The sergeant tried to help the commissaris, but his leather soles had no grip on the ice and he skated around, getting in the way until the commissaris told him to sit in me Dodge. The station wagon pulled and the Dodge made feeble attempts to extricate itself from the snow bank. When the commissaris stepped on the gas the chain snapped. He reversed the wagon and got out and knotted the chain. The second attempt made the chain break again and the station wagon got stuck in the bank too.
The commissaris and the sergeant got out of their vehicles and stood on the ice, arms linked, studying the situation.
"It's very good of you to come here and help me out, sergeant."
"Do you think so, sir?"
"No," the commissaris said. "I don't think so, but I am polite sometimes and try to say the right thing. You have a chief constable and God knows what American superstars behind you. Grijpstra told me a little last night. He moved heaven and earth to bring you here. Do you think he spoke to the queen too?"
"No, sir."
"So you are helping me out. That's nice. But I got the Opdijk car stuck too now. I am on my way to a real estate agent called Michael Astrinsky to sell the Opdijk house. Do you know where Astrinsky's office is?"
"Yes, sir."
"You do?"
"There's only one important street in Jameson, sir, Main Street. Mr. Astrinsky will have his office on Main Street. Main Street is over there, sir."
De Gier let go of the commissaris and pointed. He slipped and fell and dragged the commissaris down with him.
A jeep stopped and a thin-faced young man jumped out, a lanky young man in a short leather jacket, an open-necked thin cotton shirt, and no hat. His light brown curly hair had been cut in a strange fashion and stiff tufts pointed above his ears.
"You from California?"
"No," the commissaris said. "We are from Holland, the Netherlands. Over there." He pointed at the bay.
"Really? No ice over there?"
"Not much."
"Is that so? Want me to pull you out?"
"Please. If it's not too much trouble."
"It's trouble all right," the young man said and walked back to the jeep and backed it to the station wagon. It took a little over a minute to free the wagon and a little over five minutes to extricate the Dodge. The young man put his spade, ash bucket, and chain back into the jeep, waved the commissaris' thanks away, and drove off. De Gier noted the registration on the jeep: BMF ONE. Only letters, no figures. The commissaris had read the registration too.
"BMF," the commissaris said. "Suzanne said something about BMF. a gang of sorts. Troublemakers. How did that helpful young man get his registration? Are they made-to-order here?"
A small red compact passed. The license plate said curs. There was a middle-aged woman at the wheel, heavily made up.
"Made-to-order," the commissaris said. "Incredible. But true, BMF."
"BMF ONE, sir. That young man was number one. The boss. Boss of the gang. The sheriff told me about the gang."
"What else did he tell you?"
"A lot, sir. He made me tell him what I was doing here, and I thought that the truth might answer all his questions at once. He didn't believe me. He has a file on Cape Orca. Your brother-in-law is the fifth corpse, sir, and a sixth victim ran away."
"Is the sheriff doing anything about that file?"
"He is new, sir. Three months in office. The old sheriff didn't care perhaps. He retired. He lives in Boston now."
"No," the commissaris said.
De Gier nodded energetically. "Yes, sir."
"No, sergeant. I've done the paperwork for my sister. The letters are posted. I am going to sell her house and get out of here. We were hired to take care of a city with one million peaceful citizens in it, in our own cozy little country, six thousand miles away. I've never heard of a town called Jameson. I happen to be here and I happen to be selling a house, but it's all most unreal, unsubstantial. Let's go to this man Astrinsky. We can leave the cars. But I'd like some coffee first. Would there be coffee in this town?"
They struggled across the street and inquired at Robert's Market. A bland-faced young man directed them to the town's only restaurant: "Beth's Diner. Country style food, all we have." "And a store where we can buy some clothes?"
"Next door, only other store in town."
"Good," the commissaris said when they were back on the sidewalk. "I hate shopping around. No choice simplifies life. You can wear these clothes, sergeant. They won't fit you either, but they'll look better on you than on me, especially the hat. Opdijk had a big head and you have a lot of hair. It may sit on the hair."
They got to the store holding hands and were served by a young girl. "A coat," the commissaris said. "Warm, and boots, please, miss."
"Would you look around, sir? Coats are on the racks. And there are boots under the racks. I'm minding the store. I don't know much about the stock, but everything is priced."
"Here, put my coat on, sergeant. There, the hat too." The hat turned and the raccoon's tail hung over de Gier's face. "Other way around, sergeant. It fits in a way. Take the boots."
The commissaris stepped out of his boots and began to rummage about. It didn't take long. He came back. "These boots fit. What do you think about the coat, sergeant? Not that it matters, I'll take it anyway."
"Yes," the sergeant said. "Very nice." It was a hooded navy coat, heavily lined. The commissaris' thin, small face peeped out of the hood. The sergeant looked away.
"All right. How do I look? I wasn't so nice to you just now. You can tell me the truth, Rinus. How do I look? You can laugh too if you like. I am sure I look perfectly ridiculous."
"You look like a movie star, sir."
"A comic character. A Marx Brother? Chaplin? My favorite? Buster Keaton?"
"No, sir."
"Who? Be honest, Rinus. You may not have another chance for a while."
"Walt Disney character, sir. Out of Snow White."
"A dwarf? Smiley? Grumpy? The fellow who sneezes?"
"Dopey, sir."
The commissaris clapped his hands. There were just the two of them between die racks. The girl was waiting behind the counter for them to come out.
"Exactly. Well seen, sergeant. That's exactly how I feel and no doubt how I look. We are always the projection of what we think. Dopey. Here I am, with the puzzle of a lifetime staring me in the face. How many corpses? I made notes last night. If I read them I'll remember again. Five, I believe. This is America. Do you know that we get one real corpse every two months in Amsterdam? The others are accidents, suicides. These corpses are part of some web, a spider's web, with threads going everywhere, probably right into this store. But they are transparent and thin, although not quite invisible, I am sure. We'll find them if we apply the usual tested methods and persevere. And then there is this incredibly beautiful setting. I am not just referring to the landscape, sergeant. There's far more to it. You should have seen the car that picked me up yesterday, an elegant car. Who says there is no elegance in America? We've been misinformed. I have been anyway. Perhaps you know more, you read a great deal. What am I telling you anyway? You were flown in on a special jet. Did you see the two men who passed us in the street just now? They had guns on their belts, big revolvers. It's lawful here to carry arms. Even the police don't show their arms anymore in Amsterdam. Our pistols are hidden under tunics and coats. If you touch your gun, sergeant, you are expected to write a report and I have to countersign it."
"Yes, sir."
"All very well, of course. Our society functions in a way. But I have been thinking about other societies, and their possibilities, and here we seem to have die superb example of everything we haven't got. A bay. Hills. Mountains even. Gun-toters. Corpses. Lawmen in outdated uniforms. And you, of all people to pop up here, in that hat."