Tumbleweed (7 page)

De Gier looked up. "Commissaris," he said in a low voice. "These things look evil; they are used in sorcery, aren't they?'

"They are. I asked the doctor to look at them and he recognized them at once. He told me a strange story. The plant these roots are part of is considered to be the most powerful sorceryweed known. In the Middle Ages the weed was often found at the foot of a gallows, and it was said that they wouldn't grow from a seed but originated from the sperms ejected by criminals hanged at the gallows as they went into their final struggle with death."

"Bah," Grijpstra said.

The commissaris gazed at the adjutant. "You have been in the police a long time, Grijpstra, you should be used to this sort of talk. The traces we find often come from the human body. It's like the songs small children sing. 'Shit and piss. And blood, and sperms and slime and vomit and pus and snot and sweat.'"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "Sorry, sir."

"Never mind. And you are right of course. The picture I was painting isn't very nice, but anyway that's how the plant was supposed to be born. And the sorcerers always went for the roots. The roots are so powerful that a man cannot dig them up without risking his life. As you can see the roots look human, and they
are
human, the sorcerers say. When you pull the root out of the ground it will utter a fierce yell and the yell may drive you crazy or kill you outright so the sorcerers would dig very carefully and attach a piece of string to the root and tie the other end of the string to the leg of a dog. Then they stopped up their ears with wax and called the dog and the root popped out of the ground."

De Gier was still studying the roots. He hadn't touched them but had bent down to get a close view.

"And what are the roots supposed to do?" he asked.

"The doctor wasn't sure. He thinks that they were worn around the neck as a talisman, giving the sorcerer special powers, but they can also be ground up and mixed with other weeds and dried mushrooms. I suppose one could make a brew out of them."

"It seems the lady
was
a witch," Grijpstra said, shaking his head. "I thought they had gone out of fashion."

The commissaris was going to say something but the telephone rang and he picked it up.

"Show Mr. Drachtsma in," he said. As he put the phone down he quickly swept up the roots and put them into the drawer of his desk.

IJsbrand Drachtsma had sat down in the indicated chair and was looking at the commissaris. He seemed enveloped in an imperturbable silence, built around him the way an egg envelops and protects the chick. De Gier was admiring this newcomer in the intimate circle of suspects. Drachtsma, de Gier was thinking, had to be an unusual man. He had been described as a tycoon, a leader. Drachtsma was chairman of a number of well-known companies. He would be very rich. He would also be very powerful, more powerful perhaps than a minister of state. Companies led by men like Drachtsma employ thousands of people. Whole fleets of merchant vessels move about the oceans because men like Drachtsma have picked up a telephone. The advertising companies which they own tell us what to buy and do; they shape the routine of our lives.

But, de Gier was thinking happily, if we simple policemen pick up a phone men like Drachtsma come to see as. We manipulate the manipulator.

"Glad you could come," the commissaris was saying. IJsbrand Drachtsma inclined his bald head slightly to acknowledge the remark. De Gier knew that Drachtsma was nearly sixty years old but the body sitting so close to him now radiated more energy than its age should allow for. Drachtsma's pale blue eyes had an eager glint in them as if this interview was a new experience he was planning to enjoy.

Drachtsma had taken a cigar out of the box on the table in response to the commissaris' hospitable suggestion and his strong suntanned hands were lighting it now, using a solid-looking gold lighter. His movements were sparse as if he was controlling his activity. The lighter burst into flame at the first flick. De Gier thought of his own lighter, which never worked properly and had to be coaxed to come to life in a different way each time.

"Just a few questions," the commissaris was saying and "we won't detain you any longer than we have to," and Drachtsma had inclined his bald head again. The thin fringe which framed the polished skull hadn't gone altogether gray yet.

"Last Saturday night," Drachtsma answered in a deep voice, reverberating in his wide chest, "I was with my wife, on Schiermonnikoog. I often spend the weekends on the island. We had guests, business friends from Germany. I took them sailing during the afternoon and we listened to music during the evening. I'll give you their names and addresses if you like."

