The Maine Massacre
( Amsterdam cops - 7 )
Janwillem Van De Wetering
Janwillem Van De Wetering
The Maine Massacre
1
The telephone call interrupted a pleasant conversation that hadn't been leading anywhere apart from stressing the point that the three men, gathered for the ceremony of ten o'clock coffee in the commissaris' stately room on the second floor of Amsterdam police headquarters, weren't alone that morning but could face the bleakest time of the early December year together.
The telephone's irritating jangle cut through the sergeant's lengthy explanation as to how a begonia can be made to flower in the midst of winter. The commissaris* was interested, and the adjutant, from the depth of a comfortable armchair upholstered in velvet, had been polite enough not to yawn, or cough, or suck noisily on his soggy cigar stub while the sergeant held form. But now there was the telephone and the two detectives listened to the commissaris' side of the conversation with some interest. It could be business, but it was unlikely. There hadn't been any business for weeks, apart from traffic accidents and family fights and the usual bits and pieces that were far outside die scope of the "murder brigade" or the criminal investigation department in which they had served for longer than they cared to remember. The heavy continuous rain, occasionally changing into an icy downpour of sleet, kept tempers down in the city. The citizens were spending their days at work and their nights at home. Public order couldn't be more orderly. Nothing to do but read files and drive the gray Volkswagen, unmarked, dented, and disreputable, through wet streets. Nothing to do but stare at the cold, bored faces of pedestrians. The pedestrians would stare back. The pedestrians only saw a car, and they wouldn't notice it until it happened to be in their way. And even if it were in their way, they wouldn't notice its details or occupants. The faces behind the Volkswagen's restless and squeaky windshield wipers would be gray blobs to them. But the faces belonged to live beings, to large, quiet adjutant Grijpstra, accepting the world with some mild misgivings from under his gray bristle of unbrushed metal-like hair, and to lithe Sergeant de Gier, whose soft, large brown eyes observed whatever was going on, or not going on, over high cheekbones shadowed by carefully combed locks and thick curls. His hairstyle was a little too elaborate perhaps. A pedestrian who bumped into the car and cursed its driver, and bent down to have a closer look at the subject of his rage, might mistake the sergeant for a woman-provided, of course, that the sergeant would be blowing his nose. The sergeant's wide, upswept mustache clearly proclaimed him to be male. And so he was; an athletic adventurer with a reputation of antagonism, not so much to the world of crime as to the various systems of authority that interfered with his individualistic routines. But the sergeant was also a reasonable man and allowed his unfortunate inclination to go his own way to be checked by the adjutant's mellow mannerisms and the sly but gentle admonitions of the commissaris.
The sergeant's eyes rested on the commissaris' thin, blue-veined hand that had begun to play with a pencil on the polished desktop.
"Yes, Suzanne," the commissaris said softly. "I am very sorry to hear the bad news. When did it happen?"
A vague murmur came from the telephone. There were words and sobs. Then there was a moist whisper that could also be a fit of crying.
"Friday? But that's four days ago! Why didn't you let me know earlier? I might have been able to come out for the funeral?
"You kept on having bad connections? Poor dear."
The commissaris put his hand over the telephone and looked at the adjutant. "My sister, she lives in America. Her husband died." The commissaris' notebook was on the table and he flipped through the pages. "Yes, dear, I have your address. Of course I will come. Soon. Yes. Tomorrow perhaps, or the day after. I'll telephone you. Can you meet the plane, do you think?"
The murmuring voice stopped, sobbed, and spoke again.
"I see. Never mind, dear. I can find a taxi. Yes. Warm clothes? I'll see what I have in the cupboard. Thirty below? Yes, I'll keep it in mind. Rheumatism? No, no, Suzanne, I am quite healthy. I'll be there. I'll cable you the flight number so that you know when to expect me."
He put the phone down.
'Thirty below," the sergeant said. 'That's very cold, sir. Where does your sister live?"
