“There were quite a few. Nanette had lots of friends. But recently she concentrated mainly on Barry Wielen, a journalist. He seemed nice enough, just a little fast…too fast for my taste.”
DeKok grinned, turning on his charm.
“Journalists live their professional lives at top speed; it becomes ingrained. Have you talked to him about Nanette’s disappearance?”
“No, I haven’t talked about it with anyone. I came straight here.”
“All right, leave everything to us from now on.”
He scratched the back of his neck.
“Oh, yes,” he added, “before I forget, do you have a picture of Nanette?”
She opened her purse. After a little searching she found a picture. It was a good clear image, roughly postcard size.
“It was taken about a month ago,” she said.
DeKok took the picture from her and studied it with care. Nanette Bogaard was a beautiful girl, he noted. She looked a little like her cousin. The long blonde hair was the same, as was the structure of the face. She was perhaps a little slimmer, more fragile. He handed the photo to Vledder.
“You can go home now.” DeKok placed a fatherly hand on her shoulder. “As soon as we know something we’ll come and tell you at once.”
He walked over to the peg and took her cape.
Slowly the girl rose from her chair. DeKok draped the cape over her shoulders.
“If you find Nanette at home, please let us know.”
“No, Mr. DeKok, Nanette is dead.”
She shook her head sadly.
2
DeKok paced up and down the detective room with his hands in his pockets. He mulled over the conversation with Kristel—the words, the intonations, the gestures.
DeKok could do that. He had a photographic memory and a love for detail. A seemingly unimportant slip of the tongue, a facial expression, he noticed it all. He was born with the gift, but his profession had honed his gift to a fine art.
He halted in front of the window, his favorite spot. It was still raining. Suddenly he turned around and walked over to the peg on the wall.
“Get your coat.”
Vledder looked surprised.
“Say,” he called with suspicion in his voice, “you’re not planning to start looking for Nanette, eh…?”
“Bogaard,” completed DeKok.
“Right, Bogaard. You’re not already looking for her, are you? The girl has barely been gone twenty-four hours. Surely there’s no reason to panic.”
“Her cousin says she’s dead.” DeKok looked at him evenly.
“Her cousin is crazy. She’s going off nothing but her feelings, female intuition. Just because this flower girl took it into her head to imagine her cousin dead you want to alert the entire police force?”
DeKok struggled into his old raincoat.
“No,” he answered calmly, “not the entire police force, just the two of us. For the moment that ought to be enough.”
Vledder shook his head in desperation. He couldn’t understand the man. He walked over to DeKok, placing himself in front of the old sleuth, and raised a finger in the air.
“Just listen to me,” he said, irritated. “Young Nanette has never been away from home, overnight, that is, according to her cousin.”
“And?”
“And she’s nineteen years old. DeKok, think: nineteen! This is just the age to start experiencing the occasional nightly adventure. What harm can it do? It’s healthy.”
“I know a lot of fathers,” answered DeKok casually, “who would prefer some different sort of healthy activity for their nineteen-year-old daughters.”
Vledder sighed.
“You know quite well what I mean. There’s no question of a real missing person. What does Miss van Daalen want from us? She can hardly expect us to call out the troops every time a nineteen-year-old stays out all night. That’s…” Vledder searched for the right word. “How can I put it? That’s, eh, monks’ work!”
“Come again?”
“Yes, you know, one letter at a time, year after year, never an end, you know what I mean.”
DeKok laughed loudly. He placed his old, dilapidated felt hat on the back of his head and walked out of the room. Vledder, furious, followed, his raincoat bunched up on his shoulders.
Barry Wielen was a tall, slender young man with friendly eyes and an old-fashioned moustache with points aiming proudly at the sky. DeKok was visibly impressed with the moustache; he looked at it with admiring attention. Wielen found this attention embarrassing. He moved restlessly under the searching eyes of DeKok.
“What do you want?”
The inspector shoved his hat a little farther on the back of his head and wiped the rain off his face with a handkerchief.
“That you take these wet raincoats from us.”
The young man grinned, embarrassed.
“Of course, of course, I’m sorry.”
Suddenly he came closer, helped remove their coats, put the coats away, and led the inspectors to a spacious room. It was somewhat cluttered but clean and cozy.
DeKok cleared off an easy chair and, without waiting for an invitation, sat down and stretched his legs with a groan of pleasure. Vledder followed his example. Wielen watched the performance with a surprised look on his face, a loss for words.
