Tumbleweed ac-2

by Janwillem Van De Wetering

  "You don't mind this soot?"

  "No," Silva said. "I keep him happy. Sometimes I run out to his ship and shake my fist at him."

  The commissaris sipped his tea and tittered.

  "Did you like that story?" Silva asked.

  "Yes. Very much."

  "Good. So Maria kept coming back to the island in spite of the fact that she was no longer welcome in the house of her parents. I could understand her father's attitude. The women who leave the island become free and they are a bad example, we think, to the women who stay. Here a woman is either very respectable or a whore. The mother is venerated and the father does as he pleases. Maria had opened herself to criticism when she divorced her husband. And she didn't remarry which made it worse. She was a beautiful woman, and educated, so why wouldn't she remarry?"

  "Yes," the commissaris said.

  "I thought she had a lover here but it seems she hadn't. I made investigations at the hotel and she never shared her room when she was here. They wouldn't have allowed it, I imagine. It isn't that sort of a hotel; important guests stay there, like yourself."

  "Thank you," the commissaris said.

  Silva grinned. "Did you like your tea?"

  "Very much."

  "Another?"

  "Please."

  When Silva was away the commissaris looked out of die window again and saw the captain with die flamboyant beard pacing on his bridge. He waved. The captain ran into bis cabin and the commissaris expected another cloud of soot but the captain returned with a pair of binoculars. The two large glass eyes stared and the commissaris waited. The captain put his binoculars down and unsteadily moved bis hand, which, when Silva had returned and had joined the commissaris at the window, immediately became a fist again.

  "Let's leave him for a while," Silva said. "He may have a heart attack or delirium. Last year he ran into the station downstairs shouting that all the crabs of the island were after him, turning their eyes on stalks and snapping at his legs with their wicked shears."

  "Poor fellow," the commissaris said, and sat down.

  "Oh, he is all right. He is quite old and he has had a good life on the Carribbean. He won't admit he is old, that's why he dyes his beard. I like him, I'll be sorry when he goes. Maria used to know him too. I have seen them talking together. He has probably offered her a free trip but I don't think she has ever put a foot on his boat. His crew are a bunch of madmen."

  "So Maria didn't have a lover," the commissaris said.

  "Not here. When I knew you were coming out I alerted my detectives and they must have alerted their contacts on the island. The information I was given tallies. Two reasons brought Maria back to the island. Plain homesickness and her contact with Shon Wancho."

  "Ah," the commissaris said.

  "Not what you think. Shon Wancho is old, seventy years old maybe, and he is a black man. Maria isn't altogether white herself, most people aren't over here. I am not white either."

  "You?" the commissaris asked.

  "I look white, I know, but my hair is a bit kinky. My sister is much darker than I am. It all depends on the laws of Mendel and the way the chromosomes go. Maria is darker than her sisters. Shon Wancho is pitch black. He is an important man, a local character who is feared and respected. That's why he isn't called Wancho but Shon Wancho, a title of respect, like Don in Spanish."

  "He is a sorcerer," the commissaris said.

  Silva brought his hand down on the desk with some force. "You know?"

  The commissaris didn't answer but brought out an object packed in tissue paper. He carefully unfolded the paper and put the contents on Silva's desk. "Do you know what these are?"

  Silva put on a pair of spectacles. He studied the mandrake roots. "No, I have never seen them before. They are roots, I can see that, and they look evil. Amazing, isn't it, they look like thin men, human beings. That little twig is very much like a penis and the legs are perfectly formed and they have heads and arms. And those hairy bodies, there is even hair on the heads and those dark spots are eyes."

  He crossed himself.

  "Yes," the commissaris said. "They scare me too. We found them in Maria van Buren's houseboat. We found plants as well, herbs, witch-weeds. She grew them in pots on her windowsills. The roots are of the mandrake plant, they were said to be powerful."

  "So you suspected her of sorcery?"