"On the American east coast, sergeant, close to Canada but still in the United States. She asked me many times to spend a holiday out there but I never went, a pity. She must have lived there some ten years now, ever since her husband retired. He used to work for one of our banks in New York and he got himself a vacation house on the coast, quite a lovely place, I believe. She sent some photographs once. But I don't imagine my sister liked the house, or that part of the country, and I don't think she was happy when her husband decided that they would live there all year round. Maybe that's why I never went; her letters weren't too enthusiastic. And then the cold, of course. And in summer we are always kept busy here."
"How did her husband die, sir?"
"An accident. He slipped on the ice. Tried to cut a tree down and lost his footing and went all the way down. They live right on the shore and he fell on the rocks. Now she wants to live here again, but the estate will have to be liquidated. She isn't a very practical woman, rather dreamy. And gloomy. And she never had any children. She must feel very lonely now." The commissaris smiled. "I hardly know her, although we differ only a few years in age. She was always in her room." He imitated a little boy's voice. "'Where is Suzanne, mother?'" "'In her room, Jan. 'What is she doing there, mother?'" "'She is crying, Jan.'"
He moved his coffee cup to the edge of the tabletop and the sergeant jumped up, ran to a corner of the room, and came back with a silver pot. The adjutant brought a tray with a milk jug and a sugar bowl. "Thank you. And now she is crying again. But she has a reason this time. Must have been a sad experience. There are other houses nearby. She may not have been alone when she found the corpse and tried to bring it back into the house." He got up and briskly rubbed his hands. "Well, gentlemen, it seems I'll be traveling. I'd better see the chief constable and apply for some extra leave. Bring back the damsel in distress and set her up properly. I hope my brother-in-law had a good pension and proper life insurance. Life in Amsterdam is expensive these days and I'll have to find Suzanne a good apartment."
"Sir," the sergeant said.
"Yes?"
"Do you think you should go, sir? Your health…"
"Is bad," the commissaris said. "A fact I have been aware of."
The adjutant cleared his throat. "Thirty degrees below, sir, that's cold. You suffer from rheumatism. Doesn't that disease become worse…"
"When it is cold? Yes. But I can wear warm clothes. And the house will be heated, no doubt. She lives in America, adjutant, not on the North Pole. America is a wealthy country, rilled with comforts. I am sure I'll be quite all right."
"Your brother, sir…" the sergeant said.
The commissaris sat down again and rubbed his small wizened face with both hands. They pushed up his spectacles and his faded green eyes looked at the sergrant. "Yes, my brother, but he lives in Austria now, a very quiet life in the mountains. I don't think he wants to be bothered." The spectacles slipped back on the straight little nose and the commissaris got up. "No, after all, she telephoned me, didn't she? So I am dutybound to go. A sister is a very close relative, and it won't be all that much trouble. An airplane will cross the ocean in a matter of hours. I should be able to have breakfast here and dinner in America. And what is there to do? Comfort her, make her feel that there are still people around who care… sort through some papers, make a few telephone calls, write a letter or two, sell her house, help her pack, a
nd fly her back to her home country. Should be nothing to it." He was on his way to the door.
"Sir?"
The commissaris stopped and turned. "Sergeant?"
"Can I go with you, sir? You were ill last week, sir. I am sure your wife doesn't want you to travel alone. I have some leave due and I'd like to go to America."
It wasn't the right thing to say. The commissaris frowned. "My wife? I tell you, sergeant, my wife does fuss, you know. If she had her way I would never leave my bed or my bath. And you know what that will do to me?" The commissaris' forefinger pointed at the sergeant's stylish denim jacket. "It will kill me. Anything will kill me. Nonactivity will and activity will too. Whatever way I go I am faced by disaster."
Adjutant Grijpstra raised his bulk from the low chair and ambled over until he stood opposite the commissaris' frail figure. "But perhaps you shouldn't go alone, sir." The adjutant's deep voice was polite, soft, reassuring. "I would like to go too, but my English is bad. The sergeant speaks the language well. He could do the legwork while you sort out the job."
