“A rat,” he said with disgust. It sounded like the conclusion of a long analysis.
Vledder looked up.
“What?”
“Freddie Wezel.”
“You know him?”
DeKok nodded with a grimace on his face.
“Oh, yes. He’s been holed up in the quarter for some twenty years now. In the old days they called him Lady Freddie. He conned the public with three-card-monte. You know, three cards and you’re supposed to guess where the Lady is, after he shuffles them around.”
Vledder laughed.
“And the suckers always get it wrong.”
“No, not at first. As I said, he’s a rat. To gain their trust, he would let his victims win, at first. Two out of three hands would be a winner. As the stakes grew higher and higher, he’d shut them down. Next he set up some back rooms. At first these were in abandoned buildings, sort of like floating crap games. Later he took over houses of people who owed him money. Gambling in houses lent his scams some respectability, you see. An unwilling host would invite guests to a party. Freddie would be on hand to skin the guests, mostly the host’s close friends. Then he moved on, establishing an actual casino in a house along St. Nicholas Street. The police finally forced him out by raiding the place constantly. Regardless of the pretext for a raid, they always found something. If he wasn’t serving minors, he was watering drinks. He violated fire codes, got behind in his taxes. The beat goes on and on.”
Vledder looked thoughtful.
“Even so, is he capable of murder?”
DeKok rubbed his chin in thought.
“He’s managed to stay under the major crime radar,” he said carefully. “Freddie is sly and sneaky … the slippery type. We have a few unsolved murders among the closed case files. I’m personally convinced he had a hand in some or all of them. I simply reviewed those cases, out of my jurisdiction, you see. We’ve know he threatened and, maybe, strong-armed people who owed him money.”
“Like Pierrot?”
DeKok sank down in the chair behind his desk.
“Pieter Eikelbos confessed as much to Henri Jonkers. He told his friend that Freddie Wezel had threatened him. There is no reason to doubt Jonkers. His story casts a new light on Pierrot’s actions. He misused theater group funds, perhaps out of panic. They subsequently went belly-up. Question is, did Freddie’s threats end in murder? It looks as though Pierrot’s lifeline was cut the day the group filed bankruptcy.”
Vledder nodded and made a few changes in the text on his computer screen. He read over what he had just entered.
“While Pieter Eikelbos remained in charge of the group’s finances, he had a financial cushion. As soon as the money ran out, he couldn’t pay his gambling debts. Coincidentally he wound up dead.”
“And that—” began DeKok.
“Brings us right back to Freddie Wezel,” completed Vledder.
“That’s about it,” agreed DeKok. He looked stern. “My worry is we’ll never be able to prove it.” He pointed out the window. “This is reminiscent of some cases gathering dust at headquarters.”
“Identical?”
“More or less.”
Vledder jumped up. His face had turned red.
“This is too much for me,” he exclaimed. “We do not permit people to get away with murder in the Netherlands!” He spread his arms in bewilderment. “There has to be a way to hang this creep.”
DeKok looked at his young colleague with a sad smile on his lips.
“You know what else?” he asked.
“What?”
“I know where Freddie opened his new gambling joint.”
“Where?”
“On Gelder Quay, not far from Criers’ Tower where we found the corpse.”
Commissaris Buitendam greeted DeKok amiably. He even managed a stiff bow before he reseated himself.
“I’m glad, DeKok,” he said in a friendly tone of voice, “you could find the time to visit with me. I have come to realize the investigation of the disappearing jewelry is consuming your time and effort. I sympathize.” He paused and waved a slender, elegant hand at a stack of files on his desk. The pile was almost a foot high. The commissaris face was animated. “They have arrived,” he said happily.
“What?” DeKok asked the question in a suspicious tone.
The smile disappeared from the commissarial face and changed to a puzzled look.
“The files from The Hague,” he said anxiously. “Our own judge advocate, Mr. Schaap, personally requested them. He wants you to have the complete picture. Therefore I advise you to study the dossiers carefully.”
DeKok pointed at the stack of paper with a mocking grin.
“That pile of nonsense?” There was contempt in his voice.
The veins in Buitendam’s neck corded. A vein popped out on his forehead. He placed his hands on the dossiers.
“This is not nonsense,” he said, his voice barely under control. “These are bona fide reports, prepared by professional investigators.”
DeKok looked at the stack and shook his head.
“I don’t intend to read a single letter,” he said stubbornly. “Let The Hague clean its own house.”
Commissaris Buitendam stood up.
“Mr. Schaap has committed his resources to the Department of Justice in The Hague.” He slapped the pile of documents with a flat hand. “You will include these reports in your investigation.”
DeKok crossed his arms and then used one hand to rub his chin. He looked pensive. He did not really dislike his chief. That said, he had an irresistible urge to get the man’s goat, whenever they were in close proximity. It was like prodding a blowfish to see it puff up. Dangerous, yes, but DeKok couldn’t keep himself from taking a poke. For his part, Buitendam rarely disappointed.
“Well, you keep them safe,” he said after a long pause. “When I get around to it, I’ll keep it in mind. For the time being … for now, I don’t have any time for it.”
