The Maine Massacre

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 right. 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.

The commissaris stood in the middle of the room, with his cane stuck in a bearskin rug, and Suzanne had become lost between tasseled cushions on a divan upholstered in the same material that had been used for the ten-foot-square curtains hiding windows on two sides of the room.

"Beautiful," the commissaris said. "Superb, madam, as superb as your country. I had forgotten what space is like, as I come from a place where fourteen million people are crowded into an area half the size of this state."

Janet Wash inclined her head. "Thank you. Fourteen million you say. How frightening. There are a million of us in Maine, I believe, but when I flew over the land in Michael's plane some weeks ago it seemed there were houses everywhere. We are very fortunate, I suppose, but we have come to the end of things here too. This house can no longer be kept up. I keep most of it closed. Perhaps with half a dozen servants something could be done, but the only servants are Reggie and myself and there's a limit to energy, especially to mine. And Reggie has his own cabin to worry about. I can't expect him to help me push a vacuum cleaner. Do we all have our drinks? A toast of welcome to you, gentlemen!"

De Gier sipped and bowed. Janet smiled at him. "How do I address you? As Mr. de Gier?"

"The sergeant is a detective on our force, madam," the commissaris said. "Out here on an exchange trip. I knew he was due to travel to the States, but I had no idea we would meet here, an amazing coincidence."

Janet found her purse, opened it, and put on her spectacles. "Come closer, sergeant. You look so well in that denim suit. Is that the latest European fashion? I haven't been to Europe in years, and the last time the general and I went the fashion was double-breasted suits. This is so much better. I always thought men should wear scarfs instead of ties. And your boots! How chid Reggie, really, I must take you to Boston. Suede boots would look magnificent on you. Just step over and look at the sergeant's boots. Don't you think they're marvelous?"

Reggie came, looked, and attempted to smile. De Gier felt embarrassed and took refuge in his whiskey, raising his glass and grinning at Reggie. Reggie looked away. De Gier thought the man looked very well in his faded brown sports jacket, corduroy slacks, and white shirt. The knot of Reggie's tie had dropped an inch, revealing the absence of a collar button and a thick growth of curly chest hair.

"Never mind, Reggie. I am only teasing. You even remembered to put on a tie. But a trip to Boston wouldn't be wasted. You haven't been out of here for so long. Reggie is a military man," she explained to the commissaris. "He came here after his return from Vietnam and he says that he prefers nature, any nature, to the cities. I should be grateful. Reggie is an accomplished gardener and an excellent woodsman."

"Vietnam?" the commissaris asked. "What outfit were you with, sir?"

But Reggie had gone back to the sizzling sausages and Janet answered. "Reggie was with the Green Berets. He fought in trouble spots where the regular army wouldn't go. It's such a pity that the Vietnam war turned out to be a flop. Reggie should have come back as a hero, but now we are all supposed to be ashamed about what went on there. My husband was luckier. He fought in the Second World War and returned sporting his medals, but he came back as an invalid, poor dear. It happened in the last week, somewhere in Germany. A bullet in a very wrong place. He was paralyzed, and I had to push him around in a wheelchair. Such a shame. But he was very good about it, and he loved the life here. Another drink, sir."

Reggie collected the empty glasses and refilled them. He served the sausages on little saucers and de Gier helped. When the sergeant had found his corner near the fireplace again he took a minute to study the man. A commando, a professional superman. De Gier felt jealous. He had often thought that he had been born in the wrong place. He saw himself gliding through a tropical forest, carrying some ultra-automatic weapon, a ripple among leaves and trailers and creepers. He tried to stop his fantasy, but it continued by itself. De Gier had traveled somewhat, but he had never been to the tropics and knew the jungle of Indochina only on film. And this man had actually lived in such an enchanting location. In a tent. Tigers growling outside, and small yellow men in black cotton pyjamas crawling everywhere. Hmm.

"You do gardening here?"

"Not now. The snow will be on the ground until April. I've been working on the tractor all day. I need it for pulling logs, but the machine is getting old. I keep on taking it apart, but it is just as old when I put it together again!"

"How long were you in Vietnam?"

"Three years. Until it was all over."

Janet came over and made de Gier sit next to her on a settee. "Will you be going on patrol with the sheriff, sergeant?"

"Yes, madam. He gave me the first day off, but tomorrow I am supposed to be working."

"That must be an interesting experience. I wonder if we have crime here. Reggie, do we have crime here?"

Reggie bent down and adjusted a woven rug on the shiny hardwood floor. "Of course, Janet. Jameson houses the biggest bunch of cutthroats this side of Manhattan. I'm glad you keep me on the estate most of the time. I wouldn't be sure of my life in town. The last time I walked down Main Street every second man carried a six gun and Beth was saying that she would rename her diner. The OK Corral I believe it's going to be called."

Everybody laughed except Suzanne.

"Ah yes," Janet said. "I mustn't forget to ask. You mentioned the sale of Opdijk's house yesterday. Did you see my old friend Michael Astrinsky? He is such a nice man, and he was such a good friend of Pete's. I had wanted to give you Michael's name, but I forgot. I am sure he could be of help."

The commissaris put his glass down and shook his head when Reggie wanted to carry it to the table. "No more, thank you. I have to watch my habits these days. Yes, madam, we saw Mr. Astrinsky and he made an offer, but I would like to have another evaluation and the sheriff was kind enough to ask an expert friend of his to come and have a look at the place. Somebody from the next county, I believe."

"Can I ask what Michael offered?"

"Certainly. Thirty thousand."

She shook her head sadly. "I don't know about values anymore, not since inflation has changed everything. Some years ago such an amount would have been a good price. That would be for an immediate sale, I imagine, with Michael buying for his own account?"