The commissaris stepped back until his back touched the wall. "Yes?"
"Yes, sir."
"No," the commissaris said. "No, no. Not at all. The sergeant should spend his leave in the sun somewhere. This is private business, and unpleasant too. A wailing old lady and a blizzard around the house. And what about the money? The trip'll cost a few thousand per person, a waste of good money if there are two of us. No, adjutant. It's a kind thought and I appreciate it."
The door closed. The sergeant hadn't moved from the straightbacked chair opposite the commissaris' desk. Grijpstra sighed and looked out the window. A streetcar splashed through a puddle on the other side of the street. Two cyclists, huddled in plastic yellow coats, caught its wave of muddy water and nearly capsized.
"Look at that," Grijpstra said. "I would rather see snow. Snow is nice and white, all I have seen for the last few weeks is gray water and brown mud. Maybe you should go all the same. He can't stop you, you know. It'll be a private trip. My young cousin spent his holidays in America. He said he had a good time, and it wasn't all that expensive either, but he got some sort of discount, a student's ticket. You may have to pay full fare. Do you have any money?"
"No," de Gier said and studied his new suede boots. "I could get a bank loan."
"It might not be enough. They won't lend much against your salary. I don't have any cash either. Hmm."
There was some cheerfulness in the "hmm" and de Gier looked up. "Hmm what?"
"An idea," Grijpstra said. "A good idea. I'll see the chief constable."
"That high?"
"That high," Grijpstra said as he left the room. "The top. It's hard to go higher than the top."
De Gier left too and wandered through the building. He stopped at the canteen, where a sergeant from the garage showed him how to obtain a free cup of coffee by pressing certain buttons in a certain combination on a recently installed machine, and at the typists' room, where his presence evoked some smiles and at least one wistful sigh. He reached his own office an hour later and found Grijpstra sitting on his desk. The adjutant beamed.
"Yes?" de Gier asked suspiciously.
"On your way." The adjutant's smile was triumphant.
"On my way where?"
'To the American consulate. They're waiting for you. I have a name. Ask for the name and you will be shown straight through and your passport will be stamped right-away. There is no fee."
"A visa?"
"Yes. The chief constable was most impressed."
The adjutant's smile was now both triumphant and mysterious, and de Gier sat down on the visitor's chair, stretched his long legs, and put his feet on the desk. 'Tell me," he said patiently. "I won't go anywhere if you don't tell me."
"What is there to tell? You are going to America. I saw the address of the commissaris' sister in his notebook. The town of Jameson in the county of Woodcock in the state of Maine, USA. We've been friendly with the American police ever since the junkies began to arrive here. Only last week I had to show a New York police lieutenant around, remember? Took me two days."
"Yes. You took him to the restaurants."
"That's where he wanted to go. I do as I am told. But it works both ways. We can go over there-there's a fund in The Hague* somewhere and there's money in the fund, American money and Dutch money. When they come over here their expenses are paid by the fund, and if we go over there our expenses are paid by the fund, only we never go over there."
"That's for crime detection, Grijpstra, not for private adventures. Detection of crimes and apprehension of criminals. I saw something about it in the Police Gazette."
Grijpstra waved a magazine. "You didn't read the text properly. It also says that the fund is set up for the mutual benefit of the various police organizations. We can study each other's methods. That police lieutenant I had to take out to dinner wanted to know how we manage to catch suspects without harming them. It seems that most of the criminals brought into his precinct bleed. And he can't stand blood. He hung around one of our stations in the inner city and noted that all our suspects just walked in. Most of them weren't even handcuffed. Over there they have to carry them in."
"Did you tell him we try to be polite?"
"Yes. But he worried about the safety of the police officers. I told him about the constable who got shot and killed last year because he happened to stop an armed robber on a routine traffic checkpoint. The lieutenant said that that wouldn't have happened in America. They are very careful, even during routine checks. They walk up to the driver from the rear and hold on to their pistols. That's a good approach, I've been thinking about it. If you approach a driver from the rear he can't pull a gun on you so easily. Maybe we can learn something."
