DeKok and the Death of a Clown

by A. C. Baantjer

  “Yes, my wife.”

  “Tell me, are you never afraid you’ll miss?”

  Fantinelli shook his head.

  “No, but maybe I’ll miss one day.”

  DeKok shook his head, as if to wake himself.

  “I don’t follow.”

  The knife thrower moved in his chair again. His face turned red and there again was an angry look on his face.

  “The bitch works every room, flirts with every new guy. She’s on the make and on the move, flitting from one to another like a nympho. The newest heartthrob is a clown.”

  DeKok feigned surprise.

  “A clown you say?”

  “Yes.”

  DeKok suddenly pointed a finger at Fantinelli.

  “That’s why you want to see the dead clown,” he said as if it was a revelation.

  Fantinelli nodded emphatically.

  “Yes, if he’s dead, we’ll have peace for a while.”

  Suddenly DeKok’s affable manner changed. His tone became sharp and incisive.

  “When who is dead?”

  The knife thrower did not answer.

  “When who is dead?” repeated DeKok, insistently.

  Fantinelli lowered his head.

  “Pierrot.”

  Vledder was shaken.

  His voice cracked in astonishment and anger, “You let him go? You just let him go!” He pointed both arms at the door of the detective room. “Just like that … the murderer walks.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “He’s not the murderer.”

  Vledder grimaced, disbelief on his face.

  “He has a clear motive.” He gestured toward the throwing knife on DeKok’s desk. “And that thing in Pierrot’s back was his knife.”

  DeKok slid the weapon back in his desk drawer.

  “He admitted as much,” he said calmly. “But a complete set of knives was stolen from his car in Amersfoort last month. The local police investigated the incident. You made the call—did they not confirm it?”

  Vledder smiled crookedly.

  “It proves nothing,” he exclaimed. “Somehow I think Fantinelli is smart enough to report his knives stolen as a smokescreen.”

  DeKok sighed deeply.

  “He simply did not do it.”

  Vledder gesticulated wildly. Never before had he been in more disagreement with his mentor.

  “And we know that because …” he asked sarcastically.

  “I have a gut feeling.”

  For a moment the young inspector closed his eyes, as if praying for strength.

  “Now we’re going on intuition,” he said dully. “We need proof to eliminate him as a suspect.” He turned his chair around and straddled it backward.

  “Can’t you see some logic in this, DeKok?” he asked, more reasonably.

  “What?”

  “Despite his obvious boldness, Fantinelli is by no means a clever man. Right after the killing he makes a beeline for the police to announce his motive.”

  “Yes, so what?”

  Vledder snorted. DeKok was being especially obtuse.

  “We’d be unlikely to miss the affair between Fantinelli’s wife and Pierrot in the course of our investigation. By artlessly telling us that, he took the wind out of our sails.”

  DeKok rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingers. It was a tired gesture. He turned toward Vledder and placed a hand on the young man’s shoulder.

  “Listen, Dick,” he said patiently, “Fantinelli has no real motive. Nothing. Apparently his wife has had relations with several men over the years. He knew about the affairs. Nothing ever came of the liaisons. The acrobat still performs his caprioles, fit as a fiddle. The trapeze artist still flies far above the crowd.”

  Vledder wasn’t about to drop it.

  “Nonetheless the clown is dead.”

  DeKok gave his young colleague a tired smile.

  “Indeed,” he said evenly. “By a knife, but not by the knife thrower. What are the chances he’d be stupid enough to use one of his own knives to kill a rival?” DeKok stood up. “Look, in spite of it all, the guy loves his wife. He isn’t prepared to lose her forever. She’s gotten away with these ‘escapades’ for years. She remains under his wing, regardless of the occasional confrontation. Now, suddenly, he …” He did not finish the sentence. Slowly he walked over to the peg where he kept his raincoat and his hat.

  Vledder followed. His mentor had still not convinced him.

  “Where are you going?”

  DeKok grinned.

