DeKok and the Death of a Clown

by A. C. Baantjer

  The two men nodded simultaneously. They lifted the dead clown from the dock and placed him on the stretcher. Out of habit they draped a sheet over the corpse. Beneath the sheet the knife stood at an odd, almost comic, angle. Carefully they moved the stretcher to the quay.

  DeKok stayed aft, observing the constables trying to keep onlookers at bay. Then he turned around, thanked the crew of the launch, and stepped onto the quay. He beckoned Vledder to follow. Vledder had just finished giving instructions for the taping of the crime scene and ensuring a uniformed constable would keep curiosity seekers out.

  The two men were silent as they headed back to the station house. A human being had been horribly murdered. They were preoccupied with the thought of a murderer at large.

  As they walked through the old quarter, DeKok looked around. The rhythm of the neighborhood had not been disturbed. Sleazy sex theaters did a brisk business. From the open door of a bar came the noise of stamping feet and the wail of an electric guitar. Some women giggled in front of the display window of a sex shop.

  As they entered the station house, Jan Kuster, the watch commander, motioned them to approach the counter. As they stepped closer, Kuster looked at his notes.

  “About half an hour ago we received a phone call from a Dongen, Peter Dongen. He’s an impresario. He asked me to tell you that Pieter Eikelbos performs tonight in Groningen.

  DeKok looked puzzled.

  “Groningen” he repeated in a daze. Groningen is a city in the northern Netherlands. DeKok recalled, fleetingly, it was the birthplace of Mata Hari.

  The watch commander nodded.

  3

  “He’s performing as Pierrot … the clown.”

  With his raincoat draped loosely across his wide shoulders, DeKok lowered himself in the chair behind his desk. His dilapidated little felt hat clung to the back of his head. The watch commander’s voice still reverberated. He exchanged glances with Vledder, who looked at him despondently.

  “Have you ever seen a clown without make-up?”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “I heard Dr. Koning asking you the same thing. It’s a good question.”

  “Well?”

  Vledder spread his hands in a helpless gesture.

  “When does an ordinary person see a clown? Performing in a theater, in a circus, on television, but always performing. When I saw Pierrot in the theater, he had a chalk-white face with black circles around his eyes. I remember his appearance well. He was not just comical; he was a musical virtuoso. He played the flute, clarinet, and saxophone. Next he switched to the violin and the piano. Even the most gifted artists choose between groups of instruments. But his performance ran the gamut. It was a delight to hear and see. He was a phenomenal performer.”

  “And his face?”

  Vledder showed impatience.

  “I told you … always made up. My seat was at least fifteen to twenty yards away from the stage. I recognized the clown on the dock as Pierrot by his clothing. Every clown has unique make-up and dress. Clowns register their stage personas. You will never see two clowns dressed and made up the same … so I understand.” He paused thoughtfully. “When I saw the body,” he continued, “he was on his stomach. Later, once he was on the stretcher, I was able to get a better look at the face.” He sighed deeply. “It didn’t do anything for me. It was the face of a stranger. He was maybe forty, forty-five years old.”

  DeKok rubbed his little finger along the bridge of his nose.

  “So,” he said with a sigh, “we now have two Pierrots. One is alive and well in Groningen and another is on a slab.”

  Vledder nodded somberly.

  “Which is the real one?”

  DeKok pursed his lips before answering.

  “This shouldn’t be tough. If the performer in Groningen displays the musical virtuosity of the man who performed in the Variety Revue, he is legitimate.” He paused and rubbed his chin. “Unless … unless, one believes two people could possess such musical expertise. Even if that were true, someone would have had to see Pierrot’s act often enough to be able to mimic it.” He stretched out a finger toward Vledder. “Just as you recognized Pierrot by his costume, the audience in Groningen could be fooled by the substance of the performance.”

  Vledder gave his mentor a long, thoughtful look.

  “You actually mean,” he said hesitantly, “just about anybody could be hiding behind the costume and make-up in Groningen.”

