Vlaanderen had spoken of “blacking out of a gap in time.” He remembered only a single word, “Butterfly.” However, confronted with the corpse of Butterfly, Vlaanderen failed to recognize her.
Kuster entered the detective room. DeKok greeted him with a smile.
“Have a seat, Jan,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “I would like to talk some more about that party you organized for your soccer club.”
“You found the money for another one?”
“No, but who knows? Perhaps I can persuade a grateful broker to make a donation in the near future.”
“Let’s hope so. It would be nice,” said Kuster.
“Yes,” DeKok said, “but right now I need your help. As I remember, at the time of your, eh, twenty-fifth anniversary, there was a hypnotist among the performers of that variety group.”
“Yes.”
“What did he do?”
Kuster grinned.
“He asked for volunteers from the audience. Then he made them perform all kinds of antics. When he said they were on a bicycle, they started to peddle. If he said they were on a horse, they started to move as if they were riding. It was comical, but for me, as a cop, it was also a bit uncomfortable. He even invited members of the management onto the stage. These were people I knew in my capacity as treasurer. I knew them to be solid, sober, and responsible people. But they were completely subjected to the will of the hypnotist during the sessions. That caused me to think. I remember discussing it with my wife, afterward. To everyone’s astonishment none of the subjects recalled their silly behavior while on stage. They flat refused to believe it when told about it. I wondered whether it would be easy to make someone perform the most horrible crimes using hypnosis.”
DeKok shook his head.
“Fortunately not. It seems people cannot be influenced to commit deeds under hypnosis that they aren’t inclined to do naturally.”
“Still, it was eerie.”
DeKok nodded, his thoughts far ahead of the conversation.
“Would you recognize him?”
“Who?”
“The hypnotist.”
Kuster grimaced.
“I don’t know.”
“You recognized the magician.”
Kuster nodded, a vague look in his eyes.
“Maybe if we were suddenly face to face …” He did not complete the sentence. “As you know, a performer has many means of disguising his true identity. Theater people have makeup and costumes; some can imitate mannerisms, even stance. If you told me the magician performed as the hypnotist, after intermission … I would be unable to prove otherwise.”
“Are you telling me members of that group performed in more than one capacity, played multiple roles?”
“No. I mean I don’t know. It is just, with limited knowledge of theater, it seems to me people who perform together for a long time might fill in for each other. I think the public is subtly deceived. There surely must be occasions when one, or more, can’t perform. In spite of illness or personal difficulties, you know, the show must go on.”
“Which is an elaborate way of saying you could not be sure of identifying individual members of the troupe.”
“Yes, that’s about it.” Kuster reflected for a moment. “Sorry I couldn’t offer much help,” he added. “But you remember, DeKok, what Shakespeare said?”
For a long time the old inspector stared over Kuster’s head. His face was expressionless and there was a dull gleam in his eyes. Slowly the words of the watch commander penetrated his consciousness. Then he looked at Kuster.
“You’re right, Jan,” he said slowly. “The world is a stage. What is the quote? All the world’s a stage. And all the men and women, merely players. They have their exits and their entrances. And one man, in his time, plays many parts. Shakespeare said it long ago, but it is so timely. Society does force us to play many parts—the fiery lover, the aggrieved husband, the helpless victim in a bloody drama. I have become gray on the force. It often seems to me little remains of our much touted individual liberty, as we struggle with the realities of our daily lives.”
Kuster grinned self-consciously.
“You’re in a pessimistic mood.”
DeKok did not answer. He stood up to retrieve his hat and coat. Vledder got up to follow him. Kuster looked surprised, then shrugged his shoulders and went back downstairs.
“Where are we going?” asked Vledder.
“To Little Lowee’s”
“We’re going to nail the creeps who turned those homes upside down and gave Jonkers such a bad time? You’re going to ask him about them?”
“Nope. I want to know if he knows a hypnotist who plays with butterflies.”
