The Rattle-Rat

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" But, dear," the Commissaris said, shaking his phone. "Dear?"

The telephone said nothing.

"Are you still there?"

"I am," his wife said, "and so are the Belgian endives. You ordered them, remember? You absolutely had to eat baked Belgian endives tonight. Any idea about the price of Belgian endives?"

"We could eat them tomorrow," the commissaris said.

"Tonight. Once they're out of the freezer, they can't go back."

The commissaris looked for support in the glowing end of his cigar, and in the begonia flowers on the windowsills; he also glanced at the encouraging smiles on the lions' heads above his chair. He stood next to his desk and tried to skip airily onto its top. He didn't jump high enough and knocked his hip. "Ouch."

"Did you hurt yourself?"

"And to think," the commissaris said, "that I was once a prizewinning gymnast. I flywheeled around the bar, and then swung onto the mat, and bowed, and straightened up to my full athletic length again, and didn't the audience applaud?"

'Does it still hurt?"

'No," the commissaris said, "but I do have to go to Friesland, really. It only takes two hours to drive there. A compatriot was shot there-can't have that, you know. I've got to find out what's what."

"You're coming home for dinner. Send Grijpstra."

"He's got something else to do, too."

"Send somebody" his wife said. "I'm hanging up now. You'll be home at seven. I'm not bending over a hot stove all day for nothing."

The telephone clicked. The commissaris sighed. He extended a small finger and dialed two numbers. "Dear?"

"Sir?"

"Have Grijpstra called. He should phone me." The commissaris waited. The phone was quiet. "Dear?"

"Sir?"

"Is that understood?"

"You didn't finish your request."

"My request is quite finished."

"No," the soft female voice said. "You never said 'please/ so I'm still waiting, as is customary these modern days."

"What are you?" the commissaris asked. "A communist? A feminist? I gave you an order. I don't have to say 'please.'"

"I'm not your slave."

"Please," the commissaris said, "dear."

"Thank you," the secretary said. "I won't insist that you call me 'miss.'"

"Is that so?" the commissaris asked. "The new rule allows for exceptions?"

"I think you're a dear, too," the soft voice said. The telephone clicked.

The commissaris watered his begonias, while reflecting. They were right, he thought in between his reflections. They were abused, yelled at, repressed, underpaid, and overworked. It had to come to an end, but why today? Today he wanted to go to Friesland. He looked out the window. A splendid day. And today he had his new car, he hadn't even driven the miracle yet, the silver car, delivered to Headquarters' yard only that morning, now gleaming in the sunlight. To take that car to the Great Dike, to make it whiz along twenty straight miles. How pleasurable that drive would be.

The telephone rang.

"Grijpstra here," the phone said. "The teeth belong to Douwe Scherjoen from Dingjum, so that subject is the corpse."

"Where are you now?"

"In a cafe\ sir."

"And de Gier?"

"I've just met him here."

"Go to Ding-whatever," the commissaris said. "There'll be State Police out there. Let them know you're around. It's our case, but they might give us a hand. You know where Ding-whatever is?"

"Not yet, sir."

"You might hurry a little," the commissaris said, "and you might take de Gier for company. Is that understood?"

The telephone was quiet.

"Are you still there, Adjutant?"

"Our car is malfunctioning," Grijpstra said.

"What's wrong with it now?"

"It's mainly the clutch, sir," Grijpstra said. "It's got a click in it, and the second gear seems to have gone altogether, and the exhaust isn't attached properly-it sort of bangs about-and the brake doesn't brake."

The commissaris sighed.

"Sir?"

"In the lot here," the commissaris said, "you'll find a new silver Citroen. Brand-new, Adjutant. Don't let de Gier drive it. You can come here and take my new car."

"But you haven't even driven it yet, sir."

"The key'll be with the doorman," the commissaris said shrilly. "I'll tell him it's all right. I'll be ringing off now, Adjutant. I'll back you from here."

"Upset, was he?" de Gier asked.

"He seemed a little unhappy," Grijpstra said. "Rheumatism in the legs again, perhaps."

"Did he complain about pains?"

"No, but he sounded that way."

"As long as he doesn't retire ahead of time," de Gier said. "We musn't strain him."

