mailman alarmed the sheriff when he saw that she wasn't emptying her mailbox.'
'You are sure the boat wasn't found.'
'Yes.'
'So if it was found now and the disappearance of the plastic foam was ascertained…'
'Yes.'
De Gier gave up on the raven and turned to look at Jeremy. 'So there could have been murder, sir. You didn't tell the sheriff about your theory?'
'Me? Never. Perhaps if he'd come to see me, but I wouldn't barge into his office. We live our own lives here. I certainly do.'
The raven had hopped down and was worrying de Gier's hat. Jeremy got up, took the hat away from the bird, and gave it back to the sergeant.
'Thank you. My beautiful washbear hat. It belonged to Mr. Opdijk.'
'Washbear? Oh, 1 see. Is that what you call raccoons in your country? Not a bad name. They do wash their food before they eat it. Washbear, hmrnm.'
The commissaris had got up too and stood looking out a window. The powerboat came chugging back, trailing several long logs. Jeremy joined him at the window.
'Ah, back again are they? Got a good crop.'
'Local woodcutters?'
'In a way. Fox and young Albert. They often cut dead pines on the cape.'
The commissaris scratched his nose. 'Isn't the cape private property, sir?'
Jeremy grinned. 'Sure, but the fox doesn't mind that. He's been out of bounds all his life. But there's no harm. Dead pines are of no value and the gales blow them over and they rot away.'
'So what does he want them for?'
'He set up a small sawmill some years ago, after he came back from college. It's a used mill, outdated, belonged to an old sawyer who retired. The fox got it for the scrap price and the old man taught him how to use it. But the fox is original. He didn't want to compete with the big automated lumbermills and work himself to the bone for a marginal profit. He discovered that pine killed by carpenter ants has an interesting texture, and he learned to cut the dead wood very carefully so that it wouldn't fall apart. I've watched him do it. The boy is an artist.'
'And he sells his product?'
'At a good price. He trucks it himself to Boston and sells to the interior decorators. I would say he's doing well, although he could do better if he used his education and went to the city. He could easily make a career.'
'Perhaps he does, in his own way.'
'What's that?' Jeremy asked and blew smoke at the raven, which croaked in protest and hopped to the next rafter. 'Ah, I see. Yes, here are some of die boards he cut. Gave them to me last year. He's another exception to my rule. He comes and visits from time to time.'
The commissaris admired a part of the rear wall of the cabin. The boards were very light, almost crumbly, and showed dark lines. Jeremy scratched the paneling with his nail. 'See, it holds together. The dark lines were traced by the ants. Used to be their corridors.'
'Now what was he telling us?' the commissaris asked and stopped. De Gier stood behind him, his hand out, ready to grab the old man in case he slipped on the steep path. They had almost reached the Opdijk house, and Suzanne was peering at them from the living room window. The commissaris turned and pointed at the island. 'There he lives, in his island fortress, with a raven patroling the sky and three fierce dogs to guard the land. He carries a handgun and there's a rifle above his door, but apparently he hates hunting. His house is placed high and the woods around the house are cut down, about the last thing one would expect him to do. Maybe he would cut a few trees if they interfered with his view, but he cut them all. That whole part of the island is bare.'
'A ravine,' de Gier said, 'and a drawbridge and a ladder that he pulls up when he is in his cabin.'
'So he feels threatened, doesn't he? By what?'
'He didn't seem nervous or fearful at all, sir. His eyes laughed even when he was trying to be serious.'
The commissaris' cane scratched the snow viciously. 'Yes, he seemed rather flippant. But what he told us about that unfortunate woman may have been true. If it was he was helping us. But he wasn't helping us all the way. I am sure he knows what goes on here. Quite a few people know, but they aren't going to tell us. And you know why not, sergeant?'
The commissaris looked at the small part of de Gier's face that wasn't obscured by the sergeant's hat and upturned coat collar.
'Because they don't care at all. These people got killed and the rest watched them being killed, one by one, in various ways, and they went on with whatever they were doing.'
'Like the muggings in New York, sir? I read an article about street killing out there. The passers-by will pass by.'
'No, sergeant. Perhaps, but I don't think so. We've run into something else. As I said before, this is a different society. A small town in a forgotten corner. It may come to life in summer, but the summer people have no idea what goes on. They do their vacationing and go home. The local people stay, and they aren't all yokels. No, no, not at all.'
'So what's their game, sir?'
'Jan,' Suzanne's voice wailed through the window.
'Yes, dear,' the commissaris shouted. 'We're coming.'
'Of course he may have been lying through his teeth, sergeant,' the commissaris said a minute later when he was stepping out of his boots in the spotless hall, 'and cackling with that raven now, about the fun they had with us. Jeremy of Jeremy's Island. He may be a very sinister man. And intelligent, unusually intelligent. But whatever he is, he knows what he is doing, and saying.'
'Jan!'
'Yes, Suzanne. I just want to wash my hands.'
They sat down and Suzanne came in carrying a big bowl of steaming soup.
'Pea soup, Jan. Just like Mother used to make it, with bacon and pigs' trotters. We'll have gelatin pudding afterward.'
The commissaris looked at the soup.
'That gentleman came about the house, Jan.'
'He did? Did he say what he thought it was worth?'
'Yes, Jan. Ninety thousand dollars.'
The commissaris tried to move his spoon through the soup. There were some thin slices of white bread next to his plate.
'Do you ever bake your own bread, Suzanne?'
'No. Opdijk always wanted me to, but it's such a lot of work and quite expensive, really. I bought forty loaves last time we went to the city and froze them. They taste very good, I think.'
'Ninety thousand the man said?'
'Yes. I was very pleased. Surely that much money will buy me a good apartment in Amsterdam. I would like to live in the south of the city, in one of those big blocks of flats. I am sure I can afford it now.'
'The house isn't sold yet, dear.'
'I'm sure you'll sell it soon, Jan. Oh, I'm so pleased you're here. I've been so worried. But mat's all over now. Tomorrow I'm going to pack some of the porcelain, but I'll need some crates. Do you think you can get me some crates, Jan?'
The commissaris yawned and checked his watch, after having pulled it from his waistcoat pocket. The watch told him it was eight o'clock, he frowned at it and shook it irritably. 'What is the time, Rinus?'
De Gier was yawning too. 'Two o'clock sir, do you still have Amsterdam time? I've been getting mixed up too. Last night, after we came back from the Wash's house I went home to the jailhouse and lay down to take a nap. I slept until this morning. The sheriff said he tried to wake me but had to give up.'
'You look like you could use another nap now. I am certainly going to have one myself.'
'Listen,' the commissaris said when he saw the sergeant off on the driveway, 'do me a favor, Rinus. Buy me some cheese and crackers at that store in town, and some peanuts or something. After you've had your nap. You can give it to me tomorrow morning. Chocolate, anything. Anything, sergeant. Where's your car?'
