Vledder now became derisive.
“But her hands were folded in prayer.”
“Exactly,” agreed DeKok. “It was supposed to look like a praying posture. Somebody placed her body in that position.”
“But who?”
“The murderer, of course.”
“And why?”
DeKok glanced at Vledder. He was relieved to see his partner’s face had regained its normal coloration.
“Why,” he began hesitantly, “would someone put a dead clown in a conspicuous white suit on a small dock near Gelder Quay?”
Vledder parked the VW behind the station house. As DeKok unfolded himself to exit the car he looked at his watch. Then he compared it with the large clock on Central Station across the water. It was almost fifteen minutes past eight o’clock. The realization spurred him on. With a buoyant step he turned into Old Bridge Alley to reach Warmoes Street. Vledder followed with long strides. It wasn’t often he had to hurry to keep up with his partner. They reached the front door of the station together. As they passed the counter that divides the lobby, Kuster called out to them.
“There’s a magician waiting for you.”
As if thunderstruck, DeKok halted in his stride. Then he walked over to the counter.
“A magician?”
The watch commander nodded.
“He said he was supposed to be here at eight o’clock.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“Did he tell you he was a magician?”
Kuster shook his head.
“No, he just said he was expected at eight o’clock. Said it was in connection with the murder of a woman on Patrick Henry Street. But I recognized him. In my spare time I’m treasurer of an amateur soccer club. He performed at one of our parties.”
“As a magician?”
Kuster nodded.
“What an event! We had a high-wire act, a ventriloquist, a knife thrower, a clown, an acrobat, a hypnotist, a magician … you know what I mean?”
“How long ago was this?”
Kuster looked at the ceiling while he thought.
“It was our twenty-fifth anniversary. That was about a year and a half ago.”
A man was seated on the bench along the third floor corridor, across from the detective room. DeKok studied him intently. He estimated the man to be in his early thirties. He had a handsome face, non-Dutch, perhaps southern European, with olive tone skin and black, shiny hair. His nose was slightly bent. A Roman nose, thought DeKok.
As soon as the man saw Vledder, he stood up and approached them.
“I was on time,” he said in an arrogant voice. It sounded like a rebuke.
Vledder’s eyes flashed angrily
“We weren’t,” he said curtly.
DeKok hastily intervened.
“Our apologies,” he said, simply. He led the man into the detective room. “We got stuck in traffic. Traffic in Amsterdam is getting to be a regular jungle, regardless of the hour.”
The man looked at the old detective.
“Just the traffic?” he asked nastily. “All of Amsterdam is a jungle, a criminal jungle. You people aren’t doing anything to change it.”
DeKok saw that Vledder was about to burst out. Silently he warned him to be quiet. DeKok turned to the man and smiled.
“We’ll try to change your opinion of our efforts,” he said politely. “But you must also take into consideration the obstacles we face. Amsterdam is a compassionate city for law-abiding citizens … also for criminals.”
The man snorted.
“Compassionate, compassionate … how compassionate was Pieter’s murderer?”
DeKok seated the man on the chair next to his desk.
“Pieter … which Pieter would that be?”
The man gesticulated.
“Pieter Eikelbos, the clown. And now Butterfly. Don’t you get it? Someone is after our group.”
DeKok merely looked at the man.
“And what group would that be?”
“Our group—the Variety Troupe, if you want to be exact.”
“Oh, that group. And you’re a member as well?”
The man nodded.
“As the magician.”
DeKok picked up the statement taken by the constable in the man’s apartment.
“You’re Frans Heid?”
“Yes.”
“It says here you live on the floor above the murdered woman.”
The magician sighed.
“Yes, I used to live in a rooming house. When I joined the group, Butterfly arranged for me to rent an apartment in her building.”
“I had an opportunity to review the statement you made to the police this afternoon. There is no mention of your membership in the Variety Troupe, a group, I might add, to which Butterfly belonged, as well.”
The magician lowered his head.
“I didn’t want to mention that, at first. I thought it would look suspicious when I happened to discover the murder.”
“Why?”
“Relationships within the group were sometimes difficult. There were, and there still are, disagreements. These quarrels could easily be interpreted to my disadvantage.”
“Such as?”
The magician grimaced, as if in pain, while he rubbed the back of neck.
“I … eh, I … had a relationship with Charlotte, Fantinelli’s wife. Butterfly wanted me to end the affair. She contrived to have Fantinelli catch Charlotte and me in a compromising situation. Her meddling infuriated me. I was very vocal about it.”
“You made threats?”
“Indeed. They were idle threats, made in the heat of the moment. It was a lot of noise, but no substance. Afterwards I was sorry about it.”
DeKok leaned back in his chair and pulled on his earlobe.
“Was Martha’s door really open this afternoon?” he asked.
The magician did not answer, but looked at DeKok silently. The silence lasted almost a minute. DeKok merely waited.
“No,” the magician said finally. “I opened the door.”
“You have a key?”
“Yes.”
“And … you had an affair, a relationship with Butterfly?”