  "It isn't a crime," the commissaris said, "so we couldn't suspect her of it. Black magic is still practiced and we have run into it before. Dolls with pins in them, people collecting other people's nail clippings and hairs. It may be more popular over here but perhaps it will become fashionable in Europe again. The hippies are fascinated by it and the drug cult, it seems, is related to black magic."

  "And these are mandrake roots? I have never heard of mandrake."

  The commissaris told Silva what he knew about the plant and Silva listened.

  "Gruesome. And you are right about Shon Wancho being a sorcerer. He lived by himself in an adobe hut at the extreme north of the island, near Westpoint. He hardly ever leaves his place but people will go and see him."

  "Do you know him?" the commissaris said.

  "Yes. Not well, but I have met him. We had a killing out there once and I went to his hut to ask if he had seen anything. It turned out that he knew nothing about the case. It had been a drunken fight and the killer gave himself up the next day."

  "And what did you think of Mr. Wancho?"

  Silva rubbed his face. "I liked him. Yes, I really liked him. He has a beautiful face, very quiet and peaceful. I was, to tell you the truth, immensely impressed by him and I have often thought of him since."

  "You don't think he was an evil man?"

  "No. Not at all. He struck me as a man who knows himself, and therefore knows others. Socrates said that, I believe. The greatest feat is to know yourself. I think Shon Wancho is a wise man."

  "And Maria went to see him?"

  "She did, according to my contacts. Every time she visited the island she would hire a car and go out there each day. She would leave the hotel after breakfast and come back before nightfall. But I don't know what she did out there. Nobody but Shon Wancho himself would know. His place is close to the sea and hidden behind some cliffs and I don't think anyone would dare to spy on the old man."

  "Hmm," the commissaris said, "I will have to go out there."

  "Perhaps you should."

  "And I will have to go and see her father. He knows about her death, I assume."

  "We informed him," Silva said.

  "He knows she was murdered?"

  "He does. He was very upset although he tried not to show it."

  "I'll have to hire a car."

  "No," Silva said. "I will give you a police car and a driver."

  "I would rather have a map of the island. I'll see more if I have to find my own way."

  "As you like," Silva said. "I'll go down to the garage with you and we will give you an unmarked car."

  12

  Grijpstra had been amused when he saw De Gier at the central station of Amsterdam, huddled in a heavy, dark blue duffelcoat and adorned with a binocular case dangling from a leather strap, but now he envied the sergeant, who stood at die railing of the ferry, warm and comfortable under bis load of cloth while Grijpstra felt die wind go right through his thin raincoat and had to hang on to his hat.

  "Beautiful," said de Gier, who had been looking down at the sea. The waves were short and choppy and gray, reflecting the heavy clouds above them.

  "What?" Grijpstra asked.

  "The sea," de Gier said, "and the sky, and the island over there."

  Schiermonnikoog was showing itself as a dark green line on the horizon. The overgrown dikes, a man-made barrier to protect the rich grazing land of the south of the island, interrupted the wide fluid space of the shallow Waddensea all around them. Seagulls were floating above and just behind the ship, effortless, keeping themselves in balance with slight flicks of the ends of their wings.


  "It's cold," Grijpstra said. "Spring is warmer in the city."

  "But we are not in the city, we are here. Look at the birds. We'll see a lot of birds on the island, it's a bird's paradise."

  "I know," Grijpstra said. "I have been here before. But it was warmer then, toward the end of July. I camped with the kids."

  His voice sounded gruff. De Gier stopped looking at the sea. "You didn't like it?"

  "The kids enjoyed it."

  "Did you like it?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Too full. There were so many tents and beach cabins and people pulling carts and pushing bicycles that I thought die damn island would sink. Everything was full, you had to wait half an hour before they would serve you in the restaurants. And sand, sand everywhere. There was a gale blowing most of the time and we nearly lost the tent. The lines broke and it tried to fly into the sea. The sand got into my nose, I had to pick it all the time."

  "It'll be all right now, the holidays haven't started yet."

  Grijpstra eyed the approaching strip of land suspiciously. It had begun to rain.

  "You don't look like a birdwatcher," de Gier said. "You look like a policeman. Don't you have a cap in your suitcase? Nobody wears a hat here."

