DeKok gave the impresario a long, searching look.
“But does a corpse need an alibi?”
Peter Dongen shook his head.
“The corpse, of course not. But the killer …”
DeKok nodded encouragingly.
“Now I see where you’re going. The murderer would benefit from an alibi. My problem is the performance in Groningen. It only serves to put us on the track of ‘Clown Number 2’ … and from him, to the killer.”
“But can you find him?”
DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.
“Not easily. As somebody put it yesterday: ‘What is a clown? A clown is nothing … absolutely nothing—a crazy costume, big shoes, and a snoot full of paint.’” Effortlessly, DeKok repeated Fantinelli’s statement.
Dongen laughed.
“I never quite thought of it that way, but it makes sense.”
DeKok stood up.
“I would like a list of the artists who performed on the same bill with Pierrot on the night in question, in Groningen.” He paused. “And I want the address of Butterfly.”
Dongen gave him a puzzled look.
“Butterfly?”
DeKok nodded.
The impresario laughed nervously.
“You’re the second person to ask me that.”
DeKok’s eyebrows suddenly performed peculiar gymnastics as Dongen sifted through piles on his desk.
“Who was the first one to ask?”
Peter Dongen was still searching and did not look up when he answered.
“Maurice … Maurice Vlaanderen,” he said.
8
From Dongen’s office at Willem Park Way, DeKok and Vledder drove in the direction of Baerle Street. Despite the proximity of the two streets, they could not make the turn directly onto Baerle Street. They diverted, going around the Van Gogh Museum and the Concert Gebouw. Traffic was murder. Brown-painted steel poles, decorated with the shield of Amsterdam, had been placed along all major streets to prevent parking on the sidewalks and help guide traffic. These “Amsterdammmertjes” (Little Amsterdammers) had the opposite effect.
Unable to park on the sidewalks, people simply started parking and double-parking in the roadway. Amsterdam’s narrow streets could not absorb this congestion. Tricky traffic patterns had turned to complete chaos. Vledder managed to make progress by total disregard for the traffic laws and by completely ignoring the disapproving honking of other cars. Most other drivers took one look at the battered VW and decided that the driver would not mind a collision.
DeKok grumbled that they could have walked the distance in a fraction of the time. But after a while he sank back in his seat and concentrated on the case.
Little Lowee had told him there was a performer known as Butterfly connected to the same group as the murdered clown. Since that time he felt as if part of his burden had been lifted. Combining his investigation of the theft with that of the murder gave him a renewed sense of purpose. Although he wasn’t certain both cases were related, the diminutive barkeeper had given him a weapon in his argument with the commissaris. Now he would be justified in his refusal to concentrate just on the burglaries.
He grinned to himself. He could predict the commissaris, prompted by the judge advocate, would nag him again about the burglaries. He silently enjoyed the prospect of the next interview with his chief. The outcome would be in his favor.
When the police car completed its detour they found themselves in a quieter neighborhood. Vledder looked aside. There was a question he simply had to ask.
“What does Maurice want with Butterfly?”
DeKok pushed back his little hat and hoisted himself up in the seat.
“Perhaps he, too, has discovered the dancer called Butterfly. Like us, maybe he’d like to know whether she is connected to the robbery.”
“But how could he have enough to connect the dots?”
DeKok shrugged.
“We’ll have to ask him.” He paused, then added, “Apparently Maurice didn’t know so much. That’s why he visited Dongen.”
“Do you think he beat us to her?”
DeKok grunted.
“He could have, or he could be en route. He’s known her address a few hours longer.” He looked around. “Are we going the right way? You seem to be wandering in and out of three different neighborhoods.”
“Blame it on the traffic. Anyway we’re almost there. There’s Patrick Henry Street.” Vledder took a wrinkled piece of paper out of his breast pocket. “Number 764 … I think it’s just past that little park there.”
DeKok lifted his ridiculous little hat and bowed formally.
“My name is DeKok … with a kay-oh-kay. I’m an inspector assigned to Warmoes Street Station.” He thumbed in the direction of Vledder. “And this is my colleague, Detective Vledder.”
With the door in her hand she looked suspiciously at the two men.
“Police?”
DeKok nodded.
“And you? You are Butterfly?”
A faint smile curled her lips.
“That’s what my colleagues call me.”
“People in the theater group?”
“Yes.”
DeKok shaped his face into a friendly, winning expression.
“We would like to talk with you.”
“What about?”
“The death of a clown.”
She looked frightened.
“That … that is—”
DeKok interrupted gently.
“Maybe we should step inside. This doesn’t seem a subject to discuss on the doorstep.”
She blushed. She opened the door wider and indicated that the inspectors should come ahead. She stretched out her left arm.
“First door on the right. Find yourselves a seat.”
It sounded friendly and inviting. Carefully she closed and latched the door. Then she followed them.
Vledder and DeKok found seats on a wide, leather sofa with broad armrests. Butterfly pushed a hassock closer. She settled herself in a languid pose, but she had the sinewy strength of a dancer. With a quick, almost prim gesture she folded the slips of her dressing gown over her knees.
