The Maine Massacre (3 page)

The commissaris wondered whether he could light a cigar. The ashtray in the armrest was empty and clean, so perhaps not. He noted the details of the car. Old, but in excellent condition. He had recognized the car's make as he got into it. A Cadillac, of the type the mayors of Amsterdam had used many years ago before they switched over to compacts and pretended to be economizing. A smooth car, built well, with great headlights sitting on the sleekly curved mudguards. He patted the leather of the armrest.

"I should have come earlier." Suzanne's hand Wept over the back of the front seat and he held it affectionately. "Suzanne asked me often enough, but America seemed so far then."

"It is far," Janet said, "and out here we are very far indeed. The Canadian border is close. We're almost falling out of the country. Will you stay awhile?"

"As long as it takes. There is some work waiting in Amsterdam. I would like to stay awhile but..."

"It shouldn't take long, Opdijk was always very meticulous about his affairs and we'll all be glad to help. My house is close and you can use Opdijk's car, I am sure, if you don't mind driving on slippery roads, and there's always the telephone."

He squeezed his sister's hand. "You'll be back in the old country soon. I wonder if your house will be easy to sell. Do you know if it is mortgaged, dear?"

Suzanne's watery eyes blinked above the little nose, which was an exact copy of the commissaris'. "I, I really don't know, Jan, he never discussed such things with me, but I know where he kept his papers. There are some boxes and files—perhaps you can find out."

"Yes," the commissaris said. The car had reached the top of a hill and had stopped to let an oncoming car pass. Below the hill the forest stretched as far as the sea, and the commissaris identified some of the trees. Naked white trunks of birches clustered around high maples that seemed frozen in gigantic movements of joy, and everywhere there were the strange pines that he had also seen around the airstrip, reaching up with delicate long needles, like the sleeves of an Oriental dancer in the middle of an exuberant movement. The other car had stopped alongside and Reggie pushed a button so that the window on Suzanne's side eased down. The window of the driver's seat in the other car also slid open.

"How are you doing?"

"Good," Reggie shouted. "How are you, sheriff?"

The commissaris stared at the long cruiser, spotlessly polished and with an array of blue lights attached to a bar on its roof. A very neat and a very dangerous-looking car that reminded him of a pike in a Dutch moat, a ponderous fish but quick to attack and gobble its prey. The young man at the wheel, in a uniform that looked like a Boy Scout's, was slender and fairly small, but he bore his authority naturally. The commissaris noted the clipped moustache, the clean angular lines of the face, and the calm, clear eyes.

"On my way to the airstrip," the sheriff said.

"The plane has come and gone."

"I don't want the regular plane. The high brass in New York are sending me a Dutch police officer; the state police are flying him in. There they are now." He pointed, and the commissaris opened his window and looked up. A blue aircraft was circling about a thousand feet up.

"A minijet," Reggie said. "Amazing, the police must have money to burn these days."

Janet's quiet voice spoke into the commissaris' ear. "Did the sheriff say a
Dutch
police officer?"

"Yes."

"Aren't
you
a Dutch police officer? I believe Suzanne told me so yesterday."

"I am," the commissaris said.

"But you have already arrived."

"So I have."

It was too much of a coincidence. The commissaris wondered how many men were employed by the various Dutch police services. Fifty thousand? More? But what would any of them be doing in Woodcock County, Maine, USA? He smiled. He remembered having seen Grijpstra going into the corridor where the chief constable had his office. What would Grijpstra have wanted the chief constable to do for him? If Grijsptra wanted to deal with the top he would, normally, go via the chief of his own division. That chief was he, the commissaris. So why would Grijpstra have bypassed him?

He looked back. The blue plane was coming down, gracefully. An elegant machine.

"If you like we can go back." Janet Walsh was saying. "Whoever that man may be, you are sure to know him, don't you think so? Wouldn't it be nice for two Dutch police officers to meet in the middle of nowhere?"

"Yes," the commissaris said, "but I won't delay you. I will meet my colleague later on, no doubt."

