The Maine Massacre ac-7

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  17

  The Cessna's short wide skis skidded over the loose snow of Jeremy's airstrip. The flight had been flawless, up to the last few moments, when a crosswind grabbed the plane so that it approached the strip like a rag thrown by a tired charwoman. But it managed to straighten out at the final split second. The commissaris didn't know-he had closed his eyes. The plane would roll over and the cabin would crush. He was waiting. But there was only the roar of the engine and the sharp hiss of the skis. He opened bis eyes and tried to smile. So much for his death wish. He had so often told himself that he would like to die in an accident. He looked at his hands, clutching his knees, and ordered them to release the safety belt. They obeyed, but they took their time.

  "Well done," the commissaris said. "Well done, Made-lin."

  The sergeant breathed out sharply. De Gier's eyes had been closed too, and he had remembered the skeleton riding its black steed in Madeira's dining room. A different scene but of the same quality.

  "I'm sorry," Madelin snouted over the engine's din. "Did I give you a fright? That wind came so suddenly. I wasn't expecting it."

  "You did," the sergeant said and put a hand under the commissaris' elbow. The commissaris was clambering out of the small door, looking down into the long snouts and cold eyes of Jeremy's Dobermans. The three dogs growled softly. The raven swooped from a pine behind the cabin and fluttered to the plane's wing.

  Jeremy himself came striding up.

  "Morning, Madelin. You're bringing unexpected visitors. Shame on you, you're breaking the code." But he smiled as he helped the commissaris down and told the dogs to go away. "Don't we have a lovely climate here? Snow all night while we're tucked away under our comforters and a bright sky awaiting in the morning. You've had breakfast? You can share mine if you don't mind celery soup, and I'm not quite out of coffee, I believe. Are you bringing me news from the mainland, or have you thought of more questions?"

  The dogs were nuzzling his boots and he spoke to them sharply. They turned, one after another, and trotted away to the woods. "That's right. Go back to your squirrel catching." He pointed. "That's what they do these days. A big squirrel out there keeps them amused. He'll come down and chatter from a stump and only jump for cover when they're just about on top of him. Once he's in die pines he's worth watching. A ten-foot leap from tree to tree is nothing to him. It's marvelous to see his silhouette against the rising sun. I'm sure he knows that he'll be nothing but a bit of bloody fur when those devils get hold of him. Would you follow me? The cabin is good and warm. Out here the wind will rip your noses off."

  "I am sorry to disturb you again, sir," the commissaris said as he settled himself close to the cookstove and ate his celery soup. "But we are coming to the end of our business here and are collecting some last answers to some last questions."

  Jeremy frowned. The commissaris smiled. He pointed at his bowl with his spoon. "Excellent soup, sir. I must tell my wife. She makes it too, but she forgets to put in the fried bread."

  Jeremy smiled back. "Looks like duckweed. But tastes better, I hope. You have questions? Ask away, but perhaps I won't answer. A bad answer spoils a good question. Some questions should be permitted to live on."

  The commissaris put his bowl down and glanced at Madelin. There was a vacant chair, so it wasn't necessary for the girl to sit with the sergeant on his small bench. Her thigh was pressed against his. The sergeant was smoking and staring at the floor. He didn't appear to be at ease.

  "Some time ago," the commissaris said, "about a week ago I believe, Janet Wash rolled her station wagon off a Cape Orca road. The car nearly went over the cliff but was stopped and held by some alder trees. I was told you were there and helped the lady out of her car's wreck."

  "That's right. Very clumsy of Janet. She should know how to drive on an icy road by now, but down she went. She wasn't hurt, fortunately, and the car was insured. No harm done."

  "Some harm was done, sir. It seems to me the wagon killed your dog Osiris. You must have been upset since you love your animals. Osiris was your favorite, wasn't he? He was the dog who accompanied you to town, and you never allow the other dogs to leave the island. What did you do with his corpse?"

