The Maine Massacre (18 page)

De Gier played with the television set while the commissaris checked the room's bath and shower. He turned the switch. A lady with a distressing overbite smiling over a bar of soap. Two young men in shiny jackets pulling the strings of their guitars while a tape-recorded audience applauded at set intervals. An actor whom he remembered having seen as a tough cop in a movie in Amsterdam advertising a new brand of popcorn, smiling from the comer of his mouth, exactly as he had done in the film. An old man playing the violin. A puppet dancing.

He was about to switch the machine off when the commissaris came out of the bathroom. "Hold it, sergeant." They watched the puppet together. It was very good. It never showed his feet. The dance was all in the hands. But then German troops suddenly appeared, in black and white, marching and singing. An advertisement for a book about World War II.

"Switch it off, sergeant. We have seen that in color. This room is fine and there is an abundance of hot water. I can have a long bath later on. According to that helpful clerk downstairs the good restaurants are all on the other side of the park. Be my guest, sergeant."

It wasn't six o'clock yet, and the park was crowded in spite of the cold. Old men sat on benches, peering at newspapers under streetlights, well-dressed office employees walked briskly, eager to get home, a group of children raced about laughing and yelling. Their shrill voices brightened the winding paths under the protective silence of dark trees.

The commissaris stopped. A Christmas carol, sung by a pure female voice, was piped through hidden loudspeakers. De Gier put out a hand and nudged the old man into motion again.

"Beautiful," the commissaris said, but the song was torn apart by police sirens and the sudden growl of traffic released by a changing stoplight. The park ended, and they found themselves in dark streets, which funneled the icy wind. Store windows displayed girlie magazines, thrown about haphazardly between dust and grains of mouse poison. Young men in padded coats and woolen hats pulled over their ears shouted from open doors, "It's hootchy-cootchy time, gentlemen. It comes off, all of it comes off, on the inside. The new show is beginning right
now\
College girls only, gentlemen. A dollar and a half for any drink." The commissaris limped on, small and helpless in his hooded army coat. A patrol car raced past, stopped halfway on the sidewalk, and two policemen ran into an alley. They came back dragging a man by the hands. The man was pushed into the cruiser and the car roared away.

A girl clicked past on high heels. She stopped and smiled. "Combat Zone all right tonight?"

"Pardon miss?" de Gier asked.

"You're not from here, are you? That's what we call this district. The Combat Zone. Anything I can do for you, gentlemen? I work in a good bar, just around the comer. It's still happy hour. Drinks are half price now."

"No, miss. We're looking for a Chinese restaurant."

"Another block. Have a good time now."

"Pleasant girl," the commissaris said.

"She would have taken our last penny, sir. That sort of bar sucks you in and throws you out the moment you're broke."

"I know, sergeant, but she wasn't rough when we refused. That's something."

The stores had changed. They were Chinese now and displayed food, mostly red carcasses of birds hanging side by side above constellations of 'cans that looked as if they could fall over any moment. They came to an intersection where policemen, dressed in long orange plastic coats, were attempting to sort out the traffic. A woman on their side of the street suddenly yelled, turning away from her escort, a big, well-dressed man.

"Bitch!" the man shouted and slapped the woman's face. She staggered and began to fall, but the man grabbed her by the collar of her coat and yanked her upright again. He swore at her in a guttural language with four-letter English words thrown in. He raised his arm again and de Gier stepped forward, but the commissaris held on to the sergeant's sleeve. Two of the orange-coated policemen walked up to the man.

"Mister!"

"You know what she just told me, officer?"

The commissaris pushed de Gier toward the nearest restaurant. The sergeant looked over his shoulder. He could only see the coats of the policemen. The woman was whimpering.

"Not our business, sergeant."

"What would that woman have said to the man, sir?"

The commissaris' long teeth reflected the street's garish light. "That she prefers the man's best friend to the man. Love, sergeant, the case of much violence. Let's go in."