So they were flying Sergeant de Gier in. He thought a little further. The chief constable knew a number of high American police officers. Amsterdam had become a city of interest, ever since it had been classified a throughport for drug traffic. The chief constable also knew the American CIA chief in the Netherlands. A single telephone call from the chief constable's desk would arrange a temporary transfer for the sergeant. He frowned. Something was wrong. He wouldn't accept official recognition of his own invalidism, even if he was an invalid, even if his rheumatism was crippling him. He didn't need a bodyguard, or a nursemaid. He was traveling at his own expense, in his own time. He felt that he was falling asleep and struggled to stay awake.

"We'll have you in bed soon," Janet's low voice said, "with a cup of good strong tea. You must be exhausted, poor man."

"I am a little tired," he said and fell asleep. His last thought was that he would find a way to deal with the sergeant. It wouldn't do to disappoint de Gier, but he certainly wasn't going to encourage him either.

3

T
HE BLUE JETS ENGINES ROARED WHOLE ITS WHEELS screamed to a stop on the carelessly plowed and badly leveled strip. The hands of the impeccably uniformed pilot moved over his controls and the engines whined into silence.

"Jameson," the pilot said gruffly and pointed at a weathered sign dangling on a long rusty nail. "One of the world's forgotten assholes. You sure you want to come here, sergeant?"

"Jameson, Maine," de Gier said. "Yes, that's what they said."

"And that's where you are."

The sheriff's cruiser showed its nose between a shed that housed the strip's machinery and office and a corrugated iron hangar, and an old man in a shapeless coat and an old-fashioned airman's leather cap with form flaps seemed hesitant as to whether he should go to the plane or acknowledge the sheriff's high station by opening the cruiser's door. He finally decided to stay where he was and let things sort themselves out. The cruiser inched forward, then suddenly leaped away, coming to an abrupt halt near the small aluminum staircase that the pilot was sliding from the plane. The pilot jumped down and shook the sheriff's hand.

"Here he is, all in one piece."

The sheriff's regular white teeth showed. "You guys spending the night here?"

"Can you put us up?"

"I only have the jailhouse."

The pilot laughed. "No thanks, we have our own jails and there'll be a storm tomorrow. We'll get back while we can.

De Gier waved at the second pilot and tried to pull his stylish short coat closed with his free hand. His suitcase was leaning against his leg.

"You sure you want to stay here now?" the pilot asked, turning back to his plane.

"Sure."

"Okay, it's your party, let us know when you have enough and we'll come and save you—if the weather lets us."

"Get into the cruiser," the sheriff said and whisked de Gier's suitcase off the ground. "It's too cold here—there's more ice than air in the wind. Is that the coat you're planning to wear here?"

De Gier lifted a foot, slipped, and was yanked back upright by the sheriff's wiry arm.

"What have you got under your shoes?"

"Leather."

The sheriff grinned and pushed his guest around the cruiser, holding on to him while he opened the door. As the car moved off de Gier noticed that the sheriff's mustache had become white and that ice had formed on the end of each hair. He felt his own. The icicles tinkled together. He tried to pull them off. The sheriff shook his head. "Don't do that. They'll come off by themselves. Ice melts. What do I call you? Sergeant? The general said that was your rank, how come a general is sending me a sergeant?'

"Sure, sergeant. Sergeant Rinus de Gier."

He had to say it again, since the sheriff had trouble with the sharp G of the surname. "Like getting a fly stuck in your throat and trying to bring it up. You have more sounds like that in your language?"

"A few."

The sheriff's tone was cold, but de Gier hardly noticed. His thoughts were still in the sky. The small jet had moved like a dragonfly, and the pilot had obliged when de Gier pointed at one of the hundreds of islands and circled the conglomeration of overgrown rocks dotted with a few white wooden houses, going so low that they could see the foam break on the waves, rolling in to froth over the jagged shore. The transition from the even routine of Amsterdam's ugly police headquarters and the gray steady rain of Holland's swampy winter that had made his brain sodden and slow to the sudden explosion of clear colors on the American coast had been too quick, and he felt elated but also stunned. One day with nothing but the prospect of thumbing through a file of lengthy reports on events hardly worth noting and the very next day this. He mumbled and the joined inarticulate words sat on the steady purr of the cruiser's engine.

