Tumbleweed

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "What do you think of Mr. Drachtsma?"

  Mrs. Buisman didn't look so pleasant now. Her face had become determined and her skin seemed tighter. De Gier suddenly noticed the stiff little bun on her head.

  "You can tell me," de Gier said gently, "it's not mere curiosity."

  "You've got your murderer, haven't you?" Mrs. Buisman asked.

  De Gier began to eat his cake. "So it seems," he said with his mouth full.

  "I have been thinking," Mrs. Buisman said. "Did Mr. Drachtsma know that murdered woman in Amsterdam?"

  "Yes. She was his girlfriend, his mistress."

  "Poor Mrs. Drachtsma."

  "Didn't she know that her husband wasn't faithful?"

  "Oh yes," Mrs. Buisman said gruffly, "she knew. She comes to tea here as well sometimes and she talked to me about it. She was trying to understand, she said. Important men travel about a lot and they have a lot of energy. One woman isn't enough for them. She said she didn't really mind as long as he wouldn't take his girlfriends to the island."

  "Did he ever do that?"

  "Perhaps. He often took people on his yacht. His wife never goes on the yacht, she is frightened of the sea."

  "Yes, yes," de Gier said.

  "He is not a nice man," Mrs. Buisman said after she had breathed deeply.

  "Why not?"

  Mrs. Buisman poured more tea and they were looking at each other, each stirring their tea mechanically.

  "He used to remind me of a tumbleweed. You are a city man, aren't you, sergeant? You don't know about tumbleweeds?"

  "I know a little about birds."

  Mrs. Buisman laughed. "Yes, my husband told me about your adventure this morning."

  "Oh, but I did enjoy it," de Gier said quickly, "but the adjutant, Grijpstra I mean, didn't feel well and we had the murder on our minds, of course."

  "Never mind. I'll tell you about tumbleweeds. When the plants die here, at the end of the year, some of them break off. First they dry out and become brittle and one day the wind grabs them and they break their stems and begin to tumble all about the island. It's an amazing sight. The weeds seem so busy and so energetic, they go everywhere and when the wind changes they come back again. They bounce across the roads and get stuck against our fences, they even get into the gardens. The dunes are alive with them but eventually they will reach the beaches and then they drown in the sea, but they are dead already of course, they died long before they broke off and lost their souls."

  De Gier had put his cup down and was staring at the fat woman.

  "Yes?" he asked. "Do you think Drachstma lost his soul?"

  "Soul, soul," Mrs. Buisman said. "I am not a very Christian woman. I don't know about souls, it's just a manner of speaking. But Mr. Drachtsma is a hard man, he always gets his way, he bounces around and he never seems happy. Every year he buys a bigger boat and his cars never last and there are always carpenters and bricklayers working on his house. He is an unhappy man and he isn't really alive."

  "Who is aliver de Gier asked.

  "Oh, lots of people are. My husband is. He is a loving man."

  De Gier smiled.

  "Oh, not that way," Mrs. Buisman said and giggled. "We aren't as young as we used to be. I mean he loves living tilings, and dead things too. The other day I saw him standing on the dike, looking at the sea and the birds and the clouds and I walked up to him and said 'Buisman' and he looked at me as if he didn't know who he was, he was so full of everything around him. But Drachtsma isn't like that, he always knows who he is. 'Drachtsma' is the most important word he knows and he is always thinking of how to make it bigger. And he'll be blown about by his endless desires the way the tumbleweeds are blown about by the wind."

  "And eventually he'll be blown into the sea and disappear," de Gier said.

  Mrs. Buisman went to look after her patients and she was away for a while. De Gier telephoned the hotel and was told to meet the commissaris at seven o'clock. He still had half an hour.

  "Tell me, Mrs. Buisman," he said when she had come back again, smiling about something, "what was the relationship between Mr. Drachtsma and Rammy Scheffer?"