When they walked through the park again their mood had improved. Fortified by a six-course meal, they hardly noticed the looming trees, reaching down threateningly, and they almost casually avoided staggering drunks and shuffling junkies. It was dark now and the young lady singing Christmas carols was coming to the end of her program. The police sirens hadn't. They tore at the chanting voice and blotted out most of the twittering of a flock of starlings shifting from tree to tree. The commissaris plodded on with the sergeant striding at his side.

"Coffee," the commissaris said, "and then to bed, but we should make an effort to waylay Astrinsky, although I don't really feel like work."

De Gier spotted Astrinsky a few minutes later in the hotel's coffee shop and pointed him out to the commissaris. The commissaris sat down at the next table and smiled at his suspect.

"Good evening, Mr. Astrinsky. How are you tonight?"

Astrinsky lowered his magazine. It took a few seconds before he recognized the man who greeted him. He dropped the magazine and got up. When his elbow hit his coffee cup it fell off the table.

"You!" The word was both an exclamation and an acknowledgment.

"Yes, you remember? Suzanne Opdijk's brother. You remember Sergeant de Gier too?"

"Yes."

"Have you been in touch with Jameson at all lately, Mr. Astrinsky?"

"No. Why?"

"Perhaps you should go back. All sorts of things have been happening. Mary Brewer's boat was found, and the sheriff is very active. You knew Mary Brewer, didn't you?"

"Yes." Astrinsky's eyes stared. His half glasses had slid to the end of his fleshy nose, and his hands were crumpling the magazine.

"Of course you remember her. You bought her house. Ah!" The commissaris' little fist hit the table. "That's right. I knew there was something I wanted to discuss with you. Suzanne's house! You offered me thirty thousand, but after you left so suddenly I asked another realtor, a friend of the sheriff's, wasn't he, sergeant?"

The sergeant nodded helpfully.

"Right. I asked this realtor to appraise the property, and he came up with a figure three times as high. Are you sure you didn't miscalculate, Mr. Astrinsky? Suzanne thinks very highly of you. You were a good friend of my brother-in-law's, but I don't think she should give the property away just because you are a friend."

Astrinsky's mouth gaped briefly and closed with a snap.

"Perhaps we can look into the proposition again sometime. The sergeant and I will be flying back tomorrow morning on that nice airplane. But weren't you supposed to be in the Bahamas?"

"I'll see you tomorrow," Astrinsky said. "I've had a long day. Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Astrinsky."

"Well, how do you feel about our investigation now?" the commissaris asked when he switched off die light. The sergeant grunted sleepily. "Something is moving, don't you think?" The sergeant grunted twice. "What was that, Rinus?" But the sergeant had nodded off and no longer heard the creaking of the sheets, while the commissaris was moving about finding comfort for his aching legs and hips.

The dream was amazingly clear. Events passed quickly and he couldn't remember them all afterward, but it seemed that the case had been solved and the New York police general, accompanied by other dignitaries, was shaking his hand. He was being offered a commission and he accepted and found himself in uniform. The uniform was crisp and white, with very long trousers and a tight tunic. And a cap of course. A naval uniform—he was now a seaman. His assignment seemed most logical. He was being posted to a battleship in Rotterdam harbor. The battleship was American of course, the flagship of a combined fleet, and he was to be a liaison officer. He was being whistled aboard, with men standing at attention everywhere. And then he was being shown around. He was in a fast-moving motorboat, cutting through the murky water of the port, and he saw various warships, of different nationalities. They each had a purpose and a specialty. Gradually the ships were becoming smaller. The last ship was no more than a small boat, a twenty-foot wooden vessel like he had seen on the Maine coast. The explaining voice next to his ears dropped to a whisper. "Swimdogs," the voice said. "A secret weapon. See them?" He saw the animals, but there were seals, the seals of Jeremy's Island. There were dozens of them, swimming leisurely around their floating base. He saw their intelligent eyes and long silver whiskers. The voice was giving him more details. The animals were highly trained and equipped with electronic gear.

