The Maine Massacre

4

The Commissaris was awake, but not quite. He struggled to remain in the in-between state of awareness where thoughts are sharp and definite and abstractly pure and can be experienced and enjoyed without the necessity of bothering to translate them into the always-false world of activity. He wriggled his toes and tensed and released the muscles of his hips and back. The padded blanket dropped back and a warm draft drifted over his body. There was no pain, not even the slightest twinge in the nerve ends of his legs, the heart and ever-productive source of his rheumatism. But happiness, by definition, cannot last and he knew that his hand would raise the blanket and his brain would order his body to step into the room, and he dreaded the moment.

The door opened.

"Jan?"

"Yes, Suzanne, I am awake."

"I brought you some coffee and orange juice."

"Good."

"I'll put it down here. When you're ready to come down we can eat. I have some frozen hutspot that can be warmed up quickly."

He shivered. Hutspot, a stew of carrots and potatoes and shredded meat, always reminded him of vomit drying on the cobblestones of an Amsterdam alley.

The little shape padded over the carpet. He heard the tray click as it hit the night table.

"You slept for eight hours, Jan, but you had such a long journey. Why don't you go back to sleep again?"

He sat up. "No. I think I'll start on your husband's papers. You said you had them all together. Would you mind bringing them up?"

She came back with a briefcase filled with different-colored cardboard files, and he opened them and glanced through their contents. He grunted miserably. All so simple and straightforward and Suzanne hadn't even looked at the policies. He totaled the monthly payments the pension funds and insurance policies would render and raised his eyebrows. Suzanne would be able to live in style. He checked the last bank statement and the stubs of a checkbook. A few hundred dollars' balance, but his eyebrows shot up again when he saw the total of Opdijk's savings account. Very nice indeed. No trouble there.

"Suzanne?"

She answered his shout and came into the room again.

"Do you know if the doctor sent you a death certificate? I will need several copies to make the insurance policies pay out."

Suzanne began to cry quietly.

The commissaris cleared his throat. He had forgotten that he should commiserate. "I am sorry, dear, but I do need the certificates."

"Yes, Jan, I understand. I'll get them. They were addressed to me and they're in my cabinet. Just a moment, Jan. Do you need paper and envelopes and stamps too? To write to the insurance companies?"

"Yes, please."

He got up and put on his dressing gown and slippers and winked at himself in the mirror. Suzanne still had her wits about her. She would cry, but she would also get her money. Oh well. He sipped the coffee and rushed out of the room. He spat the coffee into the toilet. Boiled, weak, too much milk. He came back and tried the orange juice. That was fine. Perhaps he could live on orange juice for a few days. If only the house could be sold quickly. He hoped that the furniture could be auctioned. There would also be the car he had seen when they arrived, a sturdy four-wheel-drive vehicle, a station wagon, in good condition but hard to sell he supposed. Everybody around would already have a car. He would have to persuade her to make some sacrifices, but he could always work on her fear of staying. Fear and greed, two powerful urges he might be able to manipulate to everybody's benefit.

She brought the writing materials and he sat down and wrote the letters and licked the stamps. He might be able to post them after dinner if she would let him use her car. He lit a cigar and ambled about the room. A nice room, but the wallpaper was a little elaborate. Suzanne woud have bought it in Holland. A farmer and his wife, in folksy clothes and wooden shoes, doing a jig against the background of a windmill. Good God. He looked away, but the design repeated itself. The jig continued on all the room's walls. The commissaris stared in horror. The farmer and his wife were smiling inanely, a thousand times, many thousands of times. He would have to try to stay away from the walls. But what else was there to look at? The windows. He pulled the shades and sighed with relief as the opaque linen snapped up and rolled itself on a bar.