  "I was thinking about that," Mrs. Buisman said, "but I forgot when I saw my two fat babies. Your Mr. Grijpstra certainly has a loud snore and my Buisman was wheezing right through it. I can't understand why they don't wake each other up. Rammy Scheffer, you say. Well, in the beginning, they just knew each other. Everybody knows everybody on the island, but I noticed that they had become closer, about a year ago it started, I think. Drachtsma always pretends he is interested in nature and he has donated a lot of money to the reserves. I know that he does care about the island; it's his home after all, his father came from the island, and his grandfather was born here, but I don't think Mr. Drachtsma cares about the birds. If he could build a hotel here he would probably do it but nobody is allowed to build hotels here anymore. I think Rammy went to see him about new fencing or something and after that they were sometimes together. I thought it was strange for they are so different. Rammy gets away from people, he'll work in his garden in his free time, and he sits near his fireplace and reads the Bible and Drachtsma always has people around him."

  Mrs. Buisman began to play with her spoon.

  "You don't know what they talked about?"

  "I did overhear something of a conversation they were having," Mrs. Buisman said. "I was in the garden and they came past, I don't think they noticed me. Mr. Drachtsma was talking about 'evil' and Rammy was listening. 'Evil has to be destroyed, Rammy,' he was saying, and he said it again, and Rammy was listening very carefully."

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Buisman," de Gier said. "I'll have to go back to the commissaris. We are having dinner at Mr. Drachtsma's house tonight."

  "Come again," Mrs. Buisman said, and opened the door for de Gier.

  "I am not as silly as I look, sergeant," she said. "I know what you are after, but I don't think you have a chance. Nobody has ever been able to catch Mr. Drachtsma at anything."

  De Gier smiled and thanked her for the tea.

  * * *

  "Not so fast," the commissaris said as they were walking toward the Drachtsma mansion. "My legs are about half the size of yours. And tell me the whole story again. Mrs. Buisman interests me, I should have come with you."

  De Gier told the story again.

  "Tumbleweeds," the commissaris said as they reached me gate and saw their host coming toward them. "I have heard about tumbleweeds before. Interesting, very."

  19

  IN SPITE OF THE EXCELLENT FOOD AND THE EXPENSIVE wines which had poured from dusty bottles, de Gier hadn't enjoyed his meal. He had been placed opposite Mrs. Drachtsma, and the hard expression of her face, the thin lips, and the heavy coat of paint which almost cracked as she tried to look pleasant, had interfered with his digestion and he now felt as if his stomach were full of sand.

  The interior of the house, contrary to his expectations, was dull. The house showed that its owner was rich, everything was of the best possible quality, but no imagination had been used and the heavy furniture stood where it should stand, heavily immobile, like trucks parked in a factory's courtyard, "Solid," de Gier was thinking, "just like my stomach. I couldn't even belch if I wanted to, there is no air."

  They had been directed toward the fireplace and Drachtsma was pouring brandy. The commissaris was holding on to an enormous cigar and de Gier had rolled himself a cigarette from a little bag of tobacco which he had found in the pocket of his duffelcoat. He normally didn't roll his own cigarettes but he did it now as a feeble protest against the unsympathetic environment he had been forced into, and he had, almost rudely, refused the cigar which Drachtsma had offered.

  "I have been to this island before/' the commissaris was saying when he had finally managed to find a way of handling his cigar, "but in autumn, late autumn."

  "That's a good time too," the mayor said. "The island is lovely in all seasons but I like it best just before winter. The tourists hav
e gone by then and we have Schiermonnikoog to ourselves. It's a good time to walk on the beaches."

  "That's what I was doing. I was very impressed by many things that evening. There was a strange atmosphere around me. Nature had died and the trees were bare and the seagulls were circling and yelling raucously and some crows were following me. Whenever I moved they would fly ahead and sit on a rock and stare at me. Crows are intelligent birds and they were talking to each other with their hoarse voices."

  There was something about the way the commissaris was talking that wouldn't allow for interruptions and everybody was listening. Drachtsma had put the bottle down and was leaning against the mantelpiece, his long legs crossed and his hands in his pockets, but he didn't look casual.

