DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat

by Albert Cornelis Baantjer

  “No,” he said, shaking his head, “no, we’re not looking for him. He’s not wanted. I mean, we never have to look for him again, no, never again. You see, we found him, this morning, dead … a dagger in his back.”

  Lowee’s mouth fell open in utter astonishment.

  “Pete … dead? But only yesterday…”

  At that moment a uniformed constable stormed into the bar and approached DeKok with long, hurried steps.

  “Vledder told me I would find you here. You are to report at once to the Commissaris. We just heard that an armored car was robbed.”

  2

  Commissaris Buitendam, the tall, distinguished chief of the police station at Warmoes Street, frowned. His gray, bristly eyebrows contracted when DeKok entered his office, coattails flying, hat pushed back from his forehead, busily, self-importantly. It was, of course, a pose, a farce, no more than contrived posturing. The Commissaris knew and DeKok knew the Commissaris knew and the Commissaris knew DeKok knew. The Commissaris was well acquainted with DeKok’s abhorrence of order and discipline. The often brilliant Detective-Inspector simply did not seem to fit in the rigid harness of official hierarchy. It was impossible to contain him with rules and regulations. The gray sleuth was too individualistic. It explained why he would never be promoted beyond his present rank. But his brilliance, his obvious suitability for the important aspects of police work, guaranteed his continued employment. Nevertheless, any outward sign that might indicate that DeKok was submitting to discipline, to official guidelines, seemed like a parody, a police comedy. There was, reflected the Commissaris, something Keystone-Cop-like about DeKok at such moments.

  Therefore the Commissaris frowned. He had no hope of duplicating DeKok’s amazing feats in that department. DeKok, without any effort, or even any conscious volition, seemed to be able to actually ripple his eyebrows. It was a sight that never ceased to fascinate Vledder, who had seen it more often than most. According to Vledder, and many others, DeKok’s eyebrows were able to, and did, live a life of their own. But all the Commissaris could do, was frown.

  “I’m sorry I took so long,” apologized DeKok. “I was warming a stool over at Little Lowee’s.”

  The Commissaris made no attempt to hide his surprise.

  “Stool? Lowee?”

  DeKok gave him a friendly grin.

  “Little Lowee, yes. You must know him, certainly? He pours some of the best cognac in town.”

  The Commissaris moved in his chair, coughed discreetly. The frivolous subject of “Cognac-Lowee-Stool” was not to his liking. He composed his features into a serious expression.

  “Listen, DeKok,” he said in a somewhat pompous voice. “There was an armed robbery about half an hour ago. It happened on Stuyvesant Quay, near Toll House Point. An armored truck, belonging to Bent & Goossens, the transport company, has been robbed by three armed and masked men. A considerable amount of money is involved. Management at B&G estimates the loss at around three million.”

  DeKok whistled softly between his teeth.

  “A nice bit of change.”

  The Commissaris sighed.

  “Indeed, a considerable sum. That value is in American dollars, by the way. Almost double that amount in guilders. The shipment consisted of banknotes from different countries. In that case the dollar value is used for convenience. A large sum, anyway. Probably a record for our little country. Therefore we can count on a considerable amount of publicity. You understand … press, radio, television…” He paused and looked at DeKok with a penetrating look. “That’s why I want you to handle the case,” he added.

  DeKok made a deprecatory gesture.

  “Not me. Please, no, I’d rather not, I mean. There must be others. Corstant, for instance, or Sweet and young Bonmeyer. I had other plans.”

  Buitendam’s mouth fell open. He looked at DeKok in astonishment.

  “Other plans?” he managed to ask.

  DeKok nodded complacently.

  “Yes, I thought I’d get involved in Pete Geffel’s murder.”

  The Commissaris swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

  “You mean, the murder in Seadike. The one that came over the fax, earlier?”

  DeKok nodded approvingly.

  “Yes, that murder. Right.”

