Gabrielle was talking and he forced himself to listen.
“Was he really saved by that crazy contraption, miss?”
Gabrielle kept her eyes on die Rolls’s rear bumper. “Yes, he must have been. The crazy skeleton, I knew it was mere. He never showed it to me but I pressed the cupboard’s button once, thinking it was a light switch, and I became hysterical when the horror lunged out at me. Crazy, like the baboon himself, Just look at mat car. There’s hardly any money, between his mortgage payments on his house and the rents he is collecting and he has to pay for the upkeep, mere are always lots of repairs. He is living on a few hundred guilders a month, but if he takes me out he won’t let me pay and we go to a sandwich bar somewhere and we sit in the front row of the cinema. But he runs a car like mat. When he can’t afford to pay for gas he takes the streetcar, often he walks.”
“Doesn’t he sell boats?”
She shrugged. There isn’t much profit in that, either. I wish he’d come back and work for us, he could have a good income and he’d be worth it too.”
The Rolls had parked near the ruins of a mill, and the baboon and de Gier were walking to a small brick building almost hidden under a patched thatch roof. Grijpstra squeezed the Volkswagen between the Rolls and a tree.
A hunchbacked man behind the bar was pumping four beers and listening to de Gier at the same time.
“Yes,” he said, deftly wiping the beer’s foam into the counter’s small sink, “he was here. About an hour ago. Had a few beers and drank them through a straw. First time I’ve ever seen beer drunk through a straw.”
“Was he talking to himself?”
“No. He was quiet. I’ve seen him here before. A well-behaved gentleman, but he looked somewhat scruffy today. Out on a binge, is he?”
“Yes. Where would he be now?”
“Should I tell you?”
De Gier produced his police card, and the man took a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles from a drawer. He studied the card and tugged on die end of his scraggly mustache. “Police, hmm. Never see police here except the local constable and he’s my brother. Nice job if you can avoid the poachers but he can do it. You’ll be different, I suppose.”
Grijpstra drank his beer and die hunchback left the bar and peered through a side window. That’s his car, I think, so he can’t be far. Seems he wanted to hide it, you can’t see it from the road.”
The baboon came to life at his end of the bar. There’s a cemetery close by, I remember. Where is it again, not far, is it?”
“Out the front door, turn right, first path on your right again, and you’ll walk straight into it.”
De Gier paid and they left the pub, but Grijpstra paused at the door. “It would be better if you stayed here, miss.”
“No.”
“Stay here,” the baboon said. Gabrielle took a deep breath, but the men were out on the dike and the door had closed in her face.
The sun hung under a ragged edge of heavy clouds and its filtered light seemed to deepen the green of the grasslands all around them. A herd of spotted, light-colored cows was grazing close to the fence and a flock of unusually neat-looking sheep was moving away on the other side of the path.
“An experimental state farm,” the baboon said. “I remember Bergen telling me about it. They have imported types of cattle here, special breeds. Bergen seemed to know all about the farm. I remember because he had never expressed any interest in anything that wasn’t furniture. He was a different man out here.”
A falcon hung above the field, whizzing its wings, its stiff pure white tailfeathers sticking out like a miniature fan.
The baboon pointed. “Hie cemetery. There’s no cover here, he’ll be able to see us coming.”
Cartridges clicked into the chambers of the policemen’s pistols. De Gier had taken the lead, sprinting toward a high gravestone so old that its writing had been eaten away by the weather and overgrown by thick, bristly lichen. The first shot rang out as he reached the stone, and Grijpstra and the baboon dropped into the grass on the sides of the path.
“Bergen!” Grijpstra’s booming voice reached into the depth of the soundless cemetery that stretched away from mem, aloofly tolerating their intrusion.
“Bergen! Come out of there! We’re here to help you. You have misunderstood Dr. Havink. There’s nothing the matter with you, Bergen. Come out and let us talk to you.” Grijpstra’s voice, even with all the air in his lungs behind it, sounded calm and reassuring, but the cows, pushing each other behind a duckweed-covered ditch, mooed mournfully and offset his message. Grijpstra gestured at the baboon. The baboon pushed himself up.
“Down! Stay down there. You’ll only be in our way and you are wounded already. Get those cows to shut up.”
The baboon crawled back and jumped across the ditch. The cows were still jostling each other, trying to see what was going on, and he grabbed the biggest one by the horns and pushed. The cow didn’t move. His attempts startled a pair of peewits that flew up from behind a cluster of swamp reeds, calling shrilly.
Grijpstra got up, ran, and dropped behind a tombstone crowned by three miniature angels that had once played trumpets but were now staring sadly at their broken arms. The closest angel had lost both its nose and chin and weeds were crawling up its chubby legs. Grijpstra peered around the legs.
“Bergen! You’re all right. You only have palsy, no tumor. You hear! No tumor. There has been a mistake. Bergen!”
The cows mooed again furiously, irritated by the baboon, who was still shoving their leader.
“Palsy,” Grijpstra shouted. “It will go away by it-”
There was another shot, mis time aimed at de Gier, who had left his gravestone and was without cover as he jumped to the next. He dropped as die shot cracked, and the bullet whistled away in the general direction of the cows.
“Fool!” Grijpstra roared and de Gier looked around, waving a weed with small pink flowers that he had picked from a spot where the stone had powdered away so that nature could reassert itself. He was close enough to be able to speak to Grijpstra in a normal voice.
“You know what this is?”
“Keep your cover.”
Thousand-guilder weed, Grijpstra, Centawium erythraea, one of the very few I know by its Latin name. Fairly rare, I believe, but it grows near the streetcar stop and I took some to the city’s botanical garden the other day. Amazing, don’t you think? It grows all over the place here.”
“De Gier,” Grijpstra said pleadingly, “he must be close. It’s hard to hear where the shot came from. These stones echo, I think, but he must be over mere.”
“Where?”
“There, near that damned prick.”
“Prick?”
Grijpstra was pointing at a heavily ornamented phallus, sprouting a poll of withered grass on its crumbling extremity. It was nearly six feet high and throned on a huge granite slab.
De Gier moved and drew another shot. They heard the bullet’s dull impact where it hit the earth; a tufted reed sagged and broke with a snap as the tuft touched the ground.
“How many bullets left?” de Gier asked.
“One for the baboon, three for us, two left.”