  "And then I saw the tumbleweed. I was on a wide stretch of beach, very wide perhaps, and I had walked close to the sea and I saw the tumbleweed coming down the dunes, rolling, being pushed by the wind. It was very big, perhaps ten feet across, and it wasn't just one dead plant, but I didn't know that at the time. I knew about tumbleweeds and I know that some of them do their trick on purpose. They grow special roots, late in their life, but the roots do not go into the ground. They touch the ground but they won't go in and yet they'll keep on growing. They are like arms which the weed uses to push itself up when the time comes. It starts pushing, using its long strong arms, and it pushes itself until it breaks away from its own proper roots and men it is free and begins to roll when the wind grabs it, and as it rolls it will meet other dead balls of branches and it will hook on to them and it goes on meeting others and they all tangle up together and finally the plants form one gigantic growth. I was seeing one of those that evening and it was coming straight for me. I ran to the left, but it changed direction, and then I ran to the right and it changed direction again. It was bouncing off the ground and twirling its yellow tentacles and it got me and pushed me into the sea, wanting to drown me." The commissaris' cigar had gone out and he busied himself with it.

  "You are still alive," Drachtsma said, "so it failed, fortunately."

  "It didn't mean to fail," the commissaris said, "and it gave me a good fright. I have never forgotten it. I have often thought of it since. What fascinates me is that I was being attacked by a corpse, by a thing without a will of its own. The plant had planned it all, but it had done so when it was still alive, and it had used its own dead body and the bodies of others to construct a weapon."

  "Now, now," the mayor was saying, sipping his brandy and smiling. "It's a good story, of course, and I am sure it happened just the way you say it happened but you are exaggerating, I think. The plant never planned anything at all. It was a natural thing to happen. The dead plants tumble about to spread their seed. It happens after they have died, and it's extraordinary, and I agree that it is a fantastic sight to see them tumbling about on the beaches and through the dunes, but there is no evil in them."

  The topic was changed and coffee was served and the conversation drifted this way and that for another hour and a half until the mayor and the aldermen got up and thanked the hostess for her hospitality. The commissaris and de Gier had got up as well but Drachtsma offered them a final drink and Mrs. Drachtsma excused herself when he poured it and went to bed. The three men were standing near the fireplace, sipping the strong brandy.

  "I liked your tumbleweed story," Drachtsma said, and the two policemen waited for him to continue but that was all Drachtsma was prepared to say.

  "One entity killing another by using a third," the commissaris said.

  "The tumbleweed using its own dead body to kill a living body," Drachtsma said.

  "And the bodies of others," the commissaris said. "It is a good example of thought power. Businessmen often use it. They use others to achieve their purposes. They sit down and they keep on thinking in a certain direction and gradually a power builds up and finds an opportunity, a vehicle..."

  De Gier put his glass down. "And Maria van Buren dies," he said. "Good night, Mr. Drachtsma. Thank you for a pleasant evening."

  "I think you should have said that," Drachtsma said to the commissaris.

  The commissaris shook Drachtsma's hand.

  "Here is my card, Mr. Drachtsma. It has a telephone number on it."

  Drachtsma was looking at his two visitors. "No," he said, "you don't really think that I will contact you, do you?"

  20

  Six MONTHS LATER, AFTER THE BRAINS AND MEMORIES OF the policemen who had dealt with the Maria van Buren case had been soaked by a great many incidents relating to a number of other cases, the commissaris' telephone rang.

  "Drachtsma," a faint voice said. "Do you remember me?"

  The commissaris needed a few seconds.

  "Yes, Mr. Drachtsma," he said. "I remember you."

  "I would like to make a statement," the weak voice continued. It was speaking slowly, and carefully. "I would be grateful if you could come and visit me."

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "but where are you?"

  "On the island," Drachtsma said.

  "Can't we put it off until you are in Amsterdam again?" the commissaris asked. "It's a bit of a trip from here to Schiermonnikoog and we are rather busy here. I believe you are often in Amsterdam, aren't you?"

  "Not any more," the low voice said. "I am ill, very ill. I haven't left the island for months."

  The commissaris looked at his window. The rain was hitting it with such force that he couldn't see through it.

  "What time is the next ferry?"

