DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat

by Albert Cornelis Baantjer

  She lowered her head, the blonde hair fell like a curtain in front of her face. She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “That hurt, yes.”

  DeKok rose with some difficulty from his chair and began to pace up and down the large detective room.

  “But the question remains,” he observed after a while, “if your conclusion is correct.”

  She turned to face him abruptly.

  “What do you mean?”

  DeKok made a vague gesture.

  “The question remains if you drew the right conclusion,” he repeated. “The fact that the hold-up took place, nevertheless, does not necessarily mean that Pete didn’t keep his promise to you.”

  “I don’t understand,” she said slowly. “If Peter had called, the company would have taken measures, surely? I mean,… the robbers would never have been able to take off with three million…”

  DeKok smiled.

  “Let’s not discuss it any further,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “It’s quite late, you know.” He pointed at the large clock on the wall. “It’s way past two in the morning. I’ll take you home. You’ve had a terrible day. It’s about time you get a good night’s rest.”

  Her face fell.

  “I don’t want to go home,” she said moodily. “I can’t sleep, anyway.”

  DeKok ambled over to the coat rack and pulled on his coat. Then he picked up the heavy cape and placed it over her shoulders.

  “I’ll take you to Mother Geffel,” he said soothingly. “That’s perhaps better. Try to console the old lady a bit, if you can.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, not to Mother Geffel. Take me home, after all. I still have to take care of Doug.”

  “Doug?”

  A wan smile brightened her beautiful face briefly.

  “My cat.”

  She rose slowly.

  “How can I help you find Peter’s murderer?”

  DeKok gave her a long, penetrating look.

  “Give me the names of the men who were going to do the hold-up.”

  He read fear in her eyes.

  “I don’t know them. Really, Mr. DeKok, I don’t know who they are. Peter never mentioned their names.”

  7

  It was closer to eleven than to half past ten the next morning when DeKok, his decrepit little felt hat nonchalantly on the back of his head, entered the police station at Warmoes Street in a jovial mood.

  When he took his shower earlier, he had entertained himself with loud singing, then he had consumed a leisurely and extensive breakfast, after which he and his faithful dog, a sad-looking boxer with a worried face, had gone for a long walk. The dog looked as if it was doing most of the thinking for DeKok, but was mainly interested in the trees in the park and the black poodle from next door.

  In many ways DeKok looked like his dog, or the other way around. The similarity between DeKok and his dog was striking: they shared solemn looking faces and playful personalities. DeKok did not share the dog’s interest in trees. The intelligent animal was aware of that. It was a constant source of sorrow to the dog, but, as is the way of dogs, this flaw in DeKok’s character was no reason for the dog to be any less devoted and faithful to its master.

  DeKok had been thinking about the case on the way to the office. That is, when he finally made his way to the office. The fact that the robbers must so far have used every available minute to hide their loot, could not spoil his good humor. That was all right with him. As far as DeKok was concerned, money was not something to get all worked up about. Crimes involving just money, had never been able to get his full interest. He simply could not get too excited over the ‘Mine and Thine’ of things. If Pete Geffel’s death had not been involved with the robbery, one way or the other, he would have just handled the case routinely, closed it routinely and moved on to other things. But it was different now. The murder had complicated the case, had added spice to the problems surrounding it. It drove him to solve the puzzles that had been created. And there were so many puzzles. For instance, if he reflected on the calm, professional, non-violent way in which the robbery had taken place, it was difficult to reconcile that with a dagger in the back of Cunning Pete. And that was but one of the puzzles that occupied him.

  He quickly suppressed a fleeting thought that both cases, after all, had nothing to do with each other. There had to be a connection. There simply had to be. That conviction was impossible to eradicate from his mind. Nevertheless, the question remained: how were they connected?

  Inspector Corstant laughed at DeKok when he entered the detective room and gave him a cheery wave.

