DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat
Page 15
Vledder shook his head.
“No, I mean the seven hundred and fifty thousand underneath the corpse of Thornbush. It immediately raises a question.”
“What question?”
Vledder made an impatient gesture.
“Why did the killer leave the money in the trunk? Nice, easy money, small bills, easy to trade … francs … marks … guilders … dollars, especially dollars. He could have spent it easily, anywhere.” He banged his fist on the desk. “It’s crazy. There had to be a reason.”
DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.
“Perhaps,” he opined, “perhaps the killer wasn’t interested in the money.”
Vledder stood up, agitated.
“What’s the reason for this whole business?”
“Robbery,” answered DeKok laconically.
“Exactly … and why was Cunning Pete killed?”
“Most likely because, driven by the conscience of and his love for the beautiful Flossie, he wanted to prevent the hold-up.”
Vledder bowed in the direction of his mentor.
“Exactly. That means that whoever organized this party, was after the money. That’s all. Even a murder wouldn’t stand in their way.” He grinned without mirth. “And yet … they leave seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks behind. That’s tax-free, mind you. They just leave it there as a mattress for a dead Thornbush.”
DeKok laughed.
“You’re right, Dick. It’s indeed remarkable. Highly remarkable.” He moved his hands, pointed at nothing in particular. “Anyway, that car along the dike, is a remarkable situation in itself. Because of the tags we found in Farmer’s Alley, we can safely presume that the car was driven there after the hold-up. But it couldn’t stay there, of course. One way or the other, we would have gotten wind of a blue Simca in that neighborhood. What intrigues me, however: what happened to the car afterward? I mean what happened to the car between the time it left Farmer’s Alley and until the time we found it against the willows at the bottom of the dike?”
Vledder looked for a cigarette, remembered he had given it up to please his girlfriend, and idly twirled a pen between his fingers.
“If we only knew,” he remarked glumly, “who drove that car to that deserted stretch of dike, we would be a lot farther along.”
DeKok nodded.
“Any luck with the tire tracks?”
“You mean the ones we found there?”
“Yes.”
Vledder fished a notebook from an inside pocket.
“The soil sample,” he said, searching through the pages, “is still in my desk drawer. Not much we can do with it, for now, anyway.” Apparently he found the page he was looking for and folded the book inside out. “The tires,” he read, “were radials and relatively new. There was a sharp, deep profile in the clay next to the road. According to those who are supposed to know, they couldn’t have had more than three, or maybe five thousand miles on them. The wheelbase was almost five feet and the distance between the front wheels and the back wheels was just over ten feet.”
DeKok’s eyebrows danced briefly.
“What was the distance between front and back wheels?”
“More than three meters, over ten feet. It was not possible to determine the exact length. It was a bit slippery there, you know.”
DeKok slapped himself on the forehead with a flat hand.
“I’m an idiot,” he said. “I should have asked you sooner about the tire tracks.”
Vledder looked at him with surprise.
“But why?”
DeKok lifted his feet from the desk and shuffled over to the coat rack.
“An overall wheelbase of more than ten feet.”
Vledder followed him to the coat rack.
“What about it?”
DeKok hoisted himself into his coat.
“I’m an old-fashioned man,” he grinned. “I don’t know much about cars. But I do know that more than ten feet between the front wheels and the back wheels is a very long distance. Especially in Holland. People tend to use smaller cars. The average distance on the average car in Holland is maybe six to seven feet. Eight feet is probably the upper limit. Me, personally, I only know two cars with that kind of distance: a Rolls Royce and … a Bentley.”
Vledder looked at him. For a moment he was speechless. Then his eyes glistened.
“Bent’s car. Bent has a Bentley!”
* * *
With a steady hand Dick Vledder guided the police-VW through the busy traffic of the city. There was a somber, dissatisfied expression on his young face.
DeKok looked at him from aside.
“What’s the matter?”
Vledder shook his head.
“Nothing,” he replied, irked. “Nothing in particular. I’m just upset with myself, is all.”
DeKok smiled.
“Why?”
Vledder did not answer at once. He looked straight ahead through the windshield, but DeKok had the impression that he was only partially occupied by the traffic.
“It bothers me,” said Vledder after a while.
“What?”
“The tracks. The car tracks on the dike. I discovered them myself, for Pete’s sake. I looked at them very carefully, I measured them. I wrote everything very precisely in my little note book…” he did not complete the sentence.
“Well, and…” prompted DeKok.
“Then you had to tell me that the tracks led to Bent … you see, that’s why I’m upset. I should have thought of it myself, but I never made the connection, I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.” He gave DeKok a suspicious look. “How,” he asked, “how did you arrive at the Bentley? As far as I know, your knowledge of cars is less than my aunt’s and she knows nothing at all about cars.”
“It wasn’t all that difficult,” confessed DeKok comfortably. “It all came about because of that sergeant-major from the State Police, Windt. He said he’d never solved a case with the use of plaster casts from foot prints, or whatever. That made me think. I wondered what sort of chance we had under the circumstances. Our circle of suspects isn’t all that great. And as far as I know, we know only positively about one car among them. And Bergen’s Simca, of course. But one car stands out, is special.”
