, nice and tasty, nice and comfortable. He had studied the woman's screwed-up, wrinkled face and darting glinting eyes and pronounced her crazy, like a hundred thousand other Dutch old ladies back home who mumble their way through supermarkets, tram rides, happy-end movies, and each other's everlasting company. But he couldn't shrug the woman's craziness away, for it concerned him because it concerned the commissaris, and he was supposed to be assisting his chief.

  The car stopped.

  "Look, sergeant!"

  He gasped. Two deer stood in the path, a doe and her almost full-grown fawn, two delicate shapes, high on their thin legs. The animals stared at the car, immobile for a moment, and then jumped. Their movements were synchronized into a single leap, and he saw their white tails melt away into the undergrowth.

  "Deer," Suzanne said. "It's the hunting season again, isn't it? I've heard bangs quite close to the house. But there are always bangs; the hunters come out of season too. That's why I don't like to go out so much. Mr. Jones was near his own house when he got shot. Reggie says that rifle bullets travel for miles. It's just like die war when we couldn't go out because the antiaircraft guns splattered shell fragments all over town. Do you remember, Jan?"

  "Yes, dear. Are we close now?"

  "I think so, Jan. Drive carefully. There are so many accidents here. I don't know whether this car is insured. Opdijk sometimes forgot things."

  "It is insured, Suzanne. I saw the policy last night with your papers in Opdijk's briefcase."

  De Gier made a face and patted the raccoon hat, running his fingers through the thick fur of the tail. There would be raccoons in the woods. The sheriff had told him about the animals and about the locals who hunted them. He wondered how he would go about hunting a raccoon, a wild animal at home in the woods. He imagined himself crashing and tumbling about between the trees, shooting at shadows. His hand strayed to his armpit, but the familiar bulge of the small automatic pistol wasn't there. He could hunt a man in Amsterdam. He supposed the same principle of hunting would apply here. Study the prey, find out what its habits are, track its paths, and then get in its way and shoot it down, aiming for the legs.

  But here the hunters were out to kill. They skinned and boned the corpse, and ate the meat and used the fur. A different routine, a different environment. A city slicker in the wild woods. He didn't think he would be able to help the sheriff much. He thought of the sheriff's heartiness and hospitality. A friendly man, but also a calculating man. The sheriff meant to get to the murky bottom of the Cape Orca file, left to him to sort out. No, not to sort out. To put in a drawer and forget. But meanwhile Pete Opdijk had died and two foreign policemen had popped over the horizon. The sheriff meant to use his visitors. The sergeant had already been converted into a useful tool, a spy sniffing about and reporting back to the jailhouse. If anything went wrong the sheriff wasn't to blame. If anything went right the sheriff would reap the credit. De Gier remembered one of Adjutant Grijpstra's early lessons: "Always look for the lowest possible motivation, sergeant, and then you are usually righ
t. If you are proved wrong you have looked too high." A tough truth, but a truth all the same.

  The station wagon moved on slowly. De Gier lit a cigarette. Suzanne coughed and waved at the smoke. He stubbed the cigarette out.

  "There!" the commissaris said.

  De Gier was impressed. The mansion was big, two stories high and L-shaped, but not by any means clumsy. The long white clapboards covering its structure gave it an austere touch, but several cupolas broke the long lines and the wing had its roof softened by graceful dormer windows. The main cupola grew into a spire topped by a weathervane, a golden bird sitting on a cross. The heavy snow smoothed the general impression of imposing sternness, and rows of long icicles attached to several lanterns illuminating a cleared driveway and parking lot. A battered pickup and a new station wagon of the same make as the Opdijk car were parked near the fieldstone steps of the porch leading to the front double doors, sculptured m oak and adorned with simple garlands. There was no sign of the Cadillac that had caught the commissaris' fancy.

  Reggie Tammart opened the doors and Janet Wash awaited her guests in the hall. The commissaris explained the sergeant's presence and introduced him. De Gier held the old lady's long cool hand. A graceful woman, tall and straight but without any stiffness, splendid in a long woolen dress of a rose color that contrasted with her long white hair. De Gier liked her even more when she walked ahead, sweeping through the hall, guiding her guests to a room warmed by an open lire in which four-foot logs hissed and crackled. He thought of pictures in old English country magazines. Faded sepia pictures of a world that seemed unbelievable and very likely no longer existed, now that castles had become state property and lords and ladies were public servants, paid to prance about at set times while the crowd was herded along under the watchful eyes of uniformed custodians. But here the scene was alive. He found a corner near the fireplace and warmed his back while Reggie poured drinks from crystal decanters with silver labels on chains and stirred sausages in a copper saucepan heated by a burner.