The view destroyed the jig of the imbecilic couple. He sighed with wonder as he admired the bay below, its ice mirroring the starlight. An icy, immense wasteland of pure beauty, stretching away to a shore covered by a growth of what appeared to be evergreens surrounding an island. The island sloped up to a hill. There were no lights, but a high jetty stuck out into the bay. He looked up just as a moving cloud revealed the half moon, and when his eyes dropped down again the ice of the bay had become a light shade of, of what? Mauve? A very soft blue? The color seemed hard to define. He forgot the question. Why name the color? He stayed in front of the window until his sister called him, and he had time to see the narrow channel in the ice between the island and his side of the shore. The channel would run out to the ocean. He also saw the ridges and domes where ledges and rocks had been frozen over and become raised when the tide went down. He shook his head when he remembered the simple beaches of Holland, a hundred miles of yellow sand protected on one side by monotonous dunes and attacked on the other by steady breakers. He had always liked the Dutch beaches, but this was a different beauty, a distorted beauty almost, dating back to the beginning of the planet, when the first shapes were created out of turmoil.

"Jan?"

There was a sob even in that one-syllable word. He promised himself not to be irritated by his sister's gift to find suffering in anything. He remembered Suzanne as a child, a girl, a young woman. He had been able to find a way to put up with her misery then. All he had to do now was remember the recipe and repeat the performance.

"Yes, I'll be coming down, dear. Just let me shave and dress. It won't take long."

"The food is on the table, Jan."

"Very well." She would get her way. He wondered how Opdijk had put up with her sniffling approach. Would he have hit her from time to time? But Suzanne didn't look battered. Perhaps Opdijk had found ways of keeping himself busy.

"What did Opdijk do here, Suzanne?"

"He did everything, Jan. He chopped wood and he worked in the garden and he often went to town. He was the president of the club-that took a lot of his time. They have boats and things, and there were dinners and parties. I didn't always go."

"Club? What club?"

"The Blue Crustaceans. Opdijk was always very social. The doctor said he should be more careful, his heart… But he just slipped on the rocks."

"Had he been drinking?"

"No, he only drank after five. It happened in the morning. He had gone down to cut a dead tree, and when he didn't come back for coffee I went to look for him. The chain saw was still going. I couldn't understand it. The saw was halfway in a log, but he wasn't there and when I looked down I saw him, a long way down, on the rocks. He was looking at me, but his eyes were dead. Oh, Jan…"

"Yes. We'll have a look at the spot tomorrow. Slippery down there, I suppose."

"Yes, Jan."

After dinner he looked through the rest of the files and checked Opdijk's bookkeping, which had been kept up to the day preceding the man's death. He found the deed of the house stating that the total property was just under three acres. There were no mortgage payments in the tidily kept records. Opdijk owned his property outright. It would make the sale easier.

"Is there a real estate agency in town, Suzanne?"

She looked up from die sock she was knitting. "Yes, Jan, Mr. Astrinsky's office."

"I'll see him tomorrow."

"He is a nice man, Jan, also a member of the club. Opdijk knew him well. They sometimes drank together, too much I am afraid. I was always so worried when he would come home late, but he would drive slowly and he always made it."

"Any other realtors?"

"No, there's only Mr. Astrinsky."

"I see. So I can't make them bid against each other. Well, there's no hurry, dear. You are well off. We can have the house listed, and it can be sold later."

"But I do want an apartment in Amsterdam, Jan, not a room. Will there be enough to buy an apartment?"

"There's a lot of money in the savings account."

"Will it buy me a nice apartment?"

He thought, clicking the pencil against his teeth. "Yes, there is enough for a down payment. You can easily get a mortgage for the difference."

"I don't want any debts, Jan. I always hated debts, and I would like a three-room apartment."

"There isn't enough cash for that."

"Can't you sell this house right away?"

"Yes," he said. "Yes. Don't worry, dear. I'll see what can be done and then I'll do it."

"I am so glad you came, Jan."

He had his doubts. A forced sale would drop the value, but it would be useless to try to advise her. Under the sadness there was an iron will, misdirected of course, but that wasn't his affair. He had committed himself to be of help and it had to be the help she wanted. The apartment she had in mind might cost over fifty. Still, he wouldn't throw her money away unless she forced him to. And there was the matter of time-he couldn't stay too long. He sighed, got up to look out the living room window, and sighed again. The moon was higher now and the bay had subtly changed. He mentioned the island, and she came and joined him at the window.