  Commissaris Buitendam rose abruptly from his chair. He did not like to be contradicted. It was something he simply could not, and would not, tolerate. It upset him considerably. His normally somewhat pale face became red with rage.

  “You … you!” he snarled. “You will concern yourself with the robbery on B&G. Nothing else. Understood? Get acquainted with the facts and make contact with the managing director, the president of the company, one Mr. Bent.”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless gesture and walked toward the door. The Commissaris called him back.

  “Team up with Vledder. He already has some of the details. The two of you had some success together, in the past. This time, too, I expect quick results.”

  DeKok hesitated for a moment, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger.

  “If,” he began slowly, “… if I happen to encounter, purely by accident, of course … if I happen to run into Pete Geffel’s killer…”

  The Commissaris seemed on the verge of exploding.

  “OUT!!!”

  DeKok left.

  * * *

  Vledder laughed heartily.

  “So, quarreling with the boss again, eh?”

  DeKok grinned sadly.

  “Well, yes,” he said, irritated. “Why can’t he let me be?” He chewed on his lower lip. “I used to have my differences with the old Commissaris, the previous one, I mean, but I was usually allowed to go my own way. But this one…” He did not complete the sentence, bit his lower lip once more and then continued: “You see, Dick, it’s a matter of sentiment, you know. Just like old Shenk, I remember Pete when he was a kid, they are good memories, despite his many pranks and, let’s admit it, his many crimes. But he was a cheerful kid who developed into a happy-go-lucky man. I just don’t like to think of him with a dagger in his back.”

  Vledder smiled in sympathy.

  “You’re taking it personally?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes. What do I care about three million, or thirty million, or even three hundred million? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all, at all. Those guys at B&G just have to be a bit more careful with their money. Deep down I hope that the robbers get away with it.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “In any case, far enough away so they’ll be outside my jurisdiction.”

  Vledder looked at him with amazement.

  “You mean that?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “Let’s not get into it. Tell me what you know about the hold-up.”

  Vledder sighed.

  “Not much. Probably no more than the Commissaris already told you. It happened on Stuyvesant Quay, near Toll House Point, behind the Central Railroad Station, the old one, that is. Two masked men, armed with pistols robbed an armored truck of Currency Transport, Incorporated.”

  DeKok looked up.

  “Currency Transport, Incorporated? I thought the Commissaris mentioned B&G and he also mentioned three men.”

  Vledder nodded agreement.

  “You’re right. Currency Transport is a division of B&G. You know, they’re into everything. If you want it moved, no matter what, they’ll move it for you. Freight, household goods, money, you name it. They move it by truck, by barge, by plane, whatever. They’re big!” He took a deep breath. “About the men,” he continued, “two held up the truck and took the money. The third one was behind the wheel of a fast car, probably a Simca 1500, blue, or light blue.”

  “Stolen?”

  “We don’t know yet. You see, two Simcas were stolen last night, both Models 1500 and both were blue. One was stolen in Haarlem and the other from Heemstede, one of the suburbs of Haarlem. Most likely one of these cars was used during the hold-up. We don’t know
which one, at this time.”

  “Did anybody get the license tag?”

  “Yes, NG 12-83.”

  “That’s a very old number.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “Right, a very old number. It used to belong to a Chevrolet. The Chevy was junked more than three years ago.”

  DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.

  “Smart guys.” There was admiration in his voice.

  Vledder glanced at his notes.

  “You can say that again. Smart guys. The entire hold-up shows professionalism. The timing was excellent. At exactly three minutes past ten, the truck stopped at the rear of the Railroad Station and the two guards in the back alighted with the money. The driver remained behind the wheel. The money was in a large crate, destined for shipment by rail. At that precise moment the Simca pulled up. Before anybody, least of all the guards, had any notion of what was happening, they were staring down the barrels of a couple of pistols and they were relieved of the crate. It all happened so quickly that nobody really noticed anything untoward.” He flipped a page. “There was a constable on duty, not far away, and he didn’t notice anything, either. He reacted immediately when one of the guards finally yelled at him. He shot at the fleeing car.”