But then he was back on the battleship again, alone in his luxurious quarters, smoking and thinking. Something was worrying him. He couldn't be in the American navy because he was Dutch. He would need permission, the queen's permission. The scene changed at once. He was now in the state police jet, landing on the lawn in front of the queen's castle. Dutch military police, in parade uniforms with bearskin hats and curved sabers, greeted him smartly and marched him to the main building. The queen waited for him on a low couch and inclined her head as he stood stiffly, stating his name and former rank. He also stated his new rank and apologized for not asking for her approval before. His clipped phrases came out neatly. He was staring at the ground but raised his eyes when the queen answered.

"Permission granted."

Thank you, ma'am."

He turned on his heels and marched out. He had seen the queen's face. Madeira's face, but mellowed and dignified, Madelin's beauty softened with the grace of royalty.

So far so good, but the terror of the dream came at the end. He was back in Rotterdam port, in the water this time, struggling, being dragged down by the weight of his uniform and boots. The seals came for him, but they changed as they approached. The round, smooth faces grew hairy protuberances; the eyes receded and were slanted and cruel. Their coloring changed too. They were black on top and white underneath.

He woke up because the commissaris was shaking him by the shoulder. The commissaris had switched on his bedside light.

"Rinus!"

"Sir?"

"You were dreaming. Do you remember your dream?"

De Gier told him what he remembered, and the commissaris nodded, smiled, and lit a cigar, puffing peacefully.

"That's it?"

"Yes, sir. There may be more, but it is all fading out now. The meeting with the queen was very important, and the end."

"Do you know what orcas look like, sergeant?"

"Not really, sir. The sheriff described them to me, but I wasn't paying too much attention at the time. Black and white. Large. Dangerous."

"They are of the whale family, sergeant, with smooth faces. Not hairy or lumpy. But we will meet them I think, or rather their human counterparts."

"We'll be fighting them, sir."

"Yes," the commissaris said gently.

14

"B
UT THAT'S NOT THE FIRM WE ARE TRYING TO LOCATE," the commissaris said, stooping to read the clumsily written sign hanging askew just inside the entrance of the long dark corridor: SYMONS TOY AND NOVELTY COMPANY, IMPORT AND EXPORT. "This is some wholesale company. Ah, here we are." He adjusted his glasses and peered at the business card that had been fastened to the sign's corner with two thumbtacks: BOSTON BETTER HOLDING, JAMES D. SYMONS, PRESIDENT. "SO we did come to the right address after all." He straightened up. "Symons. Same name, must be the same man. A versatile businessman, our Mr. Symons. But to judge from the sign his wholesale business must be the more important of the two. Amazing. Let's become acquainted with him."

A dirty bulb further along the corridor seemed to be the ramshackle building's only illumination. The commissaris limped ahead slowly, tapping the cracked floor with his cane.

They climbed a flight of stairs and faced a door that had been painted pink a long time ago. The commissaris knocked.

"Welcome, gentlemen. The door is open."

The voice was gravelly, and the words teetered off into a squeaky cough.

They went in. There were shelves and tables loaded with cartons. Part of the floor had been used for a display of miniature electric trains, but two locomotives had hit each other head-on and a disorderly heap of railway carriages was garnering dust between a tin station and a mountain over-grown with faded plastic evergreens. A torn mask, presiding over a row of other smaller masks, stared at them from the rear wall. They all depicted the same old female face, toothless, pimpled, wrinkled. The faces were green, the string wigs orange. They smiled from drooling, wormlike lips and the eyes, made of cut glass, were glittering with insane delight.

De Gier stopped and studied the array.

"Yes, gentlemen? The masks are of interest, are they? I only have the one model left, in various sizes, and as I can't offer a selection I will discount them, of course. But I think I should start off by showing you my new items. This box, for instance, a most profitable proposition, and there will be immediate delivery for limited quantities."

The commissaris and de Gier turned to face Mr. Symons. They saw a fairly young and fairly well-dressed man with red-rimmed eyes. He had walked across the room so that the masks stared over his shoulders and his own face became part of the display of demented creativity.

