Helga’s eyes bulged with fury and confusion.
“But I didn’t kill anybody!” she shrieked as the policemen hauled her away.
Braam smiled ironically at London.
“Well, well, well, Mevrouw Rose,” he said in English as he sat down beside her. “Perhaps you’d control your guard dog so we can talk this over.”
London wasn’t all that comfortable with the hoofdinspecteur sitting next to her and asking questions. But there were things she wanted to know from him, so she hushed Sir Reggie, reminding him that Hoofdinspecteur Braam was a legal authority. The little dog quieted down and sat in her lap watching the policeman suspiciously.
“It seems like only minutes since our last chat,” Braam said to her. “And if I remember correctly, I humbly requested that you keep your nose out of my investigation.”
He chuckled and added, “Of course, I knew better than to expect you to do any such thing. That is why I had you followed—for your own safety mostly, but also to find out what you might get yourself up to. As it happens, some of my men were also just getting ready to arrest Helga van den Heuvel. We’ve had her in our sights all afternoon. Her behavior toward you just now confirms her guilt.”
He leaned toward London and Sir Reggie let out a warning grumble. She stroked the dog’s head and Braam continued.
“Meanwhile, I assume you have been living up to your reputation as a brilliant amateur detective. May I ask what your own investigative efforts have turned up?”
London didn’t speak for a moment. She was waiting for a feeling of relief to kick in, now that it seemed as though the killer had been caught, and the case was closed. But the truth is, London felt nothing but confusion. She really had no idea exactly what had just happened.
Nevertheless, she figured she’d better at least tell the Hoofdinspecteur whatever she could.
“All I’ve got is a theory,” she said to Braam. “It’s probably nothing you haven’t already considered.”
“Enlighten me,” Braam said with a sly grin.
“I think Meneer Dekker wasn’t killed in De Wallen. I think the murder happened very close to here—perhaps at a nearby dock.”
“Indeed?” Braam said with interest. “Then why did we find the body in a boat in De Wallen?”
“I think the killer set the boat adrift with the body when the canals were flushed out last night. If so, the boat would have floated to De Wallen in the current. When it did, the killer pulled it to the dock and chained it up to make it look as though the murder happened right there.”
Braam gazed at London intently. She guessed that her theory was not something he had yet considered. He also seemed to be impressed with her for thinking of it.
“An intriguing scenario,” he said. “It fits very well with what I’ve already deduced. Perhaps you should consider a career change, London Rose. Criminal investigation seems to suit you.”
London didn’t feel exactly flattered.
“Now maybe you can answer a few of my questions,” London said.
“Such as?”
London took a deep breath.
“Such as, what does Van Gogh’s painting of tulips have to do with all this?”
Braam squinted at her and tilted his head.
“Why do you think it does?” Braam asked her.
“I’m told by … um, an expert on many topics … that the painting somehow changed in appearance, and then changed back again. I’d like an explanation for that.”
Braam stared at her, and his lips twisted enigmatically. London could barely keep herself from chuckling.
“You don’t have any idea what I’m talking about, do you?” she said.
“I hope you’ll be so kind as to tell me,” Braam said with a flicker of a smile.
Of course, London knew that he wasn’t making a polite request. It was more of an order, and she had no choice but to comply.
London said, “I’m talking about a Van Gogh painting in the museum called Tulips. Yesterday one of the petals on one of the tulips looked all wrong and out of place. Today it looked exactly as it ought to look.”
“And you think this has to do with the murder somehow?”
“Well, the docent did physically attack me when I mentioned it. So yes, I think it does.”
Braam put his hands in his pockets and stared off into space.
Finally, he said, “I’m sure Mevrouw van den Heuvel will tell us everything in short order. The evidence we have against already her is pretty airtight. And I’m sure we’ll find more information when we search her premises. There’s not a doubt in my mind that she killed Pier Dekker.”
He brushed his hands together with satisfaction, as if putting an end to the whole matter.
“For the time being, Mevrouw Rose,” he said, “I hope you enjoy the rest of your visit to our lovely city.”
To London’s astonishment, he stood up and walked toward his bicycle.
“Wait a minute,” London said, getting to her feet and striding after him with Sir Reggie trotting at her side. “Is that all? Aren’t you going to tell me anything else?”
Braam turned toward her and shrugged.
“What more is there?”
“A great deal, I think,” London said. “For example, is the Nachtmusik free to set sail for Copenhagen?”
“I am not ready to say,” Braam said. “But I am quite sure that your ship’s delay here in Amsterdam is coming to a prompt end. It won’t be long now. I’ll call your captain when I know more.”
London stood with her mouth agape as Braam climbed onto his bicycle and rode away.
London looked down at her dog.
“I don’t like that man, Sir Reggie, she said. “I don’t like anything about him.”
Sir Reggie let out a small growl of agreement.
London continued, “I don’t like the way he had me followed without telling me. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that he was thinking of my safety, but he didn’t have to keep it a secret, did he? And now that it’s all over, the least he could do is thank me for helping with his investigation. Or better yet, tell me he’s sorry he ever treated me like a murder suspect.”
