Free Tumbleweed by Janwillem van de Wetering

time, Grijpstra, you should be used to this sort of talk. The traces we find often come from the human body. It's like the songs small children sing. 'Shit and piss. And blood, and sperms and slime and vomit and pus and snot and sweat.'"
    "Yes," Grijpstra said. "Sorry, sir."
    "Never mind. And you are right of course. The picture I was painting isn't very nice, but anyway that's how the plant was supposed to be born. And the sorcerers always went for the roots. The roots are so powerful that a man cannot dig them up without risking his life. As you can see the roots look human, and they are human, the sorcerers say. When you pull the root out of the ground it will utter a fierce yell and the yell may drive you crazy or kill you outright so the sorcerers would dig very carefully and attach a piece of string to the root and tie the other end of the string to the leg of a dog. Then they stopped up their ears with wax and called the dog and the root popped out of the ground."
    De Gier was still studying the roots. He hadn't touched them but had bent down to get a close view.
    "And what are the roots supposed to do?" he asked.
    "The doctor wasn't sure. He thinks that they were worn around the neck as a talisman, giving the sorcerer special powers, but they can also be ground up and mixed with other weeds and dried mushrooms. I suppose one could make a brew out of them."
    "It seems the lady was a witch," Grijpstra said, shaking his head. "I thought they had gone out of fashion."
    The commissaris was going to say something but the telephone rang and he picked it up.
    "Show Mr. Drachtsma in," he said. As he put the phone down he quickly swept up the roots and put them into the drawer of his desk.
    IJsbrand Drachtsma had sat down in the indicated chair and was looking at the commissaris. He seemed enveloped in an imperturbable silence, built around him the way an egg envelops and protects the chick. De Gier was admiring this newcomer in the intimate circle of suspects. Drachtsma, de Gier was thinking, had to be an unusual man. He had been described as a tycoon, a leader. Drachtsma was chairman of a number of well-known companies. He would be very rich. He would also be very powerful, more powerful perhaps than a minister of state. Companies led by men like Drachtsma employ thousands of people. Whole fleets of merchant vessels move about the oceans because men like Drachtsma have picked up a telephone. The advertising companies which they own tell us what to buy and do; they shape the routine of our lives.
    But, de Gier was thinking happily, if we simple policemen pick up a phone men like Drachtsma come to see as. We manipulate the manipulator.
    "Glad you could come," the commissaris was saying. IJsbrand Drachtsma inclined his bald head slightly to acknowledge the remark. De Gier knew that Drachtsma was nearly sixty years old but the body sitting so close to him now radiated more energy than its age should allow for. Drachtsma's pale blue eyes had an eager glint in them as if this interview was a new experience he was planning to enjoy.
    Drachtsma had taken a cigar out of the box on the table in response to the commissaris' hospitable suggestion and his strong suntanned hands were lighting it now, using a solid-looking gold lighter. His movements were sparse as if he was controlling his activity. The lighter burst into flame at the first flick. De Gier thought of his own lighter, which never worked properly and had to be coaxed to come to life in a different way each time.
    "Just a few questions," the commissaris was saying and "we won't detain you any longer than we have to," and Drachtsma had inclined his bald head again. The thin fringe which framed the polished skull hadn't gone altogether gray yet.
    "Last Saturday night," Drachtsma answered in a deep voice, reverberating in his wide chest, "I was with my wife, on Schiermonnikoog. I often spend the weekends on the island. We had guests, business friends from Germany. I took them