"That's what you say," Albert said.
"That's what I say and what everybody "That's what I say and what everybody says. The cruiser needs a lot of county money and a couple of weeks to get fixed up again. The sheriff's department pays for the car Bernie hit. You laugh and all your buddies laugh."
"No proof?" de Gier asked.
"No proof."
"But the next day Albert telephones to say that his motorcycle has shown up again. We say that that is very nice. Albert says yes and hangs up. Then he goes for a ride. He doesn't wear the funny clothes or the beard. And he passes a state trooper in a curve, on the gravel shoulder, at a hundred and ten miles an hour. When he sees that he's playing with a police car its too late, eh, Albert? You got away but we picked you up a little later and the judge liked the charge. Dangerous driving. Ten days. Thirty suspended. You are a good cook, Albert, we'll miss you, but we'll have you back."
Albert smiled. "You won't, sheriff."
"You can't drive at fifty-five miles an hour, you can't do it, Albert. Only the good citizens can do it, and you aren't a good citizen. You'll be speeding and we'll catch you. That's not a probability, that's a fact."
"I'm selling the motorcycle."
The sheriff held up his bowl. "If you do we're getting somewhere, Albert, but it's winter now and your bike is useless. When spring comes around you'll have forgotten. But we still have thirty days for you."
"More soup?" Albert asked.
"He is a motherfucker," the sheriff said, "but he admits it. He is a bad motherfucker. The name of his gang. The BMF gang. How is the fox these days, Albert?"
"The fox is fine, sheriff. He has been visiting."
"We'll have him here too," the sheriff said. "Tell him to brush up on his cooking. I've got a freezer full of mushrooms and I like them sauteed. With a pickle on the side and plenty of gravy. I haven't asked you to try so far because you're still a little coarse, but the fox should do better. Make sure you tell him."
"Yes, sheriff." The young face smiled again. De Gier studied it. An intelligent face with more depth than could be expected of a village rowdy. The clear blue eyes sparkled above a strong jaw.
"That'll be all, Albert. We'll do the coffee ourselves."
Albert's bare feet shuffled over the boards and the metal door clanged.
"You keep the door unlocked, sheriff?"
"Yes. Call me Jim. That door is open, but the cells inside are locked. Albert is a trusty, he can move around. Leroux is in a cell now, but he'll be out in an hour, if we can get the chain saw business with Charlie fixed. He'll have bail."
Bernie had finished his call. "Charlie is on his way, Jim. He's borrowing a car."
"Good."
"This BMF gang," de Gier asked. "Just fun or are they dangerous?"
"They're dangerous, but we keep them in check. The fox is clever and he gets bored sometimes. The fox is the boss-he looks like a fox too, hairy ears and all. If he went to New York he could beat the Mafia, but he likes it out here so he gets his gang to try and beat us. We're the only other power around."
"They got my cruiser," Bernie said. "That was bad. It took a lot of brown-nosing to talk it right with the authorities."
"I'll show you your room," the sheriff said. "Upstairs, next to mine. The motel has closed for the winter. The general said to make you comfortable, but comfort is hard to get around here, although we try at times. And you'll need some clothes. I wouldn't know how. You aren't my size, and Bernie is fat and Bob and Bert are sort of square. You'll need a car too. How about the Dodge, Bernie?"
"Sure, the Dodge was meant to be a detective's car, but the detective never showed up."
"A Dodge Dart, sky blue, about new, got a receiver and a transmitter and no markings. We can clip a shotgun into it. Will that do, sergeant?"
"Yes, thank you very much. But without the shotgun, please."
"Then we won't clip it in. You're welcome, sergeant."
The upstairs room had a dormer overlooking the jailhouse grounds and the town sloping away beneath them toward a bay. The bed was covered with thick patchwork quilts and the whitewashed ceiling contrasted pleasantly with the rough boarded walls. The sheriff sat on the bed and de Gier sat in the room's only chair. He got up and felt about in his suitcase. He brought out a cheese and gave it to the sheriff. "With the compliments of the Amsterdam Municipal Criminal Investigation Department."
"That's a big cheese. What's it called? Edam?"
"Yes."
"Good, That's good cheese. We'll have to keep it away from the prisoners. They steal, you know. Stole my salami the other day. Sat around munching in their cells and didn't know what happened to the salami. Big salami too. Let's have a piece of that cheese now. I'll get the trimmings."
De Gier cut two good-sized slices with the knife the sheriff had left on the table.
"Here we are. Keep it in a strongbox in my room. Bourbon. You drink bourbon over there?"
"Not too often, but we would like to."
The sheriff poured. "Try it, you'll like it, as the dealers say to the junkies. But they give them shit. This is the real stuff, hundred proof, a present from a grateful subject because we caught another subject with twenty thousand dollars' worth of antiques taken from the first subject's house. I've been hoarding the bottle, but it'll have to go."
They drank.
"Yes?"
"Yes." De Gier's eyes shone.
The sheriff smiled. "That's better. I thought that maybe you wouldn't fancy the good stuff and then it would be hard to get to know you. Right. Now tell me, sergeant, what brings you here?"
De Gier told him about the fund financing exchange of American and Dutch police officers.
The sheriff sipped, lowered his glass, raised it, and sipped again.
"Yes," he said slowly, "but I don't buy that. You'll have to credit me with some intelligence, sergeant, even if you find me in Jameson, Maine. Why would an Amsterdam murder brigade police detective be sent here? There are such cities as New York, or Chicago, and there is a place called Los Angeles. There is crime over there and the quality of the crime could be compared to what you have in Amsterdam. But in Jameson… No, sergeant. This town is barely on the map. So tell me, if you want to tell me. What have we got here that makes you interested, so interested that a general troubles himself to phone die Woodcock sheriff all the way from his shiny office on the eighty-fourth floor of his Manhattan plastic palace?"
The bourbon oozed down to de Gier's stomach and warmed his blood on the way. He felt tempted to tell the truth. The truth is the best lie. He took a deep breath and told the truth.
"I see," the sheriff said a few minutes later and got up and refilled the glass. "And this comrmssaris, this gold-braided gentleman with the pain in his legs, he is due soon, is he?"
"He should be here now."
"A little old man with thin gray hair and grandpa spectacles?"
"That's right."
"I saw him. He came in on the regular plane before the state troopers dropped you off from their spacecraft. Is he staying with a lady called Janet Wash?"
"Don't know that name. He'll be staying with his sister, Mrs. Opdijk. Her husband died a few days ago. They have a house on Cape Orca."
"Ah," the sheriff said. "So you are finally telling me. In your own way, of course. My predecessor left a file on Cape Orca; the file is mine now. Cape Accident it should be called, for he wrote them all off as accidents. The old sheriff wasn't too fond of work I believe, although I wouldn't spread that belief around, even if he lives in Boston now."
"The old sheriff?" de Gier asked. "Are you the new sheriff?"