  “Something like that.”

  He stared into the distance.

  “And perhaps the real Pierrot is now waiting on a cold table in the pathology lab.”

  DeKok thought. He was momentarily overwhelmed with possibilities.

  “Of one thing I am sure,” he said with a sigh, “we’ve entered a maze.”

  Slowly he came to his feet, stretched, and walked over to the peg on the wall to hang his raincoat and his hat.

  “Why don’t you concoct some sort of preliminary report for the commissaris,” he said as he walked back to his desk. “You know how he feels about being kept in the loop. As soon as he has drunk his first cup of coffee, he’ll start fussing about being the last to know anything.”

  Vledder grinned as he pulled the keyboard of his computer closer.

  “A preliminary report,” he murmured. “I haven’t done many of those. What do you want to put in it?”

  DeKok stood next to Vledder’s desk.

  “Inspectors Vledder and DeKok,” he dictated, “report that—fill in today’s date—at 21:15 hours, a body was discovered on a wooden dock at the feet of The Criers’ Tower. The body was that of an unknown male, dressed in a clown’s costume. Apparently the man was killed with a large throwing knife, which was stuck in the back of the victim.”

  Vledder looked up.

  “A throwing knife?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Exactly. It was the type of knife professional carnies throw at attractive female assistants on stage.”

  “I didn’t notice,” said Vledder. “It was a rather large knife of a peculiar shape. I should have gone a step further.” He pushed his keyboard away. “Could the killer have thrown the knife from a distance?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Perhaps you should discuss that with Dr. Rusteloos tomorrow, before the autopsy. He could have seen something like it before. Maybe the wound will tell him how it was—” DeKok suddenly stopped talking. The door to the detective room opened and a man stuck his head around the door.

  “Come in,” called Vledder.

  The man entered fully. He was athletic looking, lean and lithe, with remarkable white-blond hair. DeKok figured him to be in his late twenties. He was dressed in gray slacks and a blue blazer with an anchor emblem on the breast pocket. He approached the two inspectors with the gait of a gymnast. He stretched out a hand.

  “You’re Inspector DeKok?”

  “With a kay-oh-kay,” said DeKok automatically, shaking hands.

  The young man smiled, showing a set of strong, white teeth.

  “My name is Maurice … Maurice Vlaanderen. My father was here earlier this evening.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “With a story about an extraordinary theft,” he commented and pointed to a chair next to his desk. “Are you here to tell me the jewels have been found?”

  Maurice Vlaanderen shook his head.

  “You are our only hope.” He sank down in the offered chair. “You have a great reputation as a sleuth. So they say.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “Give them my regards,” he said dryly.

  The young man’s face became more thoughtful.

  “Seriously, Inspector DeKok, I would be so grateful if you could solve this strange theft. We’re not so worried about the money. According to our lawyer, the insurance company will eventually pay the damages. It isn’t only because of the irreplaceable nature of the jewels, either.” He hesitated a moment. “It is because of my father.”

  DeKok pensively pulled on his e
arlobe as he studied the young man.

  “What’s the matter with your father?”

  Maurice seemed to search for words.

  “Let me see how to put this. He has been a changed man since the theft. I hardly recognize my father. Like most people, he has suffered setbacks in his lifetime. He’s absorbed some serious shocks, but he has always managed to hit the ground running.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “He made a normal impression upon me.”

  Young Vlaanderen smiled indulgently.

  “Father was very much impressed by you. In fact, he was surprised you accepted his strange story. That is to say, you gave him that impression.”

  DeKok leaned his head to one side.

  “But he spoke the truth.”

  Maurice Vlaanderen gesticulated wildly, his face red and his nostrils quivering.

  “That’s exactly the problem,” he cried out. “It is he who cannot accept the truth. He refuses to believe the jewels disappeared from the safe. He doesn’t want to discuss it, but keeps harping about a loss of memory. Tomorrow he has an appointment with a psychiatrist.”

