Just a Corpse at Twilight

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "There couldn't be no such thing," Ishmael agreed.

  The Tailorcraft fluttered back to sea after weaving its goodbyes around the old cruiser.

  "Old tub is ready to sink. Would fill up overnight if they didn't keep two bilge pumps going, which exhausts their batteries, and they're always short of fuel to regenerate them."

  "So what if she sinks?" Grijpstra asked, "What happens to her proud owners?"

  "Their type doesn't take well to handouts," Ishmael said.

  "Then what?"

  "Take handouts, what else?" Ishmael asked. "Food stamps for dog food. Public assistance check for booze. Housing Authority for rent."

  "Then what?"

  "More loss of self-esteem in the homeless shelter. Drunken driving in stolen cars. The judge will make them watch bad news in jail."

  "Can that boat be repaired?"

  "No," Ishmael said, "but money could buy them something better."

  "Plenty of cash around here," Grijpstra said.

  "All they have to do is find it," Ishmael said.

  Now that the quest for corpse-eating birds had led nowhere Ishmael steered further out. Macho Bandido was sailing a few miles offshore, close to the wind, looking good and trim. So was the captain, a dapper little man in a blue blazer and white slacks, and a hat with a gold-braided visor.

  "Bildah Farnsworth," Ishmael said, making the Tai-lorcraft dip its wings. Bildah waved. Hairy Harry's bald pointed skull shone in the bright sunlight. Obscenely, Grijpstra thought.

  "Rubbed himself with sun-blocking oil," Ishmael said. "All that bald skin might burn badly in this weather."

  The sheriff, reading the commentary in the sky, flashed a glimmering fist. The Tailorcraft, startled, veered back to the coast.

  "Not so friendly now," Grijpstra said, looking back at the white sailboat, dainty now in the distance. He shook his head. "That sheriff is bad."

  "Badly blissful at times," Ishmael said.

  Grijpstra thought that was a contradiction in terms. A crime is a violation of a social law, aiming to diminish the common good. A criminal, damaging the well-being of the tribe to which he belongs, especially when he is chosen to protect the tribe's good, feels guilty. Guilt and happiness are opposite feelings and cannot go together. He explained as much.

  Ishmael explained differently. Bad bliss comes about by outsmarting tribal pressure. "Bildah Farnsworth and Hairy Harry are good at that."

  Grijpstra grunted.

  "I'm surprised you're small-minded," Ishmael said.

  "There's good," Grijpstra said, "there's bad."

  Ishmael shook his head. "We made that up ourselves. How about supposing there's neither? There's having a good time, though, but who dares to have it? Maybe Hairy Harry does." Ishmael narrowed his eyes wishfully while he poked Grijpstra's chest. "Let me tell you. There's a lake here, inland a bit. Few people can find it but its easy to spot from the sky. A perfectly round lake, great for racing. There was a big marijuana plantation close by owned by out-of-county folks who Harry busted. One of the spoils was an antique speedboat with a racing engine.

  "There she is," Ishmael said.

  The Tailorcraft had reached the inland lake. The speedboat was still there, wrecked on rocks. "Silly Billy Boy did that," Ishmael said. "Billy Boy isn't very good with boats. Billy Boy isn't good at being happy. Hairy Harry is better. Hairy Harry is also a better boater. That day when I was flying across the lake he was zipping about at full speed, one happy sheriff in the smoothest of antique glorious speedboats, and behind him, water skiing, was. . ."

  Ishmael turned to Grijpstra. "Can you hear me, Krip?"

  "Yes."

  "Engine not too noisy?"

  "No."

  ". . . was a goddess, a naked goddess. The goddess was happy too."

  "Good," Grijpstra said.

  Ishmael's smile was crafty. "Kripstra, would you like to know who that honey-skinned long-legged raven-haired tumbly-titted goddess might have been?"

  "Not Aki," Grijpstra said. "Not even when you say so. Okay?"

  Ishmael patted Grijpstra's shoulder. "Just trying to make a point, Krip." He winked. "To myself maybe. I don't like to take sides. There aren't any, you know."

  They flew home, Ishmael quietly, Grijpstra pensively for a while. To cheer himself Grijpstra watched for gasoline bubbles on the windscreen but the fuel pump worked fine now. They saw Ishmael's home on the way to Jameson's airstrip: the four-storied canning factory, no longer working, close to the Point at the tip of the peninsula. They also saw Kathy Two, stuffing around a small weathered cabin on Bar Island.

