Janwillem De Wetering - Tumbleweed

De Gier didn't answer but looked down at Rammy Scheffer.

"How bad is he, doctor?"

"Bad."

"Where will you take him?"

"To a mental home," the doctor said.

"Yes?" de Gier asked, surprised. "That bad?"

They had walked over to the other side of the launch and were leaning over the railing, watching the sea, as the launch returned to the island's harbor. The little private yacht which had brought the doctor was following them at a hundred yards' distance.

"Yes," the doctor said, "his mind is shaken all right. I have known Rammy ever since he came to the island. He lived under stress. He is a regular patient of mine."

"What was the matter with him?"

"Ulcers, and other nervous complaints. Breathing trouble, he often thought he would choke. Once he came in the middle of the night, holding his throat. Told me I had to operate straightaway."

"What was it?" de Gier asked. "Asthma?"

"Nothing I could diagnose," the doctor said.

"So?"

"I recommended a psychiatrist."

"Did he go to see one?"

"No."

"What do you think was the matter with him?"

"No," the doctor said, "that's all I will tell you. Perhaps the psychiatrist in the mental home I'll take him to will say more. But you can't arrest him, that's for sure. You'll have to take the handcuffs off. I'll give him something to keep him calm and the police launch can take us to the mainland. I'll go with him. You want to come?"

"Not unless you want me to," de Gier said.

They stood in silence for a while.

"Will you do me a favor?" de Gier suddenly asked.

"Certainly."

"Look at my mate," de Gier said. "I think he is ill."

They found Grijpstra in the bow of the launch.

"Nice day," the doctor said.

Grijpstra turned around, trying to smile. His face was covered with sweat.

"I am a bit seasick," he said. "It'll pass. I was sick on the ferry yesterday."

"Yes," the doctor said, "you have my sympathy. I get seasick myself, but not on small boats. I went on a cruise once, with my wife, two weeks on the Mediterranean. I was sick most of the time."

Grijpstra smiled. The doctor had a pleasant way of talking.

"Do you mind if I feel your pulse?"

Grijpstra offered his arm, and began to cough.

"He has influenza, doctor," de Gier said, "and he has the shits as well."

Grijpstra stopped coughing and glared at de Gier.

"He should be in bed," de Gier said. Grijpstra sneezed.

"Your friend is right," the doctor said. "You aren't just seasick. You'll have to go to bed right away."

"Bed?" Grijpstra asked. "Why?"

"Why?" de Gier said. "Look at him. You probably have pneumonia and dysentery."

"Why don't you take me to the cemetery?" Grijpstra asked. "And why don't you mind your own business?"

"No," the doctor said, "don't get upset. I am a doctor and I say you are ill. Not very ill, but ill. And you'll have to go to bed."

"I'll go back to Amsterdam," Grijpstra said. I'll be all right. It's all this nature."

"You can't go to Amsterdam," de Gier said, and turned. He found Buisman in the cabin, stretched out on a bench. The water-police sergeant had made him as comfortable as he could, putting him on a thin mattress and covering him up with a blanket.

"How do you feel?" de Gier asked.

"Terrible," Buisman said, "but I'll feel a lot better when I see my wife. She used to be a nurse and she cooks well. I could do with a few days in bed."

"Grijpstra is ill," de Gier said.

"Good."

"What do you mean?" de Gier asked, raising his voice.

"I'll have some company," Buisman said. "We can play cards and talk to each other."

"Your wife won't mind?"

"No," Buisman said. "She likes to be a nurse."

"I don't think he'll play cards with you," de Gier said. "He has influenza and dysentery."

"Is that what the doctor says?"

"The doctor says he is ill."

"He'll be all right," Buisman said. "You don't know my wife."

"It's all fixed," de Gier said. "You are going to stay in Buisman's house. His wife is a nurse and she cooks well."

"Right," the doctor said.

Grijpstra wanted to say something but sneezed instead.

A crowd was waiting for them in the island's harbor and de Gier studied it through his binoculars. He saw the commissaris and IJsbrand Drachtsma. He waved at the commissaris, who put up a hand. The commissaris was still wearing his shantung suit. He hadn't been home; a police car had taken him from Amsterdam airport to the Schieronnikoog ferry. He had only just arrived. He was talking to Mr. Drachtsma, and de Gier, although he realized it was rude to stare at the two men, kept his binoculars steady. Drachtsma was answering the commissaris now. He spoke at length.

The launch touched the quay, and moored. Another similar launch was moored close by. Policemen from the mainland helped de Gier carry Rammy Scheffer. The handcuffs were taken off and Rammy was made to swallow a pill. The chattering and shaking stopped but the small ranger's eyes were still without any expression.

The island doctor spoke to the doctor the launch had brought. De Gier introduced the two doctors to the commissaris. Buisman was carried ashore on a stretcher and de Gier supported Grijpstra, who had stopped pretending and who now accepted help. A local car offered to take the two policemen to Buisman's house. Buisman's wife, a fat kindly-looking woman, went with them.

De Gier felt a hand on his shoulder and looked around.

"Right," the commissaris said, "let's have some coffee somewhere. You got my cable, I see."

They had coffee, they had lunch, they had more coffee, and then they had some brandy.

"Well," the commissaris said finally, when de Gier, now very relaxed and smiling, had finally stopped talking.

"So you two would have found him anyway."

"Perhaps not," de Gier said.

"Yes, you would have found him."

"No, sir. I am not sure. The siren of the police launch shook him. And it was you who sent the launch, she came to bring your Telex."

"Yes, perhaps."

The commissaris smiled. "I wouldn't have minded if you had found him on your own. The trip to Curacao was a good trip."

"What happened?" de Gier asked.

They had more brandy. The afternoon passed as the commissaris talked.

"But why?" the commissaris asked. "Why think of Drachtsma?"

They were walking toward Buisman's house and the rain had started again. The commissaris had no raincoat and they were walking quickly.

"Let's go into the hotel, sir, we can go later, or telephone. Perhaps we should go tomorrow."

"All right, I'll book into the hotel. Why Drachtsma?"

"He is a powerful man," de Gier said, struggling out of his duffelcoat.

"Yes," the commissaris said.

They sat down in de Gier's room and the commissaris rubbed his legs.

"How are your legs, sir?"

"They hurt again. They didn't hurt in . I'll have a hot bath later."

The commissaris stretched out on the bed that Grijpstra had used.

"IJsbrand Drachtsma is a powerful man."

"Yes," de Gier said, "and Maria van Buren was a powerful woman."

"I see," the commissaris said. "He wanted to own her and she was manipulating him. A conflict of interest. It might be a motive."

"She was a sorcerer, a witch," de Gier said. "You found her master. What was he like?"

"I told you," the commissaris said. "I never found out what he was like. I fell asleep on his porch and I left when I woke up. He was very kind to me."

"Perhaps he was a good sorcerer," de Gier said. "Magic goes both ways, doesn't it."

"Yes. I thought about that too. She was his disciple. She learned from him. She got some power."

"And she used it the other way around."

"All right, all right," the commissaris said. "She put a spell on Drachtsma. The big tycoon, the president of companies, the hero-soldier, the sportsman, the intellectual, the leader. And she had him on a string. So he killed her."