  DeKok seemed surprised.

  “Is that a first?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  Maurice released a deep sigh.

  “Fear. His memory has always been sharp. He’s afraid it’s the beginning of some debilitating or degenerative disease.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Your father is a long way from that,” he said soothingly. “There appeared to me to be no dementia. I’m sure there will be an explanation for the vanishing jewels.” He smiled. “We simply don’t have the explanation right now.” With both hands DeKok pressed his body in a more upright position, clearly indicating that this was the end of the interview. “Give my regards to your father.”

  Vlaanderen did not get up.

  “There’s something else,” he said timidly, “Father did not want to tell you.”

  “What’s that, then?”

  The young man stood up and looked DeKok straight in the eye.

  “Butterfly.”

  Vledder slapped himself on the thighs from pure exhilaration within moments after Maurice Vlaanderen had left.

  “Butterfly,” he laughed. “Butterfly. The only thing the man can remember after the theft of millions, is ‘butterfly.’ He’s an original, alright. He must have been thinking of the little butterfly that spent the night.”

  DeKok ignored his colleague’s outburst. He did not find “butterfly” all that comical. He appreciated the remarks of the broker, but wondered how he could transform the single word into a concept. DeKok needed any lead during this phase of his investigation. He suspected the word stuck in the senior Vlaanderen’s subconscious for a reason. But finding the connection between this single word and a mysterious theft would be quite another matter.

  He looked at Vledder, who was calming down, but there was still a grin on his face and his eyes twinkled.

  “Have you sent the APB?”

  “What APB?”

  “The one describing the jewels.”

  The last signs of amusement disappeared from Vledder’s face. He pulled the keyboard of his computer closer and touched the keys.

  “Yes and no,” he said. “Here is the report and the description of the jewelry. It hasn’t gone out yet.”

  “Well, hadn’t you better do that? And don’t forget to add a note about the butterfly bit.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Vledder and performed the necessary commands on his keyboard.

  DeKok shook his head. In the old days he would have delivered a handwritten report to the typing room. An old, grizzled constable, no longer fit for street duty, would have used two fingers to prepare a punch tape from the written text for the telex. Similar punch tapes would spit out at all police stations. Other grizzled constables would laboriously decode the tapes into legible reports. These would be typed onto stencils by means of manual typewriters. Then the reports would be mimeographed for distribution throughout the various precincts. DeKok was satisfied. From his viewpoint, no further technological advance was required.

  “Did you mention the butterfly thing?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Vledder, still flustered over his own procrastination.

  “Good.”

  DeKok took a telephone directory from a drawer in his desk and looked for the name “Dongen.”

  He found the address and stood up. As he struggled into his raincoat, Vledder asked what he was up to.

  “We’re going to Willem Park Way,” answered DeKok, as he put his hat on. “We need to ask an impresario how well he knows his clowns.”

  Peter Dongen, the impresario and manager of artists, was a tall, broad-shouldered man with a full head of wavy hair. His steel-blue eyes were set in a sharp, angular, tan face. His wide, dimpled chin jutted aggressively. He strode ahead of the inspectors to a large space, dominated by an oversized, disorderly desk. With a wave of his hands he invited his visitors to an alcove furnished with a table and modern, steel chairs.

  “Please have a seat,” he said. His voice was deep and warm. “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  DeKok sat down and placed his hat on the floor next to his chair.

  “Sir,” he began hesitantly, “we are charged with investigating the death of a clown.”

  With a smile, Dongen interrupted him.

  “You’re talking about the man in the clown’s costume?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “That’s one way to put it.” He pointed at Vledder. “My colleague seems to recall the man as Pierrot, a musical clown. He thoroughly enjoyed a performance in the Municipal

  Theater last year. I also understand you called our station house to tell us Pierrot was performing in Groningen tonight.”

  Peter Dongen crossed his long legs.