  “The Commissaris has been asking for you. You had to report at once.” Corstant paused and grinned broadly. “That was more than an hour ago,” he added.

  DeKok aimed his little hat at the peg where he normally hung it. As usual, he missed. He bent over and retrieved the article. Not in the least put out, he hung it on the peg. Only then did he respond to Corstant’s announcement.

  “Oh, well, in that case it’s old news,” he said, divesting himself of his coat.

  Corstant grinned again.

  “But I wouldn’t keep him waiting,” he responded earnestly. “I have the feeling that the old man is rather pissed. When I told him you weren’t here, he asked for Vledder. When I explained, respectfully, that he wasn’t here either, I could not shake the impression that he might, mind you, might have used a … eh, a strong word.”

  DeKok shook his head sadly.

  “The Commissaris must be associating with bad companions.”

  * * *

  DeKok knocked discreetly on the door and entered. He was at a loss to understand what the Commissaris could possibly want from him. There was no way that the old man had gotten wind of the latest developments. It had to be something else.

  The tall, stately police chief was seated behind his desk like an angry father confronting a wayward child. He seemed absorbed in a file. When he finally looked up, his face had assumed a pensive expression.

  “I called you because…”

  DeKok kept his gaze aimed about two inches above the head of the Commissaris. He was familiar with that opening. It was the beginning of a reprimand, at the very least, an expression of the old man’s displeasure. Suddenly he discovered an excellent reproduction of a Monet above and behind the head of the Commissaris. He had never noticed that before.

  “Excellent,” remarked DeKok, “really excellent. I didn’t know you were interested in art.”

  The Commissaris, distracted from his train of thought by the interruption, made an angry gesture.

  “Yes, well, the building people hung it there.” His voice was irritated. “It wouldn’t have been my choice.”

  DeKok’s eyebrows rippled briefly, almost unnoticeably. The Commissaris could not suppress a quick, startled look.

  “You don’t appreciate it?” asked DeKok.

  The Commissaris moved in his chair.

  “Monet was,” said the Commissaris, “to the best of my knowledge, an impressionist. I don’t like impressionists.” He aimed his penetrating look at DeKok and continued: “Look at the painting,” he pontificated, “impressions are always vague, unclear. They form a nebulous territory, a territory in which an inspector can easily get lost.”

  “I have the feeling,” grinned DeKok, “that you are trying to tell me something.”

  The Commissaris nodded.

  “That feeling is correct, DeKok. I just want to convey to you that, if it’s your impression that those responsible for the B&G hold-up, should be found within the company, rather than outside of the company, you are indulging in a strictly personal impression. That’s all.”

  DeKok lowered his head.

  “That’s all,” he repeated calmly. Then: “I have a strong suspicion that you’ve been approached by Mr. Bent.”

  The Commissaris coughed discreetly.

  “Indeed,” he said reluctantly. “Mr. Bent called me last night. He is seriously upset
about your behavior, the behavior of both of you, you and Vledder. Especially the sarcastic tone of young Vledder offended him deeply. It struck him as extremely unpleasant.”

  DeKok grinned broadly. His grin was irresistible. It transformed his somewhat melancholy face into one of boyish delight. It was one of his most attractive features. But the Commissaris remained unaffected.

  “Well … well,” said DeKok in a mocking tone of voice, “Mr. Bent has been deeply offended. He was struck unpleasantly. How would he have preferred to be struck?”

  The commissarial face assumed a disapproving look.

  “You know very well what I mean.” His tone was sharp.

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “Mr. Bent has no grounds for complaints,” he answered calmly. “Vledder’s remarks were completely justified.”

  The Commissaris made a negating gesture.

  “Justified, or … not justified,” his voice took on the affected speech of the consummate civil servant, became sententious. “Civil servants, servants of the public,” he continued, “must, under all circumstances behave themselves according to common courtesy.” He gave DeKok another penetrating look. “By the way,” he asked, “where’s Vledder? He wasn’t here, this morning.”