"That's Jeremy's Island. I've never been there. Opdijk went a few times, but he didn't like Jeremy; called him a filthy old man."

"Is he?"

"Yes, in a way. He lives there by himself, and I suppose he doesn't have a bathroom or electricity or anything. But he is very polite. He always waves when he comes by in his boat."

"You know him at all?"

"Not really, Jan. I don't know anybody except Janet. She comes to tea and I've been to her house, not often."

He left the window reluctantly. "Can I use the station wagon, Suzanne? I'll mail the letters. I've asked the pension and insurance people to send the money to you care of my address in Amsterdam. Once you have your apartment you can contact them again or I'll do it for you."

"Yes," she said. "How nice. In Amsterdam. I've been so homesick, Jan."

He looked at the stacks of Dutch magazines, at the reproductions of paintings of canals, bridges, dikes, views of Amsterdam streets looking cheap in plastic frames. He had seen the kitchen and looked at shelves filled with Dutch cans, jars, pots. She hadn't even changed her food, after that many years in another environment, in America, the land of plenty. An expensive household to run if everything has to be imported. He was surprised that Opdijk had allowed her to waste money like that. Perhaps the man hadn't been as tough as he had imagined him to be.

She went with him to the garage and waited until the station wagon's engine caught, then opened the doors. He drove too fast at first and the wheels spun, but he shifted down and only one wheel sunk into the ditch at the side of the path and the car growled back again on firm ground. The mailbox was at the end of the road. He promised himself to drive around again in the morning to determine the layout of the land. It would be silly to face the realtor without any ideas at all. The man might be honest, but even an honest man gets tempted when faced by an idiot.

When he got back Suzanne was sitting in front of the fireplace wringing her hands. Her original misery seemed to have acquired an additional twist. She seemed close to hysteria. He sat down next to her and held her hand.

"What is it, dear?"

"They all died, Jan, all of them. I must get away. They are all dead now. There's only me left, me."

"All of them?"

She told her story in bursts, trailing off every now and then until he patiently guided her back. He asked as little as possible, waiting for the information to fit. Gradually the pattern emerged, a definite report with a beginning and an end. The end was Opdijk's death. But the event seemed to relate to other events. When, two hours later, she had calmed down and they had drunk coffee he had made himself and he had seen her safely to her room, he went to his own and made some notes. The notes had six headings and each heading was a name. He read the notes to himself and lit a fresh cigar and puffed and underlined a word here and there. Then he wrote them again, slowly and meticulously.

Six houses on one line, south shore of Cape Orca. That was the main clue of course, the connection, the thread. Only one house occupied now; the Opdijk house. The others empty and two of them burned down. Strange, wasn't it? Valuable property, left to rot, left for the storms to blow through, for vandals to desecrate and ultimately destroy, to burn. Burn, that was the limit; they wouldn't burn by themselves. Right. Now the former occupants.

Case number one. A Mr. Jones. He couldn't put a face to the man. Suzanne had hardly known Jones, but Suzanne never knew anybody except herself, her poor suffering self. The commissaris wondered if Suzanne had known her husband. The bedrooms were separate; they might have been separate from the start. Why would Opdijk have put up with Suzanne? Did he want a housekeeper and no more? But Suzanne wasn't much of a housekeeper either. The house was clean of course, and fairly luxurious but otherwise-a hellhole of bad taste. Well, never mind. Mr. Jones was dead. An old man living by himself in a small, good bungalow set at the end of the Cape, overlooking the water like the other houses. A man who kept to himself. Found dead in his own woods, shot through the head. Two years ago. During the hunting season. Bullet came from a deer rifle. Accident, pity. According to Suzanne the house wasn't sold. Nobody else moved in, and eventually it burned down.