"What's that?" But the sheriff forgot his question as he asked it. They had left the road leading to the airstrip and were on a narrow highway, reasonably clean of snow and mud. A car came roaring toward them, cutting through the double yellow lines in the middle of the road.

"Watch it." But de Gier had seen the car and stretched his legs and held on to the dashboard. A head-on collision seemed possible, but the other car swerved. "Close," the sheriff said and braked and made a U-turn.

"You mind?"

"No," de Gier said.

"Good."

The sheriff had grabbed the microphone stuck close to the shaft of the cruiser's wheel. "Route One, going south, pursuing subject in black Oldsmobile, speeding, possibly under influence, just passed Billy's farm."

The radio responded immediately. "Want any assistance, Jim?"

"Not yet, ten four."

"A little chase. I'll call it off if you're tired. You had any sleep lately?"

"Enough," de Gier said. The cruiser's siren was barking just above his head, short urgent blasts, threatening like the howl of a pack of wolves.

"Motherfucker," the sheriff said.

"Pardon?"

"Motherfucker, must have been going over eighty. There's a fifty-mile limit here."

De Gier thought about the word as he watched the cruiser's speedometer touching a hundred. The low trees on the sides of the speedway had become a continuous fringe of gray green streaked with white where snow clung to the evergreen's needles. The cruiser's purr changed into a controlled roar. The dark eyes in the sheriff's narrow face betrayed no excitement. There was no traffic on the speedway and the only other moving object was the Oldsmobile. The battered rear of the black car was growing. De Gier could see the registration plate, but the numbers were unclear, partly covered by dirt and rust.

The cruiser's speed grew somewhat and the fleeing car's back fender came closer. The microphone popped back into the sheriff's hand.

"You there?"

"Yes, Jim."

"You got that complaint about the missing Olds yesterday?"

"Right here on the desk, Jim."

"Number?"

"Four-five-two, seven-four-six."

"Could be, this plate starts with four-five. Sixty-nine black Olds, right?"

"Right, Jim. Sure you don't want assistance? Bob's cruiser is on Route One, too. I can raise him."

"Sure, raise him. Ten four."

The cruiser's engine made its doors vibrate as the two cars raced side by side. The sheriff put his foot all the way down and began to steer to the side. There was a squeal of brakes. De Gier looked round. The Oldsmobile skidded and seemed to be ready to overturn, but it touched a snowbank and dug itself in, its rear wheels spinning frantically.

"Right," the sheriff said and opened his door. De Gier got out too. "Careful, sergeant. You're not too steady on your legs."

When de Gier reached the Oldsmobile the driver was facing the sheriff, dwarfing the tight upright figure that stood nailed on the glistening asphalt. Very nice, de Gier thought, a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound suspect. Like many big men the driver seemed pleasant, jolly almost.

"You're not taking me in, sheriff." The voice boomed and came from a pink slit in a thick beard that grew up to the man's deep-set eyes. De Gier stopped, his feet slightly apart, his arms dangling. The giant turned to look at him.

"Who are your

"A rider," the sheriff said.

"So why is he here?"

"A curious rider. I'm taking you in, Leroux. Speeding."

"Curiosity killed the cat." A strong waft of whiskey hit de Gier's nostrils. It hit the sheriff too.

"You've been drinking, Leroux. That's another charge. And I have a third. You stole the car."

The pink slit in the beard curled. "No, sheriff. The car belongs to my buddy. You know him—Charlie, young Charlie Bouchier. Charlie had the loan of my chain saw, but he didn't give it back. He gave me some parts back, not the chain saw. He owes me a couple of hundred to have it fixed again, but Charlie has no money."