“Bent’s Bentley.”
DeKok nodded.
“I was just idly researching some technical data on that car. You see, when he gave us a ride to his house, that was the first time I’d ever been in a Bentley. Well, that brought me to the wheelbase. It stuck, somehow.”
Vledder glanced at DeKok with admiration.
“Fantastic!”
DeKok smiled.
“Thanks,” he said, “but it was stupid not to ask you for the result of your measurements at once.”
They drove on in companionable silence. They were not in a hurry, which was a good thing, because almost every traffic light was on red when they came to an intersection. After a while it started to annoy Vledder. Leaning on the steering wheel he roundly cursed the Chief of the Traffic Division who was ultimately responsible for the traffic lights. It was an unjust critique, but Vledder felt as if all the lights were deliberately set against him.
DeKok was slouched in the seat next to him. Cars were something to be endured. If it had been possible, he would just as soon have walked. But since they were driving, he felt no need to get excited about the traffic, the lights, or anything connected to this purely mechanical process. The more their progress was impeded, the more he was convinced of the soundness of walking whenever possible. Suddenly he noticed a bulge near Vledder’s armpit. He stretched out a hand and felt a shoulder holster with a pistol.
“Armed?”
Vledder blushed. He felt the implied rebuke. He knew all about DeKok’s abhorrence of firearms, but it was one of the few things the younger man disagreed about. DeKok felt more sympathy for the British view, which held that cops should not be armed. Vledder disagreed. Times had changed, he felt. A cop needed a weapon. He thoug
ht briefly about the scene with Flossie and about the two corpses they had so far encountered.
“I saw the corpse of Thornbush,” he said apologetically. “I don’t feel like being shot the same way, or any way, for that matter.”
DeKok did not react. His thoughts were occupied by Bent. The remarks that he should never have married for a second time had taken on a deeper meaning during the course of the investigation. The wife of the B&G president was unfaithful to her husband. That much was certain. At the very least she had maintained an affair with a subordinate, with the Secretary and Vice President of the Company managed by her husband. Probably everyone, except the cuckolded husband, was aware of the situation. At least that was the usual chain of events. Was it a motive for murder? A crime passionnel? But what did it all have to do with the hold-up? Vledder interrupted his musings.
“You think Bent is home?”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“I think so,” he said carefully. “He hasn’t been in the office all day.”
Vledder grinned.
“How do you know that little tidbit?”
“I had it checked, of course. You see, Bent is never long out of my thoughts. He’s almost always on my mind.”
“Everything is on your mind.”
It sounded scornful.
DeKok shrugged one shoulder.
“I try,” he said simply. “Besides, it’s a matter of practice, of routine, if you will.”
They passed underneath the Utrecht Bridge along the left bank of the Amstel. It was quiet. The roar of the city seemed suddenly far away. The river glistened softly in the pale moon light. It looked ghostly, ethereal. When they were near the Sorrow Fields cemetery, DeKok hoisted himself into an upright position.
“Stop here.”
Vledder looked at him with astonishment.
“We’re not there yet.”
DeKok nodded.
“We’ll walk the rest.”
They parked the car near the side of the road and got out. They didn’t talk while they approached the villa on foot. In front of the old house DeKok stopped and pulled a plastic bag from his coat pocket.
“Take this,” he said.
“What should I do with it?”
“To keep the dirt in it, unless you want to carry it in your hands.”
“Dirt?”
DeKok sighed elaborately.
“Do you remember,” he asked patiently, “how we drove straight into the garage, the last time?”
“Yes.”
“Fine, we’ll take the same route this time, but we don’t announce our visit. If Bent is home, as I expect, his car will be in the garage. You take some mud samples, some dirt, from the tires and put them in the plastic bag. I’ll hold the light. Maybe we’ll get lucky. It didn’t rain last night and I don’t think that the President cleaned his car since yesterday.”
“All right, then what?”
DeKok smiled.
“Then, my friend, we will proceed to the official entrance of the residence, ring the bell and announce ourselves as honorable servants of the Law.”
A broad grin appeared on Vledder’s face.
“That’s us,” he said.
19
“Please sit down.”
Bent, barefoot and wearing a camel hair dressing robe with long cords, gestured expansively toward the easy chairs in his study.
“A rather late and … unexpected visit,” said the host.
DeKok gave the man an amused look. A faint smile played around his lips. He glanced quickly at Vledder. Vledder groaned inwardly, steeling himself for another of what he called DeKok’s transparent theatrics.
“Unexpected?” asked the gray sleuth, his voice trembling with sheer disbelief. “My old mother, God rest her soul, used to say: if you call for the devil … all hell will break loose.”
Vledder was puzzled, but Bent looked at DeKok for long seconds. Then he nodded.
“Your mother was a wise woman,” he said.
Shyly, DeKok scratched the back of his neck.
“Yes, she was,” he said dreamily. “She had the remarkable gift of understanding her fellow human beings with a single glance.” He paused, as if lost in thought. Then he added: “I wonder what she would have thought of you.”