"Wait a minute," de Gier said and dropped his legs. "You mean that fund…"
"Yes. Go to the consulate. Once you have your passport stamped you can leave. You can leave tonight. The commissaris is also leaving tonight, but you can take a different plane. I have his flight number."
"He doesn't know?"
"No. I told the chief constable that the commissaris doesn't want you to go, but the chief agrees that the commissaris shouldn't go alone. Amazing, the whole thing was fixed in half an hour. He telephoned The Hague to clear you with the administrator of the fund. That only took a minute. You can pick up money with the cashier here, up to three thousand, and you have to bring back the change and a stack of vouchers. That fund is a faucet; if you know how to turn it it'll flood you with money. And then he phoned New York. He called the man "general"-maybe he was a police general. The general said he would call back. He did within twenty minutes. You are invited to serve under the sheriff of Woodcock County, Maine. The general spoke to the sheriff. The sheriff will meet your plane once you tell him when it will arrive."
"Shit," de Gier said.
"Beg pardon?"
"Shit. You aren't serious, are you, adjutant? What does the chief want me to do there? Catch poachers? We don't have any poachers in Amsterdam-the rabbit that lived in the park behind my apartment building was run over last week and nobody wants to shoot the blue herons, they have a fishy taste."
Grijpstra got off the desk, pulled de Gier up by the lapels of his tailor-made jacket, and shoved him to the door.
"Off you go, dear boy. Nobody cares what you do out there as long as you bring back the commissaris alive. That fund is to be wasted, waste it pleasantly. Off you go."
"Thanks," de Gier said on the threshold.
"A pleasure. Be sure the commissaris doesn't find out until it's too late."
"What do I tell him when he does find out?"
"Blame it on me," the adjutant said. De Gier was in the corridor. The door closed slowly.
De Gier grinned.
•The ranks of the Amsterdam Municipal Police are constable, constable first class, sergeant, adjutant, inspector, chief inspector, commissaris, chief constable. A commissaris is usually in charge of a d
ivision. Sergeants and adjutants are noncommissioned officers.
*The Hague houses the various government centers of the Netherlands. Amsterdam is the country's capital.
2
The plane's wheels seemed bound to touch the tops of the tall pines bordering the tiny airstrip and the commissaris had to force himself to keep his eyes open. His ideas about America had changed once the stewardess walked him across the vast hall of Boston's airport and pointed at a two-engined plane. The plane looked old, with bulging lines dating some thirty years back. A young man in a heavily padded jacket and an oil-stained cap with earmuffs was wheelbarrowing a suitcase through the snow.
"Is that my plane?"
"Yes, sir," the stewardess said brightly. "Prestige Airlines, a small private company. They fly to most of the small airports in Maine. They've been going for years. I'm sure they're very reliable."
The young man had got the wheelbarrow stuck and was pushing it with all his might. He was shouting, but his words didn't penetrate through the plate-glass walls of the airport building. The stewardess giggled. "That's your pilot, sir. He'll come back in a minute; he also takes care of the desk here."
"Good God," the commissaris muttered. The stewardess studied the tired, drawn face of the little old man leaning on his bamboo cane. "Are you all right, sir?"
"Yes, miss, just tired. I couldn't sleep, they were showing a movie while we crossed the Atlantic."
"Where are you going again, sir?"
"Jameson, Maine."
"Jameson," she said. "That's a nice town, I spent a holiday there once. It's on the seashore, rather popular in summer but nobody would want to go there this time of the year. It'll be all snow and ice, I imagine."
The pilot had come back and took the commissaris' ticket and suitcase. "Jameson?" he asked. "That'll be three, three and a half hours maybe, hard to say in this weather, and they may not have plowed the strip. They hadn't last time and I had to circle while they pushed the old plow around. I suppose they thought I wouldn't come in and their radio had broken down again."
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