  “I’m going to see Little Lowee. I feel the need for a bracing glass of cognac.”

  Lowee’s real name was Louis, yet because of his diminutive size he was known as Little Lowee. Lowee’s mousy face changed to an expression of joy when he saw DeKok and Vledder enter the dark, intimate bar. He stopped the rinsing of some glasses, dried his hands quickly on his vest, and reached out a hand to the inspector. He shook hands enthusiastically. Vledder received a condescending nod.

  “Well come,” he chirped, “welcome, Negozie.”

  Negozie is an underworld word for “business” or “establishment.” Lowee spoke a type of Dutch that even native Dutchmen found hard to understand. His language was the language of the underworld and the gutter. A mixture of several languages with meanings far removed from their original intent and almost all mispronounced. The closest thing to Bargoens, as it is called, would probably be a mixture of Cockney, Yiddish, Dutch, and Papiamento, which is itself a mixture of Dutch, Portuguese, and several African dialects.

  DeKok was the only cop in the Netherlands who both understood and spoke Bargoens, but he firmly refused to speak it.

  “And a good afternoon to you,” said DeKok.

  “So, whatsa going atta station?” asked Lowee.

  Without waiting for an answer the small barkeeper placed three snifters on the counter and then produced a bottle of fine French cognac. The label on the dusty, amber bottle belonged to a respected vintner. With an almost devout gesture he held the bottle up for DeKok to see.

  “From the ol’ supply, yet,” Lowee said with a satisfied smile. “I’m more careful widdit then m’ wife, if I had one.”

  With an expert movement he removed the cork and carefully poured the golden liquid in the waiting glasses. His movements had the appearance of a solemn ceremony.

  DeKok watched with a friendly, anticipatory smile on his face. He loved these moments. He was fully aware that Lowee was both a thief and a fence, a man who had broken just about every law and commandment. DeKok did not judge the small barkeep. Their unlikely friendship had grown into mutual love and respect.

  “Proost,” said DeKok, as he lifted his glass. Lowee and Vledder followed suit.

  DeKok rocked the glass slowly in his hand and then sniffed the aroma of the truly exceptional drink. Then he took a careful sip. Softly the velvet drink slid down his throat. He gave the glass a long look and took another sip. Then he replaced the glass on the bar.

  “There are moments,” he said, “when I am completely at peace with the universe. This is one of those moments.”

  Lowee nodded in agreement.

  “Couldna said it better m’self,” he said. “You gotta way wiv words.”

  Vledder snorted.

  “You don’t spend all day with him.”

  Lowee did not even turn his head toward the young inspector. He still had trouble accepting Vledder as a worthy patron. He tolerated the man because of his association with DeKok. As if Vledder had not been there, Lowee repeated his original question.

  “So, whazzup atta station?” he asked.

  DeKok smiled.

  “We won’t be jobless anytime soon. There’s no crime recession.” He leaned closer across the bar. “I’m looking for antique jewels,” he whispered.

  “A lot?”

  “Worth about a million.”

  Lowee whistled between his teeth in appreciation.

  “Thassa haul,” he said with admiration. “Good stuf
f?”

  “I think so. If it happens to be offered … you know where I am.”

  Lowee looked doubtful.

  “They ain’t gonna see me. Don’t go for jools. Too easy to spot and there ain’t no green in fox.”

  Vledder wanted to know what “fox” was. DeKok explained it was the catch-all phrase for melted down gold and silver jewelry removed from its mountings. Even Vledder knew that “green” meant money.

  DeKok changed the subject.

  “Ever hear of a Clarisse?” he asked. “She is a working girl, associated with an escort service.”

  Lowee winked.

  “Carol Ponytail.”

  “Is that her real name?”

  The barkeeper grinned.

  “I know she use Clarisse as a moniker. To me she’s just Carol. Ever since she were a kid, she done her hair in a ponytail. Silly Kate will have her address.”

  DeKok nodded his thanks and drained his glass.

  “Why don’t you pour one for the road.”