Buitendam swallowed.
“No time … no time,” he stammered.
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“We’ve discussed this … it is my priority.”
The commissaris’ face puffed, turning purple. The vein throbbed. His eyes bulged.
“I forbid you. DeKok, you are off the murder case.”
The gray sleuth slowly shook his head.
“If you wish,” he said solemnly. “However, those society burglaries may never be solved.”
For a moment it looked like Buitendam was going to reach across his desk and take DeKok by the throat. Then he sighed deeply and stretched out a commanding arm toward the door.
“OUT!!”
DeKok left.
Vledder looked concerned.
“Have you been thrown out … again?”
DeKok nodded calmly, outwardly unruffled.
“The man is stupid,” he said tiredly. Then he corrected himself. “It isn’t that. He simply doesn’t get it. He should just have asked me where we were in our investigations. Then I could have told him about the bankruptcy, the theater group, and a dancer by the name of Butterfly.” He grinned without amusement. “Now he ordered me not to have anything further to do with the murder case.”
“And you’re going to let it go?”
DeKok shook his head.
“Not now that I have a Butterfly.”
Vledder gave him a long, pensive look.
“So, you’re telling me Martha Hagen did the burglaries?”
“Well,” shrugged DeKok, “she’s the only Butterfly we’ve found so far.”
Vledder shook his head in resignation.
“You’re on the wrong trail, DeKok,” he said reasonably. “I’ve come to realize there is no connection between Pierrot’s murder and the burglaries. Even so I empathize with your disinterest in the jewelry thefts. We would both rather concentrate on the murder first.” He shook his head and smiled. “Our little Butterfly doesn’t factor into the equation.”
D
eKok observed his young colleague with a measured look.
“That woman made some impression on you.”
“Yes,” nodded Vledder. “She has a sweet, warm personality. To see her as a criminal is … eh, is … twisted.”
DeKok allowed the lines around his mouth to flicker. It was not a real laugh, not a sign of happiness, but a mild expression of self-mockery.
“I have suffered from a morbid imagination for years. Twisted or not, I use it to fight morbid crime.” He sighed deeply. “We don’t have the luxury of being fooled by a sweet face and charming manners,” he chastised. Suddenly he narrowed his eyes as he looked at Vledder. “Where did you get the ‘sweet, warm personality’ part?”
Vledder looked apologetic.
“Well, you told me to get more detail.”
“Yes, and so what?”
“Just so you know, I looked at her file. Martha Hagen has no rap sheet. We have nothing, not even a traffic ticket. I also called Dongen, her impresario.”
“So he was the one who described her as sweet and warm?”
Vledder hesitated.
“Yes, and he went on to say Martha Hagen was the soul of that group of artists. It wasn’t her performance on stage, but her poise and congeniality. She was the glue—she arbitrated differences, acted as a messenger between lovers. It all revolved around her.”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“And Dongen also called her Butterfly?”
“Yes,” laughed Vledder. “It’s her stage name. Nobody ever called her Martha Hagen. Peter Dongen knew her real name because of the contracts he arranged. People in the group called her Butterfly, or sometimes Ma.”
“Ma?”
“Short for Madame Butterfly, the opera, you see.”
“All that stemming from a dance number with a couple of plastic wings and a cable?” There was disbelief in his voice.
Vledder sighed.
“According to Dongen she had only the one number.”
“Affairs, relationships?”
Vledder shrugged.
“Dongen couldn’t say. He had never personally noticed anything.”
“What about her past?”
“He was vague. The word among the group was she had studied the violin at the Conservatory as a youngster.”
“Violin?”
Vledder nodded.
“Of course it’s unverified. I’ll check it out as soon as I have an opportunity. According to what she told people, she couldn’t make any money with her violin. Therefore she changed to dance lessons. She landed a membership in the group more or less by accident.”
“Who introduced her?”
Vledder looked up.
“Fantinelli.”
10
Vledder and DeKok walked from the station house to Gelder Quay. It was unusually quiet in the narrow alleys of the inner city. On the corner of the sea dike, there was a small group of drug dealers. They chattered in rapid, wildly difficult Bargoens. There was an uncomfortable silence as the two inspectors passed the group. DeKok was a recognizable figure. They resumed their conversations once the two inspectors were out of earshot. In the houses along the narrow side of Gelder Quay, prostitutes were slowly getting geared up.
DeKok asked Vledder the time. It was almost eleven o’clock. DeKok hoped that Freddie would be having his breakfast about now. He knew Freddie’s habits well enough. The gambler seldom rose before noon.
They stopped beside The Criers’ Tower and looked through the iron fence at the small dock beneath the tower. Nearly three days had passed since the discovery of Pierrot’s body. The investigation was going nowhere fast. The murderer and his motive were still hidden somewhere in the maze.
DeKok stared at the water. In his mind’s eye he calculated the waterways that led to the tower. During construction of the Metro, access to the tower was limited for months. Now everything was open again. The waters in this vicinity could be reached by boat from almost anywhere. East of The Criers’ Tower one could proceed through Easter Dock directly to Ijssel Lake and, from there, to the Zuyder Zee. To the west the waterways opened up into an extensive canal system running through the city. From there one could proceed inland in any direction and to the North Sea. There were no traces of anything in the water. Before moving on he took a last look at the dock. A few used condoms floated nearby. Some lazy prostitute had emptied the dustbin from her room into the canal.