"Please," the commissaris said.

Drachtsma scribbled on a page of his notebook, a leather-bound notebook which came from his inside pocket. He tore out the page and gave it to the commissaris.

"Would you mind telling us what your relationship with Mrs. van Buren was?" the commissaris asked.

"She was my mistress."

"I see. I wonder if you could give us some details about the lady's life. Somebody killed her and he must have had a good reason. If we know who the lady was we may know who killed her."

"Yes," Drachtsma said. "I would also like to know who killed her. She didn't suffer, did she?"

"I don't think so. She was killed from the back and the knife went right in. She probably died immediately without knowing what had happened to her."

"Good," Drachtsma said.

The three policemen were watching him.

"Please tell us," the commissaris said.

"Ah. I am sorry. I was thinking about Maria. What can I tell you? I knew her when she was still married, her husband runs a textile plant which is part of the organization I work for. I met her at a party and I think I fell in love with her. She had her own boat and we would meet on the lakes. She got a divorce."

"I am sorry," the commissaris said, "but I will have to ask personal questions, I hope you don't mine the presence of my two assistants. They are charged with the investigation of this murder and I like them to be part of its various stages."

"That's all right," Drachtsma said, and smiled at the two detectives. The smile was pleasant. Drachtsma knew how to handle the lower echelons.

"Why didn't you marry Maria van Buren?" the commissaris asked.

"I didn't want to marry her," Drachtsma said, "besides, I was married already. I have a son and a daughter and they are very fond of their mother. I am fond of their mother myself. And I don't think Maria would have married
me.
She liked her privacy. I bought a houseboat for her because she liked being on the water. At that time her boat was the only one in that part of the Schinkel River. There are a lot of boats around her now and I often suggested that she should move but she got used to living there."

"If she was your mistress living on your boat I presume that you were sending her a monthly check."

"I was," Drachtsma said.

"Did you know that she had other lovers?"

"Yes. I didn't mind. I always telephoned before I came to see her and she would telephone me at my office."

"I hope you don't mind my saying so," the commissaris said gently, "but you don't seem upset at her death."

There was no answer.

"You don't mind that she is dead?"

"It is a fact now, isn't it?" Drachtsma asked. "I can't change it. Everything comes to an end."

The blunt statement took some wind out of the commissaris' sails and it was a little while before the conversation found its course again.

"The knife," the commissaris said, "worries me. I have it here, let me show it to you."

Drachtsma handled the knife." A fighting knife," he said thoughtfully.

"Do you know what sort of a knife it is?" Grijpstra asked suddenly.

Drachtsma turned and looked Grijpstra in the eyes. "Yes," he said, "it is a British commando knife."

"Very few people would know how to throw such a knife, I think," the commissaris said hesitantly.

"I think I can throw it," Drachtsma said. "We were trained with knives like this during the war. I had one when I landed in France and I killed a German with it."

"Would you know anyone who knew Mrs. van Buren and who could throw a knife like that?"

"No," Drachtsma said. "With the exception of myself," he added almost immediately.

"Would you know anyone who wanted her dead?"

"No," Drachtsma said again. "I don't think she had any enemies, and her lovers weren't jealous. I think she had only three, including myself, and one of them I know personally, an American colonel called Stewart. The other man is a Belgian. I have met him at a party but only for a few seconds; he seemed a very careful polished type, not at all the sort of man who would throw a knife into a woman's back."

"We have already questioned the two gentlemen," the commissaris said.

"I suppose they both have alibis?"

The commissaris ignored the question. "Just one more thing, Mr. Drachtsma," he said, "would you mind telling us how much you paid Mrs. van Buren?"

"Twenty-five thousand a year," Drachtsma said. "I was going to pay her a little more because of inflation. She never asked for money."

"Any extras?"

"Yes, I have bought her some jewelry and clothes and twice a year I would give her a ticket to
. Her parents live near Willemstad."