Case number two. The death of Mary Brewer, a woman about sixty years old, also retired. Miss Brewer liked to sail and to take her eleven-foot boat out on the bay. The Coast Guard had warned her several times and she had been fined for not wearing a life jacket or taking proper precautions, but she kept on sailing for the horizon and one day she didn't come back. Her corpse turned up bashed by the waves and the rocks and partly eaten by sharks or raccoons. Raccoons, the commissaris said, and he remembered how Suzanne had pronounced the word. Clearly the animals disgusted her. The commissaris had seen raccoons in the Amsterdam zoo. Very likable, he had thought, small dainty bears with agile hands. But they ate Mary's corpse. Well, why shouldn't they? The lady was dead. Another accident. And again the house found no new occupants. It still stood there. The furniture and trimmings had been removed by the heirs, but the empty shell was left.

Case number three. The disappearance of Captain Schwartz. But there was a difference to the pattern here and more was known. Schwartz, a genuine captain of some U.S. army outfit, retired, became a Nazi, and liked to march around his grounds with a swastika band around his arm. He also wore a German-style cap. There were no other Nazis in Woodcock County, but the captain occasionally went to New York to meet friends. He also wrote articles for the party monthly in which he propagated Nazism as the solution for American crime and corruption and urged his countrymen to conquer the world and kill the Jews. An evil man, but, as far as he had been able to deduce from Suzanne's incoherent rambling, probably insane and unable to realize his preaching in any way besides writing to be read by other madmen. His neighbors would have no contact with him and the local store wouldn't serve him, but he didn't mind and did his shopping in the next county. If he wanted any conversation he talked to a portrait of Adolf Hitler, hung in the hall of his house. But his activity attracted hostility from Jameson's rowdies. Suzanne talked about a gang. She even had a name for the rebels of Jameson: the BMF gang. The commissaris didn't know what the letters stood for. A motorcycle gang if he interpreted Suzanne's information correctly. And the leader of this gang, a young man called the fox, a particularly nasty character according to Suzanne, was reputed to have visited Schwartz and possibly threatened him, for the Nazi suddenly left and was never seen again. The captain was supposed to be living in New York now. A relative had come out and perhaps sold the house, but it was still empty. Suzanne wasn't clear about the timing of Captain Schwartz's troubles and subsequent flight. Some years ago, she'd said.

Case number four. A gentleman by the name of Carl Davidson who lived by himself after his wife died of a heart attack in the hospital. Davidson liked to walk in the woods and might stay out camping for a few days. Because he lived alone and had few social contacts he wasn't missed until his frozen corpse was found by wandering locals. It had been snowing heavily and there were no tracks.

Case number five. Another old man, by the name of Paul Ranee. Unlike the others, who all originated in New York or Washington, D.C., Ranee was a local, a retired carpenter who had built his own small cabin between the bungalows of his neighbors. He had been an alcoholic but managed to stop drinking when told to do so by his doctor. Ranee was sickly and liked to stay oh his own grounds. Toward the end of his life he was running short of money. After not drinking liquor for several years, he suddenly died of alcoholic poisoning. His cabin burned down some months after his death.

Case number six. Pete Opdijk, sawing down a dead tree, slipped, fell off the cliffs, and broke his spine and head.

The commissaris reread his notes and added a few full stops and commas. Then he whistled, blew a smoke ring, put his finger through it, and made some joyful but inarticulate sounds. But then his expression changed and became a mixture of sadness and indifference. He remembered that he wasn't in Amsterdam and that the detectives of the murder brigade weren't around to be summoned to join him in a conference. This string of deaths had nothing to do with him. It might be of interest to the local authorities and the local authorities wouldn't be altogether witless. He recalled the face of the small sheriff, impassive in the sleek cruiser. A fine pair of eyes, calm and penetrating. Surely the man wouldn't just float around in his power symbol while willful death repeated itself in house after house on the shore of a peninsula well within his jurisdiction. Or would accidents really happen in such an alarming, repetitious pattern? The victims were all elderly.

He studied his cigar carefully. Elderly. Statistics proved that the elderly often want to die, so they become accident-prone or actually commit suicide. Suicide requires an act of will. It is easier to become careless. And to be careless in Woodcock County might be very dangerous. Why on earth would Pete Opdijk pick a cold day to cut down a dead tree, walk on slippery ice to get to the tree, and work on the tree while he was balancing on the edge of a precipice? And why would an old man like Carl Davidson wander about in the woods? Did he want the blizzard to sneak up on him and kiss him to death?