The magician shook his head.
“No, we were just … friends. That’s all. She gave me a key, some time ago, so I could take care of her cat when she was away.”
DeKok leaned forward.
“How much jewelry did Butterfly have?”
“What jewelry?” Heid asked sharply.
“Antique jewelry.”
The magician shrugged.
“I’ve never seen any. She was crazy about onyx. She had some jewelry with onyx, but no more than a woman would normally have.”
“What made you change your mind?”
“I don’t understand.”
DeKok smiled slyly.
“Why are you much more forthcoming than this afternoon?”
The man made a tired gesture.
“I realized right away the officer downstairs remembered my magic act.”
“That is the only reason?”
Frans Heid nodded slowly.
“I, eh, I …” he said softly, “I could have kept my discovery of the body to myself. It would have been easy to leave and act as though I hadn’t seen a thing. The sight of Butterfly with that big throwing knife in her back compelled me. I called the police hoping my connections with the group would not be an issue.” He swallowed. “It was very tempting to get out of Amsterdam.”
DeKok gave him a searching look.
“Why?”
The magician turned his head away. The olive color of his skin was a sallow grey. He remained silent.
This time DeKok did not wait for an answer.
“Why?” he repeated.
Frans Heid licked his dry lips.
“Do you know how many people were members of our group?”
“Not precisely.”
“Twelve. And do you know how many knives Fantinelli los
t?”
“Twelve,” said DeKok.
The magician’s eyes were large and scared.
“Inspector, I’m afraid.”
14
DeKok had tired feet. That is what he called the onslaught of his private torment. Suddenly, there they were, unannounced. It was like a sudden squall on a perfectly calm sea. He leaned back and placed his feet carefully on the corner of his desk. He leaned forward and felt his calves, his face contorted with pain. Surprisingly the pain was never accompanied by inflammation. His legs felt as if a thousand little devils were poking him with red-hot pitchforks. The pain was all too familiar. His physician assured him over and over again it was purely psychosomatic. No examinations or tests had revealed any organic cause. This came as no consolation, even once he knew what triggered these episodes. Whenever a case was progressing badly, when no solution was in sight, the pain began. He realized this had occurred because he was flailing about helplessly. As always, the darkness surrounded him and the little demons promptly appeared to torment him.
Vledder also knew the symptoms. He looked at his partner with a concerned face.
“Feet hurting?” he asked.
DeKok nodded and closed his eyes. He remained motionless and focused for several minutes. His usually animated face became a steel mask.
“It’s easing,” he said wanly. “The pain is just bearable. What makes it intolerable is the knowledge that after two murders and several days we have made no progress. Worse, I have a bad feeling, a premonition.”
Vledder looked stunned.
“You cannot believe we’re not going to be able to solve this?” he asked anxiously.
DeKok looked him straight in the eye before he answered.
“It’s possible. Many murders are never solved.”
Vledder shook his head emphatically.
“We solve ours. I mean you solve yours. As long as we have worked together we have never lost a case. We never give up—it’s, it’s just not in the cards.”
DeKok smiled suddenly.
“Maybe it’s my superstitious side coming out.”
“How do you mean?”
“My tired feet couldn’t have anything to do with the progress of the case.”
Vledder laughed, relieved.
“Exactly, and we’ll get past it.” He pushed his chair closer to DeKok’s desk. “What about the magician’s story? His fear seemed genuine. He is convinced the murderer plans to wipe out that entire variety group. What do you believe?”
DeKok hesitated. He rubbed his legs and stared out of the window.
“Here’s a remarkable coincidence. Bram Weelen said as much this afternoon. When I told Weelen twelve identical knives had been stolen from a car in Apeldoorn, he said, ‘So, you can expect another ten murders.’”
“Okay, but do you agree?”
“Cops have to be prepared for all sorts of twisted minds. Human behavior isn’t always predictable. Peoples’ motives are complex. Some people behave in an aberrant manner. People kill people whose faces they don’t like.” He fell silent and then suddenly grinned boyishly. “Because I must justify my attitude towards the commissaris, I’m going with the theory that these two murders are connected to the jewel theft.”
Vledder nodded thoughtfully.
“And Butterfly is connected to all that.”
DeKok lowered his feet from the desk. He stood up and tried a few steps. With a relieved sigh he sat down again. Then he pointed a finger at Vledder.
“The autopsy is at eleven in the morning. On the way, pick up old man Vlaanderen. Show him Martha’s corpse before they start cutting. Perhaps it will jog his memory. It’s worth a try.”
“And if he doesn’t want to come?”
“I’ll give him a call before that time.” He looked at the clock. “You know what I feel like?”
“At least one glass of good cognac?” smiled Vledder.
“You read my mind.”
Little Lowee’s face lit up with pleasure when he saw DeKok enter his intimate bar. He greeted the gray sleuth jovially.
“Well come,” he chirped. “Din’ta knowed you hadda time.”
DeKok hoisted himself onto a barstool. Vledder followed his example.