"Look at this box, gentlemen. Here, let me open it. What do you see? Little plastic building blocks, nothing new, Germany has been marketing them for years, good steady line, the kiddies love it, and at every Christmas and birthday party everybody in the family gives the little dears additional boxes so that the
wunderkinder
can build bigger cranes and tractors and trucks and what have you. Bread and butter line, right? But expensive and not too much margin. The Krauts have patented the stuff and they can call the cards. A-ha! But this box doesn't come from Germany, gentlemen, it comes from Taiwan, and the price is half of what you are used to paying. You've been happy to pay the German prices so far, so how happy will you be when you pay the Taiwan prices that are half of what the Krauts have been daring to ask? How happy will you be? I ask again, and the answer comes to mind immediately. You will be
doubly
happy. A moneymaker, gentlemen, sell it for ten percent less than the German stuff and it will shoot across the counter. And the quality is excellent. Beautiful stuff, gentlemen, I've a thousand boxes in stock and mote on the way, delivery early next year. Well? What do you say, gentlemen?"

"Interesting, Mr. Symons," the commissaris said, "but you must be mistaking us for somebody else."

Symons smiled politely. "Yes? You aren't from the Total Toys chain stores?" He checked his watch. 'Ten o'clock, they said they would be here at ten-thirty. I thought you had come early. Never mind, gentlemen, you can buy my Taiwan boxes too. I'm not reserving them for anybody special, first come first served."

"No, Mr. Symons. We are not in the toy business."

Symons' smile hardened, then disappeared. "No? You wouldn't want to sell
me
anything, would you? I'm not buying these days, I'm clearing my stocks for a while. The times are hard, gentlemen, and the competition is tough and capital—need I mention capital?—is scarce."

"The Boston Better Holdings Company," the commissaris said. "We've come to see that company, and you are its president I believe."

Symons walked to the back of the room and sat down under a tattered wire mobile dangling small cardboard hands from its rusted extremities. The hands had long, bent fingernails and pointed in different directions as the draft in the room moved the mobile. Symons waved at two low chairs. "Sit down, gentlemen. That company has been so dormant for so long that I had almost forgotten its existence, but it's true that I am its honored president. What would be your interest? The company owns this building and pays me a flimsy wage for serving as its janitor. You wouldn't want to buy the building, would you? That would be good news indeed. Do the insurance companies want to build another sky-poker? Can I tell my shareholders that fortune is smiling at last?"

"No, sir. We are not after Boston property. We are after a property called Cape Orca on the Maine coast."

Symons shook his head. "Tell me another, sir. Nobody knows where Cape Orca is. I know where Cape Orca is, but I am a most exceptional man, widely read and widely traveled. You would be a foreigner, sir, am I right?"

"From Amsterdam, the Netherlands."

"Exactly, so how would you have come across Cape Orca, a little splinter of the large solid block that is die U, S,
and
A?"

"I will tell you," the commissaris said. "My sister owns a house and some land on Cape Orca. Her husband died recently, and she asked me to come out and liquidate her estate. It so happens that I am interested in her property myself, as an investment. I have some surplus capital in the Netherlands, waiting to be invested in a country where taxes are still payable. I like Cape Orca—I think it could be developed profitably—but I want more than just my sister's few acres. I walked around the cape a bit and noticed that there are some empty houses, some of them wrecked and burned. If I buy I would buy the whole strip. The town clerk was good enough to inform me that the properties were registered in the name of a Mr. Astrinsky, but Mr. Astrinsky wasn't around when I went to look for him. He is traveling I believe. But yesterday morning I ran into the Jameson town clerk again and he told me that he had just found out that your company now owns the properties. And as I had some business in Boston anyway I thought I might see you. The shore strip would be for sale, wouldn't it?"

Mr. Symons had been listening while he played with the contents of the Taiwan box. He had also opened and closed the drawer of his desk a few times.

"Yes," he said. "I see. Well... How about a small drink to start the day properly, gentlemen? You are talking big business, and I always find that a small drink heightens my powers of perception. Some fine whiskey perhaps? I happen to have a bottle on tap and if you reach out to that shelf on your right you'll find three clean glasses."

"Surely!" the commissaris said. "That would be a splendid idea indeed, sir."