  Lowee responded with alacrity.

  “Is them dead clown one of youse, too?”

  DeKok smiled.

  “You mean, am I handling the case?”

  Lowee nodded.

  “You been seen at the weep stick.”

  “That’s right,” laughed DeKok. He thought “weep stick” was an original name for The Criers’ Tower. “Did you hear anything?”

  Lowee grinned.

  “Plenty street rumers.”

  “What sort of rumors?” prompted DeKok.

  “They was busted.”

  DeKok looked puzzled.

  “Who was bankrupt?”

  “Them variety group.”

  “You mean the clown at Criers’ Tower was part of a group that went bankrupt?”

  “Yep.”

  “How big is that group?”

  “Oh about ten, maybe a dozen of them guys.”

  “No women?”

  Lowee laughed.

  “Of course they got bints. Variety wiv’ no bints … no way. Good lookin’ broads. They been here a few times when they’s in Mokum.” He turned to Vledder and said in perfectly accented Dutch: “That is Amsterdam to you.” He then resumed in his usual gutter language. “Like most of them showbiz folk, they stops by … after the show.” He lost himself in thought. “Yeah,” he added, “good-lookin’ broads … Butterfly was a babe.”

  DeKok almost choked on his cognac.

  “Butterfly?”

  Little Lowee nodded emphatically.

  “Exacto. She danced wiv’ them plastic wings on her back. She sorta floated onna cable over the stage. Crowd ate it up.”

  DeKok replaced his glass.

  “Butterfly,” he whispered in amazement. “Butterfly.”

  With a sudden upsurge of affection he took Lowee’s small face between his hands.

  “Lowee,” he said tenderly, “sometimes you too have a way with words.”

  6

  The inspectors found their way from Lowee’s to Rear Fort Canal. They ambled in the direction of Old Acquaintance Alley. A steady drizzle raised a gray, damp veil over the canals. Business was as brisk as usual in the quarter. Crowds of tourists in crumpled plastic paraded along the streets and canals. Prostitutes displayed themselves behind the windows. People formed a queue at a sex theater.

  DeKok pulled up the collar of his raincoat and pushed his hat farther forward. A young, beautiful, heroin whore took him by the arm. She had a dark, troubled look in her eyes and her hair was plastered around her head.

  “Do you want to do it?” she asked.

  DeKok looked at her.

  “What?” he asked puzzled, his thoughts miles away.

  She shook her head. The troubled look in her eyes disappeared for a moment.

  “If I have to explain,” she said, with pity in her voice, “you’re too old to need it.”

  With a grin she slipped away and disappeared in the crowd.

  Vledder burst out laughing.

  “You see, they all think you’re decrepit.”

  DeKok shrugged it off, but the incident saddened him. This skinny, disheveled girl had no clue DeKok was an officer of the law. Her boldness betrayed her naïveté. She couldn’t have worked these streets long. She had likely just arrived in the quarter. He was struck by the influx of ever-younger prostitutes. They were children, abandoned by everyone, lost in hard-core addiction. After all, soft drugs were readily available in coffee shops, even from certain government outlets. When Holland decriminalized drug use, the number of new addicts plummeted by nearly ninety percent. Strangely this success did not translate to a reduction in the number of heroin prostitutes, quite the contrary. DeKok could not reconcile it. He was not alone.

  From Old Acquaintance Alley they crossed the bridge to Old Church Square. At Saint Anna Alley, DeKok pushed open a green entry. Vledder followed, hoisting his weight up the narrow, steep stairs.

  “Why are we here?” he asked.

  The old man kept his momentum.

  “We’re going to see if Silly Kate is awake.”

  On the second floor landing DeKok tried the front door of an apartment. The door was not locked. It opened into a small kitchen. The next room was a living room.

  In an easy chair, her corpulent body wrapped in a silk kimono embroidered with red, fire-spitting dragons, they found Silly Kate reading a magazine. She looked comical with half-glasses at the tip of her nose, her hair in pink curlers.