“Of me?”
DeKok nodded.
“I think,” he said diffidently, “that she would have said that you should never have married for the second time.”
He had hit home. Bent seemed to go rigid. Color appeared in his cheeks in the form of bright, red pinpoints.
“My wife has nothing to do with it,” he exclaimed, sharp and excited.
DeKok grinned.
“With what?”
The president swallowed.
“With … eh, with the hold-up. Isn’t that why you’re here?”
DeKok did not answer at once. He looked at the black tomcat that was comfortably curled up and purring softly. He tried to imagine the scene of the night before. Slowly his gaze travelled through the study. The big window, the rows upon rows of books, the oak desk with the intricate carvings. No detail escaped him. Everything was exactly as during the first visit. Even Vledder was seated in the same chair.
“What are you here for?”
There was fear and suspicion in Bent’s voice.
DeKok forced an expressionless face.
“We came to announce the passing of your friend, Secretary and Vice President Charles Thornbush.”
“He wasn’t my friend.”
“You knew he was dead?”
Bent nodded slowly.
“Friends called me. It was in the news, they said.”
“Was it necessary?”
“What?”
“Was it necessary for your friends to inform you?” DeKok gave him a delighted smile. “After all, you were already aware of his demise, weren’t you?”
Bent’s eyes narrowed. He gave DeKok a penetrating look. There was nothing but animosity in his steel-blue eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Vledder coughed discreetly, unable to keep silent.
“We mean…” he interrupted, “that the death of Thornbush was hardly news to you. After all, you had taken your leave of him much earlier, hadn’t you, at the bottom of a deserted stretch of dike?”
Bent reacted violently. Agitated, he rose from his chair. His nostrils trembled.
“I wasn’t there,” he screamed. “I was never there.” He took a few quick, emotional steps toward the door. “I want you to leave, now. You come in here in the middle of the night and spout all sorts of indecent insinuations. What gives you the right?”
DeKok looked at him. His friendly, craggy face had changed to a look of utter astonishment.
“But we’re here at your own request,” he remarked apologetically. He seemed genuinely baffled.
“My request?” It was Bent’s turn to display astonishment.
DeKok nodded.
“But yes. You wanted to be kept apprised of the developments in the case. You remember? Even, or so you said, if the developments would lead into a direction that would be less pleasant, even detrimental to you, or the Company.”
Bent rubbed the back of his hand over dry lips. He darted nervous glances at the two inspectors. First toward one, then toward the other. He hesitated. Suddenly a cunning look came into his eyes. He walked back to his chair and sat down, calmly, outwardly relaxed.
“I had nothing to do with the death of Thornbush,” he said decisively. “The news of his passing was a great shock to me too. I may add that his passing is also a great loss to the Company. Thornbush was a competent man, a trusted and loyal co-worker, who always…”
Vledder interrupted. He was getting angry. His eyes spat fire.
“Spare us the eulogy,” he exclaimed loudly. He pressed his lips together, as if trying to bite his own words before they escaped. Then he pointed his chin toward Bent in a challenging gesture. “Or, is this a rehearsal?” His voice dripped with sarca
sm. “A repetition of your speech to a willing audience of weeping willows along a forgotten stretch of the Joy.” Vledder could seldom resist an attempt at alliteration.
Bent gripped the arm rests of his chair with both hands. His knuckles were white.
“I was never at the Joy,” he hissed, “I told you that already.”
Vledder sighed. He pulled forward a little plastic bag and held it up for all to see.
“Do you know what this is?”
“No.”
“Mud … dirt, a soil sample. Just before we rang the bell, we scraped this off the tires of your Bentley.”
Bent’s intelligent face looked positively stupefied.
“My Bentley? My car?”
Vledder nodded.
“Your car, your Bentley … an exceptional car with an exceptional wheelbase.” He smiled. “Have you ever heard of palynology? It’s a scientific method to compare soil samples. It’s foolproof.” He gave his host a mocking look. “Am I clear enough for you? We found the tracks of your car at the Joy. We took a soil sample there as well. Now do you understand, Mr. Bent? You were there. You were near the Joy.”
Suddenly the company president looked ashen. The blood had drained from his face. Again he raised himself from his chair, his eyes locked onto the small plastic bag that dangled from Vledder’s hand. As if dazed, as if hypnotized, he stretched out a hand to the plastic bag.
At that moment the door of the study opened and a slender woman appeared in the doorway.
“Henry!”
Her shout bounced off the walls and Bent froze in his tracks. A woman walked into the room, dressed in a clinging, turquoise nightgown made of silk. The dress whispered as she walked. She placed a hand on Bent’s shoulder and pressed him back into his chair. She looked coolly at the cops.
“My husband has nothing to do with all this. You have the wrong person. I killed Thornbush.”
DeKok swallowed his surprise with some difficulty.
“Y-you,” he stammered, “y-you killed him?”
She nodded slowly.
“I,” she said.
It seemed as if Bent suddenly recovered from his dazed state. He looked up at his wife and groped for her hand on his shoulder.
“Don’t do it, Sandra,” he said softly. “Don’t do it.”