"But it'll have to be a small one. I'll have those sharpies from Total Toys here in a minute and I really must convert my junk into greenbacks. It'll be a miracle, but miracles have come my way before, the Lord is good and must be blessed from time to time, although a good kick into his divine ass can be recommended too sometimes. One of my pet theories, it has a lot of details and twists and turns, but we don't have the time to discuss it fully now. Here we are, gentlemen, three of the best, your very good health!"

"Now," Symons said a few seconds later. "Now, about Cape Orca. It so happens that the shareholders of Boston Better Holdings did discuss their interest in Cape Orca recently. They have been holding the land for a while now, but I only sent in the deeds a few days ago, for registration. The properties were bought for development, of course, but the shareholders are old, and hard to prod into activity. That's why nothing has been done. Now if you were willing to pay a price..."

"Yes," the commissaris said, "the price. What would be the price?"

Symons held up a hand with three rings, each with a different-colored stone. The hand dropped by its own weight, grabbed the bottle on its way, and poured a little more whiskey into its owner's glass.

"Of, course. You need to know a price. But I have no price, not today. There are several shareholders, and I'll have to round them up and make them talk sense. The effort will take time. You have some time, sir?"

"A few days."

"And where can I reach you?"

"In Cape Orca. I am going back to my sister's house this afternoon. She has a telephone."

Symons got up. "Very well, sir. Let me write the number and your name down and you'll hear from me. Within a few days, no doubt about that."

"Another front, sir," the sergeant said as they walked back to the hotel.

"Yes, sergeant. If he hadn't been drinking he would have betrayed himself easily, but the alcohol kept his mind steady and made him come up with a good enough answer. He'll be telephoning Astrinsky now, trying to find out who we are. And Astrinsky will tell him. Symons won't be over-worried. On the contrary, he might be pleased. Our visit may have given him an opportunity for blackmail. Symons knows who the real owner is behind Cape Orca. He may be able to charge money for keeping the name a secret."

"We can find out, sir. There'll be a chamber of commerce here. Boston Better Holdings will be registered, and the name or names of its owners should be on file."

It took a while to find the chamber of commerce, and it took longer for the clerk to give them the required file. De Gier and the commissaris both smiled at the same time. "Bahama Better Holdings Company," the commissaris read. "How's that, sergeant? Do you want to fly to the Bahamas?"

"And find another company behind
that
one, sir?"

"Very likely. But there will be an end to the maze, sergeant. If we keep at it we'll find our way out."

"The Bahamas are British I believe, sir, or independent by now. It might be a bit of a job to trace the shareholders. We might telephone the Dutch consul on the islands."

"No, sergeant. If we do that we have to go through Amsterdam headquarters, and the chief constable isn't even aware that we are involved in an investigation. We should also remember that our boss is the sheriff of Woodcock County, Maine, USA. The investigation isn't ours at all. We are free-lance detectives employed by the Jameson sheriff's department."

De Gier grinned. "Are we, sir?"

"Of course."

"But your sister wants the right price for her house, sir."

The commissaris' voice dropped to a hissing whisper. "Really, sergeant. That's private business. If the sheriff had shown no interest in Cape Orca I would have advised Suzanne to take her thirty thousand and get out while the going is good. But it so happens that the sheriff
is
interested and we can bring him some positive information now. Astrinsky is shaken and Boston Better Holdings is a front. That Mr. Symons is a bad egg, not a very bad egg though. He is too weak to be evil. Just rotten. Yes, I think we can advise the sheriff to push a little further."

"Where do you think Astrinsky stands, sir?"

The commissaris waved his cane. "Astrinsky? Either a middleman or a true criminal. I would think that he is a middleman. I can't understand yet why Astrinsky consented to play the game in the first place. He isn't courageous by any means. I wonder what the connection between Astrinsky and the wanted party is. Just greed?"

"Half the people I have arrested were breaking the law to make money, sir."

"Yes, sergeant. But the desire to make money is a symptom of all sorts of emotional disturbances—greed is only one of them. Mr. Astrinsky, yes, hmmm... I would like to think that his part in the game is a little more complicated than it seems to us now. Not just greed. I would be disappointed if we uncovered nothing else. The stories his daughter told you are fascinating. She should be an unusual girl. And if that assumption is true, her father might have more depth than we have given him credit for."