yelled John Wayne, with a British accent. (The commissaris mentioned that later: because of the slowing down of time, he had been able to notice how “put on” the all-American cowboy’s voice seemed.) “Wayayayayay …” Stewart-Wynne screamed with his last breath. The jeep entered the goldfish pond too, as it was vacated by de Gier, and was suspended from its rock wall, all wheels spinning. De Gier turned the car’s ignition key. A fearful silence became filled with groans and curses. Guests picked each other up. A woman, raised by the commissaris, wailed about irreparable damage done to her hand-painted silk dress. She pointed a shaking finger at Stewart-Wynne’s limp body. “I hope that drunk hurt himself.” She narrowed her eyes and asked, “Or do you think he is stoned?” She mimed inserting a pill into her mouth. “Some mind-altering substance? Maybe he was out of it?”
“He won’t get back to it,” the commissaris said, studying the unnatural angle between the driver’s head and torso.
A police-cyclist arrived. The athletic looking young man wore khaki shorts and a blue shirt above a polished gunbelthung with law-enforcement paraphernalia, polished boots and high socks. The cop knelt next to the corpse and sniffed at its lips. “I did that already,” de Gier said. “No liquor, but look at this.” He showed the policeman the inside of the jeep, where the accelerator was detached from its hinge. “And here, this isn’t right either.” The brake pedal was pushed in. “The poor fellow had no controls; it’s amazing the steering wheel hasn’t been fussed with also.”
The policeman stared at de Gier.
“How come, huh?” de Gier asked.
“How come,” the policeman asked slowly, “you know so much, huh?” He touched de Gier’s shoulder with a powerful hand. “You stay close, buddy.” He spoke into his radio transmitter. “Sergeant Symonds? Harry here. Situation at Duval and Louisa, Northside. Dead tourist in cowboy outfit at the wheel of a Mount Trashmore rented blue jeep. Lobster Lateta Restaurant, sixty percent destroyed. Quarter of a million collision damage to Duval-parked cars, Darn-Dikes’s bikes, Aunt Tata’s rickshaw, Golden Boy’s genital wear and the Stompers’s instruments. The chihuahua in the ethnic gallery is in a defensive coma. Apart from the driver, nobody seems to be hurt. Amazing, huh? Probable criminal intent and a wise-ass witness. Sergeant? Mind sending the van and some technical backup? And an ambulance for the corpse.”
“Ten-four,” a musical (veiled, and jazzy, de Gier thought) female voice said. “Thanks, Harry, and out.”
11
P ORTRAIT O F A C OMPANION B IRD
The commissaris and Grijpstra had a meeting in their suite at the Eggemoggin Hotel. Grijpstra had exchanged the damaged Cadillac at Avis Key West. The commissaris telephoned Carl Ambagt. The FEADship had, Carl reported, just sighted the Bahaman island of Eleuthera. The
Rodney
was still going slowly. There had been, Carl complained, a blockage of air in the cylinders. The air had been bled out meanwhile. The air had gotten in because of clogged fuel pipes. The clogging was caused because fuel taken on at Bermuda had gummed up. The gumming up was caused by “poop.”
“Poop, Mr. Ambagt?”
“Little-animal-poop,” Carl said. Microbes that live in fuel oil only partially consume their daily intake. A residue is excreted by the parasitic organisms as gummy poop. Not, Carl said, an entirely unknown phenomenon; poop in fuel lines has slowed down naval battles. “You never heard of microbe poop? No? Itwas a first for me too, but here we are, slowed down to five knots.” Carl had gotten his information from his ship’s engineer—twenty years of service with the Royal Dutch Navy. Carl said he believed the entire story was baloney. Some crew member probably forgot to open a fuel line somewhere, so the engine sucked air instead. Diesel engines choke on air. So what to do? Admit guilt? Never.
“He won’t get back to it,” the commissaris said, studying the unnatural angle between the driver’s head and torso.
A police-cyclist arrived. The athletic looking young man wore khaki shorts and a blue shirt above a polished gunbelthung with law-enforcement paraphernalia, polished boots and high socks. The cop knelt next to the corpse and sniffed at its lips. “I did that already,” de Gier said. “No liquor, but look at this.” He showed the policeman the inside of the jeep, where the accelerator was detached from its hinge. “And here, this isn’t right either.” The brake pedal was pushed in. “The poor fellow had no controls; it’s amazing the steering wheel hasn’t been fussed with also.”
The policeman stared at de Gier.
“How come, huh?” de Gier asked.
“How come,” the policeman asked slowly, “you know so much, huh?” He touched de Gier’s shoulder with a powerful hand. “You stay close, buddy.” He spoke into his radio transmitter. “Sergeant Symonds? Harry here. Situation at Duval and Louisa, Northside. Dead tourist in cowboy outfit at the wheel of a Mount Trashmore rented blue jeep. Lobster Lateta Restaurant, sixty percent destroyed. Quarter of a million collision damage to Duval-parked cars, Darn-Dikes’s bikes, Aunt Tata’s rickshaw, Golden Boy’s genital wear and the Stompers’s instruments. The chihuahua in the ethnic gallery is in a defensive coma. Apart from the driver, nobody seems to be hurt. Amazing, huh? Probable criminal intent and a wise-ass witness. Sergeant? Mind sending the van and some technical backup? And an ambulance for the corpse.”
“Ten-four,” a musical (veiled, and jazzy, de Gier thought) female voice said. “Thanks, Harry, and out.”
11
P ORTRAIT O F A C OMPANION B IRD
The commissaris and Grijpstra had a meeting in their suite at the Eggemoggin Hotel. Grijpstra had exchanged the damaged Cadillac at Avis Key West. The commissaris telephoned Carl Ambagt. The FEADship had, Carl reported, just sighted the Bahaman island of Eleuthera. The
Rodney
was still going slowly. There had been, Carl complained, a blockage of air in the cylinders. The air had been bled out meanwhile. The air had gotten in because of clogged fuel pipes. The clogging was caused because fuel taken on at Bermuda had gummed up. The gumming up was caused by “poop.”
“Poop, Mr. Ambagt?”
“Little-animal-poop,” Carl said. Microbes that live in fuel oil only partially consume their daily intake. A residue is excreted by the parasitic organisms as gummy poop. Not, Carl said, an entirely unknown phenomenon; poop in fuel lines has slowed down naval battles. “You never heard of microbe poop? No? Itwas a first for me too, but here we are, slowed down to five knots.” Carl had gotten his information from his ship’s engineer—twenty years of service with the Royal Dutch Navy. Carl said he believed the entire story was baloney. Some crew member probably forgot to open a fuel line somewhere, so the engine sucked air instead. Diesel engines choke on air. So what to do? Admit guilt? Never.
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