  "Looking for Lorraine," Ishmael said. The dog was standing up against the cabin's door.

  "You know what twirling is?" Ishmael asked. He demonstrated the term, first making the plane gain height, then switching off the engine and twisting the Tailorcraft down. "Like a leaf in autumn?" Ishmael asked. "You like that?"

  Grijpstra's eyes were closed but he heard Kathy Two bark furiously.

  "It's like Lorraine is still alive," Ishmael said. "Like Kathy Two is disappointed that her friend isn't home."

  Grijpstra groaned from an increasing depth of bottomless fear.

  "If Lorraine," Ishmael was saying from a considerable distance, "were not alive, as you seem to think—since who were we looking for all morning, eh, Mister Detective?— Mrs. Farnsworth wouldn't bark, no sir, that dog would howl "

  Grijpstra howled. The Tailorcraft was close to the water when Ishmael started the engine up again. The little plane straightened out easily and skimmed waves. "It's okay when there are waves," Ishmael said. "With waves you can see the surface. I lost a plane once when the water was still. You're supposed to buzz the water with your propeller, to see where it is so you won't hit it, but I hadn't learned that yet. The plane broke up when it dived and turned over.

  "And you?"

  "I broke my neck," Ishmael said, "but they can fix that now. They couldn't fix the plane, though."

  Chapter 14

  "No," Nellie said, half awake. "You've got his number? Shall I give it to you? Or are you out of quarters again? Shall I ask him to phone you? I don't want to do this anymore. I keep forgetting the questions. Are you all right? HenkieLuwie, come back quickly now, stay away from that woman."

  Grijpstra, leaning against Beth's Diner's wall, next to the pay phone, looked at Jameson Harbor. The fishing fleet was out. Macho Bandido, impeccable again, sails twirled and sheathed, tugged gently at its mooring. Bildah Farnsworth was on board, tipping back a shot glass, smacking his lips, swallowing, shivering, smiling. Hairy Harry, naked down to his gleaming bare belly button, was tearing off the top of another beer fresh from the cooler, watching rivulets of condensation run down the can's sides, pouring down foamy frothy cold . . . outdoing the commercials, Grijpstra thought. Grijpstra wanted to join Hairy Harry, have a beer himself, merge good and evil, go boating on the bay, tell jokes, laugh with his new friend, take Aki along, two charming and intelligent Akis—or three, one for Bildah too. Why all this animosity? Share a lovely planet in an unlimited universe, enjoy the short stay.

  The pay phone rang. "Yessir," Grijpstra said, "did you just go to bed? Sorry to wake you up, sir."

  "Adjutant," the commissaris said sleepily. "Oh, I beg your pardon, Henk, I mean, uh . . ."

  "It's okay, sir," Grijpstra said. "You've been directing the case, I gather. How are your legs? I could have asked Nellie to phone you later but she hung up. Your legs bothering you, sir?"

  "No," the commissaris said, "in fact, I'm planning to have a look at the Maine coast myself, but... no, please, Katrien, go back to bed. Sorry, Adjutant. . . ."

  "Yessir. Any suggestions, sir?"

  "Well, I'm sure you're doing an excellent job. I wish I could . . . no, please, Katrien, nobody is going anywhere yet. . . . Oh dear, now what have I done? Suggestions, Adjutant?"

  "Yessir. Questions. Anything I should be doing now since I still can't find the body?"

  "You're looking for the grave?"

>   "Maybe there isn't a grave," Grijpstra said. "Flash and Bad George don't strike me as too efficient."

  "They did save your life, though."

  "That was the dog."

  "The famous dog." The commissaris chuckled. "Yes, I heard that."

  "You had me taped, didn't you, sir?"

  "Uh . . . yes . . . Katrien bought the machine, a recording gadget that clips to Nellie's phone. Very clear, Ad—Henk, wonderful what this new audio equipment can do. So, you think Flash and friend threw Lorraine's body overboard?"

  "If it was Lorraine's body, sir."

  "Good," the commissaris said. "That's good. You ascertained that another woman was missing?"

  "Yes."

  "Who?"