"Did you ever go with her?"

"I have little time," Drachtsma said. "The only island I really like is Schiermonnikoog."

"Thank you," the commissaris said, and briskly rubbed his hands. "The final question: we found that Mrs. van Buren was interested in plants and herbs. I wonder if..." He didn't finish the question.

"Plants," Drachtsma said, and began to laugh. "Yes, I know about her plants. She always took me to special little shops where medicinal herbs are sold and she used to read a lot about her weeds as well. It was a source of irritation to me for often she would talk about herbs all night, and I didn't visit her to hear about herbs. We had a few fights about it and I have threatened to leave her if she wouldn't give up her silly witchcraft, but it was an empty statement, I don't think she would have cared if I had left her. She was a strong woman."

"A strong woman who got killed," the commissaris said. "Thank you, Mr. Drachtsma, I hope we won't have to bother you again."

"I don't think anybody could rattle fern," Grijpstra said after Mr. Drachtsma had left.

"We'll see," the commissaris said quietly. "He is a Frisian, and Frisians have strong heads. And he isn't the only Frisian in the world. Weren't you born in the North, Grijpstra?"

"I was, sir, in Harlingen."

"I was born in Franeker," the commissaris said.

"One should never underestimate the provincials," de Gier said.

7

"
G
o ON, HIT HIM!" GRIJPSTRA SAID.

De Gier stepped back, coolly eyed his opponent, and hit him. He rubbed his hand while the coffee machine obediently released a paper cup which had got stuck somewhere in its mysterious insides and filled it with a foaming thick liquid.

"Now it hasn't got enough water," Grijpstra said disgustedly. "Why can't we have a proper canteen like the one we used to have, with a nice elderly sergeant behind the bar who would forget to ask you for money sometimes?"

"We have run out of nice elderly sergeants," de Gier said. Grijpstra poured the contents of his paper cup into the plastic waste basket and began to look through his pockets.

"I have run out of cigarettes."

There's another machine," de Gier said. "Put two guilders into it and push the button of your choice."

Grijpstra snarled at the machine. "No," he said. "I did it yesterday and it ate my two guilders and gave me nothing."

"You should have looked for the man; he has a key."

"The man," Grijpstra said. "What man?"

"The little fellow with the goat beard and the gray dustcoat. He is always scuttling about in the corridors."

"Not when / need him. I am going out to the shop. What shall we do while we wait for our friend Holman? We have more than an hour."

De Gier was combing his curls and observing his face in a mirror. He didn't answer.

"Beautiful man," Grijpstra said. "I am talking to you. In fact I am asking you a question."

"More than an hour," de Gier repeated, "an hour full of opportunities. An hour which we can use for some real purpose. An hour which is part of today, the most wonderful day of our lives."

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "An hour. What shall we do with it?"

"Have a cigarette," de Gier said.

"Thank you." Grijpstra lit the cigarette, inhaled, and managed a smile. De Gier put his comb back and adjusted his scarf.

"Let's go to my flat," de Gier said. "We can take the car. It'll only take ten minutes. I'll make you some real coffee and put on a record I bought at a sale last week for three guilders. A man playing church music on a recorder."

"Modern church music?" Grijpstra asked. "With drums in it?"

"No," de Gier said.

Grijpstra considered the proposition. He shook his head.

"No," he said, "there isn't enough time. Some other day perhaps. I don't mind listening to church music but if we have to rush out there and rush back we won't have a chance to concentrate. Good music needs concentration. Besides, your cat will get at me again. He got me this morning while you were having your shower. You should give that cat away, you know."

De Gier jumped as if he had been stung. "Why don't you give your wife away?" he asked in a sudden loud voice.

"Nobody wants her," Grijpstra said. "But somebody will want your cat. He is a beautiful animal, I'll say that for him, but I would have loved to wring his splendid neck this morning. You know what he did?"

"I hope he scratched you," de Gier said.