"We're supposed to be in a hurry now," Grypstra said, "and the Volkswagen has to be fixed. Maybe it can still get back to Headquarters. There's a lot the matter with it these days. You think it can still be repaired?"

"What do you mean?" de Gier asked. "Our trusted steed?"

"The garage sergeant keeps wanting to throw the car away."

"Never," de Gier said. "I'll have Jane work on the fellow again."

"Jane doesn't want to know you anymore."

"She shares our duties."

"You're asking too much from Jane," Grijpstra said, "and you give her too little. You've got to entertain that girl in town first, and then try to get her to your apartment. Not the other way around. And don't make her pay for the entertainment."

"The pathetic whiner hasn't been crying on your shoulder, has she?"

"Whiner?" Grijpstra asked threateningly. "You didn't really use that expression, did you?"

"Pathetic female," de Gier said, "and she didn't even fall for my proposition. She never went to my apartment and she never bought me dinner. It was raining that day. My apartment is nice and dry. It was the end of the month. I was short on money."

De Gier was allowed to pay for the coffee. Grijpstra left the cafe and waited in the car. De Gier scowled as he got into the Volkswagen. "Listen," Grijpstra said, "if we want to keep this car, you have to be nice to Jane. You have to change your egocentric attitude-before we take off to Dingjum."

"I've no idea where that could be."

"I'll try to find out, while you prepare Jane for the garage sergeant's perverted desires. Is that understood?"

"May your bowels swell up with smelly vapors," de Gier said.

"Please?"

"Don't get polite on me."

"I'm always polite," Grijpstra said. "And when I am, I can order you around. Yes? Please?"

"Some vehicle," de Gier said. "At what speed is the super Citroen traveling now?"

Grijpstra glanced at the speedometer. "Maximum legal speed."

"Might she be capable of traveling at twice the maximum legal speed?"

"Easily. According to the numbers on the speedometer, she could get close to multiplying the restriction by three."

"That's hard to believe," de Gier said.

"Do you believe me now?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier leaned over. "You sure that gadget is accurate? I hardly hear the engine. Kick that gas pedal a little more, will you?"

"Like this?"

"Better," de Gier said. 'The commissaris did say that a bit of a hurry would be in order. This nice straight dike goes on forever. Scherjoen's eye sockets are still staring at me. Get me away from that terror. He'll keep disturbing my thoughts until we crack the case. We still don't know anything. The sooner we get to Friesland, the sooner we'll know. There's a killer about."

"But why was the subject killed in Amsterdam?" Grijpstra asked. "I can understand that the corpse bought his watch there, and he might select the capital to have his teeth replaced, but why should he get himself shot in Amsterdam? Frisians are strong, pure people, from a free and clean environment. How did get our corpse get involved in the capital's mental and physical pollution? What's behind all this, eh?"

"Aren't you Frisian yourself?" de Gier asked.

"I am," Grijpstra said.

"You're neither strong nor pure nor free nor clean."

"I grew up in Amsterdam," Grijpstra said. "Only the core of my being is still untouched, but Scherjoen stayed within the freshness of a blessed country, and he still got shot and was burned as well."

"I don't want to talk to his widow," de Gier said. "That's not my thing at all. You can talk to her."

"I'll take care of the whole case," Grijpstra said. "I don't want you to get involved in any way at all. I don't even want you to drive this car."

"Do you hear something?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra heard a siren. The siren screamed closer.

"That's a good motorcycle," de Gier said, looking over his shoulder. "Just look at her go. A Guzzi. I used to ride BMWs. They never went that fast."

Grijpstra slowed down and aimed for the breakdown lane. The motorcycle parked and the cop walked toward the car, slowly and at ease, pulling a notebook from the side pocket of his white leather coat.

Grijpstra dropped a window.

"Would you please get out?" the cop asked. "On the other side? The lane is rather narrow. Any idea how fast you were going?"

De Gier had gotten out already. Grijpstra slid across the front seats and joined the sergeant. Together they looked down on the cop, who seemed rather slender and had painted lips, mascaraed eyelashes, and varnished fingernails.

"You're a woman," Grijpstra said.

The cop studied the adjutant's identification.

"Adjutant?" the cop asked, and offered Grijpstra her hand. "Corporal Hilarius. What's your hurry?"