“If you forget the little pleasures of life,” said DeKok, “you forget to live.”
Little Lowee looked sad.
“Mokum done goin’ backward, I thinks. There ain’t alotta pleasures left.”
DeKok looked surprised.
“You are becoming pessimistic, Lowee. I’m not used to that.”
“I hear them maggots got Butterfly.”
It was DeKok’s turn to look sad.
“Again with a throwing knife.”
“You gotta lead?”
DeKok shook his head.
“I’m just as far as the night that the clown was killed.”
Lowee stared unhappily at the counter, a bottle of cognac in one hand, while his other hand moved to pick up three snifters.
“Sucha good lookin’ broad. You gotta be a real bottom feeder to—” he stopped and looked up. “Same recipe?”
Without waiting for an answer, he quickly placed the snifters in a row and opened the bottle. Almost in the same movement he poured a generous measure in each glass.
“Found out anything about the jewelry?”
“Zip,” answered Lowee as he picked up one of the glasses and rocked it slowly in his hand. “I done some checkin’, after youse left last time, but notta whisper. I tole ‘em I were innerested in them glimmers … even the fox.”
“And?”
“Nuttin’, notta peep. I gotta a guy that says he hears about some jools inna houseboat. He was gonna let me know.”
DeKok looked up.
“In a houseboat?”
“Yep.”
“Who was that?”
Lowee looked pained.
“Don’t, DeKok. I ain’t spill no names. I gotta think of me reputazie.”
DeKok did not urge him.
“You talked to him later?”
“Yep. He lost the tune—say it wasn’t for real.”
DeKok grinned.
“Tell him from me, next time he should be a bit neater. Man, oh man, he made a real mess in that boat.”
The barkeep looked suspiciously.
“You’se know abouta boat?”
DeKok nodded, then took a sip from his glass. He took the time to savor the drink.
“Yes,” he said after he swallowed. “The boat belongs to the murdered clown.”
“Did he have them jools?”
“Some people thought he did.”
Little Lowee rested his elbows on the bar.
“Somebody snuffed the clown for ‘em?”
“Possibly.”
“But you ain’t sure?”
DeKok took another sip.
“Lowee,” he said after he enjoyed his next mouthful, “I can’t tell you all my secrets.”
The small barkeeper took no offense.
“You knows, DeKok, it’s sorta weird, you knows.”
“What?”
Lowee took a quick look around. Then he leaned closer.
“Them troop, you knows, them that gone broke. I hears they owe big bucks all over. But they ain’t doing so bad, you knows.”
“Who?”
“Them artists. You takes that Charlie Boer, the acrobat. He just open a new sports school. Whatchamacallit—a fitness center. Gots all sorta machines and acrobatic … aerobic dancing. I went by there and it looks just fine.” He fell silent and replaced his empty glass on the counter. “I bumps into his negozie.”
“Well?”
“That dame … Charlotte.”
DeKok almost choked on his cognac.
“Charlotte?”
Lowee nodded with emphasis.
“Look like she sank some loot in Charlie’s binnez.”
The two inspectors walked from Lowee’s bar toward Rear Fort Canal and from there back to Old Acquaintance Alley.
The quarter was buzzing, as always.
DeKok looked at his partner.
“Something bothering you?”
Vledder’s face was dark and brooding, as though a thundercloud hung over his head.
“How crazy is this,” he barked. “Every time I get a grip on the connections, new ones pop up. How many separate cases can we pursue?”
DeKok pushed on his hat. It balanced precariously close on the back of his head.
“Well, a few things are clear. The clown, Pierrot, had, or believed he had, access to valuable jewelry. He offered it to Freddie Wezel to pay off his gambling debts. Freddie refused—gave him an ultimatum, a deadline. Just before the deadline, somebody murdered the clown.”
“Yes,” added Vledder, “then Freddie alerted some guy about the possible whereabouts of the jewelry, and got him to ransack the houseboat.”
“Exactly, but nothing turned up. One of two things happened. Either the guy didn’t look hard enough, or the jewels weren’t there. Personally my money’s on the latter.”
“Why?”
DeKok grinned.
“Think about the seeming chaos on the boat. Whoever turned that houseboat inside out, really did a number. It was a mess, but very systematic. Remember the broken leg on the table? He broke one off, found it wasn’t hollow, and tried more likely hiding places. He wouldn’t have missed anything.” He narrowed his eyes for a moment. “There is of course, a third possibility.”
“What?”
“He did find the jewels but, for whatever reason, passed Lowee by.”
“Another fence?”
DeKok stopped walking and stood shaking his head.
“No,” he said as he again picked up the pace. “No, I don’t think so. Even though Lowee’s world is dicey, Lowee is known as an honest fence. He pays a fair price. No,” he concluded, “I have to stay with my original conviction. There were no jewels on the boat.”
Vledder threw his arms up.
“What I don’t get is why Pierrot tried to pay Freddie with jewelry?”
“That’s the best question that’s been asked during this entire investigation.”
Vledder shook his head.
DeKok and the Death of a Clown Page 11