"Tell me," Grijpstra said confidentially, "why did we come? Tell me, de Gier, I have forgotten."
"I don't know. We are birdwatchers."
"But why?" Grijpstra insisted. "I don't like birds. Do you?"
"Yes. But not so many of them. This must be their house. They live here. What's that?"
A bird had flown at them and de Gier ducked. There was a rustle of wings and an angry aggressive squeak.
"A peewit," the adjutant, who had been looking for them, suddenly said at Grijpstra's elbow. "Very clever bird. He probably has a nest close by. Look at him now."
The peewit was running about in the grass, one wing dangling to the ground.
"He must have broken his wing on de Gier's head," Grijpstra said admiringly.
"No," Adjutant Buisman said, "he is only pretending. He wants us to go after him. He wants us to think that he is hurt and that he is an easy prey, but he'll fly off as soon as we get too close. His nest will be on the other side."
"Tricky bird, hey?" de Gier said.
Grijpstra didn't agree. If the bird runs on the left the nest is on the right. Easy to remember. He was feeling very hungry now.
"Peewit's eggs are supposed to be a delicacy," he said to Buisman.
"Not now, too late in the year. You should have been here about a month ago. The first peewit's egg was found here, we sent it to the queen."
They went on. Grijpstra's mind had sunk into a gray bog. It didn't register anymore. He moved mechanically without noticing that his feet were wet and that the wound on his right big toe was throbbing. He had forgotten his headache and even his hungry feeling had stopped. He no longer pretended any interest but hung behind. He had lost his souwester, the branch of a tree had lifted it off his head and it hung above the path, half a mile behind him, as a gay little flag in an endless wet green maze.
"This is a nice spot," Buisman said, and sat down on a log. He opened the gray canvas bag which was strapped to his back and produced a flask of coffee and some cheese rolls. The thermos wasn't big and they only had a sip each. Grijpstra chewed his roll. His bowels rumbled.
"There wouldn't be a toilet anywhere?" he asked.
"No," Buisman said merrily, "this is pure nature, we are quite a few miles from civilization. But go ahead, go behind those trees over there."
"Paper," Grijpstra mumbled, "I have no paper."
"Use some grass. Finest toilet paper in the world."
"Grass," Grijpstra said, and stumped off.
De Gier was grinning when Grijpstra came back.
"All right?"
"Wonderful," Grijpstra said. "There are a lot of birds behind that tree. Look like chickens. Got away from a farm, I guess. I was almost sitting on top of them but they didn't seem to notice. They were stamping around each other."
Buisman gave a cry of joy and darted at the trees. He was back immediately, waving both arms.
"Fantastic," he shouted, "come and look. Little woodcocks dancing around a hen. I have only seen it once before."
"I saw them already," Grijpstra muttered and refused to budge but de Gier went to see the spectacle.
"Do you see the way they dance?" the adjutant asked. "It's half aggression half fright, just like us when we make up to a woman. They are performing, you see, trying to impress the hen, but she won't look up, she's scratching away at the ground. If she looks up she has made her choice and whatever cock she looks at will be her mate. The others will go away."
De Gier, in spite of the wet cold and his general feeling of discomfort, was impressed. The cocks had set up the feathers of their throats and their little combs were upright, swollen with color.
"A silly show," he said to himself, "but good, in a way. Like the parties at the police school. All dressed up in your best uniform and one-two-three, around and around we go and when she looks at you you can kiss her at her door."
Grijpstra was alone in the clearing when the little man appeared.
"Morning," the little man said.
"Morning."
"Birdwatching, are you?"
"I was," Grijpstra said.
"This is a reserve, you know, I am afraid I'll have to ask you to leave. The birds shouldn't be disturbed, especially not at this time of the year."
Grijpstra noticed that the little man was wearing some sort of uniform. He carried a shotgun and there was a feather in the band of his green hat.
"We are guests of Adjutant Buisman," he said pleasantly.
"Buisman? Is he around?"
"Behind those trees, watching some chickens."
The little man disappeared behind the trees and came back with Buisman and de Gier.
"Let me introduce my friend," Buisman said, "Rammy Scheffer. He is one of the rangers of the island."
They shook hands and Scheffer sat down. He also had a flask of coffee, about twice the size of Buisman's flask, and Grijpstra began to think kindly once the hot fluid had activated his stomach, which no longer felt like a shriveled nut.
Buisman and Scheffer began a conversation which seemed to consist mostly of birds' names and de Gier joined Grijpstra on his wet log.
"Seven o'clock," he said. "We could ask them to have breakfast with us."
"Yes," Grijpstra said in a loud voice, "breakfast. Buisman, why don't you and your friend come to the hotel with us? We would like you to have breakfast with us."
Scheffer looked up. "Very kind of you," he said, "but I am on duty. Anyway, we just had coffee. I have some bread and cheese with me and a sausage. You can share it with me if you like."
"Well…" Grijpstra began but he was too late. Scheffer had opened his bag and was cutting the bread. He was using a long thin knife.
Buisman was also looking at the knife and he suddenly got up and walked over to Grijpstra, tapping him on the shoulder as he passed him. He kept on going and Grijpstra got up and followed him. When they were out of earshot Buisman cleared his throat.
"I say," he said. "I'd forgotten all about yesterday. I made some inquiries about people who can throw knives but I got nowhere. But now, while I was watching Rammy Scheffer and that nasty-looking knife he has, I have remembered again. I do believe he can throw a knife. We have been out together on my boat, years ago now, and he threw a knife at the door of my cabin. I remember now because it annoyed me at the time. He was showing off but it was my door which got damaged."
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "What about this fellow? Do you know anything about him?"
"Of course. We all know about each other on the island. He has been here several years now, three years, I think. He used to be an officer in the merchant navy and he settled here. He is a quiet chap, lives by himself in a little house. He bought it. He has a boat and he sails around the island sometimes. Occasionally he goes to the other shore and stays away for a few days. He doesn't talk much. He was born in , hasn't got a police record."
"Friends? Relatives?"
"Not that I know of. People like him on the island and everybody greets him but he has no special friends. Keeps to himself and reads the Bible, I think. Bit of a fanatic. Grows his own vegetables and bakes his own bread. One of these nature-health people. Doesn't drink, doesn't smoke. Objects to swearing and dirty words. The kids used to tease him, would follow him around mumbling four letter words but we stopped it."
"
," Grijpstra mumbled.
"Pardon?"
"
," Grijpstra repeated. "Our murdered lady came from ."
"We could ask him to come over to the station for questioning," Buisman said. "But I would rather not. It's a small island, you know, he'll probably avoid me forever after."
"Yes," Grijpstra said. "We could ask the commissaris to invite him by letter or send a car for him. If we do it he will connect us with you."
A siren tore the silence around them to shreds. It seemed very close.
The adjutant stopped. "A siren," he exclaimed. "That's the police launch. They must be trying to find me."