  "Ah," Jeremy said and fussed with his pipe. "True. He was my favorite dog. But he died, by accident as it turned out. He just happened to get into the station wagon's way, and the car was out of control by then. The corpse, you say. I took him back to the island and burned him at the end of the airstrip. Couldn't bury him, the ground was frozen. But he had a proper farewell. I burned him at sunset and the other dogs attended. So did the raven. I had wanted the seals to come too, but they're frightened of the dogs. They did watch from afar, however."

  The commissaris' pale almost transparent eyes rested on Jeremy's face. The hermit was having some trouble with his pipe.

  "Mrs. Wash must have been troubled about the accident, sir. You weren't hurt in any way? Were you standing next to Osiris when the wagon hit him?"

  Jeremy got up and collected the empty bowls. He poured coffee and distributed the mugs. He sat down again. Madelin's thigh was no longer pressing against de Gier's. The sergeant was staring at the suspect. There was no expression in his eyes. Jeremy's silence became oppressive. Madelin crossed and recrossed her legs.

  "Yes," Jeremy said finally. "I jumped out of the car's way. Any further questions?"

  The commissaris smiled pleasantly. "I said I was sorry to disturb you. But I am curious, and perhaps my curiosity can help to dispel the black cloud over Cape Orca. That expression isn't mine. Beth gave it to me last night when we were having dinner at her restaurant."

  "Beth!" Jeremy said gruffly. "There's a meddling woman for you. She doesn't like the idea of me living here by myself and insists on giving me things for free. Ice cream and stuff. Excellent ice cream for sure, but I'm not asking for favors. I am always giving her things in return. Potatoes, vegetables when I have them. I don't like to feel grateful. It's like feeling guilty." He suddenly blew into his pipe, and smoke and sparks filled his corner of the cabin. A spark smoldered on the rug, but Jeremy didn't move. The sergeant stretched a long leg and stamped it out. Jeremy turned to the commissaris. "You know what I mean?"

  There was too much intensity in the question to let it go. The commissaris bowed forward a little as if to acknowledge the seriousness of the moment. "Yes."

  "Good."

  The commissaris sat back and puffed peacefully on his cigar. "One last point, sir. You told me when we came here for the first time that you bought your island from an agency that has since left the town of Jameson. The owner, you said, was a gambler and in urgent need of money."

  Jeremy looked into his pipe. "Yes, I said that. Would you want the name of that guy?"

  "I would."

  The raven tapped on the window. Jeremy got up, opened the window, waited for the bird to hop onto his arm, and closed it again. He turned around. "I don't recall the name now. Something with a v in it. I have it on the tip of my tongue. The island's deed has the name, but to find that bit of paper would be a major undertaking." He waved at some cartons stacked in the back of the cabin. "Might take all day. Ah, it has come back to me. Reynolds! Yes, sir. That's the fellow, or was. Probably's blown his brains out by now. Gamblers usually do."

  Jeremy walked them back to the plane, followed by his dogs at a respectable distance. When they passed the woods the squirrel made a brief appearance, balanced precariously on the tip of a branch and chattering furiously at the dogs. The Dobermans snarled and jumped. The squirrel honked, a long deep sound like a blast from a saxophone. Then its mood changed and it chirped, turned, and disappeared into the pine needles.

  Madelin laughed. "He's very much like you, Jeremy."

  "Not quite," Jeremy said, "but he's learning."

  He shook the commissaris' hand and nodded at de Gier. "Thank you for coming, gentlemen. I hope I haven't disappointed you."

  18

  The Opduks' station wagon ground slowly ahead, whinin
g in first gear. The commissaris was driving. De Gier sat huddled in his fur-lined coat.

  "You look like a polar traveler, sergeant, an unhappy polar traveler. Aren't the hounds pulling the sleigh fast enough? The sawmill should be at the end of this road. We'll arrive in a minute."

  The sergeant blew some thin smoke out of the collar of Opdijk's garment. "1 am not unhappy, sir, I am trying to figure out what we were doing on the island. Jeremy gave you no answers; he only confirmed that his dog died. You surmised that correctly, I should have thought of the possibility, but I didn't. I have been thinking about little else than the Cape Orca murders. The dead dog seems no part of them. You think Janet Wash ran the dog down on purpose, sir?"

  "Here we are, sergeant. There's smoke coming out of that big shed. Our friend is in."