"Yes, madam."

"It might be better to have the house listed. Although I don't know. The other houses on the Cape are empty and Michael hasn't been able to sell them, and he is an excellent businessman, the only rich man around we always say. He has done very well here. Our trouble is that we are too far from the shopping centers. Even in summer we don't have enough of a crowd to have our own supermarket. We have to drive over sixty miles to get groceries. Robert's Market only stocks the staples, some canned food and local produce and flour and so on. Of course many of us have our own vegetable gardens and we keep goats and even cows and have them slaughtered in the autumn to stock up the freezer. And we get fresh lobsters and fish all year 'round, but, still, it isn't the easy life the city people are used to. Only the tough dare to settle here. Don't you agree, Reggie?"

"Sure, Janet." Reggie looked polite.

Poor fellow, de Gier thought. Dancing attendance on a refined old lady in a palace in the woods must have its drawbacks.

"So you may sell to the other realtor? I wonder if he would be interested. If he is in the next county he may be too far away."

"I may," the commissaris said. "And we may end up accepting Mr. Astrinsky's offer. He also said he would buy the car at sixty percent of the new price."

"But that's an excellent offer. The hardest thing to get rid of in America is a used car. The banks lend everybody money to buy a new one. Even high school kids can get a limousine these days. Sixty percent, my word! That would be the insurance value. Reggie just wrecked a one-year-old station wagon, bounced it off the road and turned it over so many times that the poor dung was beyond repair. It was a wonder he survived the accident himself. That's what we got, sixty percent of the new price. But Michael always liked Opdijk's car. He even borrowed it a few times. I would advise you to accept his offer."

The commissaris smiled. "I am afraid the two offers go together, Mrs. Wash. I don't think he'll take the car if he doesn't get the house."

"Yes," Janet said. "We Americans are tough dealers, and Michael is a true American, although his forefathers were gentle scholars in Poland, I believe. The scholarly part has missed him, but it got through to Madelin. She has an M.A. in philosophy and is working on her Ph. D. now. That's why she came home for the winter. Did you meet her?"

"Yes." De Gier's affirmation was a little too enthusiastic, and Janet looked up and smiled at him.

"Astrinsky left," Reggie said. "I saw him drive to the airstrip just now, as I came back from Robert's market. We stopped to talk. He's off for die Bahamas again."

"Yes, he said he might spend another week or so there. The slow progress of winter is getting him down and he is engaged in some big deal over mere, I think. Or maybe he is using business as an excuse to loll about in the sun. Good old Michael. I envy him."

The commissaris coughed. "So we won't see him again. Will anyone take care of his business while he is away?"

"Madelin. She is a partner in his real estate business. Michael was divorced many years ago. He lives alone with his daughter."

"I see."

They stayed for a last drink, then Reggie walked them back to the car while Janet waved from the big double doors. The commissaris asked about the Cadillac.

"Inside," Reggie said and pointed at a low building in the field bordering the house. "Locked and chained. The BMF gang managed to steal it last year, or I think it was them. The Cadillac came back undamaged. We found it sitting on the lawn in the morning. But Janet has made sure they won't get it again. We even have an alarm system now with bells that will ring both in the house and in my cabin. The cabin is in the woods, about half a mile from here."

"The BMF gang," the commissaris said when they were halfway home. "Amazing, don't you think, sergeant? A gang in a small, pleasant town like Jameson. I thought that only cities bred gangs."

"They may get bored around here, sir."

"Yes, bored. But I did meet that young foxlike fellow with the BMF ONE number plate on his car. Such an efficient and intelligent young man. Perhaps his gang is different from the ones we deal with. Do you know what BMF stands for, sergeant?"

"B is bad, sir. M is mother."

"And F?"

"A four-letter word."

Suzanne stirred. The commissaris drove on.

"Ah," the commissaris said. "I see." He tittered. "How interesting. Twice interesting. To add the prefix 'bad.' Most interesting indeed. To have intercourse with the mother would be the ultimate bad thing to do, I suppose, although the mental attitude behind such a belief seems retarded. Perhaps Americans are retarded in certain ways, in spite of the wealth and the push buttons. They may have developed too quickly and the Victorian fears clung on. Yes, that could be. But to name the worst and then to add bad." He tittered again.

"Yes," he said after a while. "This foxman could be a genius of sorts, like some of the American cartoonists. Did you ever study American cartoons, sergeant? Some of them are really funny, outrageously funny."

"Bad boys," Suzanne said.

"What's that, dear?"

"Bad boys, Jan. Not funny at all. You would know if you had been here longer. Pests-Opdijk was afraid of them. In summer they roar about on their motorcycles, and in winter they come in on snowmobiles, still roaring about as if the cape belongs to them. Even Reggie can't deal with them, and the sheriff would never come out. I telephoned several times. They would come into our garden. They have no regard for private property. Once they even cut down a tree and rolled the logs down to our beach and another boy was waiting with his powerboat and took them away."

"The sheriff? This sheriff?"

"No, the old sheriff. Every time I called he said he didn't have a cruiser available and when the deputies showed up they were always too late. One of the gang is a girl."

"A girl? On a motorcycle?"

"Madelin has sold her motorcycle. She flies her father's plane now. She buzzed Opdijk when he was fishing last summer. 1 telephoned her father, but I couldn't get through to him. Madelin should know better, but she is as bad as the others, master's degree or not."

"Madelin," de Gier said, and his voice vibrated on each syllable of the name.

Suzanne's small head turned around. It seemed she saw the sergeant for the first time.

"Pah!" she said. The exclamation cut through the overheated car.

The sergeant looked guilty; the commissaris had smiled, briefly, for the station wagon skidded again and claimed his attention.