The sheriff walked to the Oldsmobile and looked in. He came back. "There's no key in the car. How did you start her, Leroux?"

"I can start a car without a key."

"So you stole it. Charlie didn't give you the key, right?"

"You're not taking me in, sheriff." Leroux hadn't raised his voice, but his eyelids dropped halfway and the fist on his right arm swung, just a few inches forward, then dropped back again.

"Yes I am, Leroux. Get into the cruiser."

"Not unless you pull your gun on me."

De Gier looked at the gun. It stuck obscenely from a narrow holster on the sheriff's belt, secured only by a thin leather strap that would spring open if the sheriff flicked a finger. A wicked gun, an oversized revolver, the wooden butt shining in the low sunlight.

"I won't pull a gun on you, Leroux."

Leroux's throaty laugh rumbled around the sheriff. "You want to fight me, sheriff?"

"Get into the cruiser."

Leroux's hand came up slowly and a forefinger poked out of the fist. The finger touched the sheriff's nose and pressed down. The nose flattened. The sheriff hadn't moved.

De Gier's reaction wasn't conscious. His mind had appraised the situation and determined it to be dangerous. The suspect was big and undoubtedly strong. He was also armored, for the thick jacket, padded with down or plastic fluff, would absorb any blow. The only exposed part of the suspect's body was the face, but Leroux had his chin down and his left arm was free to block the sheriff's punch. The sheriff didn't have enough weight to resist the pressure of the suspect's hand. Leroux's action constituted a charge: harassing an officer. There was little the sheriff could do except try to stand his ground, but de Gier could attack. Leroux's neck was free. De Gier's knees buckled slightly and his left hand was chopped upward, forming a blade, and hit Leroux's arm a half inch below the elbow joint. Leroux's forearm snapped up and the bearded head turned slightly, but the movement was arrested by a second chop when de Gier's right hand hit the side of the big man's neck. There was less force in the second chop, but it had enough strength to block the flow in Leroux's artery. Leroux's eyes closed and he fell slowly. He rolled over once, as if he were trying to find a more comfortable position on the cold road. Then he sighed.

"Out," the sheriff said. "Thanks. Good move. I hope you haven't killed him."

"No."

"You've hit subjects like that before?"

"Not too often."

"I usually hit them with my flashlight." The sheriff showed the flashlight. The stem was a foot long. "Give them a swipe on the temple. Knocks them out and it doesn't hurt my hand. Let's move him."

They dragged the body to the cruiser and maneuvered it onto the back seat. Leroux groaned and smacked his lips. His eyes were still closed as his hand rubbed bis bruised neck.

"Did the rider knock me out?"

"He did. How do you feel?"

"Bad."

"You going to behave now?"

Leroux's groan became a bark. "No! I'll kill you both."

"Handcuffs," the sheriff said and ripped the metal rings from his belt. "Hold him, sergeant."

Leroux's hands were fists again, but they had no power and de Gier's long, muscular ringers pried them open and applied a twisting pressure so that the body on the backseat turned halfway and the arms met in the back. The handcuffs touched his hairy wrists and snapped shut. Leroux slumped back.

"Watch him, sergeant. I'll get the Oldsmobile started and drive it to the jailhouse. Can you handle the cruiser?"

De Gier looked at the controls. "Perhaps."

"Have you driven automatic cars before? They have them in Europe, don't they?"

"Yes, I have. Not often. The P is Park, isn't it? What's the N?"

"Neutral. Shift in D for Drive and be gentle with the accelerator. If you have to brake, pump it—just touch it with your toe. Can you do that?"

"Yes."

The sheriff walked over to the Oldsmobile, opened the hood, and adjusted the cable Leroux had used to start the car. When the engine caught, he reversed the big car out of the bank, allowing the engine to idle so that the wheels just moved and didn't spin. De Gier eased the cruiser behind the Oldsmobile. The radio crackled and he fumbled with the microphone, having trouble finding its button.