“What can I do for you, gentlemen?” It sounded a bit timid.
DeKok shaped his face into a friendly grin. It always surprised Vledder how attractive that made him look.
DeKok looked at Wielen from the depths of his easy chair and said, “Nanette Bogaard.”
“Excuse me?”
“Nanette Bogaard,” repeated DeKok. “She’s still a minor, and we’re here to collect her.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Wielen, a vacant look on his face.
“It’s really not all that difficult to understand,” said the inspector. “We’re inspectors attached to Warmoes Street station. We’re looking for Nanette Bogaard, and according to our information, she’s here with you.”
“What?” a befuddled Wielen uttered again.
“Your vocabulary is rather limited. You also seem to be rather slow in the comprehension department...unfortunate traits for a journalist, I’d say. But all right, I’ll try to be clearer: Nanette Bogaard, as stated, is an underage girl. We have reason to believe she spent last night with you. In the event you do not turn her over to us, or if you refuse to cooperate in our investigation, you may be charged with kidnapping.” He paused for the desired effect then continued. “Kidnapping is, of course, a criminal offense.” DeKok made it sound like a special treat.
The journalist looked at him, a dazed look on his face.
“You think I’ve committed a criminal offense?” he repeated.
“Yes, absolutely. Article 281 of our very own criminal code defines kidnapping. It is an interesting article. You should read it sometime. The minimum is six years with no parole.”
“Six years?” Wielen looked anxious.
“Yes, a long time. When you finish, you’ll be about thirty,” nodded DeKok. He added, “But the maximum is life imprisonment, again without parole. You could very well die in jail.”
Barry Wielen sat down and rubbed his hand over his eyes. He was trying to gather his thoughts. Normally he was able to control himself, able to control most any situation. It was something his profession required. But DeKok had given him no time.
He looked into the friendly eyes of the old detective across from him. His face appeared to be both cunning and irresistible. Slowly Barry got ahold of himself. The journalist in him took charge of the situation and decided not to knuckle under. A faint smile appeared underneath his gorgeous moustache.
“I wish it were true,” he said.
DeKok looked at him, noting the change in attitude, and asked, “What do you mean?”
“I wish Nanette had spent the night with me. I must say, it is an exciting thought.”
He grinned s
oftly. His face became almost as attractive as DeKok’s when he grinned.
“But I’m sorry to have to disappoint you,” Wielen continued. “Nanette isn’t here. She hasn’t been here. Search the premises if you want. You’ll not find her. I haven’t seen her for at least two weeks.”
“So you do know her?”
“Yes, of course. Nanette, wow-wow-wow, what a beauty…a treasure!” His entire face lit up. “The wild daisy from Ye Three Roses.”
DeKok pulled up the left side of his mouth. It looked like a snarl.
“Wow-wow-wow?” he repeated evenly. “And when,” he continued, “was the last time you saw Nanette?”
“I told you, about two weeks ago. It was more or less an accidental meeting.”
“How do you mean ‘more or less accidental’?”
“Well, eh—” suddenly he stopped. Wielen looked at DeKok. He looked from DeKok to Vledder and back again. A look of utter surprise came over him.
“Something is wrong here.” He shook his head and then asked, “Why would two inspectors from Warmoes Street be interested in vice? You’re homicide! Why this interest in Nanette?”
“She’s gone.”
“What do you mean gone?”
“Nanette is missing. Kristel van Daalen, her cousin, reported her missing this morning. Now do you understand our interest?”
Wielen nodded vaguely.
“Sure, sure,” he responded, sounding distracted. Apparently he had some trouble accepting the disappearance of Nanette as fact. “Please go on.”
“You spoke of an accidental meeting?”
Wielen leaned forward and reached for a pack of cigarettes on the coffee table. DeKok looked at the long, sinewy fingers of the journalist. They shook.
“Yes, yes, we met.”
He lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
“It was evening. Around half-past ten, I think. I’d just left the paper after finishing up the report of a court case I was assigned to earlier that day. I drove via the Dam and skirted the Red Light District.” He gestured with his cigarette. “Suddenly I saw Nanette turn onto High Street, she came from the Quarter.”
DeKok looked incredulous.
“Nanette came from the Red Light District?”
“Yes, I too thought it strange. Really. I didn’t know her all that well, but Nanette never struck me as the kind of girl who could be found anywhere near that part of town. I could hardly believe my eyes.”