He put his cigar between his thin lips. No, no. Opdijk wouldn't have spent a fortune on a comfortable bungalow if he meant to have an accident. And what about the other houses? Why wouldn't anyone move into them? Why were they left until they burned down? And who was burning them down? Vandals?

He rubbed out his cigar. "Bah."

"Yes, Jan? Anything wrong?" He shivered, he hadn't noticed her coming in.

"No, dear, just going through my notes."

"There aren't any complications, are there, Jan? Oh, I wish we could go tomorrow. And I wish we could go by boat. Airplanes frighten me."

"Do you want me to take your furniture, Suzanne?"

He watched the struggle on her face but didn't interfere.

"It will be expensive, won't it, Jan?"

"Yes, it will have to be crated and we will have to get trunks to take it to a port and you will have to pay to bring it through Dutch customs. Freight, duty-it will add up."

"I can't just leave it."

"No. You could, but whoever buys the house will have furniture of his own."

She swallowed. "Do you think I should have it auctioned, Jan?"

"The bigger pieces, yes. Certainly you could take the small stuff."

"The chinaware?"

"Yes." He picked up a fisherman's head from the mantelpiece. A pipe-smoking old man, rough but honest. Hardworking and mysterious. Why not? The clarity of the sea mirrored in the clear blue eyes. A strong chin, a straight nose, all in porcelain. But kitsch all the same. He put the fisherman down and picked up a pink dog, a Pekingese with bulging eyes. He put it down quickly. There were other pieces on the mantelpiece. A monkey hanging by its tail from a palm tree. A Spanish dancing girl with white breasts pushed out of a frilly blouse. She had very white thighs too. "Yes, you can take your collection, but you'll have to get a lot of tissue paper."

"I have tissue paper, Jan."

"Good. I'll go to bed. Maybe you were right. It was a long trip. Can I make a telephone call to Amsterdam, Suzanne?"

She hesitated.

"I'll pay, dear. I'll ask the operator what the charges are.

"No, no, that's all right, Jan. There is a telephone in your room."

He grinned as he climbed the stairs. This was one investigation he could get himself involved in.

It took a while before the sleepy voice of Adjutant Grijpstra yawned, said hello, and yawned again.

"Sorry, Grijpstra, it's me. I knew you were asleep but I won't take long."

"Aren't you in America, sir?"

"Yes, adjutant, but there are telephones in America. It's quite an advanced country, I believe. Tell me, what happened to de Gier?"

"Isn't he with you, sir?"

"A-ha."

"You haven't seen him yet, sir?"

"A-ha."

Grijpstra was fully awake now. "I am sorry, sir. But he really did want to go and we were all worried about your health and you being alone out there, and the cold and so on, sir, and the chief constable…"

"What about the chief constable, Grijpstra? Did he order the sergeant to fly out here?"

"No, sir."

"And who is paying for this personal extravagance?"

"Oh, that's all right, sir. There is a fund, in The Hague. It is set up to finance the exchange of police officers."

"Police officers, adjutant, not nursemaids."

"Yes, sir."

"I am amazed, adjutant, absolutely amazed."

"I am sorry, sir. We'll pay it back somehow."

"You better, unless we can find the sergeant something to do here, something that will keep him so busy that he'll have no time to push me around in a pram."

"Yes, sir," Grijpstra said. "I am sure you can find him something to do."

"Sleep well, adjutant. Sorry to have woken you up."

"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, goodbye, sir."

Grijpstra put the phone down carefully and stuck out his tongue.

"What was that?" his wife asked. "Do you have to go out? Was that the commissaris? What did he want?"

"He wanted to joke with me."

"At five o'clock in the morning? Was he drunk?"

"No, dear, just sarcastic."

"They are always putting you down and you are such a hardworking man and you've been with the department for such along time."

"Don't overdo it," Grijpstra said. "Go to sleep. Since when have you been on my side?"