“I must tell you I know nothing about the death of that man.”
Before answering DeKok gave her his policeman’s gaze, sustained and searching. Without coyness his gaze felt her features. Little Lowee, he thought, was right. Butterfly was an enticing beauty. The diminutive barkeep, frequently surrounded by prostitutes, had a discerning eye for quality. She was beautiful, slender, and, on the surface, fragile. Her small oval face had charm. Although DeKok estimated her to be in her late twenties, her figure was that of a sixteen-year-old girl.
“Did you know Pierrot well?” he began.
She pursed her lips.
“We were acquainted, not intimately. But we all treated each other cordially.”
“Who?”
“The members of our group. It was always very friendly, more like family. As in any family, there were some clashes …
differences of opinion.” She smiled shyly. “Artists can be temperamental.”
DeKok nodded encouragingly.
“You speak in the past tense. Has the group disbanded?”
She shook her head. Her lovely, shy smile faded into an expression of sadness.
“Ever since we declared bankruptcy, we’ve had to stop performing as a group. It’s a pity. We seldom see one another. Everyone is now on his, or her, own trying to get gigs. It’s not always easy. One misses the support … especially me. All alone I’m not that much of an attraction.”
DeKok leaned forward.
“Do you know a Mr. Vlaanderen?”
Butterfly suddenly sat up straight and pressed her lips together. She gave DeKok an accusing look.
“This morning,” she said after a brief pause, “I got a phone call from a Mr. Vlaanderen.” Her voice rose and her face reddened. “He was ill-mannered, boorish. He told me that I had to return the jewels immediately.”
DeKok feigned surprise.
“What jewels?”
She gestured with both hands.
“Search me. This Vlaanderen gave me one chance to come clean and avoid going to prison. If I returned the jewels today, he would keep the police out of it.”
“And?”
“What?”
“Are you returning them?”
Angrily she stood up and stamped a dainty foot on the floor.
“Listen—I have no jewels,” she screamed loudly. “Before he called to threaten me, I’d never heard of a Vlaanderen.”
DeKok’s face showed no emotion. But he noticed that her angrily contorted face lost none of its beauty.
“Please sit down,” he said softly, but it sounded like a command.
Pouting, she sank down on the hassock. She took a small, lace handkerchief from her pocket and delicately dabbed at her eyes.
“What on earth does he want from me?” She lowered her head and sobbed quietly. “I have no jewels … none that belong to anyone else!”
“What about yourself?”
She sobbed again.
“Onyx,” she said. “I have some onyx jewelry. I like onyx.”
DeKok picked up his hat from the floor and stood up.
“Just one more question, who is to blame for you and your colleagues going broke?”
She lifted a teary face up to him.
“Pierrot … he took off with our money.”
They got into their car and drove away from Patrick Henry Street. Vledder made a turn toward Nassau Canal. He shook his head.
“What a child-woman,” he sighed. “Weren’t you tempted to take her under your arm? I’d put her in a gilded cage to protect her from this harsh world.”
DeKok looked at his young colleague and laughed.
“You’re waxing romantic,” he said with some amazement. “I’ve never heard you like that before.”
“Well,” shrugged Vledder, “she was so helpless, just a slip of a girl. You were much too harsh. I felt downright sorry for her.”
DeKok grinned unrepentantly.
“That helplessness could very well be an act, a diversion. Perhaps our little Butterfly is not at all as vulnerable as she appears. Showbiz is a hard profession … a dog-eat-dog world.”
“You mean she would not have lasted this long if she weren’t made of steel?”
“That’s precisely what I mean.”
Vledder shifted into a lower gear and suddenly hit the accelerator to push the underpowered VW across a rather steep bridge.
“You think,” he said as they coasted down the other side of the bridge, “she could have something to do with the burglaries?”
DeKok thought about it, as he mulled over the conversation. He remembered her various expressions.
“I think,” he said after a while, “it may be a good idea to get some more background information on her.” He glanced at his partner. “Did you note her real name?”
“Sure I did … and you remember it as well. It’s Martha—Martha Hagen.”
DeKok nodded.
“That’s right. Why don’t you find out if she’s married or ever has been. Has she had steady, or less than steady, relationships with men or women? What schooling … that sort of thing.”
“But,” protested Vledder, “why didn’t you ask her when you had the chance?”
“Didn’t think of it,” answered DeKok carelessly. “Besides,” he added, “we would have had to check it out anyway.”
Vledder looked disgruntled.
“More work for me, but all right.” He changed his tone of voice. “Are we going to do anything about that bankruptcy?”
“Pierrot’s absconding with the money?”
“Yes. Don’t you find that intriguing?”
DeKok looked suddenly aggressive.
“Indeed,” he agreed grimly. “Suddenly all the members of that Variety Group are suspects in the murder.” He turned in his seat. “Remember what she said about artists being temperamental … it’s just another way to say irritable and unpredictable.” He sighed. “Think about it. It’s a wonder Pierrot lived as long as he did.”
They left the car about a block from the station house, walking the rest of the way. As they got inside, the watch commander notified them a man was waiting for them.