Grijpstra looked out over the Inland Sea, where swans bobbed on the waves, fluffing their feathers and slowly moving their slender necks. Beyond the birds floated a fishing boat with a yellow-coated crew bending over the railing, lifting an eel trap. "How nice," Grypstra said. "I could watch this forever."

"But we're hard at work," de Gier said helpfully. "Destination Dingjum, a most serious matter. Murder, I'll have you know. We're hot on the trail."

"Murder in Friesland?" Corporal Hilarius asked, pulling off her helmet and freeing flowing golden curls. The helmet was orange. Grijpstra began to tremble. The yellow of the fishermen's coats, the helmet's bright orange, and the resplendent shade of the girl's hair-were they not contrasts, completing each other? The corporal's low, hoarse voice became a part of the moment. Moments sometimes inspired Grypstra. He wondered whether he would be able to show the sudden abstract harmony in one of his Sunday paintings. Can a sound be shown in color?

"The murder was at our end," de Gier said, "but the corpse lived on yours. We follow indications that will take us to your province. We're about to interview the dead man's wife."

Policewoman Hilarius knew about the burning dory, that was front-page news. So was cattle plague.

"The dike is blocked farther along, you can't see it from here. There's a line of traffic, stalled for a few miles. The disease is rampant in the south, and we're trying to keep it from killing our cows. All trucks and vans are being checked to make sure they don't transport animals. You'll never get through."

"We are in a hurry," de Gier said. "Maybe you can guide us along."

A black dot buzzed down out of a cloud. The motorcycle's radio came alive. "Seventeen? Over."

The corporal grabbed the microphone from the Guzzi. "Seventeen here."

"What are you doing there?" the helicopter asked. "Give the Citroen a ticket and make your way to the north end of the dike. Maybe you can get something moving. Please?"

"We're in a bit of a hurry," de Gier said, smiling with perfect strong white teeth. His soft brown eyes glowed pleadingly. His muscular torso bent toward the girl. "Our commissaris's instructions. He wants us to get through with this, the quicker the better."

The commissaris," Grijpstra said, "who was interviewed " in the Police Gazette last week. The top sleuth who never fails. That's our commissaris."

The corporal stepped aside and spoke into her microphone.

"Understood," the loudspeaker on the Guzzi answered. "Park the Citroen against the dike, beyond the bicycle path. Over and out."

Corporal Hilarius stopped the traffic with an imperative gesture, and de Gier drove across four lanes and parked in the manner requested from above. The helicopter grew in size. Grijpstra and de Gier ran toward the blue-and-white egg, now setting down gently. A little door slid aside, and a leather-clad arm beckoned invitingly.

"Heights frighten me," Grijpstra said, "and we aren't really in all that much of a hurry."

But the pilot's arm pulled, and de Gier and the corporal pushed. De Gier thanked the lovely biker. The corporal answered hoarsely that the sergeant was welcome. De Gier jumped up, the little door snapped shut, and the chopper lifted away and cut through low clouds. The pilot pushed a handle and the machine fell through the next hole in the vapors. The pilot pointed down, shaking his head in disgust at the crawling mess below. Traffic at the end of the dike had tied itself into a snarl. "Dingjum?" the pilot yelled. Grijpstra and de Gier nodded and grinned, the adjutant fearfully, the sergeant cheerfully. The dike ended underneath them. The blues of the North and Inland seas gave way to fertile greens, changing again to the pink and brownish red of dwellings. "Franeker," the pilot yelled. "The most rusti- cally beautiful village in all of our land." The helicopter vibrated into a muddle of dark gray shreds of clouds. Grijpstra no longer looked; he felt he was dying in dirty cotton wool. He did look after a while, because even fear has its limitations. Was he reborn? He was, in the clear emptiness of an uncluttered sky, and there below-hurray!-waited the beloved earth, and the helicopter touched that earth softly with the metal tubes that protruded from its little belly, set itself down, and rested.

The pilot saluted. De Gier was outside already, and caught his tumbling superior. The helicopter wafted away and pointed its round nose southward.

Grijpstra expressed his liberation in a short series of jubilant curses.

