'Yes.'
'Did you want to punish him?'
'No,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'I only wanted to make up for the misery he caused others, but he was too active. I didn't want him to drag us down so much.'
The commissaris waited.
Mem Scherjoen's silver-gray hair changed into a halo, speckled with the glowing light that poured through the kitchen windows. Are we really being taken back, the com-missaris thought, to the images of the Golden Age? He rubbed his hands with pleasure, but then a cloud interfered and Mem Scherjoen was just another old lady and Cardozo was an actor, getting used to a costume that didn't quite suit him.
'Now that I have Douwe's gold…' Mem Scherjoen said. She was interrupted by the commissaris's cough. 'Gold?' the commissaris asked in a strange, high voice.
'Yes,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'It must be in the house here. Douwe always waited until I had gone to bed, and then he rummaged about. He was always bringing in gold.'
'Gold?' the commissaris asked again, in the same surprised voice.
'Little slices,' Mem Scherjoen said, extending her index and little fingers to indicate the size of little gold bars.
'Are you a good shot?' Cardozo asked.
'Yes,' Mem Scherjoen said proudly. 'I learned to shoot during the war. The British dropped an instructor who lived in our loft, on my parents' farm. He put up a range for us. With a rifle you had to pull the bolt, but the pistol was easier. You just cocked it once. We were close to a sawmill, and the howling of the saw blocked all the noise.'
'The Mauser was yours?'
'The Germans left it,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'Some German troops later camped in our field. They got away just before the liberation. I found the Mauser in one of their tents.'
'Shouldn't you have handed it in?'
Mem Scherjoen smiled and shrugged.
'Did Douwe fight the Germans too?' the commissaris asked.
'Not at first,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'He was selling them supplies, but they beat him up because of some rotten potatoes, and talcum powder mixed with gravel to put into their shoes.'
'Did he revenge himself?'
'He was never too courageous.'
'That night,' Cardozo said, 'the night your husband was murdered, you were in Amsterdam.'
Mem Scherjoen was still smiling. 'Yes, I stayed with my sister, but I didn't shoot him. How could I have done that? I never shot anyone. During the war I transported contraband. All the killing was for the men.'
'Times have changed,' the commissaris said. 'Women are active now, they're motorcycle cops and jet pilots and submarine captains.'
'I'd rather take care of retarded men,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'Douwe was a little backward too. He never wanted to learn. I thought of taking them into the house here. Wouldn't that be nicer than some cold institution? They could play in the garden and I'd cook for them. Douwe was quite fond of my cooking.'
'Would you have a photograph of your husband?' Car-dozo asked.
Mem brought out an album. 'Snapshots. I took them when he wasn't looking.'
Cardozo and the commissaris saw Scherjoen wandering about the rocks in the herb garden, feeding ducks in the pond, digging in the vegetable garden. Mem Scherjoen looked over their shoulders. 'He did have his moments.'
'May I borrow this?' Cardozo asked. 'Til return the album soon.'
'Certainly.' She cut more cake. The commissaris and Cardozo chewed slowly. Mem said that an inspector from the Tax Department had been around, but that she hadn't looked for the gold yet and wouldn't hand it over once she found it. 'I was thinking of taking it to Switzerland. Change it for money. Then maybe bring the money back? Surely I could get around this Mr. Verhulst?'
'Did you tell him there was gold here?' the commissaris asked.
'No, I didn't.'
'If you bring it in as cash and keep it out of your bank account,' the commissaris said, 'the tax hounds will never know. You might have a meeting with your accountant. Was Douwe's life insured?'
'Yes,' Mem Scherjoen said. 'Amazing, I never thought he would have bothered. The check will be enormous.'
'Will it cover the mortgage?'
'There'll be a good bit left over.'
'Your accountant will advise you to invest the difference and live off the income. If you do that, the gold will be extra.'
'Isn't that nice?' Mem Scherjoen asked. 'I can take care of a lot of retarded men.'
'But how will you take the gold out of the country?' Cardozo asked.
'Gyske will help me. She has a good car.'
Mem walked her visitors to the Citroen, and waved as they drove away. 'Mem has the same eyes as you,' Cardozo said. 'A soft shade of blue, very rare, I never saw it in another person. She could be your sister. Same character, I imagine. The dove and the serpent.'
'What's that?' the commissaris asked.
'Innocence of the dove? The devilish insight of the serpent?'
'Please,' the commissaris said. 'You can spare me your callous observations.' He sucked on his cigar. 'But let's see now. Devilish, eh? Shoot down her own man, burn the poor fellow, and ask us for advice about how to save the spoils. Suspect may be suffering from a mother complex. Wants to assuage her guilt by taking care of surviving suckers.'
'She isn't stupid,' Cardozo said. 'And she's got guts. Motivation, opportunity, ruthless goal-setting, it all fits better and better. Will we be searching the house soon? The gold should be found. When we dump a load of gold on the judge's table, he'll be impressed by our charges.'
'We'll give her a little time,' the commissaris said. 'And then I'll phone. I'll have to obtain her sister's number, check out the alibi, see what I can turn up next.'
'Won't the Tax Department be happy?' Cardozo asked. 'We'll all be delighted. Once again the State will win.'
'But a delightful lady,' the commissaris said. 'Don't you agree? Such a dear woman. What do you think?'
'That I'm hungry,' Cardozo said.
'Are we going the right way?' the commissaris said. 'All the signs are pointing east. Isn't Leeuwarden to the north?'
'There's an officer on a motorcycle following us,' Car-dozo said.
The motorcycle cut off the Citroen. A corporal got off and saluted.
'We're headed for Leeuwarden,' the commissaris said.
The motorcycle showed them the way. It stopped again.'Can't take you any farther, sir,' the corporal said. 'I'm State, and we're getting into the territory of the city. If you have a moment I'll radio for assistance.' He detached the microphone from his radio. 'Municipal Headquarters? Over.'
The corporal spoke Frisian. He seemed to have trouble making himself understood.
'Don't they all speak the language here?' the commissaris asked.
'Some don't,' the corporal said. 'We have our traitors. They insist on using Dutch. Some of us believe there are too many languages in the world. They'll have us all speaking Russian soon.' He bellowed into the microphone again.
'Now what?' the radio asked in Dutch.
The corporal sighed. 'Very well. The silver Citroen. On the ringway, milepost twelve. Send out a car and pick up colleagues from the Netherlands.'
'You are in the Netherlands,' the radio said curtly.
'Will you send a car?' the corporal shouted, getting red in the face.
