The sergeant looked about sleepily. 'Don't know sir, ah yes, I left it near the highway and walked down. I was hoping to see some wild animals, but they must have hidden themselves. I only saw tracks.'
'Will you walk back or shall I give you a lift in the station wagon?'
'It's all right, sir.' The sergeant strode off and disappeared behind a large spruce, its branches heavy with snow.
Suzanne's thin hand rapped against the window set in the front door.
'Yes,' the commissaris shouted. 'Coming, dear.'
'You must be careful, Jan,' Suzanne said when he had returned to the hall. 'You'll catch cold. You might even get the flu. I had the flu last winter and I was in bed for weeks and weeks.'
'I never get flu,' the commissaris said, and sneezed.
8
De Gier walked for more than an hour, cold to his bones and struggling with his hat and branches that whipped into his face. Most of the way was uphill, and an icy breeze blew snowflakes into his eyes and froze the hairs of his mustache and eyebrows. It had also frozen the doors of the Dodge, and he had to warm the lock with his lighter. He smoked while he waited for the engine to warm up.
The road leading to Jameson seemed even worse than before, and he drove as slowly as he could, steering in the direction the car chose for itself and pumping the brakes when he didn't agree with the car's choice. The road's surface reminded him of some of the landscapes he had seen from the window of the intercontinental plane when it pierced the skies of Greenland and Newfoundland: a shiny eternity of frozen quietness, totally devoid of human life, a beautiful but frightening wasteland dominated by white or cream mountains and cut by gorges, violet in their own deep shadows. The road, properly photographed, could have been the cover of a science-fiction paperback, suggesting the weird miracle of another reality. The shock of change had touched off his perceptions, and the recent boredom of the gray days in Amsterdam was no more than the memory of an uninteresting and mostly forgotten dream. He grinned, forgetting his caution, and the car accelerated and made a sudden hundred-and- eighty-degree turn. 'No,' de Gier said gently, 'not that way, this way!' He eased the car around again and kept trying until he reached the jailhouse. The compound was silent and, in the office, Bernie, the chief deputy, nodded sleepily and seemed disturbed when one of the telephones jangled. De Gier listened while he took off his coat and hat. Something about eggs. Another deputy, by the name of Bert, didn't have eggs, and Bernie thought that Bert should have eggs. De Gier went upstairs, found his bed, lay down and lit a cigarette. He put it out a few minutes later and closed his eyes, telling himself he should think about Cape Orca. When he woke up the room was dark. He found the sheriff in the office and was offered coffee. The two men had no chance to communicate, for a sudden commotion in the jail required the sheriff's prompt attention. De Gier left, telling Bernie, who was still taking care of the desk, that he meant to do some shopping at Robert's Market and would be back presently.
'You missed dinner,' Bernie said.
'Never mind. I'll buy some food at the store.'
Bernie grinned. 'We'll get you something when you come back. The prisoners are on twenty-four hour duty.' De Gier grinned back. He could hear the sheriff's steely voice admonishing somebody behind the heavy jail door. The sheriff's vocabulary seemed most impressive, although somewhat repetitious.
The Dodge was easier to handle this time, for the town's roads had received a good sand sprinkling. The few street lights reflected on snow banks, a wan, green shine interspersed with deep, sinister shadows. He turned and stopped under the extended roof of Robert's Market.
There was a blaze of light under the porch, calling attention to some ten different signs, partly overlapping so that it was hard to understand what they were suggesting the customers should buy. Three signs mentioned beer, another ice. Why would people want to buy ice? The sign had an arrow that pointed at a metal box. He got out of die car and opened the box. Plastic bags filled with ice cubes. He still didn't understand. Iced drinks. But surely all Americans had refrigerators and each refrigerator would have at least two trays of cubes. So why did people want more? A man came out of the store, opened the box, and took out two bags of ice. 'Excuse me,' the sergeant said. 'What do you want ice for?' The man stared. De Gier repeated his question. 'Party,' the man said. 'Party tonight. What else?' The man shook his head and walked away. De Gier nodded. Of course. An advanced drinking country.
The lights of the store seemed to be reserved for its exterior, for the large room inside was dark and gloomy. A young man with a round red face under a compact mass of tiny, whitish curls was serving beer to three customers who sat on high stools. They didn't turn around, but de Gier recognized them and smiled. His third day and he already knew everybody. The fox fellow, Madelin, and Albert. He said good evening, but the guests didn't turn around.
'What can I do for you?' the man with the whitish curls asked. There was no warmth in the question.
'Some cheese,' de Gier said. 'Some crackers, candy bars, peanuts, cigarettes, a flashlight, batteries for the flashlight.'
'Help yourself.'
De Gier shuffled through the store, studying the unfamiliar labels on cans and plastic bags. The display of goods was haphazard. Apparently new stock was placed wherever there was room. When he couldn't find what he wanted he thought of asking the storekeeper, but the four heads in the other corner were close together. They had obviously forgotten his presence. He stumbled on, eventually located the required articles, and took them to die counter where the storekeeper grabbed a stub of pencil, wrote down figures, and came to a total.
De Gier paid and asked for a bag.
'Sorry, no bag.'
But there were bags. The sergeant saw a stack of flattened brown paper bags on a shelf on the wall behind the counter.
'Give me one of those. I'll pay if you like. I can't carry all this in my hands.'
There was no response, but the fox fellow slipped off his stool, went to the door, and locked it. He took the key out of the lock, dropped it into the pocket of his short heavy jacket, and went back to his stool.
'Three beers, Tom.'
'Three beers coming up.'
'Make it four. Have one yourself.'
'Four beers coming up.'
The refrigerator behind the counter opened. Four cans of beer slid onto the counter. The beer was sipped slowly, straight from the can. Nobody looked at de Gier.
The sergeant's purchases were still on the counter. He studied his collection. If he picked the articles up he could carry them to the door, but he wouldn't be able to open it even if it were unlocked. He would have to ask somebody to open it for him. He might try to grab the bag, but he would have to get over the counter to reach the shelf that held the bags. Tom might object to his climbing the counter. He could handle Tom, but the fox fellow and Albert would be on Tom's side, and Madelin had given no sign that she disagreed with her friends' behavior. Any trouble arising from his grabbing a bag could be explained as the lawful start of a fight, with the enemy on the right side of the law.
Fine.
The locked door presented another interesting problem in any further proceedings. Obviously the act of locking a customer in is illegal. Restriction of the liberty of a human being. But he would have to prove the locking of the door.
He went over the options again as he got on the last stool at the counter. Yes, there was nothing he could do. Kicking the door out of its hinges would be explained as willful damage committed by an irresponsible foreign visitor, for they would unlock the door afterward and claim it had never been locked. He might, of course, remove the key from the fox fellow's pocket. The fox fellow would not like that. Back to base one. A fight, four against one. No.
De Gier produced a cigarette and lit it. He thought of asking for a beer, but Tom might not hear him. Tom was picking his teeth with a match he had sharpened with a long knife. He had left the knife on the counter, within