"Weren't we in a hurry?" de Gier asked. "You kept saying that, and I passed the message to the goddess on the bike to make her believe in our haste. If she hadn't, we would have a ticket now, and three times the maximum legal speed is an inexcusability that will even drag you into jail. You would have lost your license. Ever met an adjutant-detective without wheels? I saved you again."

They were on a meadow, at the center of a circling flock of sheep. One sheep was male, and was even now veering off to attack. "Shoo!" Grijpstra yelled. The ram didn't listen. He was in charge of the meadow and aware of an opportunity to show off to his wives. Horns lowered, the ram chose Grijpstra for his target. "Help!" Grijpstra yelled.

De Gier helped. He jumped the ram from the side, pulled a front and a hind leg, and rolled smoothly over the enemy, holding him down.

Grijpstra climbed a fence, groaning. De Gier jumped the fence after him, one leg forward, one leg to the rear, arms stretched, head straight.

"And now?" Grijpstra asked.

De Gier pointed at a State Police sign displayed under two lime trees that had grown into each other, their branches cut artfully into a raised square, shielding a low building. Grijpstra gathered his thoughts, straightened his bulk, stepped through the door, and beckoned the sergeant to follow.

A corporal welcomed his colleagues from the south. Grijpstra stated the purpose of his visit.

"Are you in charge here?" de Gier asked.

"Lieutenant Sudema is in charge, but the lieutenant has the day off."

"So you're in charge."

The corporal wasn't sure. He left a message on the telephone's tape recorder and invited his guests to join him in his Land Rover. He locked the station's door. The journey took them to a greenhouse. A tall man in faded overalls was packing large tomatoes in small plastic boxes. "Lieutenant Sudema," the corporal said.

Grijpstra explained his presence.

The lieutenant filled another three boxes. "Douwe Scherjoen?"

"Yes."

"Our Douwe. In an Amsterdam dory? Shot and burned?"

"His skull looked at me," de Gier said. He curled his fingers around his eyes and dropped his head a little. "Like this, but worse, of course, for he was staring at me from some distance."

"Subject wasn't known to us," Grijpstra said. "Do you have something on subject here?"

The lieutenant stacked his boxes. "Mrs. Scherjoen is a good friend of my wife, Gyske. The tax detectives have been after Douwe for a while; they were about to bring charges, and if they had, he might have been in serious trouble."

"Do you personally know the tax detectives who are working on subject's case?"

"Please," Lieutenant Sudema said. His long dark eyelashes flicked up, and cold light flashed from his steely blue eyes. "Please. I don't want to know them."

"Was Mr. Scherjoen hiding income?"

"You understate," Lieutenant Sudema said. He guided his visitors to two chestnut trees behind the greenhouse. A small house was hidden under the trees. Gyske Sudema poured tea in the house while the lieutenant changed into a spotless uniform. Gyske was tight underneath, in leather pants, and well-filled above, in a taut white blouse. Her face was noble and her eyes sedate. De Gier was much impressed. So it was true about the beauty of Frisian women; he had heard tales, but then he had heard a lot of things.

"Our Douwe is deaV Gyske whispered in sorrow.

"So we may assume," Grijpstra said, and explained about the orl and the expensive teeth. De Gier wanted to comfort Gyske and tried to prove that nothing can ever be proved conclusively, that there might be an incorrect turn of deduction somewhere, that what seemed to have happened might be altogether off. "Dea or not deaV Gyske Sudema asked.

"Dea" said de Gier.

Gyske's sadness became anger. 'They can have the sjoelke. Douwe is a snyunt"

"Who?" asked Grijpstra, suddenly aware of possible suspicion. "Who can have our Douwe?"

She pointed to the floor. "The Helliche duvels"

"Oh, those," Grijpstra said.

Gyske talked on for a while.

"Mrs. Sudema," Grijpstra asked, "what are you saying?"

Gyske switched into Dutch. "I'm saying that Douwe was no good. He was a chauvinist, too. I won't miss our Douwe." Tears ran down Gyske's high cheekbones. "Now Mem will be free."

"Mem?"

"Mem means 'mother,'" Lieutenant Sudema said. "Mrs. Scherjoen's first name is really Krista, but she's rather motherly, you see, so everybody calls her Mem."

"Krista, as in female 'Christ'?" de Gier asked.