  “Fired?” DeKok’s eyebrows rippled dangerously. Despite the situation, Vledder paused briefly to be amazed at the sight. Then he answered:

  “Yes, twice.”

  “Well?”

  “Nothing. The Simca disappeared at a high rate of speed in the direction of the Harbor Building. But, according to the constable, he scored at least one hit. Shall I call him? His name is Bever, he’s next door, writing his report.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Fetch him.”

  Constable Bever was an athletically built man in his middle thirties, with lively gestures and a playful mimicry. He showed a rueful grin when he took a seat across from DeKok.

  “You can’t help but wonder,” began Constable Bever. “I mean, they steal three million right from under your nose. It’s just plain shameful.” He shook his head despondently. “How will I ever explain that to my son?”

  DeKok grinned back at him

  “I don’t know, I am not your son,” he said. “My name is DeKok, with … eh, kay-oh-kay. Much to my regret I’m in charge of this case. I heard you shot at the fleeing car. What do you think? You think you hit something, or somebody?”

  Bever spread both arms wide.

  “Well, I’m a good shot, DeKok. Most certainly. I’m usually in the top three during the shooting competitions. But, well, the car was a good distance away and rapidly disappearing when I first heard the yelling of the guards. They were pointing at the car. I fired twice. I aimed for the left rear tire. From where I was standing that was the easiest shot. But I missed. There was a slight deviation and both bullets hit the edge of the trunk.” He made a dejected gesture. “It was no use trying a third shot. By then the car was too far away.”

  DeKok nodded silently.

  “Would it be possible that you hit one of the occupants?”

  Bever shrugged.

  “Hard to say. I don’t think so.” He paused, hesitated. “To be honest, I hope not. I mean, you’ve got to admit it, DeKok, that was a professional piece of work. Nobody got hurt during the hold-up. It was fast, silent and almost unnoticed. I mean, I was barely fifty feet away and I didn’t notice anything until the guards started to yell. I saw the truck stop, of course I did, but…” He paused, gripped his head with both hands in a hopeless gesture. “I should be let go, it’s simply too much. A robbery with a haul of three million and I’m practically watching it without doing anything about it.” Bever groaned, his eyes closed.

  DeKok looked at him.

  “How long have you been on the force?”

  “Five years.”

  “Well, then you should know that this sort of thing can happen. I wouldn’t worry too much about it.” DeKok waved negligently. “Return to your report. And if the Commissaris, or your sergeant, if either speaks harshly to you, just let it roll off. Be like a duck.”

  “A duck?”

  “Yes, water rolls off a duck’s back, let the reprimands roll off yours.”

  Shaking his head, Constable Bever left the room. It was a black day in his career, he thought, no matter what DeKok said.

  When the constable had left, DeKok rose from his chair and started to pace up and down the large room. He invariably did that when he wanted to think. The cadence of his ambling gait helped to organize his thoughts. After a while he stopped in front of Vledder’s desk.

  “If I remember correctly,” he said thoughtfully, “B&G has been in business for some time.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Oh, yes, at least three generations and more than twenty years in the armored car business, that is CTI, the division, was formed more than twenty years ago.”

  “And this is their first hold-up?”

  “Yes, it has never happened before. Perhaps it lulled them into a false sense of security. They became more lax, perhaps, without really noticing it.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin pensively.

  “Are the transports always for such large amounts? I mean, three million seems a lot, doesn’t it?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Yes it is,” he answered. “But it’s usually not that much. Their main business is transport between banks, you see. The average amount on a truck is usually between four and five hundred thousand. The rest is checks and papers. This time the amount of cash was extremely high. The robbers were lucky.”

  DeKok grinned. It transformed his craggy face into that of a mischievous schoolboy. Few people could resist a grinning DeKok.

  “Sometimes,” he said mysteriously, “sometimes Lady Luck receives a helping hand.”