"No. He is more subtle than that. He did a number of things. First he jumped on my lap and growled a little. He has got a lot of teeth and a lot of claws and I didn't know what the growl meant so I just waited. Then he put his snout into my armpit and sniffed. He sniffed for half a minute. It was a very funny feeling."

"Ha," de Gier said. "You were wondering what it would be like to be bitten in the armpit?"

"Exactly. I am sure Oliver wanted me to wonder about that. He likes to create a sensation. Why did you call him Oliver?"

"That's his name," de Gier said. "Oliver Kwong. He is a pedigreed cat. His father came from the Far East."

"Kwong," Grijpstra said. "I might have known. I suppose old Kwong was owned by a mountain chief who would boil people alive if they didn't kneel down in his presence."

"Go on," de Gier said. "What else did he do?"

"He finally finished sniffing and climbed on my shoulder. Then he jumped into your bookcase and disappeared so I forgot about him until a lot of books dropped on my head."

"Yes," de Gier said, "he does that. He wrings himself through a small hole somewhere and gets behind the books. Then he stretches out to his full length and shoves. He can move as many as twenty books in one shove. He does it to me too and then he looks down and grins."

"You should hit him when he does that."

"No," de Gier said. "I never hit him. I think he is an intelligent cat. I have never heard of cats shoving books onto people. Did he do anything else?"

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "He jumped on that antique cupboard you have and stalked about for a while, pretending he was a tiger, but he annoyed me so I suddenly clapped my hands and yelled and he got a fright and forgot his act. Haha, you should have seen him, he tried to jump in two directions at once and fell off the cupboard. He really fell and he looked bloody silly when he scrambled about on the floor."

"Frightening a poor little animal," de Gier said contemptuously.

"Yes," Grijpstra said. "I frightened him out of his royal wits. About time somebody did."

"He'll bite you next time," de Gier said.

"If he bites me," Grijpstra said solemnly, and patted the large automatic pistol attached to his belt, "I will shoot him right between the eyes."

"If you shoot him," de Gier said solemnly, and patted the small automatic pistol stuck into a shoulder holster, "I will shoot you, right through the heart."

"Yes," Grijpstra said, "let's do that. I hope Sietsema and Geurts will be sent to investigate."

"They'll never catch me," de Gier said.

"Of course they will catch you," Grijpstra said.

They had walked back to their office and were now sitting down, each behind his own gray steel desk.

"They wouldn't, you know," de Gier said.

"You have thought of some brilliant strategy of escape?"

"Yes," de Gier said.

"Would you tell me?"

"Why should I?"

"Because I am your friend," Grijpstra said sweetly.

De Gier nodded. "Yes, you are my friend. I don't believe in friendship because, as Mr. IJsbrand Drachtsma explained this afternoon, nothing lasts and everything comes to an end and is, therefore, illusionary and without any real substance. But, for the time being anyway, you are my friend."

"So tell me how we wouldn't catch you."

"You would be dead," de Gier said.

"Ah, true. How Sietsema and Geurts wouldn't catch you."

"Because I know how the city computer works. I would put on a white coat and mix with the other white coats and press a few buttons and I would have a new name. And then I would hire another flat. And then I would get a job as a trashman and the city would give me one of those clever motorized carrier cycles and a broom and I would be out in the sun all day and loaf a lot and talk to people and I would be happy."

"And we would never spot you?"

"You would be dead," de Gier said reproachfully.

"I keep forgetting. So the police would never spot you?"

"Never," de Gier said.

"They probably wouldn't," Grijpstra said. "Good idea. Thank you."

"You are going to try it out?" de Gier asked.

Grijpstra had picked up his drumsticks and sounded a hesitant roll.

"Good," de Gier said, and took out his flute. They played until the telephone rang.

"Mr. Holman has arrived," Grijpstra said, softly hitting the side of his drum. 'The commissaris is waiting for us; he had him taken to his own room."

"What's all this?" de Gier asked. "I thought
we
were supposed to work on this case."