Just then London’s phone rang. She was pleased to see that the call was from Bryce.
“Hi, London,” he said. “I’m about to take a break, and I wondered whether we could meet somewhere. I just keep hearing wilder and wilder rumors, and I’ve been worried about you.”
“I’d love that,” London said. “But I’m in town, near the Rijksmuseum.”
“I can get away. Where would you like to meet?”
London realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten since that morning, when Bryce brought her that lovely breakfast. She remembered the name of the restaurant where she and several passengers had been yesterday.
“How about the Hongerig Kanaal? I’m close to it right now. Why don’t you join me there?”
“I’ll do that,” Bryce said.
They ended the call, and London and Sir Reggie headed out of the museum grounds. As they continued on their way, London found herself thinking about what Braam had said just now.
“There’s not a doubt in my mind that she killed Pier Dekker.”
I hope he’s right, London thought.
But Braam hadn’t told her anything about what evidence he had. He had only referred to bank statements and blackmail. And he obviously knew nothing about the Van Gogh painting—the very mention of which had driven Helga to attack her. Did Braam really have a solid murder case against the docent?
She remembered the dumbfounded expression on Helga’s face when the policemen took her away.
“But I didn’t kill anybody!” Helga had screamed.
London felt a shiver of doubt. That protest had sounded very real.
Is Braam even on the right track? she wondered.
She really needed to talk this out with someone smart enough to understand her questions and qualms.
CHAPTER THIRTY THREE
“S
o do you think the whole thing is really over?” Bryce asked after London described her day’s adventures. They were sitting at an outdoor table at the Hongerig Kanaal café, where she and her tour group had eaten lunch yesterday. London had picked this one out to wait for him, because she figured the table’s broad umbrella would keep them dry if it did rain a little. Although the sky was still overcast, London had felt more cheerful as soon as Bryce arrived.
Since she hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast, she had ordered a delicious bowl of split pea soup cooked with hearty slabs of bacon. The soup was so thick London could stand her spoon in it—perfect comfort food after her ordeal. London could feel herself calming down with every mouthful. She shared the accompanying slices of smoked sausage with Bryce and Sir Reggie, who was perched in a chair of his own.
“I hope it’s over,” London told him. “But I’ve got my doubts. I wish Hoofdinspecteur Braam hadn’t been so tight-lipped about everything.”
London took a bite of freshly baked rye bread and thought for a moment.
“Braam told Helga he was arresting her for blackmail as well as murder,” she said. “He seemed to have proof of odd payments in the form of bank statements.”
“But why?” Bryce asked.
“I have no idea. I can only guess it had something to do with that Van Gogh painting. And maybe with other paintings as well. Judging from his argument with Cyrus, Dekker seems to have had a streak of vanity. He fancied himself to be more than just a restorer. He thought of himself as an artist. Maybe he was going around tampering with some of the masterpieces on display in the Rijksmuseum, just out of sheer egotism. Maybe Helga caught him doing that.”
“I guess that makes sense,” Bryce said, although he sounded doubtful.
London shook her head with frustration.
“No, it doesn’t, Bryce,” she said. “Every idea I can think of seems farfetched to me. Blackmail and murder are two different things. Why would Helga kill somebody if she was successfully extorting money from him?”
“Maybe he refused to keep paying her and things got ugly,” Bryce suggested.
“Maybe so,” London agreed. But somehow that didn’t sound exactly right to her.
She and her two companions fell silent as she ate the last delicious spoonsful of her soup. She glanced around the quaint streets of Amsterdam, wishing she’d had more time to enjoy the city while she’d been here. She also observed that some of the nearby pedestrians kept looking upward as if worried about rain.
Then she let out a gasp as a memory came back to her.
“Bryce, yesterday I saw Helga one more time after we left the Rijksmuseum. I was sitting right here at this table. And Helga walked by—she seemed to be coming right from the museum. She looked like she was in a hurry. And she gave me a very odd look as she rushed by.”
“Where was she going?” Bryce asked.
London pointed and said, “I saw her go into that art gallery over there, the one we were in yesterday with Emil—Meyer Fijne Kunst. Maybe that gallery has something to do with the mystery.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve got no idea. But let’s go over there and see what we can find out.”
London and Bryce paid the cafe check, then trotted with Sir Reggie over to the corner storefront gallery.
The door was open as they approached and, standing inside, London saw the same formidable man who had been standing sentinel there yesterday. Again, he was dressed in what appeared to be a butler’s uniform, but the microphone on his shoulder and his shaved head suggested that he was more like a security guard.
London stopped in her tracks.
“Oh, my,” she said to Bryce and Sir Reggie. “I doubt that dogs are allowed inside. Maybe you two should wait out here while I go inside and investigate.”
But at that moment, London was surprised to see the guard’s stern-looking face explode into a wide grin. But he wasn’t smiling at her.
“Why, what have we here?” he called out in Dutch. “I do believe this is some sort of terrier—a Yorkshire Terrier, unless I’m much mistaken. Come in, come in!”
London and her two companions entered the gallery, and the guard stooped down to make friends with the dog.