  The unexpected arrival of the men did not disturb her equilibrium. Calmly she put the magazine down, took off her glasses, and looked up. When she recognized DeKok, she grinned.

  “Hello, you old rat catcher.”

  DeKok smiled back.

  “We just stopped by to see if you were awake.”

  “I’ve been awake since before I woke up. I’ve been wide awake all my life.”

  DeKok thumbed in the direction of Vledder.

  “You know him?”

  Kate nodded slowly.

  “The new wave,” she said with disapproval in her voice. “I wonder what they’ll ever contribute.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She shrugged.

  “Ach, old workhorses like you understand people. These brash, young cops may be bright …” She did not finish the sentence, but waved a plump arm at the window. “Just look outside. Girls used to play with dolls at that age. Now they play a deadly game.” She shook her head. “I remember a time when the cops would have had them in custody within days. Sounds harsh—it was harsh. At least jail was a place to get clean, maybe live a little longer. These kids are standing in front of the graves they dig themselves, while we look the other way. Nobody cares enough to give them a running start.”

  DeKok remained silent. He found it curious the oldsters cared about the heroin problem, but it was the youngsters who were dying. There had to be, he thought, a reason.

  Silly Kate looked up at him and studied the thoughtful look on his face.

  “So why are you standing there like somebody who’s been caught with his hand in the cookie jar?” Her tone was suddenly sharp and accusing. “You didn’t hoist yourself up the stairs to ask after my health.”

  DeKok, suddenly called back to reality, pulled an earlobe and laughed.

  “That too, Kate. How are you?”

  “Fine and you?”

  “Getting on with it.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded.

  “Fine … that’s been dealt with,” she said resolutely. “So, drop your pants.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “Thanks anyway. I’m actually not here for that. You want to know why I’m here at, for you, an ungodly hour?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Carol Ponytail.”

  “What do you want with her?”

  “We need to chat.”

  “What about?”

  DeKok hesitated for a moment.

  “Jewelry,” he said after a long pause.

  Kate n
odded slowly.

  “Antique jewelry.”

  “How did you guess?”

  Silly Kate did not answer. She picked up the magazine from her lap and heaved herself onto her feet. Her oversized slippers caused her to shuffle toward the window. In front of the window stood a table with a woolen tablecloth and a few chairs covered with the same material.

  “Come,” she said as she pulled out a few chairs. “I don’t care to meet with you standing.” She waited until the inspectors were seated. As she sat, she said, “I told Carol to watch it. I was sure you would come after her.”

  “You’re talking about the jewels?”

  Silly Kate nodded. She hoisted her heavy breasts up and rested them on the table as she leaned forward.

  “Look, Carol has been going for years to old man Vlaanderen at Gentleman’s Canal. He treats her well. Really. No kinky stuff; no rough stuff. He never haggles and always gives her a generous personal tip. Carol genuinely likes him. Old man Vlaanderen is a gentleman, one of a dying breed. He understands that even a working girl is, before anything else, a human being. That’s how he treats her.”

  DeKok resigned himself to let the praise for Vlaanderen wash over him. He had known Silly Kate for years and he knew she might shut up like a clam if you interrupted her discourse.

  “Has … has Carol ever seen the jewelry?” he tried carefully.

  Silly Kate made a gesture of annoyance.

  “I’m getting there,” she said, testily. “Sometimes, when Carol is around, he takes the jewels out of the safe. With her clothes off, he adorns her. He dresses her hair with gold and silver combs. He adds a tiara, earrings, and a necklace so full of stones it covers her breasts. Next comes armbands, anklets, rings, jewel-studded belts …” She closed her eyes and then looked silently into the distance. “Little Carol looks like a Christmas tree … gorgeous … everything glittering.”

  DeKok coughed discreetly.

  “Have you ever told anyone else about these costume parties?”

  Silly Kate shook her head indignantly.

  “Never,” she said. “We are professional women. I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

  “And Carol?”