  "No," Grijpstra said guiltily, "but I'll put my hat in my bag, it keeps blowing away anyway. And maybe they'll have a coat like yours in the shops."

  "I thought my duffelcoat was silly, you made a lot of funny remarks about it on the train."

  "It looks silly, but I had forgotten we were going to be birdwatchers."

  "Never mind," de Gier said pleasantly. "Do you know anything about birds?"

  "Seagulls."

  "That's something. Any other birds?"

  "Swans."

  "There won't be any here."

  "Sparrows," Grijpstra said impatiently. "What does it matter? If there are any experts out there they'll be airing their knowledge and all I have to do is say they are right. Do you know anything about birds?"

  "Sure," de Gier said. "I even have a book on birds. I studied it last night. Oystercatchers with red beaks, and coot, two types of coot, with a white spot on the head and with a red spot on the head, and mallards and…"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said in a loud voice.

  "What yes?"

  "I know. Don't try to impress me. I know what a mallard is. A mallard is a plain silly fat Amsterdam duck sitting on the canal. Every day I see a hundred mallard, two hundred mallard, three hundred…"

  His voice was rising.

  "All right," de Gier said. "You know what a mallard is. But do you know what a cormorant is?"

  "I don't care," Grijpstra said, and sneezed.

  "You still have your cold."

  "The cold is O.K."

  De Gier studied his friend's face. Grijpstra didn't look well. The skin of his face seemed to have lost its elasticity and his eyes had sunk a little into their sockets.

  "Wait," de Gier said, and went into the passengers' cabin. He bought two paper cups filled with hot creamy coffee and four fat sausages, packed in thick plastic skins.

  "Have some coffee," he said, and passed the cup carefully to Grijpstra. "Mind, it's hot. You haven't had breakfast, we should have eaten something on the train."

  Grijpstra stared at the coffee swirling in the paper cup. Little bubbles had formed on the surface and the bubbles turned in irregular circles.

  De Gier gulped his coffee, and took a sausage out of his pocket. "Good sausages," he said. "I have two for you as well, but finish your coffee first."

  He began to peel the plastic skin off the little roll of solid fat meat.

  Grijpstra looked at the sausage, threw his cup overboard, and bent down over the railing. His hat was caught by the wind again but this time he didn't try to grab it.

  De Gier looked sadly at his sausage. He opened his hand and it fell into the sea. It sank. He saw Grijpstra's hat, rapidly being tossed about by strong white-headed waves.

  "There's your hat," de Gier said, "and you have vomited on my sausage."

  Grijpstra vomited again and de Gier walked over to the other side of the ship, where he ate the other three sausages. The ship was now approaching the small harbor of Schiermonnikoog and he collected Grijpstra's and his own suitcase. They met again on the gangway.

  "You're all right now?"

  Grijpstra nodded, and put his right foot on the island's solid ground.

  "You've made it," de Gier said.

  Grijpstra turned around, slowly pulling back his heavy right arm. His large hand had become a fist and he was staring at de Gier's chin.

  "I am sorry," de Gier said. "I didn't buy those sausages to make you sick. I really thought you might be hungry."

  "I wasn't sick. I just felt a little off."

  "He wasn't sick," de Gier said to a man walking next to him. "He only vomited a little."

  "Happens to the best of us," the man said, "but there will always be people who make fun of others. The minute they see that somebody is in trouble they laugh. There are some pretty nasty people about nowadays."

  "You've got a friend," de Gier said to Grijpstra.

  They didn't speak to each other again until the bus which had picked them up dropped them in the center of the little town and the driver had directed them to a hotel.

  They took a double room and Grijpstra immediately opened his suitcase and began to rummage about in it. He put on a pair of thick corduroy trousers and a heavy workman's jersey. His feet went into a pair of old boots, and a muffler appeared which he wound around his neck.

  "Now," he said.

  "That's better. But you need a coat."

  "You go out and buy me something."

  "I may buy the wrong thing."