  Vledder looked at him, wondering.

  “What do you mean?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Just exactly what I’m saying. Sometimes Lady Luck gets a helping hand. B&G has been transporting money for more than twenty years. For twenty years one transport follows another, one run after another, without incidents. Nothing happens. Don’t you think it’s rather coincidental that suddenly, the one time they carry a larger than usual amount of cash, they’re robbed? A bit too convenient, don’t you think?”

  Vledder came from behind his desk in a highly agitated state of mind. His round, somewhat boyish face showed he was excited.

  “Why?” he questioned loudly, “Why should it be too much of a coincidence. It’s possible, after all. I interrogated the guards thoroughly, I can assure you. There’s no question of complicity. They’re completely innocent.”

  DeKok looked at Vledder for long moments. Then he smiled.

  “Come on, Dick,” he said amicably, “get your coat. We have an appointment with Mr. Bent.”

  3

  DeKok and Vledder were standing in the enormous hall of the B&G building. A bit lost, they looked around.

  A large, tall black granite column rose up in the middle of the hall, supporting an enormous, bronze bust of the late Mr. Josephus Johannes Maria Goossens, the co-founder of the Company. He had died childless. The current Bent was the third President of Bent & Goossens by that name. On either side of the statue, wide marble staircases wended upstairs in a curve before meeting at an elaborate balcony overlooking the hall. Glistening crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling and the walls reflected the light from expensive marble. It was very beautiful and impressive.

  DeKok pressed his lips together.

  Interiors that were aimed at impressing visitors, had exactly the opposite effect on DeKok. He would not be impressed, or awed, or influenced by it. It only aroused in him feelings of inexplicable rebellion. Part, if not most, of that was caused by the puritanical soul of the civil servant and his Calvinistic childhood.

  He took another look around and felt the dissatisfaction and discontent grow within him.

  A neatly dressed gentleman in a dark suit caught
the attention of the two police inspectors. From a glass booth he moved a crooked index finger in a beckoning gesture.

  DeKok had a long standing dislike of beckoning gentlemen in glass booths. Therefore he did not make any effort to obey the beckoning finger, but instead beckoned back with his own crooked index finger. He smiled pleasantly and persisted in that attitude until the authoritarian gentlemen left his cage, dark red with rage.

  “You are supposed to report to me.” The man’s voice was excited.

  DeKok’s eyebrows performed one of their famous dances. For once the effect was lost on the subject of his gaze.

  “Why?” asked DeKok mildly.

  The man in black made a vague gesture.

  “I’m the doorman,” he said.

  “So, what?”

  The man swallowed.

  “You have to report to me, first.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No way,” he replied stubbornly. “First of all, a doorman is supposed to look like an admiral and stand at the door. It simply isn’t done to sit in a glass booth in the middle of a reception hall. Secondly, our Commissaris said nothing about reporting to a doorman. We have an appointment with Mr. Bent.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes, he’s waiting for us.”

  The gentleman in black performed a measured bow.

  “In that case I will announce the gentlemen. Who can I say?”

  DeKok lifted his little felt hat in a polite gesture.

  “My name is DeKok, with … eh, kay-oh-kay. This is my colleague, Vledder. We are, by the grace of our Chief Constable,* Detective-Inspectors attached to the Warmoes Street station.”

  The neatly dressed gentleman turned around and disappeared into the booth. Through the glass the two inspectors observed him making another bow while he spoke into the telephone. It was a comical sight. When the conversation had been concluded he emerged from his glass cage.

  “Mr. Bent,” he spoke self-importantly, “prefers to have his interview with the gentlemen elsewhere, not here in the office, but in his study at home. Mr. Bent will be down directly and lead the way.”

  Almost simultaneously with this announcement, they observed a muscular man descending by way of one of the marble staircases. He was a well-preserved man in his fifties with quick and athletic movements. He approached the two policemen with outstretched hand.