  DeKok rose from his chair and stared somberly at nothing at all. He did not answer. He wanted to spare the old man an outburst of anger. He really did not dislike his chief. Regardless of the many differences of opinion, he actually liked the old man.

  “Where is Vledder?” repeated the Commissaris. His voice was suspicious.

  DeKok swallowed.

  “He … eh, he’s gone to Seadike.”

  “WHAT!?”

  DeKok slinked from the room. From a distance he could still hear the tirade of the Commissaris, although he had closed the door of the office behind him.

  * * *

  DeKok would have been surprised if he had seen the gently smiling face of the Commissaris at that moment. DeKok might be a master at manipulating people, but that did not mean that Commissaris had reached his present, exalted rank without being able to do his fair share of manipulating himself.

  True, the Chief was constantly irritated with DeKok’s irreverent attitude to authority. But he was also keenly aware that DeKok was the most successful detective on the force. He always solved his cases. Sometimes he did not solve them to the satisfaction of all concerned, especially that of the Judge-Advocate, or higher authority, but solve them he did. The old sleuth knew all the tricks and all the short-cuts, had thousands of contacts in the underworld, was able to insinuate his particular brand of logic into the most bizarre situations and, above all, was very, very effective.

  His appearance was more often than not that of a country bumpkin in unfashionable clothes, an old raincoat or duffel coat, and his ever present, greasy, decrepit, little felt hat, grey hair peeking from under it in great, disordered tufts. He and Vledder made an excellent team. The old curmudgeon, tempered by years on the force into accepting the possible and the young, eager, well educated and sometimes impetuous Vledder, always striving for the impossible. The old and the new. The old hands-on cop and the new breed of policeman, college educated, technically inclined and with a high regard for rules and regulations.

  The Commissaris had long since given up the hope that DeKok would ever be reconciled to the modern world. But he hoped fervently that, in time, Vledder would pick up some of DeKok’s irreverence and brilliance. With Vledder’s background and education, coupled with DeKok’s experience and wisdom, Vledder might go far. He might become a Commissaris, maybe even Chief Constable.

  * * *

  Blissfully unaware of these thoughts, Inspector DeKok took the hefty file on Pete Geffel from a desk drawer, tucked it under one arm and disappeared into one of the interrogation rooms. He locked the door from the inside. He was consciously trying to avoid another confrontation with his angry chief. He did not feel like explaining Vledder’s trip to Seadike. He would tell the old man when he was in a better, a more receptive mood.

  While idly flipping the pages in the voluminous file, his thoughts wandered toward the beautiful and emotional Flossie. Obviously she was from a better, at least a more affluent environment than Cunning Pete. She was also, just as obviously, better educated than most. He reflected on her relationship with the glib, but superficial Pete Geffel, a man with an impressive string of arrests and convictions for his relatively young age. Women were marvelous creatures, he thought. They were almost always on the look-out for men they could ‘reform’, make over, change, whatever. It seemed, so thought DeKok, a natural trait. The only difference seemed strictly a matter of personal preference, whether the reform was for better, or worse. A man, he thought cynically, never knew what sort of woman would get a hold over him, would want to change him. But apparently Pete had fallen into good hands. Too late?

  How stron had been Flossie’s influence over him? Was she indeed the nice, kind girl to whom Pete had been devoted? And what was the meaning of that in connection with everything else? Musing on these and other questions, he was suddenly disturbed by a loud banging on the door of the small interrogation room. Vledder had returned from Seadike and demanded noisy admittance.

  * * *

  “What did you find out?”

  Vledder pulled a sour face.

  “It was mainly a disappointment. I don’t have a lot of news for you. Almost everything known about Pete’s murder was mentioned in the fax, yesterday morning. There simply were no usable technical details. Even the tire tracks were ordinary. I did make copies of all the reports that have been filed so far. But there seems to be no logical connection.”