  "And he didn't give you the correct name of the gambler. I'm sure he was only play-acting, yet you seemed pleased enough with his answer, or nonanswer."

  "Out," the commissaris said and opened his door. "You've been my student long enough, sergeant. Why ask if you can find out by using the brain you keep in that handsome head of yours? The answers are clear enough. I can see them, so why shouldn't you? I haven't been hiding any of the information that came my way, and I trust you have given me all of yours. The encounter we had on the island was the result of an attack based on our combined knowledge. Good day, sir. I hope you can spare us a little of your valuable time."

  The fox was waiting for them on the path to his shed. Albert had come out of the shed too, carrying some boards that he lowered carefully onto the trailer attached to the fox's jeep. The fox shook hands.

  "We've met before," the sergeant said. "You pulled us out of the snow."

  The fox grinned. "We've met a number of times, sergeant, directly and indirectly. We made you as welcome as we could, circumstances and existing limitations providing. Will you be leaving soon?"

  "I think so."

  "A pity. I was thinking of making you an honorary member of my organization, such as it is these days. Would you and your friend come in? The mill isn't too comfortable, but it'll be a little warmer than out here. I have two barrel stoves going, but one wall is open so that we can pull the saw logs in. Most of the heat goes straight out again. Albert, you're coming in too?"

  Albert came, smiled at de Gier, and shook the commissaris' hand. "1 hear you're a police commissioner from Europe."

  "I was," the commissaris said, "and very likely I'll be one again, but here I am trying my hand at being a private detective."

  "You find the activity worthwhile?"

  "Yes, thank you, very."

  The fox took his woolen hat off and poured coffee from a jug standing on a hot plate in a comer of the mill. Most of the shed was taken up by an old truck engine powering a circular saw and the machinery required to maneuver the logs into position. The engine was going, forcing them to shout, and the fox switched it off. "Drop of brandy in your coffee? It's a nasty day. A bit of brandy makes a difference."

  "Thank you."

  They raised their mugs and sipped. The fox dug about in his curly hair, which had flattened under his hat; only the two tufts near his ears stood up. His long face with the tilted eyes looked expectantly at the commissaris.

  "You deserve your name," the commissaris said.

  "I hope so. I've spent some time observing the way a fox lives. There are several around here, and they hunt close to the mill sometimes. Yesterday one of them got my rooster. 1 saw him coming and shouted, but he never wavered. He knows I won't shoot him, so he comes by daylight. The neighbor's chickens disappeared during the night. The fox opened the latch of the barn door."

  Albert laughed. "Don't exaggerate. Your stories are getting too good. A fox doesn't open a latch, the raccoons do that."

  "Excuse me," the commissaris said. "What's a raccoon again? Some sort of bear?"

  "Yes, they look like bears, but I don't know if they belong to the bear family. They're small. Here, the sergeant's hat is made of a raccoon skin."

  "Ah yes. I had forgotten. Go on with your story please."

  "Story? Oh, the fox getting at my neighbor's chickens with the help of a raccoon, that's right. The fox must have gotten a raccoon to open the latch of the barn door for him, and then he shared the chickens with his friend afterward. A fox is a leader, of course. He initiates the action, delegates what he can't do himself, and shares the benefits." The fox laughed. "Some animals are smart. Do you know what we call policemen in the States, gentlemen?"

  The commissaris shook his head.

  "Pigs. All of us have qualities of animals. So have the police. The police like to wallow in dirt, and they'll gobble up anything that falls on the side. They get fat and eventually they get slaughtered, but there are always new pigs. Pigs are very fertile."

  The commissaris sipped his coffee.

  "You don't agree, sir?"

  "Perhaps. Your statement is a little too general I think. Tell me, Mr. Fox, when you started your gang, the BMF gang I believe it is called, what sort of a gang was it? In its initial stage I mean."

  The fox looked at Albert. "What were we like, Albert?'