"Yes," Gyske said. "Christ suffered too, to redeem the sins of all of us. Mem suffered to redeem Douwe. Same thing. Douwe was as bad as all of us together."

"Douwe is dea," de Gier said, glad that he could comfort the young woman after all. Gyske looked unsure. "Is Douwe punished now?"

De Gier wasn't certain. "Is death a punishment?" He tried his best smile. "But he has been taken away from us; death did remove the subject. If the subject was bad, the removal would be all to the good."

"Douwe has to be punished," insisted Gyske.

"I wouldn't know," de Gier said. "Do you? What denomination do you belong to, ma'am?"

Gyske was Dutch Reformed. "And you?"

De Gier was nothing. "Of nothing," he added as clarification.

Lieutenant Sudema fastened his belt and arranged his pistol. In his uniform he was even more handsome.

"On foot, by bicycle, or by car?" the lieutenant asked. "Would you prefer to walk? A quarter of an hour? We can talk on the way. The Scherjoens live in a stately mansion just outside the village, on the most magnificent estate of the region. The landhus dates back centuries."

Lieutenant Sudema marched next to de Gier. Both were equally tall. Grijpstra ran after them, an unacceptable situation. He pushed between the two men. "What is a sjoelke?" "An asshole," the lieutenant said. "A grabber for himself. One who never thinks of others. A sour self-spoiler. A sjoelke is a smjunt."

De Gier looked up at the splendor of elm trees that protected the path. He pointed out a variety of natural beauty. "Great land you have here."

"Over there is a forest of beeches," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Douwe wanted to cut the trees down. He had no need of beauty. Look there, see that oak on the meadow? That oak is dead, the cows have been ripping the bark. When there's a tree in a meadow, we take the trouble to protect it with a little fence; too much trouble for Douwe."

Grijpstra admired a cluster of hawthorns and a moat in the shadow of alders. "Why cut beeches? Don't they hold the silence? Isn't silence healthy for the mind?"

"You know what a foot of beech board sells for?" the lieutenant asked. "Beeches are thousand-guilder notes."

"A little grabby?" asked de Gier. "Our Douwe?"

"To him it was all green," Lieutenant Sudema said sadly. "But he preferred the green of money." He grinned ferociously at his joke.

"The tax detectives," Grijpstra said brightly, for he was now enjoying the walk; his slow-moving weight kept the others back. "Did they come up with some proof of evasion?"

"Not yet," the lieutenant said. "Good for Douwe."

"You've changed sides?" asked de Gier.

"Tax"-the lieutenant spat the word-"is even worse than Douwe. I don't wish tax-hounds on the worst of us." He shivered. "The country's curse."

"Right you are," said de Gier. "They clip my wages. Forty percent it was, last month." He shook a fist. "Must I be punished because I work? Must lazy officials in The Hague fatten on the spoils of my labor? Is it my fault that bums on welfare sneer at me through cafe windows while they swill beer at my expense?"

"You must be Frisian," the lieutenant said with pleasure.

"I'm Frisian," Grijpstra said. "He's a mere Dutchman. I'm in charge of this case. He's a mere tourist."

"We detest taxes here," Lieutenant Sudema said, "and we always have. We prefer to be free of the greed of others. We pay for the foolishness of the other provinces. Are they ever grateful? Sales tax! Bah! Ever try to buy a tomato in a store? I exchange mine; barter is the only decent commerce. I swap my tomatoes for sole. My brother fishes from Midlum. We keep our profits here. Gjin sales tax, nit income tax." He blew a bubble of spittle.

"I really like your language," said de Gier. "So you nit like us?"

"Dutchmen have to be about, too," the lieutenant admitted, "but not at our cost."

The sheep that had been running along with them on the other side of the moat had reached a fenced bridge and now pointed their long snouts through its boards. Grijpstra touched one of the woolly faces but pulled his hand back when a coarse tongue licked his fingers. "Filthy beast."

"Do they belong to Douwe?" de Gier asked.

"Douwe dealt in sheep," the lieutenant said. "He used to export cows, but all cows are registered now by computers. Sheep can't be identified, they look too much alike."