They walked around The Criers’ Tower to Prince Henry’s Quay. They entered the wider part of Gelder Quay. DeKok stopped in front of a heavy oaken door with a barred hatch at eye height. DeKok leaned on the bell knob on the side of the door. One minute seemed like ten. As the hatch opened they saw part of a man’s face behind the bars. DeKok recognized one of the bouncers of the gambling den and gave him a friendly grin.
“Do you know me?”
“DeKok,” growled the man. “Warmoes Street.”
“Very good,” said DeKok and lifted his hat a centimeter in the air. “Open up. We’re here to see Freddie.”
The man made a movement with his head.
“Freddie’s still asleep.”
“Then you wake him.”
The man hesitated.
“What’s this all about?”
DeKok wiped the grin off his face.
“Murder,” he said evenly.
The man grimaced as if he had heard a dirty word.
“Murder?” he repeated, not quite believing his ears.
“Murder,” confirmed DeKok. “Tell Freddie we will not move from in front of this door until I have spoken to him.”
The man closed the hatch and DeKok glanced at his watch. More than five minutes later the door opened. The same man preceded the inspectors down a long, marble corridor. At the end of the corridor a carved wooden staircase rose in a half circle to the second floor. The man pushed a switch next to a leather-covered doorknob. The door sprang open. The man looked at DeKok with a smile.
“We’ve just updated our security,” he said pleasantly. “If I throw a switch downstairs, not even a mouse can get in, or out.”
DeKok looked at him.
“You found that necessary, did you?”
DeKok knew there was a constant state of war between the various underground gambling dens. Most bosses paid thugs to break up competitive establishments. The resulting collateral damage was never reported to the police. Victims waited until the time was right and exacted their revenge in kind.
Without answering DeKok’s question, the man took the inspectors to a large room furnished with about a dozen comfortable club chairs.
“Please take a seat … Freddie is dressing.”
Soon a stocky man emerged from a side door. He had a rough face, jowls like dewlaps, and a nose crooked from being broken various times. His thin, flaxen hair was combed over and plastered down. He wore a purple dressing gown. A polka-dot Ascot covered his neck.
He approached DeKok with long strides. They shook hands. He ignored Vledder. He pulled up a club chair and sat down opposite the inspectors. He lit a cigarette and leaned back. After he had blown a smoke ring at the ceiling, he lowered his gaze.
“Murder, DeKok?” he asked mockingly.
DeKok grinned.
“What do you call sliding six inches of steel into somebody’s back?”
Freddie Wezel tapped his chest.
“I’m supposed to have done that?”
DeKok pointed at the high windows.
“Very near here, on the other side of the water, on the dock at the foot of Criers’ Tower we found the corpse of a dead Pierrot. A little birdie told me he owed you a lot of money.” DeKok’s smile was fixed. “What made me think of you is your very persuasive collection methods.” He did not finish, but leaned forward.
“Freddie, did this Pierrot owe you money?”
“A gambling debt is a debt of honor.”
DeKok shook his head.
“You’re not answering my question. Did he owe you money?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“That’s none of your business.”
DeKok smiled.
“I understand—enough to compel you to apply a little pressure.” It sounded just a little too friendly.
Freddie made an irritated gesture.
“When they win, they expect me to cough up the cash.”
DeKok ignored the remark.
“Did you threaten Pierrot?”
Freddie took a long pull on his cigarette and slowly released the smoke.
“Look here, DeKok,” he said patiently, “I don’t want to hear the word threat again. As I said, a gambling debt is a debt of honor. Every gambler knows that. The people who come here regularly get credit, as much as they need. Pierrot was one of my regulars.” He slapped the armrest of his chair. “If one of these associates doesn’t pay up on time, I’m not going to beg … but I will remind them of their obligations.”
“Like Pierrot?”
Freddie nodded calmly.
“Like Pierrot,” he said.
“And that’s why you went to his house?”
“Yes, his payment was more than a week late and he didn’t show. That’s like a red flag to me, a warning sign. Therefore I paid him a visit in his houseboat.”
“Just you?”
Freddie grinned.
“I don’t need any witnesses.”
“When were you on that houseboat?”
The gambler closed his eyes for a moment. Then he opened them again.
“Three days,” he said, “three days before his death.”
DeKok leaned his head to one side.
“When was his time up?”
“You mean the deadline for payment?”
“Exactly.”
For the first time Wezel showed some emotion.
“The night he turned up dead,” he said hoarsely.
DeKok’s expression remained fixed.
“Remarkable coincidence, don’t you think?”
Freddie hoisted himself upright in his chair.
“The hell with coincidence,” he spoke louder. “I had nothing to do with offing the loser.” He tapped his forehead with an index finger. “I’m not a mental case. You think if I whack a guy I’m going to do him on my own doorstep?”
DeKok and the Death of a Clown Page 8