what any Amsterdam restaurant would have charged and some sloppy waiter would have popped the bill under my nose before I had finished the pie. Good pie too. She must have baked it herself in that museum piece.'
'But they seem a little slow here. We spent hours in there.'
'What's time, sergeant? There must be a lot of time here; back home there isn't anymore. The telephone rings it away and people like you grab it. With questions and bits of paper. Grijpstra takes my time too. With his scheming and conniving.'
'He meant well, sir.'
'Yes. Here we are, sergeant. I haven't got my glasses on. What do those cards say? Here, they are stuck in the door.'
De Gier read the signs. The first said, 'Out, back in ten minutes,' and the second said, 'Closed for the winter.'
The commissaris tried the door and found it unlocked. A girl opened the second door for them. 'Come in, gentlemen. It's very cold out there. I've finally managed to get this office warm. Please sit down. What can I do for you?'
De Gier gaped at the girl while the commissaris stated his business. He knew the girl, he knew her very well, he knew she wouldn't be in his day-to-day memory, but he had gone deeper down already. His dreams, but further back. Madelin's face seemed to be all eyes, large dark eyes. He had seen the eyes before. And the small slender body too, in tight corduroy jeans and a soft sweater, so supple that he was sure it would wilt if he breathed out with force. He guessed her age, twenty-five perhaps. He admired the smooth skin, stretched over small cheekbones and a dainty but firm jaw, and her pointed chin, a perfect base for the triangular face. He looked back at her eyes and recognized the girl: the princess caught and kept by the dragon. He had lost the book but the page came back in full detail. The girl was in a cave, chained to a rock, and the dragon was breathing foul fumes at her. She was staring bravely into the dragon's face. When he had the book he couldn't read-he must have been four or five years old. His mother and his older sister had read the story to him so many times that he knew the words by heart, but he still carried the book around and made them read the tale. The dragon was slain by a knight with long black hair. He had hated the knight almost as much as he had hated the dragon, and he finally destroyed both by rubbing the page with a wet finger, patiently, until the images faded away. But he hadn't rubbed out Madelin.
She was dressed differently then, in a semitransparent dress. She had excited him then. She still excited him now.
She wasn't in a cave now. He looked about. The office could have been anywhere. The best and most expensive metal and imitation wood desks. A thick wall-to-wall carpet. Brand-new office machinery. Walls paneled in veneer. One wall carried a map of Woodcock County, an antique map, cracked in places, with a wealth of detail and handwritten place names. He got up and found Cape Orca and the bay and studied the fish that had been drawn into the bay's waves. A large fish, black on top, white below. Smooth, sleek, with a wicked mouth full of grinning teeth, on its leisurely way to take another tasty morsel off the rapidly approaching shore.
'The Opdijk house,' Madelin said thoughtfully. 'And you are Pete Opdijk's brother-in-law. What a terrible accident that was. We were all very upset. Dad went to the funeral. I didn't know Pete so well and I didn't want to see his wife cry. I am sure my father is interested in the Opdijk house. I'll telephone. We live in a house just behind this office. Just a minute, please.'
She replaced the telephone. 'He's on his way. So Suzanne wants to go back to Amsterdam, does she? I've heard about Amsterdam, a magical city, I believe. Are you and your friend from Amsterdam, sir?'
'We are, miss.'
'You're in business out there?'
'No, Miss Astrinsky. I am a police officer and so is Sergeant deGier.'
Madelin's voice stayed on the same polite level. 'Police officers? How exciting! What branch of the police, sir?'
'Homicide, Miss Astrinsky.'
Madelin smiled at the sergeant, and de Gier was preparing to return the smile when the back door of the room opened.
A blusterer, de Gier thought when it was his turn to shake the heavy man's hand. The realtor had a loud, deep voice that hooted sonorously, as if he had swallowed a Swiss Alpine trumpet. Michael Astrinsky said the right things. Very sorry that the accident happened. Opdijk had been a good friend. Good old Pete. A fellow Blue Crustacean. Friendship based on many years of mutual understanding. Would sure miss him. Poor Suzanne. Glad to meet her brother. Suzanne often talked about her brother. Here he was, all the way from across the ocean. House to be sold. A pity that Suzanne would leave too, but understandable under the circumstances. Yes.
'Did you know that Suzanne's brother is a police officer, dad?'
Astrinsky lit a cigarette. He dropped it. 'No, are you really?'
'Yes, Mr. Astrinsky. From Amsterdam.'
Madelin looked at de Gier. 'Homicide, dad. Mr. de…'
'Gier,' de Gier said.
'The sergeant is also a police officer, dad.'
Astrinsky had lit the cigarette at the wrong end. Madelin took it out of his mouth and killed it in the ashtray on the desk.
'The sergeant is studying with the local police, Mr. Astrinsky, and I came out to help Suzanne. The house is to be sold as soon as possible. Suzanne asked me to come and see you,' the commissaris said.
Astrinsky lit another cigarette and looked sad. 'A quick sale, yes, that could be arranged. I might be interested myself, but, unfortunately, values aren't what they used to be some years ago. This is a cold comer of the country, with a very short summer season. We used to have a lot of people summering up here, but the fashion has changed. They seem to prefer the warmer states in the South; Florida, California. The sun states offer holidays all year round and here, well, you can see for yourself. The climate is so fierce that it seems to be out to kill us all some times. Just too damn cold.'
'I see.'
'I could list the house, of course, and try to sell it in the summer.'
'No, Suzanne wants to buy an apartment in Amsterdam, and she needs a lot of cash now.'
Astrinsky walked around his desk, his hands in the pockets of an immaculate tweed jacket. A well-dressed man, but flabby.
'I could take the house off her hands for cash, but I couldn't pay more than, say, thirty thousand.'
'Thirty thousand,' the commissaris said.
'In summer I might get a little more perhaps, but it wouldn't be cash. The trouble with the Cape Orca properties is that they don't seem to move at all. There are a number of empty houses on the cape. There's some problem with the right of way. The rest of the cape belongs to Janet Wash, and, technically, she owns the roads. They're maintained by the town, but Janet gets the bill. She has never been difficult about allowing other residents to use the roads, but newcomers don't like to feel restricted.'
'I see.'
Astrinsky brightened up. 'But I would like to do something for Suzanne. The station wagon will be for sale too, and I can buy it at a good price. My own car is ready to be junked. I would pay whatever it's worth. The car is a year old. I would spend, say, sixty percent of the new price.'
'Thank you. Very good. I can't decide without consulting my sister, of course, but I will contact you soon.'
Madelin showed them to the door. When de Gier turned, he saw Astrinsky studying the map on the wall. The muscles in the realtor's big face were working.
'Your statement as to what we do for a living shook him somewhat, sir, but he recovered quickly.'
The commissaris marched on, enveloped in his coat.
'So what, sergeant,' the commissaris said when they had reached their cars. 'So Astrinsky feels guilty. But we all feel guilty. Don't you remember that you would feel a tremor down your back when you were a little boy and a constable passed you on his bicycle? You hadn't seen him, but suddenly he is there. It is drizzling and the road is wet and the bicycle's tires make that soft nasty hiss. And there's the uniform and the man's eyes, watching you. Didn't you feel guilty?'
'Yes, sir.'