DeKok stared out of the passenger’s side window of the old VW. Before them, in the gray evening fog, they could just make out the silhouette of The Criers’ Tower. Vledder was ill at ease. He felt nervous and restless. He might have felt less on edge had the visibility been better. The faint, blurred lines of objects made this a dangerous expedition. It also gave anyone fleeing a distinct advantage.
He was there to meet the man who ultimately agreed to play a chancy role in the proceedings. His stipulation was meeting at or near Criers’ Tower. He wanted to be as close as possible to the place where the corpse of his friend had lain, regardless of whether it sounded sentimental or, even, maudlin. Henri Jonkers wouldn’t consider a different venue for the unmasking of the killer. In the end DeKok had agreed, reluctantly.
To cover the alleys and canals in the neighborhood, he had called in additional detectives from Warmoes Street. Stoops, Rijpkema, Zeegers, and Keizer were strategically posted. They were not members of the homicide squad, because DeKok thought it more important for them to be familiar with the precinct. Each had a detailed description of the suspect, furnished by Vledder. Appie Keizer was posted at the most likely meeting place. With his round face, accentuated by a farmer’s cap and a burgundy suit, he looked like anything but a police officer.
Because he was not sure how the killer would travel, DeKok had also alerted the Water Police; down the road, in either direction, he had posted teams of motorcycle cops. Nobody in a boat could escape the Water Police, and the motorcycle cops would not loose any fleeing vehicle. Still, like Vledder, he felt uneasy. There were too many uncertainties—busy Gelder Quay and the public, who would be more inclined to help the fleeing suspect than the police.
He looked at Vledder behind the steering wheel. The young inspector looked straight ahead, sulking a bit. He felt excluded because DeKok had refused to give him a full explanation. His old partner turned toward him. Vledder’s obvious discomfort was another worry.
“I can’t explain everything,” said DeKok apologetically. “When you are on your own, you will see. It isn’t always possible, nor is it good mentoring.”
“What if the murderer doesn’t show?”
“He’ll be here,” said DeKok, more confident then he felt.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes, if your theory is correct.”
Vledder’s mouth fell open.
“We’re acting on my theory?”
“Yes, yours … your theory”
The young inspector grinned. Once he replied he did not seem happy. His voice had a sad undertone.
“Which theory?” he asked mockingly. “Over the last few hours I’ve spouted more than my usual slew of theories, none of them—” He suddenly pointed out the window. “Look, it’s Henri Jonkers … in a white suit.”
DeKok looked at his watch.
“He’s a bit early. It’s only five minutes to ten.”
“That white suit your idea?”
“Henri Jonkers is consumed by hatred,” observed DeKok simply.
“For the murderer?”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“At first he wanted to come in a white clown’s costume, like the one Pierrot’s corpse wore when we retrieved it. The white suit he’s wearing is a compromise. I finally agreed because
Henri should be clearly visible to the killer. The murderer doesn’t know Pierrot’s friend. They never met.”
Vledder sighed.
“Is Henri a decoy because he would be such a big threat to the killer? Do you really think he will act?”
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“I have to stay positive. In spite of my best efforts we haven’t many options. This emergency measure may give us a shot. Regardless, we want all the evidence we can get concerning the murders.” He suddenly became fully alert. He focused his attention across the water to the narrow side of Gelder Quay. He instinctively sensed danger. Without another word he exited the car. Keeping along the edge of the canal, he walked toward Prince Henry’s Quay.
Blending with the parade of prostitutes across the canal, he had spotted a man. The man was old, bent-over, with a long beard. He limped along, a walking stick in his left hand. The impression of “labored movement” was too emphatic. To DeKok’s practiced eye, it was a tad overdone, not believable.
Always cautious, DeKok knew he must avoid detection by the elderly object of his attention. He carefully, but urgently, increased his pace, hoping to warn Henri and Appie Keizer, who was his closest officer.