“His name is Sir Reggie,” London said.
“An aristocrat, no less!” the guard chuckled. “I’m honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Reggie. My name is Jurjen Smit.”
Then he asked, “Does this fellow know any tricks?”
“I’ve taught him a few,” Bryce said. “Hold out your leg.”
Smit held out one leg and laughed with delight Sir Reggie jumped back and forth over it several times.
“Ahem,” a nearby voice grumbled crossly.
The hefty man with wavy, steel-gray hair and a silver watch chain in his vest pocket looked anything but pleased as he stepped toward them. It was Axel Meyer, the gallery owner, and he was clearly unhappy about the dog.
“I assume these people are here to do business,” he said to Smit.
Smit didn’t seem to be especially perturbed by his boss’s displeasure.
“I’m sure they are, Meneer Meyer,” he said. Then he added to London, “I think I’ve got some items in my lunch box that he might enjoy. May I take him into our back room and play with him a bit while you are talking art?”
“Of course,” London said, handing him some of the kitchen-made treats she carried with her. “He likes these.”
The delighted security guard and Sir Reggie exited through a door in the back of the gallery.
Axel Meyer glared after him with annoyance. Then he turned toward London and Bryce with a stiff, professional smile.
“You two were here yesterday, were you not?” he said in Dutch. “With the German fellow, if I remember right—the one who bought the Delfts Blauw piece.”
“That’s right,” London replied.
Axel Meyer looked at them curiously.
“How may I help you?” he asked, gesturing toward some nearby artworks. “Perhaps you’d be interested in this fine landscape by Esaias van de Velde. Or perhaps this one by Van de Velde’s pupil, Pieter de Molijn.”
“Very nice,” Bryce commented, and the gallery owner smiled widely.
London guessed that Meyer had been very happy with the price Emil had paid for the plaque. For a moment London wondered whether there was any advantage to be gained by bluffing Meyer into thinking she and Bryce were here to do serious business.
But London doubted that she’d get away with it. For one thing, she didn’t have Emil’s keen knowledge of fine art. She also figured she didn’t look like a promising customer, dressed as she was in her company uniform. It seemed best to get right to the point.
“We’re wondering what you could tell us about a woman named Helga van den Heuvel,” she said.
Meyer squinted warily.
“I don’t believe I know anybody by that name,” he said.
He’s lying, London realized.
“Are you sure?” London said. “I saw her come in here yesterday afternoon.”
Meyer didn’t reply, but his expression darkened. London got an unmistakable tingling feeling that she’d touched a nerve. If she could just get Meyer to talk, he’d surely be able to tell her and Bryce something important.
“Are you aware that Mevrouw van den Heuvel was arrested a little while ago?” she asked.
The man’s face reddened, and he tugged at his collar.
He said in a tight voice, “Even if I did know the woman, I’m not in the habit of discussing my clients with total strangers. And now, if you’re not here to make a purchase, I’ll thank you not to waste my time.”
London felt a flash of panic as he turned to walk away.
I’ve got to get him to talk to me, she thought.
But before she could think of anything else to say, she heard a series of loud barks coming from the back of the gallery, followed by a human shout of alarm.
In an instant, Sir Reggie came dashing through the
door, carrying a rolled-up canvas by the piece of cloth it was tied up with.
Sir Reggie ran toward her with his prize.
As she took it, she recognized the cloth that was tied around the canvas. It was actually a yellow cravat—the same kind of cravat Pier Dekker had been wearing in the museum.
But the murdered man hadn’t been wearing a cravat when London and Sir Reggie found his body.
London shivered deep down in her bones.
The murder weapon! she realized.
CHAPTER THIRTY FOUR
As Sir Reggie trotted proudly in circles with his prize in his mouth, the guard dashed out of the back room yelling, “Stop that dog!”
But stopping him wasn’t necessary. Sir Reggie skidded to a halt at London’s feet and dropped the canvas right in front of her. London stared down at the yellow cravat with horror.
She remembered her own words to Hoofdinspecteur Braam shortly after finding the body.
“I think the victim might have been strangled.”
She’d thought then the victim might have been strangled by his own cravat—this cravat, which the hadn’t been wearing when London found him dead. And now it suddenly appeared that she was probably right.
Worse than that—the killer might well be right here at this very moment.
The gallery owner had frozen in place when the dog appeared, but now he went into action.
“Give me that!” Axel Meyer shouted.
But before the bulky gallery owner could stoop down to pick up the object, Sir Reggie gave the yellow bow a tug, untying it. Suddenly the canvas rolled open right there on the floor.
London gasped aloud, and she wasn’t the only one. She heard Bryce gasp as well, and both Smit and Meyer let out strangled cries.
There on the floor was Vincent van Gogh’s Tulips—the very painting that had caught Cyrus’s attention back at the Rijksmuseum. A short while ago, Helga van den Heuvel had flown into a desperate rage at the mere mention of this painting.
London stooped down to look at it more closely and immediately saw the detail that had troubled Cyrus—a single petal that appeared to be painted in a thicker, bolder style than the rest of the image.
Misfortune (and Gouda) Page 22