  DeKok nodded thoughtfully.

  “What about the official cause of death?”

  “Post-mortem was this morning at ten. They were already working on it when I arrived. I waited for the results, such as they were, and interviewed Dr. Rusteloos. He was pretty positive, you know how he is. He had personally removed the dagger from the body. It was a narrow blade, but almost eight inches long. It had penetrated the body to the hilt. Upon further investigation, Dr. Rusteloos concluded that the wound must almost certainly have caused the death of the victim. The weapon had penetrated one of the lungs and the upper left chamber of the heart.”

  Pensively DeKok pulled on his lower lip.

  “Almost eight inches … quite a bit.”

  Vledder nodded agreement.

  “I’ve never seen a dagger like that before. It looked like an antique Italian poniard. Nice handwork on the silver handle, the grip, I mean.”

  “Are they doing anything with it, in Seadike?”

  “Yes, they made pictures for circulation. They also want to check with antique dealers. It’s a special weapon, possibly antique, as I said.”

  “Was there any mention about press, or TV?”

  “Not that I know of. They’ll probably wait until they’ve checked everything else.”

  Constable Bever entered the interrogation room at that moment. He had a folder under his arm. His face looked gray and his jovial expression was obscured by a worried look.

  “Here’s my report,” he said dejectedly. “I had to re-write it four times.” He snorted. “One thing is for sure. I’ll never, ever shoot again. As far as I’m concerned they can have my pistol right now. Boy, oh, boy, what a trouble over two shots. Everybody is after your ass, the Inspector, the Chief-Inspector, the Commissaris, people from Internal Investigation, Headquarters, you name it. Couldn’t you have done this? Or couldn’t you have done that? Didn’t you think it irresponsible to shoot in the street? After all, it’s a bit risky, you know constable, you could have hit an innocent bystander. Did you think about that? Did you think about this? You never know what happens to the ricochet, you know. What if there had been a woman in the way, or a baby, would you still have used your pistol?…”

  He slammed the report in front of Dekok, interrupting his Jeremiad.

  “Dammit,” he continued, “What
in hell do they want from me? After all, you have to make a split decision and you do that, right?” He snorted again, managing to sound both indignant and sad. “After all,” he concluded, “in a situation like that you simply don’t have time to weigh all the consequences.”

  DeKok smiled a winning smile.

  “Three million makes people nervous,” he remarked cryptically.

  Bever put a hand in a pocket of his uniform coat.

  “Here’s a letter for you,” he growled, unwilling to listen to reason. “It was left with the desk-sergeant.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bever turned around and walked away without another word.

  DeKok looked after him.

  Constable Bever had grown years older in a single day.

  Vledder picked up the letter and sniffed.

  “Perfume,” he established. He laughed at DeKok.

  “I’m not surprised,” he teased, “I bet it’s from a beautiful blonde.”

  DeKok ignored the remark. He took the letter in his hands, pulled a small pocket knife from a pocket and opened the envelope. After having read the note from beginning to end, he repeated it out loud for Vledder’s benefit.

  Dear Mr. DeKok:

  Thank you very much for your help. Our conversation has opened my eyes.

  I now know what I have to do. You’ll hear from me.

  Flossie

  Vledder frowned.

  “Flossie … Flossie? Didn’t Mother Geffel mention a Flossie, last night? Isn’t that Pete’s girlfriend?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And you talked to her?”

  “Indeed.”

  “When?”

  “Last night, or rather, early this morning. After I took you home, I found her waiting for me outside the station house. I must say, it was an interesting conversation.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes. Flossie, or as she’s generally known more formally, Florentine La Croix, told me that she had loved her Peter very much. She was convinced that the feelings were reciprocated. In any case, they had no secrets from each other. Flossie knew about the robbery. Peter had explained it very nicely to her and, in passing, also told her how his knowledge could be transformed into cold, hard cash.”