"Sorry, Grijpstra, it's me. I knew you were asleep but I won't take long."
"Aren't you in America, sir?"
"Yes, adjutant, but there are telephones in America. It's quite an advanced country, I believe. Tell me, what happened to de Gier?"
"Isn't he with you, sir?"
"A-ha."
"You haven't seen him yet, sir?"
"A-ha."
Grijpstra was fully awake now. "I am sorry, sir. But he really did want to go and we were all worried about your health and you being alone out there, and the cold and so on, sir, and the chief constable…"
"What about the chief constable, Grijpstra? Did he order the sergeant to fly out here?"
"No, sir."
"And who is paying for this personal extravagance?"
"Oh, that's all right, sir. There is a fund, in The Hague. It is set up to finance the exchange of police officers."
"Police officers, adjutant, not nursemaids."
"Yes, sir."
"I am amazed, adjutant, absolutely amazed."
"I am sorry, sir. We'll pay it back somehow."
"You better, unless we can find the sergeant something to do here, something that will keep him so busy that he'll have no time to push me around in a pram."
"Yes, sir," Grijpstra said. "I am sure you can find him something to do."
"Sleep well, adjutant. Sorry to have woken you up."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir, goodbye, sir."
Grijpstra put the phone down carefully and stuck out his tongue.
"What was that?" his wife asked. "Do you have to go out? Was that the commissaris? What did he want?"
"He wanted to joke with me."
"At five o'clock in the morning? Was he drunk?"
"No, dear, just sarcastic."
"They are always putting you down and you are such a hardworking man and you've been with the department for such along time."
"Don't overdo it," Grijpstra said. "Go to sleep. Since when have you been on my side?"
5
The Sergeant had a headache and a dry mouth when he woke up, but he could have felt worse. It was 10:00 A.M. He wasn't too sure where he was, but it came back to him. America, Jameson, sheriff, jailhouse. More details came to mind, and he remembered where the bathroom was. He had a long shower and shaved. He put on his denim suit and found the right scarf to go with the new pale blue shirt. He zipped on his ankle-length suede boots. He smiled and bowed at the mirror, but the bow brought back his headache.
America, he thought. The commissaris. The commissaris on Cape Orca. Cape Accident. A murder case. He sat down on the bed and held his head. It couldn't be. It was quite impossible that he had strayed into a murder case. But then he remembered that Grijpstra had once strayed into a murder case. The adjutant had been on holiday, somewhere far back in the provinces, on the German border. The adjutant was drinking coffee in the corner of the bar in a third-rate hotel and two local men had come in and begun to whisper together. Grijpstra had listened in from behind his newspaper. The adjutant had enjoyed his holiday. He had worked with the local police and they had solved a case that hadn't been a case to start with. The victim had been buried months before Grijpstra went on his holiday. The lady had died of asthma. Only she hadn't. She had been slowly poisoned by relatives. Clever Grijpstra.
Clever Sergeant de Gier. But did he want to be clever? The question split through his throbbing skull. The answer split back. He did not want to be clever. He wanted to make sure that the commissaris survived his mission and he wanted to see America. He got up and looked out the window. He saw snow on the branches of several trees, on the ground, on roofs, and on the ice of the bay below. Well, fine. American snow. And it doesn't snow in Holland; the climate has changed. It used to snow, but it doesn't anymore. He was seeing a novelty. Exotic faraway snow, and he was right in the middle of it.
He found the sheriff in the room below. The sheriff's boots rested on the shelf between the radio and the telephones.
"How are you feeling? Headache?"
"A little."
"You went through half a bottle of bourbon. If you had drunk half a bottle of anything else you wouldn't have a head at all now, you'd have a big sore. Coffee?"
Albert came in to pour the coffee.
"Breakfast, sergeant?"
"Yes," de Gier said. "Breakfast, that would be nice."
"What would you like?"
De Gier tried to think.
"We have no eggs," the sheriff said to Albert. "But there's fresh bread and a bit of bacon and some parsley on top and a raw tomato. More coffee. That'll clear your head, sergeant."
Breakfast came as ordered, and de Gier ate and felt better.
"You remember our conversation of last night?"
"I do."
"Cape Orca?"
"Yes."
"Are you still interested?"
De Gier cleaned his plate with the last piece of toast. "Was I interested last night?"
"Yes, we both were. I still am, but I'm a little more used to bourbon than you are, so you can back out."
De Gier thought. "Yes," he said. "Let me go and see the commissaris first. You said I could use a car, a Dodge, I believe. I think I should discuss the case with him. He may have ideas. He'll have talked to his sister. If we were right, if our conversation last night was getting us anywhere, then he may confirm our, eh…"
The sheriff grinned. "Our, eh… dreams, hey? Or our, eh… facts?"
"You have facts, Jim. I am not from here. What do I know?"
"You know what you know. I can use what you know. But go and see-what did you call him again?"
"Commissaris."
"Go and see him. The key is in the Dodge. Be careful. We had a thaw during the night, but it froze up again. The roads are supposed to be sanded, but the town is short of sand, although there should be some on the way."
"Yes," de Gier said, but he hadn't listened. He found the Dodge, started it, and waited for the engine to warm up. He wondered what the commissaris would do if he saw his trusted sergeant appear out of the snow. What sounded like a good idea in Amsterdam might turn out to be a very bad idea in America. Perhaps the commissaris was perfectly capable of looking after himself, even if he had been very ill a week ago and even if he was under doctor's orders not to exert himself in any way.
The Dodge slid out of the parking place and into the road. De Gier turned the wheel, but the car didn't respond. It responded a little later, but it overresponded and slid to the other side of the road. Then it spun and de Gier was facing the jailhouse for a second. He saw a stop sign and braked, but the car continued, just missing a truck. It spun around once more, heeled over on two wheels, hit a snowbank, and fell back. De Gier reversed and touched the accelerator, but the rear wheels wouldn't grip. He tried another time. The engine whined, the wheels whirred. He switched the engine off, got out, slipped, and fell on the ice. He was trying to get on his feet again when a red station wagon stopped behind the Dodge. A small old man in an oversized furlined overcoat and a raccoon hat complete with tail came out of the station wagon and shuffled toward the Dodge on enormous rubber boots held together by bright yellow laces. The hat was in the old man's eyes, and he tried to push it up with a hand covered in a mitten that reached to his elbow.
De Gier pushed himself up. He stared at the little old man in the coat and the hat and the boots and the mittens. His eyes grew until they were perfectly round. He put his hands over his face and breathed in deeply. He dropped his hands.
"Need some help?" the old man asked. "Maybe I can pull you out with Opdijk's station wagon. It has four-wheel drive. I've just figured out how to operate the extra gears." The old man spoke Dutch.
"Morning, sir," de Gier said. "Yes, that would be nice. I've got this car stuck. It's slippery."
"There is a chain in Opdijk's car. I'll get it."