  "If you leave your office now you'll arrive in time, and you can go back on the afternoon ferry. You'll lose a day but you'll be doing me an invaluable service."

  "All right," the commissaris said.

  "Pity Grijpstra didn't want to come," de Gier said.

  Their car had crossed the Utrecht bridge and was joining the main traffic on the speedway.

  "You can't blame him," the commissaris said. "Nature almost got him last time and I think he must know the island by now. Mrs. Buisman kept him for a full month, didn't she?"

  "She did," de Gier said. "Never in my life have I done as much overtime as during that month."

  "Be grateful," the commissaris said.

  "Sir," said de Gier, who didn't understand.

  Mrs. Drachtsma opened the door. Her face hadn't been made up and she looked old and tired but some human warmth seemed to radiate from her being.

  "I am so glad you could come," she said. "My husband is waiting for you. He has cancer of the lungs and the doctor thinks he is getting close to the end. He didn't want to go to the hospital on the mainland, and he refused the ray treatment they were recommending. He kept on saying that the rays could only lengthen the torture."

  "How long has your husband been ill, madam?" the commissaris asked.

  "The cancer was diagnosed three months ago. He is very weak now."

  Llsbrand Drachtsma had been put into a large metal hospital bed. Three pillows kept his head and shoulders upright. His face was the color of ivory and his eyes had sunk deeply under the thin dry bristles of his eyebrows. The commissaris and de Gier touched the white hand on which veins crinkled like blue worms.

  Drachtsma coughed and wheezed with every breath. He was trying to speak. "Tumbleweed," he said after a while, coughing at every syllable. "You remember?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said, "but don't strain yourself, Drachtsma. I think I can understand you without you trying to talk. If talking hurts you we don't want you to talk. We'll stay here awhile if you like, we'll just sit here in the room, and maybe we'll ask a few questions and you can nod your head or shake it."

  Drachtsma smiled. "No. I've got to talk. You were right, it happened the way you said it happened."

  The commissaris wanted to stop him but Mrs. Drachtsma put a hand on his shoulder.

  "Please let him talk, commissaris. I know what he wants to say. He has told me and I have forgiven him. I have even understood him. But he wants to tell you. Let him tell you, it will give him peace."
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  "Yes," Drachtsma said. "I would like Rammy to be here but my wife phoned the clinic and he is still ill. My fault. I used him instead of trying to help him. I could have helped him but I didn't know it at the time, didn't want to know. Too late now. Pity."

  He began to cough again and Mrs. Drachtsma cradled his shoulders in her arm and he put his face on her neck.

  De Gier felt suffocated, he wanted to get up and leave the room and smoke in the corridor but the quietness of the commissaris next to him helped him to restrain himself.

  "It's all right," said Drachtsma, and smiled at his wife. "Childish, that's the word. I have always been childish. Not mis, to be embraced by your wife isn't childish. But what I have been doing all my life was silly. Always chose my own benefit, what I thought was my own benefit. Maria was my toy, I didn't want her to have a life of her own. She could have other men, but her attachment had to be to me. And I didn't want her to be a witch."

  "A witch," de Gier muttered.

  "Yes, she was a good witch."

  "Good?" the commissaris asked.

  "A good bad witch. Efficient. Knew her job. The herbs helped but they were only part of it. She had learned and practiced and experimented. A dedicated woman. Things like that don't come easy, you know. A lot of trips to and she didn't enjoy going there anymore, not with her family all against her. But it got her somewhere. I don't know where. It gave her power. She could pull people. Me too. Anytime she wanted me to come I came, like a doll on a string."

  "So you killed her?" the commissaris asked.

  Drachtsma nodded.

  His wife poured a cup of tea and helped him to take a sip.

  "Yes. I had her killed. I was too clever to do it myself. I thought of it but you would have connected me with her death. I know how to make other people work for me, how to use people. I picked her own brother. I thought that was very clever. I was proud of my intelligence. I have always been proud. Pride is good sometimes, it helped me get away during the war. But it is dangerous too. Pride should be a tool, a man should be in charge of his own pride."

  Drachtsma closed his eyes.