Surely the man wouldn't just float around in his power symbol while willful death repeated itself in house after house on the shore of a peninsula well within his jurisdiction. Or would accidents really happen in such an alarming, repetitious pattern? The victims were all elderly.
He studied his cigar carefully. Elderly. Statistics proved that the elderly often want to die, so they become accident-prone or actually commit suicide. Suicide requires an act of will. It is easier to become careless. And to be careless in Woodcock County might be very dangerous. Why on earth would Pete Opdijk pick a cold day to cut down a dead tree, walk on slippery ice to get to the tree, and work on the tree while he was balancing on the edge of a precipice? And why would an old man like Carl Davidson wander about in the woods? Did he want the blizzard to sneak up on him and kiss him to death?
He put his cigar between his thin lips. No, no. Opdijk wouldn't have spent a fortune on a comfortable bungalow if he meant to have an accident. And what about the other houses? Why wouldn't anyone move into them? Why were they left until they burned down? And who was burning them down? Vandals?
He rubbed out his cigar. "Bah."
"Yes, Jan? Anything wrong?" He shivered, he hadn't noticed her coming in.
"No, dear, just going through my notes."
"There aren't any complications, are there, Jan? Oh, I wish we could go tomorrow. And I wish we could go by boat. Airplanes frighten me."
"Do you want me to take your furniture, Suzanne?"
He watched the struggle on her face but didn't interfere.
"It will be expensive, won't it, Jan?"
"Yes, it will have to be crated and we will have to get trunks to take it to a port and you will have to pay to bring it through Dutch customs. Freight, duty—it will add up."
"I can't just leave it."
"No. You could, but whoever buys the house will have furniture of his own."
She swallowed. "Do you think I should have it auctioned, Jan?"
"The bigger pieces, yes. Certainly you could take the small stuff."
"The chinaware?"
"Yes." He picked up a fisherman's head from the mantelpiece. A pipe-smoking old man, rough but honest. Hardworking and mysterious. Why not? The clarity of the sea mirrored in the clear blue eyes. A strong chin, a straight nose, all in porcelain. But kitsch all the same. He put the fisherman down and picked up a pink dog, a Pekingese with bulging eyes. He put it down quickly. There were other pieces on the mantelpiece. A monkey hanging by its tail from a palm tree. A Spanish dancing girl with white breasts pushed out of a frilly blouse. She had very white thighs too. "Yes, you can take your collection, but you'll have to get a lot of tissue paper."
"I have tissue paper, Jan."
"Good. I'll go to bed. Maybe you were right. It was a long trip. Can I make a telephone call to Amsterdam, Suzanne?"
She hesitated.
"I'll pay, dear. I'll ask the operator what the charges are.
"No, no, that's all right, Jan. There is a telephone in your room."
He grinned as he climbed the stairs. This was one investigation he could get himself involved in.
It took a while before the sleepy voice of Adjutant Grijpstra yawned, said hello, and yawned again.
"Sorry, Grijpstra, it's me. I knew you were asleep but I won't take long."
"Aren't you in America, sir?"
"Yes, adjutant, but there are telephones in America. It's quite an advanced country, I believe. Tell me, what happened to de Gier?"
"Isn't he with you, sir?"
"A-ha."
"You haven't seen him yet, sir?"
"A-ha."
Grijpstra was fully awake now. "I am sorry, sir. But he really did want to go and we were all worried about your health and you being alone out there, and the cold and so on, sir, and the chief constable..."
"What about the chief constable, Grijpstra? Did he order the sergeant to fly out here?"
"No, sir."
"And who is paying for this personal extravagance?"
"Oh, that's all right, sir. There is a fund, in The Hague. It is set up to finance the exchange of police
He studied his cigar carefully. Elderly. Statistics proved that the elderly often want to die, so they become accident-prone or actually commit suicide. Suicide requires an act of will. It is easier to become careless. And to be careless in Woodcock County might be very dangerous. Why on earth would Pete Opdijk pick a cold day to cut down a dead tree, walk on slippery ice to get to the tree, and work on the tree while he was balancing on the edge of a precipice? And why would an old man like Carl Davidson wander about in the woods? Did he want the blizzard to sneak up on him and kiss him to death?
He put his cigar between his thin lips. No, no. Opdijk wouldn't have spent a fortune on a comfortable bungalow if he meant to have an accident. And what about the other houses? Why wouldn't anyone move into them? Why were they left until they burned down? And who was burning them down? Vandals?
He rubbed out his cigar. "Bah."
"Yes, Jan? Anything wrong?" He shivered, he hadn't noticed her coming in.
"No, dear, just going through my notes."
"There aren't any complications, are there, Jan? Oh, I wish we could go tomorrow. And I wish we could go by boat. Airplanes frighten me."
"Do you want me to take your furniture, Suzanne?"
He watched the struggle on her face but didn't interfere.
"It will be expensive, won't it, Jan?"
"Yes, it will have to be crated and we will have to get trunks to take it to a port and you will have to pay to bring it through Dutch customs. Freight, duty—it will add up."
"I can't just leave it."
"No. You could, but whoever buys the house will have furniture of his own."
She swallowed. "Do you think I should have it auctioned, Jan?"
"The bigger pieces, yes. Certainly you could take the small stuff."
"The chinaware?"
"Yes." He picked up a fisherman's head from the mantelpiece. A pipe-smoking old man, rough but honest. Hardworking and mysterious. Why not? The clarity of the sea mirrored in the clear blue eyes. A strong chin, a straight nose, all in porcelain. But kitsch all the same. He put the fisherman down and picked up a pink dog, a Pekingese with bulging eyes. He put it down quickly. There were other pieces on the mantelpiece. A monkey hanging by its tail from a palm tree. A Spanish dancing girl with white breasts pushed out of a frilly blouse. She had very white thighs too. "Yes, you can take your collection, but you'll have to get a lot of tissue paper."
"I have tissue paper, Jan."
"Good. I'll go to bed. Maybe you were right. It was a long trip. Can I make a telephone call to Amsterdam, Suzanne?"
She hesitated.
"I'll pay, dear. I'll ask the operator what the charges are.
"No, no, that's all right, Jan. There is a telephone in your room."
He grinned as he climbed the stairs. This was one investigation he could get himself involved in.
It took a while before the sleepy voice of Adjutant Grijpstra yawned, said hello, and yawned again.
"Sorry, Grijpstra, it's me. I knew you were asleep but I won't take long."
"Aren't you in America, sir?"
"Yes, adjutant, but there are telephones in America. It's quite an advanced country, I believe. Tell me, what happened to de Gier?"
"Isn't he with you, sir?"
"A-ha."
"You haven't seen him yet, sir?"
"A-ha."
Grijpstra was fully awake now. "I am sorry, sir. But he really did want to go and we were all worried about your health and you being alone out there, and the cold and so on, sir, and the chief constable..."
"What about the chief constable, Grijpstra? Did he order the sergeant to fly out here?"
"No, sir."
"And who is paying for this personal extravagance?"
"Oh, that's all right, sir. There is a fund, in The Hague. It is set up to finance the exchange of police
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