"Allow an old man his pleasure," Grijpstra said.

Mr. Holman's hand was flabby and moist but he tried to put some power in his grip. He was putting on a brave show. The commissaris had placed his guest in a low chair and the three policemen were looking down at their victim, who squirmed.

Grijpstra felt sorry for the fat man. He sat down himself and smiled.

Mr. Holman smiled back; the smile hovered on his thick lips, disappearing as soon as it had come.

"I read about Mrs. van Buren's death in the newspaper," he said in a high voice. "I was very sorry to learn that she was killed. She was a nice lady."

De Gier remembered that he had read Mr. Holman's file that morning. Two convictions. One for embezzlement some ten years ago, and one for causing grievous injuries. He had also studied the details of the two cases. Mr. Holman had, when he still worked for a boss, failed to hand in a few thousand guilders which a customer had paid for goods received. There had been no invoice but Mr. Holman had signed a receipt. Three months in jail of which two were suspended. And a year later he had hit his neighbor's son. The boy had been trampling on some young plants in Mr. Holman's garden. The boy had fallen against a fence post and had been taken to hospital. A slightly cracked skull. Three months in jail.

"A shifty violent character," de Gier thought but what he saw didn't agree with the conclusion he had drawn from the file. Like many fat men Mr. Holman looked jolly. "A jolly chap," the commissaris was thinking. "Pity he is so nervous."

Grijpstra was also thinking but vaguely. He had remembered that Mr. Holman sold nuts. Grijpstra liked nuts, especially cashew nuts which he sometimes bought in small tins. But the nuts were expensive. "If I were corrupt," Grijpstra thought, "I would make him give me a whole jute bag full of cashew nuts and I would go home and eat them."

"What was your relationship to Mrs. van Buren, Mr. Holman?" the commissaris asked.

"I just knew her," Mr. Holman said. There was a squeak in his voice which he tried to hide by clearing his throat.

"Tell us about it," the commissaris said pleasantly. "We are interested. She was killed as you know, murdered, and the more we know about her the easier it will be for us to find her killer. If she was a friend of yours you would want us to find her killer, wouldn't you?"

"Yes," Mr. Holman said, "yes, she was a friend of mine. But not a very good friend. It was all because of my little boy and his ball."

"Ball?" the commissaris asked.

"Yes. He dropped it into the Schinkel, into the river. He likes me to take him for a walk on Sunday mornings and we drive out to the Schinkel and park the car and then we walk. Sometimes we play with his ball. I don't like playing ball so usually he throws it about by himself, and one Sunday morning it went into the river. He is only four years old and he was very upset. I said I would buy him a new bait because it had floated out of reach but he began to howl so I knocked on Mrs. van Buren's door thinking I might reach the ball from her boat. I didn't know her then."

"And she asked you in?"

"Yes. She was very helpful."

"And did you get the ball?"

Mr. Holman suddenly giggled. "Yes, we got it in the end, but meanwhile my little son had managed to fall into the Schinkel. He fell out of the window."

"That must have been a nice morning," Grijpstra said, thinking of the many walks his children had forced him to make on Sunday mornings.

"A very complicated morning," Mr. Holman was saying. "We had to get his clothes off and dry them and I couldn't leave."

"Did you mind?" the commissaris asked.

"You have seen Mrs. van Buren, haven't you?" Mr. Holman asked.

"I saw her corpse, in the mortuary."

"I see. Well, she was very beautiful when she was alive."

"Did you get to know her well?" de Gier asked.

Mr. Holman was sweating. He took out a large handkerchief and dried his face. "No. Not the way you mean."

"How do you know what I mean?" de Gier asked.

"I know what you mean. But it wasn't like that at all. I just went to see her again and again. Always on Sunday mornings, and my little son was with me. She used to give me a cup of coffee and my son had his lemonade. We would stay half an hour maybe."

"You just talked?" the commissaris asked.

Mr. Holman was silent.

"No intimate relationship?"