couldn't get through to him. Madelin should know better, but she is as bad as the others, master's degree or not."
"Madelin," de Gier said, and his voice vibrated on each syllable of the name.
Suzanne's small head turned around. It seemed she saw the sergeant for the first time.
"Pah!" she said. The exclamation cut through the overheated car.
The sergeant looked guilty; the commissaris had smiled, briefly, for the station wagon skidded again and claimed his attention.
7
N o," THE COMMISSARIS SAID AND LOOKED CRITICALLY at de Gier. The sergeant hung on to the lowest branch of a pine tree growing at the side of the path leading down to the landing. "This is ridiculous, sergeant. You keep on falling over. Here, let go and then grab me."
He poked his cane into the snow and reached out. The sergeant slithered down to him. "There, that's better. We are at a disadvantage here, sergeant, but we can make use of the situation. It's good if things can't be taken for granted. Put on your hat."
The raccoon hat had fallen onto the snow and the commissaris picked it up with his cane. They walked on slowly.
'Tell me more about the BMF gang, sergeant. If there's anything to tell. That's another disadvantage. It's hard to obtain information. No computer that spits facts at you, no informers in little pubs or on benches in the park, no prisoners who get bored in their cells and welcome company, even our company. Just us, sergeant. The two of us. Well? What do you know?"
"Not much, sir. There is a young man in jail by the name of Albert. Convicted on a charge of reckless driving, but the sheriff claims that the prisoner, on another occasion, deliberately damaged the chief deputy's cruiser."
The commissaris sat down on a stump. "Go on, sergeant, details, you must have details."
He listened. "That's all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Very clever. And this Albert is the jailhouse cook now? What is his cooking like?"
"Excellent, sir. He even bakes bread. The dinner he served was first class, and his breakfast was even better. And he doesn't slop the food on the plates, he arranges it."
The commissaris was nodding and smiling. "And the girl, another member known to us, has a master's degree in philosophy and is working for a Ph.D. And she flies an airplane. And she had the audacity to buzz a retired banker fishing off his own shore. Ha!"
"She may have killed him too, sir."
"Oh yes, sergeant. Why? To enable her father to make a profit on the Opdijk house? To help Suzanne be rid of a husband who kept her here against her will? Or just for the hell of it?"
The sergeant grinned.
The commissaris' cane shot out and hit him in the stomach. The sergeant fell, rolled over like a cat, and got back on his feet.
"Well done, sergeant. You haven't wasted your thousand hours on the judo mat. Have you considered Suzanne as a suspect yet?"
De Gier was looking for a position where he would be out of reach of the commissaris' cane and where he wouldn't be standing on ice.
"Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir. She may have pushed her husband, but I don't think she would have touched the others."
"Do you think she is clever, sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"I agree with you. But she isn't that stupid either. She is stupid in certain areas only. I am sure she realized that her husband was keeping her here and that his death would release her. But to make me come out here... no. She could have asked my brother. Or perhaps she is a genius too, in her own single-minded, superbly egocentric way. Perhaps she is thinking that I will sell her house at the right price. You see, this death may have nothing to do with the others. She saw the neighbors die and thought about Opdijk joining the party."
De Gier pondered the proposition.
"Would you arrest your own sister, sir?"
"On United States territory? Certainly not, sergeant. The very idea! Perhaps the sheriff can; but he might need proof. There is no proof, sergeant. And her confession will mean nothing if it isn't supported by
"Madelin," de Gier said, and his voice vibrated on each syllable of the name.
Suzanne's small head turned around. It seemed she saw the sergeant for the first time.
"Pah!" she said. The exclamation cut through the overheated car.
The sergeant looked guilty; the commissaris had smiled, briefly, for the station wagon skidded again and claimed his attention.
7
N o," THE COMMISSARIS SAID AND LOOKED CRITICALLY at de Gier. The sergeant hung on to the lowest branch of a pine tree growing at the side of the path leading down to the landing. "This is ridiculous, sergeant. You keep on falling over. Here, let go and then grab me."
He poked his cane into the snow and reached out. The sergeant slithered down to him. "There, that's better. We are at a disadvantage here, sergeant, but we can make use of the situation. It's good if things can't be taken for granted. Put on your hat."
The raccoon hat had fallen onto the snow and the commissaris picked it up with his cane. They walked on slowly.
'Tell me more about the BMF gang, sergeant. If there's anything to tell. That's another disadvantage. It's hard to obtain information. No computer that spits facts at you, no informers in little pubs or on benches in the park, no prisoners who get bored in their cells and welcome company, even our company. Just us, sergeant. The two of us. Well? What do you know?"
"Not much, sir. There is a young man in jail by the name of Albert. Convicted on a charge of reckless driving, but the sheriff claims that the prisoner, on another occasion, deliberately damaged the chief deputy's cruiser."
The commissaris sat down on a stump. "Go on, sergeant, details, you must have details."
He listened. "That's all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Good. Very clever. And this Albert is the jailhouse cook now? What is his cooking like?"
"Excellent, sir. He even bakes bread. The dinner he served was first class, and his breakfast was even better. And he doesn't slop the food on the plates, he arranges it."
The commissaris was nodding and smiling. "And the girl, another member known to us, has a master's degree in philosophy and is working for a Ph.D. And she flies an airplane. And she had the audacity to buzz a retired banker fishing off his own shore. Ha!"
"She may have killed him too, sir."
"Oh yes, sergeant. Why? To enable her father to make a profit on the Opdijk house? To help Suzanne be rid of a husband who kept her here against her will? Or just for the hell of it?"
The sergeant grinned.
The commissaris' cane shot out and hit him in the stomach. The sergeant fell, rolled over like a cat, and got back on his feet.
"Well done, sergeant. You haven't wasted your thousand hours on the judo mat. Have you considered Suzanne as a suspect yet?"
De Gier was looking for a position where he would be out of reach of the commissaris' cane and where he wouldn't be standing on ice.
"Sergeant?"
"Yes, sir. She may have pushed her husband, but I don't think she would have touched the others."
"Do you think she is clever, sergeant?"
"No, sir."
"I agree with you. But she isn't that stupid either. She is stupid in certain areas only. I am sure she realized that her husband was keeping her here and that his death would release her. But to make me come out here... no. She could have asked my brother. Or perhaps she is a genius too, in her own single-minded, superbly egocentric way. Perhaps she is thinking that I will sell her house at the right price. You see, this death may have nothing to do with the others. She saw the neighbors die and thought about Opdijk joining the party."
De Gier pondered the proposition.
"Would you arrest your own sister, sir?"
"On United States territory? Certainly not, sergeant. The very idea! Perhaps the sheriff can; but he might need proof. There is no proof, sergeant. And her confession will mean nothing if it isn't supported by
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