  "I read all the recent newspapers kept at Beth's Diner, asked some questions. A sixteen-year-old reputedly ran away from abusive parents in Jameson, sir, but that missing person is overweight, with fat feet, sir."

  "The corpse de Gier saw didn't have fat feet?"

  "Slender feet, sir."

  "But de Gier was incapable at the time."

  "I think he did notice the feet on the body."

  "So you believe he saw the dead body of a blond-haired woman with slender feet?"

  "Yessir."

  "Well, now," the commissaris said cheerfully. "De Gier wouldn't kick a pregnant woman. Is he still drinking now?"

  "He says he will never drink again."

  "Keep you company," the commissaris said. "He might not miss it. I've been cutting back myself. Drop of brandy with the coffee. So de Gier is not violent now, is he?"

  "No, sir."

  "And was he violent before the woman got hurt?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said.

  " What? Are you sure, Adju—Henk? You mean to tell me that Rinus was habitually and physically abusing a girlfriend while under the influence of alcohol and/or drugs?"

  "There was an incident involving firewood, sir. There's a big fireplace in the pagoda. When de Gier came here the nights were still cold. April, sir. Spring doesn't come until June. Firewood had been brought to Squid Island, cut and split, high-quality hardwood. Flash and Bad George do that sort of thing: caretaking. The firewood was nicely stacked. Sorted by size and color, an artistic job. They must have been paid by the hour. . . ."

  "Don't tell me de Gier destroyed that beautiful firewood stack?"

  "I'm afraid he did, sir. He kicked about half of it down the rocks. Got frustrated, he said, and the firewood was just sitting there."

  "Did suspect tell you voluntarily?"

  "No, sir. I was walking around the island and noticed the split logs lying on the beach so I reconstructed what must have happened."

  "Did suspect lie? Tell you it blew down?"

  "No, sir."

  "What was de Gier frustrated about?"

  "Well. . ."

  "You know?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "It's the old thing again, his habitual ego problem. Wants to know what really goes on in life. He thought that the journey to New Guinea might help." Grijpstra chuckled. "Enlightenment under the banyan tree, sir."

  "Where the shaman held court? Wasn't he initiated there?"

  "Seems he flew when under the influence of an ingested plant," Grijpstra said. "Hallucinations. Being alone on the island here was supposed to have been the next stage but nothing much happened, except some highs on dope and recorded music."

  "Miles Davis?"

  "And Kentucky bourbon sipping whiskey, sir. But nothing to write home about."

  "Classic Miles Davis or the funky electronic music?"

  "In between, sir. The new quintet, with Wayne Shorter."

  "Ah yes," the commissaris said. "Katrien has those records, she plays them for me sometimes. She has become quite the expert, her ear has widened, she says. She has been religiously studying jazz for years now."

  "Transitions take time, sir."

  "You like that funky stuff, Henk? That way-out percussion and the electric guitars and synthesizers going on and on? You're a sensitive drummer yourself."

  "Acquired taste," Grijpstra said.

  "And you acquired it?"

  "Foley and Irving III are exceptionally good, I think, sir. As I was saying. So de Gier combined these highs thinking he'd get a super high . . ."

  "That would set him free? And then nothing happened? He had to scatter firewood, kick women? That's sad . . . yes. . ."

  "You still there, Henk?"

  "Yessir."

  "You do have to find the grave."

  "I don't know how to, sir."

  "Or find Lorraine."

  "You still there, Henk?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said. "Yessir. I may have an idea. It'll be easy, all I need is some empty cans. . . .

  "Tell me."

  Grijpstra told the commissaris.

  "You just thought of that? What triggered it?"

  "Hairy Harry, sir. I just saw him toss his Heineken's can overboard, out of the Macho Bandido. Ishmael was telling me yesterday, as we were flying over the area looking for carrion birds, that Hairy Harry and the deputy, Billy Boy, weasel face I call him, go out shooting 'varmints' a lot. That's what they call wildlife. They have good equip- ment, infrared scoped rifles, and they keep killing beautiful birds."

  "Oh dear," the commissaris said.

  "I made some drawings, sir. Golden-eyes, mergansers— have you seen those here, with the russet tufts? And the little puffed-up fellows, buffleheads? And the loons?"