He rounded The Criers’ Tower in a wide circle. Instantly he realized, to his horror, he was too late. The elderly cripple had neared the unsuspecting Henri Jonkers. He dropped his cane and raised his right arm. A knife gleamed in the half-light. With tremendous, explosive force the knife reached Henri’s back.
A woman screamed.
The knife clattered to the ground.
The graybeard fled, running toward DeKok. DeKok spread both arms, attempting to stop the man. The man hit him, but the force of the impact was too great. DeKok fell on his back. His ridiculous little hat rolled into the gutter. Laboriously he climbed to his feet. He could hear the scream of a braking car behind him, followed by a heavy thud. When he looked around, he saw the graybeard in the roadway.
Vledder came running. DeKok and Keizer followed. The man was on his stomach, his face turned to one side. A thin stream of blood ran out of his ear.
Vledder bent down. He looked up, shocked.
“Peter Dongen, the impresario.”
DeKok nodded and turned around. He walked over to his hat and picked it up.
There was a tear in his eye.
19
Mrs. DeKok opened the door with a welcoming smile. On the stoop in front of her house stood Appie Keizer and Dick Vledder. She greeted the young men heartily.
“Are there more coming?” she asked.
Appie Keizer shook his head.
“The others are on duty. They were unexpectedly called to another precinct to help out temporarily, with a so-called suicide.”
“So-called suicide?”
Appie Keizer grinned boyishly.
“The forensics indicate murder.”
Mrs. DeKok brought her index finger to her lips.
“Don’t say anything about it to my husband. He might just up and leave.”
“No he won’t,” said Vledder. “This is being handled by headquarters. Besides I want several explanations on our current, just completed case. He just cannot leave until he has explained himself fully.”
“Good for you,” said Mrs. DeKok. Vledder was one of her favorites.
She preceded them to the cozy living room. The man of the house was comfortably ensconced in a deep, leather armchair. He had slippers on his feet and a small table with a bottle of cognac and several snifters close by.
He invited the two young inspectors to seat themselves on the sofa across from him. With obvious delight he poured three glasses of cognac. DeKok’s enjoyment of cognac was elevated to a kind of meditation. He handed two of the glasses to his visitors. Mrs. DeKok returned from the kitchen with several platters of delicacies.
The Dutch almost never drink unless they can eat as well. The custom carries over to bars and airlines where peanuts and other snacks are served. Mrs. DeKok’s finger food was of a much higher quality, however. It included two kinds of croquettes and the obligatory variety of wonderful cheeses. There were also Indonesian satays, lean pieces of meat delicately marinated, stuck on small bamboo skewers, and roasted. They looked like miniature shis-ke-babs. There were pork, beef, and chicken satays on a hot plate.
The men looked approvingly at the food, but Vledder could not contain his curiosity and impatience.
“Is he dead?”
DeKok rocked the snifter in his hand and took a first tasting sip. He did not answer until he had fully appreciated the golden liquid.
“He’s hanging on. I was at the hospital this morning and the nurses permitted me to talk to him briefly. He seems very alert, mentally clear. But the attending physician still considers him critical.”
“How did you know it was Peter Dongen?”
DeKok took another, bigger sip and then replaced his glass on the table.
“It was a long shot. The Vlaanderen jewelry collection touched the lives of so many in that variety troupe. That’s why I was circumspect in approaching the subject with all the members. They seemed to be guarding some communal secret.”
He selected a satay and ate it properly by holding the bamboo skewer horizontally in front of his mouth. He closed his teeth on a piece of meat and neatly pulled it off the skewer, moving the skewer away from his mouth in a sideways direction. He chewed with relish. The remaining two pieces of meat disappeared just as expeditiously. He placed the used skewer on an empty plate provided for the purpose.
Vledder watched him eat in silence.
“Come on, DeKok,” he urged, “don’t give it to us in installments.”
