seemed to be a collector's item. The settee and the matching armchairs, the dining table pushed against the far wall, the bookcase, all seemed to date back to the quietness of the pre-rococo era. He admired the stem, solid lines and the superb workmanship that had created not only the furniture but also the room itself. Rough heavy beams, plastered walls, a hardwood floor, not nailed but pegged. The bricks of the fireplace seemed so old he thought they would crumble. He studied the room's only decoration, a fairly large painting hung above the mantelpiece. He stepped back and grunted approvingly. No mean work of art, and most macabre. He moved back a little more to take in the overall impact of the scene. Death. A tall skeleton riding a black horse. The skeleton was dressed in a flowing cape, a purple cape the same shade as the long skirt Madelin had been wearing just now. The horse galloped. Rider and steed were on their way to do some work, on a battlefield perhaps, or in a city succumbing to the plague. He approached the painting. The horse ran through a field of wildflowers. There were wooded hills in the back and a pale sky, shot through with flames.
He shook his head again. This would be the room where Astrinsky ate and read his newspaper, comfortable in front of the fire. He couldn't imagine the talkative, sociable man under this painting. He moved it a bit. The painting didn't fit the lighter space underneath. Some other painting should hang here. This skeleton, grinning madly, holding a scythe, its body thighs pressed into the flanks of the gleaming horse, had been hung here for his benefit. It might be part of the trap, a follow-up to the bullet in the driveway just now and to the encounter in Robert's Market.
He adjusted the picture, picked up his drink, and sat down. How very nice. What next? Poison in the steak sandwich? Was she going to drag him into a dank cell in the basement and chain his sleeping or dying body to a cannonball?
Cannonball. He heard her voice touch his spine in the dark store.
She came back carrying a tray with two plates.
'I felt hungry too. Let me freshen your drink. How do you feel now?'
'Better, thank you. Who fired the shot you think? One of your friends I met in Robert's Market?'
She sat down on the carpet, close to his legs.
'Could be, but I don't think so. We had our joke tonight. Why go on? You behaved very well, sergeant. We were impressed. And I love your flute. I didn't know our jazz is still appreciated in Europe. You knew the tune, didn't you?'
'Yes.'
She ate and he watched her. He wondered if she always wore see-through blouses in the evening. Her breasts were firm and tilted. He looked at her feet, very small under the thin black strips of high-heeled sandals. And the face of the princess, the dragon's girl. He was sure it was the same face, small, triangular, and dominated by the dark and fluid eyes.
'Eat your sandwich, sergeant. It'll get cold.'
He ate the sandwich, a salad, and some pickles. He started on his second drink and studied the orange label on the bottle of bourbon. A good situation, but unreal, like the full-page advertisements in magazines. He wondered what they were advertising now. The bourbon? Of course. The orange label was the most conspicuous spot in the low-key room, as the painting hung in the shadow. Two models on a flat sheet of paper. The male model handsome and foreign, the female local but exotic. A cleverly thought out ad, selling a beverage distilled in the South demonstrated against a Northern setting.
Whoever flipped the pages of the magazine would stop a second and fantasize about what the couple would do after, say, the third drink. Copulate. But the image was veiled, hinted at, suggested. Maybe the photograph wouldn't be too clear. The models would appear in a hazy light, dreamlike. Drink this particular brand of bourbon and just see what will happen to you. And he was in the photograph. Performing. And that's what he would continue to do. It was his only chance to get at the dragon's princess. But the dragon might still be prowling nearby, carrying a deer rifle.
He picked up the bottle and read the label: The unique marriage of body and flavor has been the standard by which all other bourbon whiskeys are judged. The words didn't inspire him, and he put the bottle back.
'Another drink? Go ahead.'
'No thank you.'
He got up, put on his half glasses, and studied the painting. She laughed.
'Anything funny?'
'Yes, you. How old are you, sergeant?'
'Forty-one.'
'You look silly with those spectacles. They destroy your image.'
'I don't use them much, only when I read a lot, but my eyes are becoming weaker. I believe most people over forty need reading glasses.'
She smiled. 'You're straight, sergeant. I like that. The fox calls straight people cunning. Why don't you come straight with me? What are you doing here, in this one-horse-town in the sticks?'
'I'll tell you the truth, but you won't believe me. The commissaris, the old man now staying with Suzanne Op-dijk, came out here to help Suzanne, who is his sister. Suzanne wants to leave America and her brother is helping her to sell her property here. He is a police officer, chief of the homicide division of the Amsterdam Municipal Police. I am a sergeant working for the division. He has been very ill, and I've come out to make sure he is all right. His legs bother him. If he gets too ill he is in pain and becomes lame. He didn't want me to come, so my colleagues interfered and had me sent out officially, making use of an exchange program that has been in force for some years. Since we arrived we have become suspicious of a series of deaths on Cape Orca and we found that your sheriff shares our suspicion. As I am here in a more or less official position the sheriff has asked me to cooperate.'
'The truth, so help me?'
'I said you wouldn't believe me.'
'I think I do, sergeant.'
'You invited me here tonight to find out?'
'Perhaps I did.'
'Why did you hang the painting?'
She got up, took his plate and her own, and set them on the dining table. When she sat down on the carpet again she was a little closer and he wanted to bend down and kiss her. He didn't because he would have had to make an effort. It would be better if she flung herself into his arms or undressed in front of the settee.
'I always hang that painting when Father is out of town. The fox and I bought it together, in a New York junk shop. I like the painting. Father hates it.'
'Good, so it is not just for me.'
She nodded seriously. 'But perhaps it is, sergeant. Death is a fascinating subject. Perhaps it's the basis of all thoughts. The deaths of the Cape Orca residents fascinate me too. I like to experiment, to see what happens if certain moves are made. To hang that painting was a deliberate move.'
'You experiment on others?'
'Yes, and on myself.'
'Were you involved with any of the Cape Orca killings?'
'Only with one. I bought the whiskey the fox gave to Paul Ranee. Paul used to drink, but he gave it up on doctor's orders. The doctor wanted to prolong the old man's life, but Paul was miserable, dying slowly, and he had always been such a marvelous old man. He was living on handouts and he hated accepting them, and he was too sick to do anything in return. The fox thought it would be a good idea if Paul had one last fling and got out happy. I agreed. The fox went out and spent a few days with Paul. They were drunk together until Paul died.'
'Were you there?'
'No, I don't like getting drunk. The fox does. I would have been bad company.'
'You didn't kill or help to kill the others?'
'No. I did attack Opdijk. I buzzed him with my plane when he was fishing, but I came from the seaside. He was perfectly safe. If I had come in from the cape he would have fallen on the rocks, as he did later on. I don't think he hurt himself, but he had a bad fright.'
'Why did you attack him?'
She laughed. 'Because the man was such a slob. Father likes me to go to the Blue Crustaceans' club