  "No," Grijpstra said. "You are supposed to be a man of taste. You know my size. I'll go down and play billiards and phone the adjutant of the state police. He'll come and join me and we can have a talk and make some plans. This afternoon we can begin to sniff about the island. I want to see IJsbrand Drachtsma's house and speak to some people who know him. Later we can come out in the open. Perhaps it'll shake him when he knows that we are making investigations."

  "Right," de Gier said, and went out. He found three shops where clothes were sold but there weren't any duffelcoats. Finally he bought a yellow oilcloth jacket and a pair of huge trousers to go with it and a souwester, all of the same material. The shopkeeper promised that he would swap them for something else if the client wasn't satisfied. He found Grijpstra in the barroom of the hotel, a low-ceilinged smoky place where he was playing billiards with a square-looking small man in a blue suit with shiny elbows and a white shirt and a tie.

  "Adjutant Buisman," the square-looking man said. "Pleased to meet you, sergeant. I heard some stories about you when Grijpstra spent his holiday here."

  "What sort of stories?"

  "Good stories," Grijpstra said. "You can join us if you promise not to tear the felt, and you have to chalk the cue before you play."

  "All right," de Gier said, "is it my turn now?"

  "Go ahead."

  De Gier studied the position of the two white balls and the single red one.

  "Which ball?"

  "The one closest to you."

  It was an easy shot and the two adjutants waited for de Gier to spoil it. De Gier chalked the cue and studied the balls again.

  "Go on," Buisman said.

  De Gier flicked the cue and his ball shot away, hitting the red ball on the side and the white ball full on. It was a rude shot but he had made a point.

  Buisman looked at Grijpstra.

  "Good," Grijpstra said, "but you won't make the next one."

  The balls were well apart now and de Gier began to chalk his cue again. He would have to work out the right angle and use the table's elastic sides. He tried to remember what he had learned at the police school where one of his friends had always insisted that he should play, refusing to buy him a beer if he didn't, and de Gier had been fo
rced to play more often than he wanted to, for his friend had a good allowance from home.

  He played and made another point. Buisman showed his approval by stamping his cue on the floor, and ordering three glasses of old cold jenever. De Gier made a third point and a fourth, and Grijpstra began to sweat but then he missed.

  "Not bad," Grijpstra said. "I thought you hated all sports except judo?"

  "Ach," de Gier mumbled modestly, "it's all a matter of concentration, isn't it?" but he shouldn't have said it. He managed only the easy shots after that and Grijpstra patted him on the shoulder. "Beginner's luck, matey."

  Adjutant Buisman shook his head. "I don't know," he said. "The sergeant played well, he needs more practice that's all. How long will you be staying?"

  "Not long," Grijpstra said, and he explained the purpose of their visit.

  "IJsbrand Drachtsma," the adjutant said softly, "well, I never. I know him well, you know. I have been out on his yacht and he comes here to play billiards sometimes and he has been on the police launch with us. He is a big man on the island, he could be the mayor if he wanted to but he's got other things to do, and you think he is involved with your dead lady?"

  "She was his mistress," de Gier said.

  "Yes, yes," the adjutant said, "he would chase the ladies in Amsterdam, of course; it's another world out there. Here he goes for walks on the beach and sits near the fire with his wife. She knits. I have a scarf she knit. A beautiful fireplace, I have often been to the house."

  He was silent for a while. "But he has an alibi you say?"

  "Yes," Grijpstra said.

  "So what are you bothering about then?"

  Grijpstra told him.

  The adjutant was shaking his head. "No evidence at all. Not a shred of it, but you have your suspicions. Christ almighty, you really think he would have paid somebody to kill a nice-looking woman?"

  "He may have."

  "Sure, he may have and he may not have. You are detectives, maybe you know. I don't, we have never had a killing on the island, not even with the tourists around and there are more of them every year. Running over the island like rats over a body-if we don't stop them one day they'll take all the sand home in their shoes-but we haven't had a crime. They mill about, like lunatics. When the moon is full they are worse than ever. We organize games for them, and walks and competitions. We have to keep them busy you know."