were right, if our conversation last night was getting us anywhere, then he may confirm our, eh…'
The sheriff grinned. 'Our, eh… dreams, hey? Or our, eh… facts?'
'You have facts, Jim. I am not from here. What do I know?'
'You know what you know. I can use what you know. But go and see-what did you call him again?'
'Commissaris.'
'Go and see him. The key is in the Dodge. Be careful. We had a thaw during the night, but it froze up again. The roads are supposed to be sanded, but the town is short of sand, although there should be some on the way.'
'Yes,' de Gier said, but he hadn't listened. He found the Dodge, started it, and waited for the engine to warm up. He wondered what the commissaris would do if he saw his trusted sergeant appear out of the snow. What sounded like a good idea in Amsterdam might turn out to be a very bad idea in America. Perhaps the commissaris was perfectly capable of looking after himself, even if he had been very ill a week ago and even if he was under doctor's orders not to exert himself in any way.
The Dodge slid out of the parking place and into the road. De Gier turned the wheel, but the car didn't respond. It responded a little later, but it overresponded and slid to the other side of the road. Then it spun and de Gier was facing the jailhouse for a second. He saw a stop sign and braked, but the car continued, just missing a truck. It spun around once more, heeled over on two wheels, hit a snowbank, and fell back. De Gier reversed and touched the accelerator, but the rear wheels wouldn't grip. He tried another time. The engine whined, the wheels whirred. He switched the engine off, got out, slipped, and fell on the ice. He was trying to get on his feet again when a red station wagon stopped behind the Dodge. A small old man in an oversized furlined overcoat and a raccoon hat complete with tail came out of the station wagon and shuffled toward the Dodge on enormous rubber boots held together by bright yellow laces. The hat was in the old man's eyes, and he tried to push it up with a hand covered in a mitten that reached to his elbow.
De Gier pushed himself up. He stared at the little old man in the coat and the hat and the boots and the mittens. His eyes grew until they were perfectly round. He put his hands over his face and breathed in deeply. He dropped his hands.
'Need some help?' the old man asked. 'Maybe I can pull you out with Opdijk's station wagon. It has four- wheel drive. I've just figured out how to operate the extra gears.' The old man spoke Dutch.
'Morning, sir,' de Gier said. 'Yes, that would be nice. I've got this car stuck. It's slippery.'
'There is a chain in Opdijk's car. I'll get it.'
The sergeant tried to help the commissaris, but his leather soles had no grip on the ice and he skated around, getting in the way until the commissaris told him to sit in me Dodge. The station wagon pulled and the Dodge made feeble attempts to extricate itself from the snow bank. When the commissaris stepped on the gas the chain snapped. He reversed the wagon and got out and knotted the chain. The second attempt made the chain break again and the station wagon got stuck in the bank too.
The commissaris and the sergeant got out of their vehicles and stood on the ice, arms linked, studying the situation.
'It's very good of you to come here and help me out, sergeant.'
'Do you think so, sir?'
'No,' the commissaris said. 'I don't think so, but I am polite sometimes and try to say the right thing. You have a chief constable and God knows what American superstars behind you. Grijpstra told me a little last night. He moved heaven and earth to bring you here. Do you think he spoke to the queen too?'
'No, sir.'
'So you are helping me out. That's nice. But I got the Opdijk car stuck too now. I am on my way to a real estate agent called Michael Astrinsky to sell the Opdijk house. Do you know where Astrinsky's office is?'
'Yes, sir.'
'You do?'
'There's only one important street in Jameson, sir, Main Street. Mr. Astrinsky will have his office on Main Street. Main Street is over there, sir.'
De Gier let go of the commissaris and pointed. He slipped and fell and dragged the commissaris down with him.
A jeep stopped and a thin-faced young man jumped out, a lanky young man in a short leather jacket, an open-necked thin cotton shirt, and no hat. His light brown curly hair had been cut in a strange fashion and stiff tufts pointed above his ears.
'You from California?'
'No,' the commissaris said. 'We are from Holland, the Netherlands. Over there.' He pointed at the bay.
'Really? No ice over there?'
'Not much.'
'Is that so? Want me to pull you out?'
'Please. If it's not too much trouble.'
'It's trouble all right,' the young man said and walked back to the jeep and backed it to the station wagon. It took a little over a minute to free the wagon and a little over five minutes to extricate the Dodge. The young man put his spade, ash bucket, and chain back into the jeep, waved the commissaris' thanks away, and drove off. De Gier noted the registration on the jeep: BMF ONE. Only letters, no figures. The commissaris had read the registration too.
'BMF,' the commissaris said. 'Suzanne said something about BMF. a gang of sorts. Troublemakers. How did that helpful young man get his registration? Are they made-to-order here?'
A small red compact passed. The license plate said curs. There was a middle-aged woman at the wheel, heavily made up.
'Made-to-order,' the commissaris said. 'Incredible. But true, BMF.'
'BMF ONE, sir. That young man was number one. The boss. Boss of the gang. The sheriff told me about the gang.'
'What else did he tell you?'
'A lot, sir. He made me tell him what I was doing here, and I thought that the truth might answer all his questions at once. He didn't believe me. He has a file on Cape Orca. Your brother-in-law is the fifth corpse, sir, and a sixth victim ran away.'
'Is the sheriff doing anything about that file?'
'He is new, sir. Three months in office. The old sheriff didn't care perhaps. He retired. He lives in Boston now.'
'No,' the commissaris said.
De Gier nodded energetically. 'Yes, sir.'
'No, sergeant. I've done the paperwork for my sister. The letters are posted. I am going to sell her house and get out of here. We were hired to take care of a city with one million peaceful citizens in it, in our own cozy little country, six thousand miles away. I've never heard of a town called Jameson. I happen to be here and I happen to be selling a house, but it's all most unreal, unsubstantial. Let's go to this man Astrinsky. We can leave the cars. But I'd like some coffee first. Would there be coffee in this town?'
They struggled across the street and inquired at Robert's Market. A bland-faced young man directed them to the town's only restaurant: 'Beth's Diner. Country style food, all we have.' 'And a store where we can buy some clothes?'
'Next door, only other store in town.'
'Good,' the commissaris said when they were back on the sidewalk. 'I hate shopping around. No choice simplifies life. You can wear these clothes, sergeant. They won't fit you either, but they'll look better on you than on me, especially the hat. Opdijk had a big head and you have a lot of hair. It may sit on the hair.'
They got to the store holding hands and were served by a young girl. 'A coat,' the commissaris said. 'Warm, and boots, please, miss.'
'Would you look around, sir? Coats are on the racks. And there are boots under the racks. I'm minding the store. I don't know much about the stock, but everything is priced.'
'Here, put my coat on, sergeant. There, the hat too.' The hat turned and the raccoon's tail hung over de Gier's face. 'Other way around, sergeant. It fits in a way. Take the boots.'