“Kuster looked down his nose a bit. He’s been waiting for more than an hour,” he said disapprovingly.
DeKok looked at the large clock over the desk. It was fifteen minutes past six o’clock.
“Vledder and I,” he said, a bit irked, “have been working all day. We wouldn’t mind a bite to eat first.”
Kuster quickly interrupted.
“You can’t do that. First talk to the man.”
DeKok rubbed the corner of his eyes with a tired gesture.
“All right, who is he?”
“He says he’s a friend.”
“Whose friend?”
“Pieter Eikelbos’ friend.”
DeKok managed a tired grin and climbed the stairs to the detective room. Vledder detoured to fetch the visitor from the waiting room. DeKok awaited the two in the upstairs corridor. As Vledder and the visitor approached DeKok, the man reached out to shake hands.
“You’re Inspector DeKok?”
“With a kay-oh-kay,” admitted DeKok as he shook hands.
The man smiled for a moment.
“The watch commander told me you’d say so.”
Without comment DeKok led their visitor into the detective room and offered him a chair next to his desk. He tossed his raincoat and hat at the peg, missing both shots. He sat down behind his desk.
“You’re a friend of Pierrot?” he asked curtly.
The man shook his head.
“I’m a friend of Pieter Eikelbos.” He emphasized the name.
DeKok looked surprised.
“Is there a difference?”
The man nodded with conviction.
“For anyone who knew him, yes, because Pierrot was nothing but a mask. The clown disguise hid Pieter’s true nature. In fact, Pieter hated Pierrot. But it was the only way he could be invisible, while on stage.”
“Invisible?”
The man cocked his head.
“This won’t be difficult for you. You’re a police inspector. An understanding of human nature goes with the territory.” He paused. “So this isn’t farfetched.”
DeKok nodded and observed the wrinkly face of the man. Suddenly, without reason, he felt empathy for his visitor.
“Let’s start with your name,” he said.
“As I said … a friend.”
DeKok shook his head.
“You will have to do better. What is your name?”
“Jonkers, Henri Jonkers. I live in the Jordaan, on Daisy Street … Number 317.”
DeKok nodded. The Jordaan was one of the oldest neighborhoods in Amsterdam. The name was a bastardization of the French word Jardin, garden. It was so called by the Huguenots, who sought refuge in the Netherlands. They fled religious persecution in France. All the streets in the “garden” had flower names.
“How long have you known Pieter?”
“Ages. I witnessed his birth, so to speak. I was … eh, a family friend of his parents.”
“Where you close?”
“We were together from an early age. Once we were grown I still visited him in his houseboat. We would catch up with each other and he would end up talking about his troubles.”
“He had a troubled life?”
Jonkers nodded to himself.
“Yes, he had a weakness … an addiction.”
“Drugs?”
“No, it wasn’t drugs—nor women, despite what you may have heard. Women offered themselves to him, you know. Some were just curious about the man behind the costume. But he never was the instigator.”
“So, what, exactly was his addiction?”
“He was a compulsive gambler.”
“He gambled?” asked DeKok. “Is
that why he took the money?”
Jonkers sighed deeply.
“Pieter believed his luck would change. Then he would be able to pay back all the money he owed with interest. That’s why he always played va banque.”
DeKok nodded.
“Va banque, double or nothing, but it always came up nothing.”
Jonkers looked the inspector in the eye.
“His luck ran out, so I want to give you the name of his murderer.”
DeKok gaped in disbelief.
“His murderer?”
Henri Jonkers stared at DeKok without emotion.
“Freddie,” he said, “Freddie Wezel.”
9
After a long, refreshing night’s sleep, DeKok’s mind had been revived after the previous day’s exhaustive nature. He whistled cheerily, but tunelessly, as he entered the crowded detective room. With a casual gesture he threw his lunch bag in a drawer. Only then did he glance at Vledder who was busy on his computer.
“What are you doing?” he asked by way of greeting.
Vledder’s flying fingers rested for a moment.
“I’m just organizing everything we know, so far. I’m also preparing a report of our activities. All we have, though, is a hotchpotch of unrelated facts. Nothing parallels anything else.”
“Oh, well,” DeKok said after a long pause. “I’m sure you’ll be able to arrange it in an acceptable form.”
Vledder grinned ruefully.
“I better,” he said. “Buitendam has asked for you.”
“What does he want? More reports?”
Vledder shrugged.
“He doesn’t talk much to me. He just said he wanted to see you.”
DeKok’s face became stony.
“He’ll have to wait,” DeKok muttered, already sounding annoyed.
He closed the drawer of his desk and began pacing up and down the crowded room. He managed to unconsciously avoid obstacles like carelessly placed chairs and dustbins. He sidestepped the moving chairs of his colleagues as they rolled from one desk to another.
It was one of his habits to walk off difficult problems. His thoughts formed more clearly during this slow, deliberate pacing. The latest turn in the convoluted clown case caught him off-guard. It took him into uncharted territory. Suddenly he stopped next to Vledder’s desk.
DeKok and the Death of a Clown Page 7