"Look at that," Grijpstra said. The mansion was worth admiring. It stared back through large clear window-eyes, gazing over a majestic lawn protected by beeches reaching out their branches. A wide flight of stone stairs flowed easily up to freshly painted, oversized doors. Red bricks framed the large open windows, three on each side, with another row on the first floor, under a thick straw roof. Intricate latticework shielded a veranda that surrounded the house, adding color from blossoming vines. A bent-over old woman was raking the shiny gravel of a path around the lawn. She looked up.

"Good mid dei, Mem" the lieutenant said.

The woman tried to smile. "You bring bad news, don't you, Sjurd?" Her wooden clogs scratched across the gravel as she moved away from the three men; the rake fell from her hand.

De Gier picked up the rake. Grijpstra introduced himself and the sergeant. Mem didn't see their outstretched hands. She pushed silver hairs away from her forehead as her light brown eyes receded between tightening wrinkles. Her gnarled hands plucked at her coarse skirt. "Is Douwe deal"

"Perhaps," Lieutenant Sudema said, but his head nodded.

De Gier produced his handkerchief, but Mrs. Scherjoen didn't cry.

"Colleagues from Amsterdam," the lieutenant said.

She took them inside and offered them coffee poured from a jug that had been waiting on the stove. The kitchen was spotlessly clean under low, blackened beams. "Mind your head," Mem said, but it was too late. De Gier robbed his curls. "Did you hurt yourself?" Mem asked softly.

"No ma'am. You have children?"

She poured coffee. "No."

She lifted the lid of a cookie jar. "How did it happen?"

"A shot," Grijpstra said. "So we think. It didn't show too well."

Mem didn't understand.

"He was burned too," Grijpstra said, lowering his voice, smiling his apology sadly. Lieutenant Sudema touched Mrs. Scherjoen's shoulder. "Mem," the lieutenant said, "we're sorry, Mem."

"The duvel," Mrs. Scherjoen said, "he's got him now. Douwe was always frightened of fire. He dreamed about flames that came to take him. I had to wake him up then and make him turn over, but the flames would return and he'd yell and yell. He was afraid of the devil."

Lieutenant Sudema coughed. "Yes."

"Thank you for the coffee," Grijpstra said from the door. "We'll come back another time-tomorrow, will that suit you? We have a few questions."

"Gyske'U be along soon," the lieutenant said. Mrs. Scherjoen didn't hear him. Sudema got up and walked over to Grijpstra. "I'd better stay. Could you tell Gyske to hurry over? I'll join you as soon as I can, in the cafe perhaps. My corporal will take you there, you must be hungry."

Grijpstra and de Gier walked back to the village.

"Even here," Grijpstra said, waving an arm. "How can that be? Within the peace of unspoiled nature?"

"Even here, what?"

"The duvel," Grypstra said. "And a marriage that was no good. Couldn't Scherjoen be nice to his wife? She's a great person, it seems to me."

De Gier studied wildflowers growing at the side of the moat.

"I was nice to my wife," Grijpstra said. "In many marriages, at least one partner is good. She released me. Douwe could have given Mem her freedom. The bad side lets the good side go."

De Gier ambled on.

"Hey," Grijpstra said.

"I'm confused," de Gier said. "Your comparison isn't clear. You mean you're a good side?"

"Aren't I?"

"Let's do some work," de Gier said.

"You work," Grijpstra said. "I'll enjoy the walk."

"I thought I was just going to be company."

"You're here," Grijpstra said. "You can talk to me."

"Right," de Gier said. "Douwe Scherjoen was no good. A selfish grabber. Bought and sold for cash and evaded taxes. Had his good times in Amsterdam while his wife slaved at home. A fortune in his mouth, and his wife is the maid, the gravel raker, the free help in his mansion. Douwe is too much of a skinflint to build a little fence around a glorious oak. But he did know he was bad, for the devil pursued him."

"He dreamed about pursuing flames," Grijpstra said. "My dreams are quite pleasant."

"Are we discussing you?" de Gier asked. "Have you been shot and soaked with gasoline and burned and made to float with the garbage? Was it your skull staring at me in the pathologist's cave?"

"Why was so much violence applied?" Grijpstra asked. 'The war is over. You're too young, you don't remember recent history, but Frisians can be quite violent. The resistance was fiercer here than anywhere else in the country. German soldiers were often shot and burned."

"I remember the way Douwe's skull looked at me," de Gier said. "From the hereafter. He begged me for revenge."