  “Yes, I received a call from the manager of the Municipal Theater,” he explained. “Old man Willink. A rather upsetting phone call, I should add. He wanted to know what was wrong with Pierrot.”

  “And?”

  The impresario grinned.

  “I told him nothing was going on with Pierrot. I told him about the performance in Groningen. Then Mr. Willink told me to call Warmoes Street Station, because they had reported Pierrot dead.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “We have a request for you,” he said in an official tone of voice. “We want you to identify our dead Pierrot.”

  Dongen’s face fell.

  “When?”

  “Now.”

  Dongen looked at his watch.

  “But it’s almost midnight,” he protested.

  DeKok gave him a long, expressionless look.

  “What better time to visit a morgue?”

  Dongen rode in the cramped back seat of the old VW Beetle, his displeasure showing. They made their way from his office to the morgue, which was attached to the pathology lab. Vledder, as usual, was driving and DeKok was slouched down in the passenger seat. His little hat was pushed down over his eyes and he seemed asleep.

  Their reluctant passenger had exhausted his reasons not to go. In the end he caved to DeKok’s quiet insistence. The prospect of having to face death kept him silent during the ride.

  On arrival at the morgue, Vledder produced the key to the forecourt gate. He drove through the gate, parking at the base of the stairway leading to the front door. An old watchman appeared. Recognizing both inspectors he continued on his rounds. They climbed the steps and entered. Only the click of their footsteps echoed down the long, partially lit hallway. The morgue and pathology lab were at the end of the hall. Here bodies awaited either burial or autopsy. The place was cold, and a pall of silence hung over it.

  “Nine to five sounding better?” asked Vledder idly, as he glanced back down the deserted corridor.

  DeKok shook his head in disapproval. He didn’t want to hear it just now. There were simply not enough murders in Amsterdam to warrant perpetual sta
ffing.

  Vledder sauntered to the wall where banks of drawers contained the deceased. He proceeded to read labels and opened a drawer. As the drawer slid out on well-oiled rollers, he flicked the sheet back from over the head. Pierrot was still on his stomach, the knife still protruding from his back. But his head had been turned to one side, to make the face visible. Death presented itself in the harsh neon light in its most revolting aspect.

  Dongen, who had followed Vledder, took a frightened step back when he saw the face. With a shaking hand he pointed at the corpse.

  “This is impossible! This isn’t happening. It isn’t true … it isn’t true,” he repeated. “I telephoned Groningen myself.”

  DeKok looked grim.

  “What isn’t true,” he asked.

  Peter Dongen lowered his head and sobbed.

  “It is our Pierrot.”

  4

  “Pieter Eikelbos?”

  The impresario did not answer. With a look of disbelief he stared at the corpse. Then he paled and began to reel.

  DeKok hastened forward and signaled Vledder. The young inspector covered the face and pushed back the drawer into the wall. DeKok was familiar with the symptoms. He was afraid that the tall impresario would faint on the spot and he quickly led him outside.

  The fresh night air revived Dongen a bit. He took a few deep breaths and regained some color in his face. DeKok gave him a thoughtful look.

  “Was that Pieter Eikelbos?”

  Dongen nodded slowly.

  “Pieter Eikelbos was his real name. Pierre was his childhood nickname, given to him by his parents. That’s why he chose Pierrot as his professional name.” He shook his head in despair and sighed deeply. “It is … unimaginable.”

  “What?”

  “Pierre is there, in that drawer. Had I not seen it with my own eyes …” Dongen did not finish the sentence. He lowered his head and stared at the ground. “Poor Pierre was always sad beneath his surface. Depression is the occupational disease of clowns.” There was a pleasant, almost wistful timbre to his voice, but suddenly his tone changed. “This I cannot comprehend,” he said sharply. “When Willink called to tell me his distressing news, I immediately called the theater in Groningen. They assured me Pierrot had performed. He was on the program just before the intermission. The performance was, as ever, a great success.”