Tumbleweed

'

is close to South America,' de Gier said.

'Quite. There is one more item of interest. Look at this.'

The commissaris produced two objects and put them on his desk. 'What do you think these are?'

'Roots,' Grijpstra said.

De Gier was looking at the roots with amazement. The roots were some fifteen centimeters long and looked like dried-out little men with spindly legs and complete with long thin penises. The little men had proper faces with noses and eyes.

'They look like little men,' he said.

'They do, don't they? They are mandrake roots.'

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?'