"Leave the hereafter for later. We're looking for the tangible present. What was the motive? What living entity benefits from subject's death? Who had the opportunity to knock him off? No mysticism, Sergeant."

"The hereafter is now," de Gier said pleasantly. "Let me work from my own angle." He stopped and took a deep breath. "The air here is clear. But evil is about. The tax detectives are lurking even here, and they know something; maybe they'll tell us. We're out of our depth; if they're Frisian too, maybe they won't tell us. Everything is different here, the locals even think in another language."

"I'm well within my depth," Grypstra said, "and I'll get into this slowly. Life is slower here." He smiled at a sheep ruminating in high grass. "I may have some lambchops soon, and Frisian fried potatoes and some of the lieutenant's fresh tomatoes. I'll find suitable quarters while you fetch the commissaris. In order to pursue our investigation properly, we'll need permission from local authority. The commissaris can call on whoever is in charge here, and then he can stay to help. He's Frisian too. Once we're both into this, the job'll be easy."

"You don't need permission. Scherjoen was killed in Amsterdam, and we're on a warm trail. Our pursuit is proper police procedure."

"Fetch the commissaris."

"I'm going back and I won't return," de Gier said. "I'm no good to you here. I'm from outside."

"All right, all right," Grijpstra said pleasantly. "You can stay around. It's always nice for somebody like me to have somebody like you around. And you can have a good time. It'll be a holiday for you."

Evening fell slowly, and thick sunbeams crossed loosening clouds. Beech branches embraced the quiet landscape. A cow lowed sleepily, and a farmer on a slow bicycle lifted a greeting hand. Grijpstra's fingers wobbled in response.

They reached the station. "Hello," Grijpstra said. "Corporal, if you please, would you take Mrs. Sudema to Mrs. Scherjoen and my sergeant to the dike. Our car is out there and he has to return to Amsterdam."

"Right now?" the corporal asked. "Don't you two want dinner?"

"The sergeant is pressed for time."

"Not at all," de Gier said. 'Tin a tourist here. I would love some dinner."

"Back in a moment," the corporal said. "The cafe is across the street."

Grijpstra ordered lambchops. "For two," de Gier said.

The corporal came back with the lieutenant.

"Is Mem feeling a little better?" Grijpstra asked.

"Yes, Adjutant, Gyske is taking care of her."

"Pity she has no children."

"Douwe was her child," Lieutenant Sudema said. "He was too jealous of competition. Amazing that she could put up with the sjmunt"

The corporal shook his head. "They do like to be abused."

De Gier said that women may perhaps sometimes like to be abused, but that he, for one, would never abuse them.

Grijpstra's nostrils widened. "And Jane?"

"Sharing is not abusing."

Grijpstra explained the perfidy of the sergeant's plans for Jane. "But she didn't fall for it," he concluded.

"They don't very much, nowadays," the corporal said. "It's not as easy as before."

"I've got to do the cooking," Lieutenant Sudema said. "Gyske works half days and I work full days, and I still have to do the cooking. I rather like cooking, but there's the washing up, too, and putting the dishes away. If they gain, we lose. I can't yell at her anymore, either."

"I never yelled at my wife," Grijpstra said. "Why should I? She was deaf, and the TV at full volume."

"You do yell," de Gier yelled. "You yell at me. You're known as the yeller."

Grijpstra asked the lieutenant to please ask the corporal to please take the sergeant to the dike, right now.

De Gier had to finish his coffee.

"Bit of a bastard," the corporal asked, steering the Land Rover along narrow dikes, "that adjutant of yours?"

"A fine fellow," de Gier said. "But never tell him I told you that."

"And a bit of a bastard," the corporal said. 'The lieutenant is another, but he's been easing up a lot. I can thank Gyske for that."

"If we don't bend, they'll break us," de Gier said. 'Take that Scherjoen, for instance. He didn't want to bend."

The corporal was taller than de Gier, and wider. His chin resembled a granite rock. "They don't just want to break us," the corporal whispered.

"Are Frisian women more fierce than ours?"

"I won't say more," the corporal said.

They might be listening in."

The Land Rover parked behind the Citroen. De Gier slid behind the sleek car's wheel, and the Citroen flashed away.