“Sorry,” said DeKok. “When Henri Jonkers told me about Butterfly’s affair with a hypnotist, I felt it was the key to solving the mysterious thefts. Hypnosis. It occurred to me the victims might have opened their own safes while under hypnosis. Once each came out of his trance, he could recall only one word, Butterfly. It became critical to answer the question: Who was the hypnotist? Obviously we could have asked one of the group members. On reflection I felt I shouldn’t, because of my earlier sense of a conspiracy of silence. The worst thing would have been to alert or alarm our suspect. I wanted, above all, to avoid having the suspect disappear altogether.”
Under the disapproving eyes of Vledder, he interrupted his discourse to take another sip of cognac. But he soon enough started talking again.
“Even though Jan Kuster,” he continued, “had seen the entire group perform at a party for his soccer club, he couldn’t recall the hypnotist’s name. However he did give me a usable description when I pressed him. He described a tall, wide-shouldered man with steel-blue eyes and a deep voice.”
“Peter Dongen.”
DeKok nodded.
The next hurdle was getting evidence. There was no solid proof. There was also the chance Dongen, apart from his involvement in the thefts, was involved in the murders. I even toyed with the thought of breaking into Dongen’s place at Willem Park Way. We needed evidence. I was clutching at straws, you see. But my friend Henkie was on holiday, and I didn’t think I would succeed on my own.” DeKok looked at Keizer. “This goes no further than this room, eh?”
Keizer hastened to assure DeKok that he would keep his confidence.
“I understand,” said Keizer, a grin on his face.
Vledder drained his glass and placed it on the coffee table in front of him.
“You said something, last night, about my theory?”
A smile fled across DeKok’s face while he held the bottle up with a questioning gesture. Both men nodded their agreement. Mrs. DeKok had a sherry. Once the glasses were filled, DeKok picked up the thread of his narration.
“You observed a similarity in the timing of the deaths of Pierrot and Butterfly. Strangely, both were killed after they confessed to having the jewelry. It was a useful theory, one I decided to test.” He sighed. “Also, I had come to the conclusion that there was only one way to catch the
killer … I had to entice him into attempting a third murder.”
“How?” asked Keizer.
“How indeed. I decided to discuss the matter with Henri Jonkers. After some persuading, he agreed to cooperate.
He wrote a letter to Dongen. He wrote to say, as Pierrot’s only remaining friend, he was fully aware of the jewelry. He went on to say he had proof Peter Dongen had murdered his friend. He gave a few more details and demanded his, that is Pieter’s, share of the loot.”
“Hey,” interrupted Keizer, “what’s with Peter, Pieter, and Pierrot … just how many people are you talking about?”
“Two,” explained Vledder briefly. “Pierrot is the stage name of Pieter Eikelbos, the clown. Peter Dongen is an impresario and, as we now know, a murderer.”
“Yes,” said DeKok. “Henri also added a blackmail clause to his letter. He threatened to involve the police if he did not get his share of the loot.”
Keizer snorted in admiration.
“A diabolical plot.”
DeKok readily agreed.
“It wasn’t just diabolical, it was downright dangerous. You see, Henri Jonkers insisted the meeting between him and Dongen take place near Criers’ Tower. It was dangerous for him and difficult for us. We could not just throw out a dragnet, for fear Dongen would smell a rat and disappear. The trap had to be left open, meaning we could not fully protect Henri. Since I figured that the killer would use a knife, Henri wore a thin, steel plate, front and back, beneath his coat.”
“That’s why the knife did not penetrate.”
They took time to eat something. DeKok was pensive as he drained his glass. On his own accord he resumed.
“I hadn’t figured on Dongen disguising himself as an old man. Although everyone had a fairly accurate description, he was unrecognizable. Pure luck and a child’s exercise helped me spot him among all those working girls across the canal. He was the element out of place in the picture. His running smack into a passing car is something I could not have foreseen … or wished.”
DeKok and the Death of a Clown Page 14