  "I was there in the winter, Henk. I did see some ducks, but from a distance. I heard about the loons, eerie laughlike cry, I believe. Don't tell me you have the sheriff and the deputy sheriff shooting endangered species there?"

  "Anything that flies," Grijpstra said. "Ishmael says there's an eagle missing too. He has been looking for the body. He did find two loons and fifty-two assorted ducks lined up on the rocks. Shot during breeding season."

  "Ah . . . ," the commissaris said.

  "Ishmael," Grijpstra said, "says the habit dates back to when poor British folks first settled the area here. Back in England they'd seen rich folks blast away at game all the time, so once they reached the promised land they all bought guns and blasted away too."

  The line was quiet.

  "Sir?"

  "Hunt the human hunter," the commissaris said. "That's what I would like to do if I had my life to live over again. The predator's predator. Now there's a good homemade purpose, Grijpstra. Wouldn't that feel good? Protect the endangered species against the endangering species. To impress our ladies. Care to join me? Fancy coming home to Nellie and when she says, 'How many?' you say, 'Got three of 'em, Nellie.' Wouldn't she be proud?"

  "You're kidding, sir."

  "Don't know if I am. Let me know what happens with your cans and things.... That'll be on Jeremy's island, you said? . . . Think a few good thoughts for me there, Henk... . There should still be a lot of Jeremy's spirit around on that blessed spot."

  Chapter 15

  Grijpstra located the grave and the corpse. He also located Lorraine. He didn't locate grave, corpse, and Lorraine at the same time.

  Good luck comes to those who keep trying. The commissaris kept saying so during Grijpstra's long career as an Amsterdam Municipal Police Murder Brigade detective. The commissaris kept saying other things. "Doing what you're doing now, Adjutant, is your present excuse for being alive." Grijpstra hadn't quite gotten that at the time but he was encouraged anyway, and pursued his activities, the endless search for the relevant detail that keeps a murder case, or any other pursuit for that matter, up, no matter how tottering. Up and about.

  "Glad to see you're up and about, Adjutant," the commissaris would say when he saw Grijpstra striding through the corridors of headquarters, a case file or object in hand. Once there were two objects: Sten guns, as used by British commandos. The weapons were found held by desiccated hands in an Amsterdam basement. The theory was that the uniformed mummies were the remains of liberation soldiers who shot each other over treasure. No w
itnesses could be produced. A probable date was set somewhere in the spring of 1945. The bodies were discovered by masons in a next door basement who ran into a bricked-up thruway twenty years later. Grijpstra's theory said that British troops were quartered in a house formerly occupied by German troops, an SS detail, hunting the city for hidden Jews. Whenever Jews were found, treasure showed up too. The SS men hid their loot in the basement. They left it there as they fled. Two British commandos discovered the cache. There seemed to be quite a bit of value in the stacked foreign banknotes and the jars containing jewels. Both soldiers realized simultaneously that all of a treasure is twice as much as half of a treasure. They both carried murderous weapons. They both had itchy trigger fingers.

  "Glad to see you up and about, Adjutant," the commissaris had said briskly. A little later, in his office, he approved of Grijpstra's theory. The soldiers' dried-out corpses were delivered to the British embassy. There was no further action. There was a grim detail, however. The treasure turned out to be worthless.

  "Now," the commissaris had said at the time, "what if instead of obsolete occupation money and colored glass we had a couple of million dollars here, and what if you and Sergeant de Gier had found those millions? We reflect on facts—long-gone owners, the loot is ofcriminal origin. And what if the society you serve has become chaotic? And what if authority has become corrupt? Would those millions become your ticket to freedom?"

  "Would de Gier and I shoot each other?" Grijpstra asked.

  The commissaris's phone was ringing. He picked it up, waving his trusted assistant away. "Yes, Katrien, ofcourse I'll be home. What's for dinner? Kale? Mashed potatoes? No veal croquettes? But you promised."

  It was nice to know, Adjutant Grijpstra would tell Sergeant de Gier, that a man of the commissaris's elevated status took an interest in lowly bunglers such as themselves and threw them outrageous ideas to chew on.

  "And what's so elevated about the commissaris's status, Adjutant?" the sergeant would ask and Grijpstra wouldn't have much ofan answer because he couldn't ever quite define why he admired his chief. The man's indifference? Or was there a better word? The man's curiosity? His willingness to probe taboos?