  "Like we are now. I don't think we've changed much. But the trimmings were different. I remember I had a black leather jacket with a white skull and bones painted on the back and I wore a chain round my neck. I used to like to wear dark glasses and I tried to ride a motorcycle, but I wasn't very good at it then. I fell off a couple of times. You had some special army helmet, and Tom and Gerard and the others sported little leather caps. We would ride our motorcycles in formation, and we sometimes went to Bangor and the Canadian cities and drank a lot of beer and we had some good fights."

  "Hell's Angels," the commissaris said and smiled. "We have them in Amsterdam. It's a popular type of manifestation. Must have been with us for twenty years, longer maybe. The black leather clothes and the dark glasses are universal properties of that type of gang. You know what they always reminded me of?"

  "No."

  "Of us, of the police, of the strong arm of the police. A darker more romantic version but essentially the same. That hypothesis was confirmed later when I learned that the beatniks, the flower people, the hippies, and their latter-day varieties use Hell's Angels to do police work at their rallies. I watched young men with bare chests and black leather jackets and the other customary paraphernalia, the SS helmets and so forth, ride their motorcycles to keep the thoroughfares open. I even saw them beat up offenders, youngsters who climbed fences or got annoyingly drunk. A most interesting discovery. Rebels have rules and appoint police to enforce their rules. It is true that the police terrorize and are aggressive, but it is also true that the police keep order. Humanity, in whatever society, has an inborn need for order. It cannot function in anarchy."

  The fox had been listening carefully. He toasted the commissaris with his mug.

  "Do you agree, Mr. Fox?"

  The tilting eyes gleamed. "You are talking about humanity."

  "I am, sir."

  "But perhaps humanity doesn't matter so much," the fox said. "Perhaps we overemphasize our importance. I've spent time in the woods, the wild woods. There weren't any humans about. Ail I saw were trees and plants and animals and insects. The woods are quiet and beautiful, and there's no police force. There are no rules, no morals. I don't see jack rabbits riding cruisers, or jays in stiff hats, or squirrels hanging around in helicopters to see if everything is the way they think it should be. It's the way it should be, without any interference at all."

  The commissaris held up his mug.

  "More coffee, more brandy, or both?"

  "More brandy. Thank you. Very good brandy. Did you stop to think what would happen if humanity ignored its rules, starting tomorrow, for instance?"

  "Yes," the fox said. "There would be anarchy, as you said just now. A terrific mess. Just like the woods would be if you suddenly drove a million animals into one area. The clever and the strong would eat the stupid and the weak. There w
ould be an orgy of killing, but not for too long. Disaster would change into balance. In a few years the woods would be quiet and beautiful again."

  The fox sipped from his enamel mug. "And if there were no interference from us, if the superrace, the humans, would have the grace to disappear, the beauty of the woods would spread. The trees would push over die cities, very quickly, more quickly than you would expect. There's a road in the back of this sawmill. It was a first-grade hard-topped road two years ago, but when it was short-circuited by the new highway and forgotten, the woods moved in and covered it up. There are cedars growing through the broken tar now, and moss and wildflowers between the cedars' roots. Two years. In ten years New York City would be overgrown. I would like to be a witness to that process."

  "You would be among the dead, Mr. Fox."

  The fox nodded. "I would be. But would that matter?"

  The commissaris' eyes twinkled briefly. He had remembered the plane landing on Jeremy's Island and recalled his fear. "It wouldn't matter to you, would it, Mr. Fox?"

  The fox smiled back. "Oh, it would undoubtedly. I scare easy, but we are discussing a theory. The point is that my death, which would be part of the extinction of our species, may not be all that important."

  The commissaris drank his brandy. De Gier moved uneasily. There was no breakthrough yet. He wished the commissaris would reach out more openly and wondered whether he could help.

  The fox had moved too, but the commissaris sat very quietly, his whole attitude suggesting that he was very much at ease and had nothing in mind. Except sipping a little more brandy perhaps.

  The fox tugged at his hair. "You came to ask questions? I hear you visited Jeremy earlier on today."

  The commissaris looked over the rim of his mug. "News travels quickly in Woodcock County, Mr. Fox."

  The fox shrugged. "I have a CB radio in my jeep. I heard Madelin talk to the old guy who runs the airstrip. You asked Jeremy questions?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he answer?"

  "In a way."