"You are still alive," Drachtsma said, "so it failed, fortunately."
"It didn't mean to fail," the commissaris said, "and it gave me a good fright. I have never forgotten it. I have often thought of it since. What fascinates me is that I was being attacked by a corpse, by a thing without a will of its own. The plant had planned it all, but it had done so when it was still alive, and it had used its own dead body and the bodies of others to construct a weapon."
"Now, now," the mayor was saying, sipping his brandy and smiling. "It's a good story, of course, and I am sure it happened just the way you say it happened but you are exaggerating, I think. The plant never planned anything at all. It was a natural thing to happen. The dead plants tumble about to spread their seed. It happens after they have died, and it's extraordinary, and I agree that it is a fantastic sight to see them tumbling about on the beaches and through the dunes, but there is no evil in them."
The topic was changed and coffee was served and the conversation drifted this way and that for another hour and a half until the mayor and the aldermen got up and thanked the hostess for her hospitality. The commissaris and de Gier had got up as well but Drachtsma offered them a final drink and Mrs. Drachtsma excused herself when he poured it and went to bed. The three men were standing near the fireplace, sipping the strong brandy.
"I liked your tumbleweed story," Drachtsma said, and the two policemen waited for him to continue but that was all Drachtsma was prepared to say.
"One entity killing another by using a third," the commissaris said.
"The tumbleweed using its own dead body to kill a living body," Drachtsma said.
"And the bodies of others," the commissaris said. "It is a good example of thought power. Businessmen often use it. They use others to achieve their purposes. They sit down and they keep on thinking in a certain direction and gradually a power builds up and finds an opportunity, a vehicle…"
De Gier put his glass down. "And Maria van Buren dies," he said. "Good night, Mr. Drachtsma. Thank you for a pleasant evening."
"I think you should have said that," Drachtsma said to the commissaris.
The commissaris shook Drachtsma's hand.
"Here is my card, Mr. Drachtsma. It has a telephone number on it."
Drachtsma was looking at his two visitors. "No," he said, "you don't really think that I will contact you, do you?"
20
Six months later, after the brains and memories of the policemen who had dealt with the Maria van Buren case had been soaked by a great many incidents relating to a number of other cases, the commissaris' telephone rang.
"Drachtsma," a faint voice said. "Do you remember me?"
The commissaris needed a few seconds.
"Yes, Mr. Drachtsma," he said. "I remember you."
"I would like to make a statement," the weak voice continued. It was speaking slowly, and carefully. "I would be grateful if you could come and visit me."
"Yes," the commissaris said, "but where are you?"
"On the island," Drachtsma said.
"Can't we put it off until you are in Amsterdam again?" the commissaris asked. "It's a bit of a trip from here to Schiermonnikoog and we are rather busy here. I believe you are often in Amsterdam, aren't you?"
"Not any more," the low voice said. "I am ill, very ill. I haven't left the island for months."
The commissaris looked at his window. The rain was hitting it with such force that he couldn't see through it.
"What time is the next ferry?"
"If you leave your office now you'll arrive in time, and you can go back on the afternoon ferry. You'll lose a day but you'll be doing me an invaluable service."
"All right," the commissaris said.
"Pity Grijpstra didn't want to come," de Gier said.
Their car had crossed the Utrecht bridge and was joining the main traffic on the speedway.
"You can't blame him," the commissaris said. "Nature almost got him last time and I think he must know the island by now. Mrs. Buisman kept him for a full month, didn't she?"
"She did," de Gier said. "Never in my life have I done as much overtime as during that month."
"Be grateful," the commissaris said.
"Sir," said de Gier, who didn't understand.
Mrs. Drachtsma opened the door. Her face hadn't been made up and she looked old and tired but some human warmth seemed to radiate from her being.
"I am so glad you could come," she said. "My husband is waiting for you. He has cancer of the lungs and the doctor thinks he is getting close to the end. He didn't want to go to the hospital on the mainland, and he refused the ray treatment they were recommending. He kept on saying that the rays could only lengthen the torture."
"How long has your husband been ill, madam?" the commissaris asked.
"The cancer was diagnosed three months ago. He is very weak now."
Llsbrand Drachtsma had been put into a large metal hospital bed. Three pillows kept his head and shoulders upright. His face was the color of ivory and his eyes had sunk deeply under the thin dry bristles of his eyebrows. The commissaris and de Gier touched the white hand on which veins crinkled like blue worms.
Drachtsma coughed and wheezed with every breath. He was trying to speak. "Tumbleweed," he said after a while, coughing at every syllable. "You remember?"
"Yes," the commissaris said, "but don't strain yourself, Drachtsma. I think I can understand you without you trying to talk. If talking hurts you we don't want you to talk. We'll stay here awhile if you like, we'll just sit here in the room, and maybe we'll ask a few questions and you can nod your head or shake it."
Drachtsma smiled. "No. I've got to talk. You were right, it happened the way you said it happened."
The commissaris wanted to stop him but Mrs. Drachtsma put a hand on his shoulder.
"Please let him talk, commissaris. I know what he wants to say. He has told me and I have forgiven him. I have even understood him. But he wants to tell you. Let him tell you, it will give him peace."
"Yes," Drachtsma said. "I would like Rammy to be here but my wife phoned the clinic and he is still ill. My fault. I used him instead of trying to help him. I could have helped him but I didn't know it at the time, didn't want to know. Too late now. Pity."
He began to cough again and Mrs. Drachtsma cradled his shoulders in her arm and he put his face on her neck.
De Gier felt suffocated, he wanted to get up and leave the room and smoke in the corridor but the quietness of the commissaris next to him helped him to restrain himself.
"It's all right," said Drachtsma, and smiled at his wife. "Childish, that's the word. I have always been childish. Not mis, to be embraced by your wife isn't childish. But what I have been doing all my life was silly. Always chose my own benefit, what I thought was my own benefit. Maria was my toy, I didn't want her to have a life of her own. She could have other men, but her attachment had to be to me. And I didn't want her to be a witch."