“What did you do?”
“At first I drove on, then I turned and passed her from behind. I looked in my rearview mirror.”
“And?”
“I hadn’t been mistaken. It was Nanette. I drove on and parked on the Dam, near the monument. From there I walked to Duke Street. I waited for her near Ye Three Roses. It didn’t take long. She arrived shortly thereafter.”
“What did she say?”
Again Barry pulled on his cigarette.
“I just acted as if I’d met her by chance. I didn’t mention seeing her in the District. I didn’t really dare mention the subject. You understand, I didn’t want to give the impression that I’d been spying on her. After all, I didn’t have any right to call her on it.”
DeKok looked at him searchingly then questioned, “I thought that, eh, the two of you…”
A sad grin spread fleetingly over the face of the young man.
“Ach,” he said, “it’s really never been more than a slight flirtation, a game to Nanette.”
DeKok listened to the tone of his voice.
“You’re in love with her?”
Again Wielen sighed.
“In love, yes, you could call it that.”
“Nanette hasn’t reciprocated?”
Nonchalantly he shrugged his shoulders.
“She is too playful, not serious enough.” He looked at DeKok for a moment. “After all,” he concluded, “love is serious business, don’t you agree?”
“Without a doubt,” nodded the inspector. “There have been quite a few murders because of love. Certainly love is serious enough.”
“Murders?” Wielen looked trapped.
“Love is one of the prime reasons for murder.”
The journalist brought a hand up to his forehead. The intelligent look in his eyes disappeared. He started to grin like a fool.
“I, eh, I haven’t killed Nanette,” he almost stuttered.
DeKok reacted quickly. “Who said you did?”
“Nobody, nobody, but I thought, I mean…”
For a long time DeKok looked at Wielen thoughtfully. He rubbed his hand through his grey hair. He had weighed the reactions of the journalist, but his impressions were mixed. “Did Nanette say anything?” he asked.
“When?”
“That night, in front of her flower shop?”
“No, nothing. Well, I mean, we chatted a while. But she didn’t tell me where she’d been that night. She went inside after about half an hour.”
“And were you able to solve the puzzle later? I take it the question of Nanette in the Red Light District worried you?”
“Indeed, but I haven’t seen her since.”
“So that was two weeks ago?”
“Yes, two weeks.”
They remained silent together for a long time. The journalist lit another cigarette. He had barely finished the previous one. Young Wielen was obviously nervous, his tension well on display. There was a hunted look in his eyes and he was jumpy like a scared animal. His left hand kept turning the points of his extravagant moustache.
Vledder had at first listened carefully to the conversation between his colleague and the journalist, dutifully taking notes. And although he was more or less familiar with DeKok’s methods, he always enjoyed seeing the master in action. But now his interest was waning. Vledder did not believe Nanette had disappeared. As far as he was concerned the girl had simply stayed out all night. No big deal. He thought DeKok was making too much fuss over the matter. Before long Nanette would reappear, and all this trouble would be for nothing. The thought made him highly annoyed. They had better things to do than run after a girl with a yen for adventure—in the pouring rain, no doubt.
Slowly DeKok looked around the room. His glance separated the clutter and took in the bare walls, absorbed the spare furniture. He stood up almost lazily, with slow movements.
The old inspector’s trained eye had discovered something in Wielen’s somewhat disordered room that was lovely, dissonant, sunny, and full of color. It had pride of place near the window, on top of a battered bookcase. There sat a small bunch of wildflowers artistically arranged in a thin, pale porcelain vase decorated with pink ribbon. A small masterpiece in the art of flower arrangement. DeKok walked over to the bookcase and lifted the vase in his hand. He looked at the flowers with interest. “Gorgeous,” he murmured appreciatively, “extremely well done. I have seldom seen anything as fine as this.”
After a while he replaced the vase carefully. It was as if he was handling a fragile religious relic. He stood and looked at it for a while longer, his hand supporting his chin.
“It’s a pity,” he sighed, “wildflowers are so fragile. They don’t last long.” His voice sounded genuinely depressed.
“It should be a crime. I mean, people should be prohibited from picking wildflowers. They belong outside in the fields, the woods, the streambeds.”
He gestured at Vledder. “How long do you think these wildflowers will last, fresh and vibrant, in a stuffy bachelor’s room?”
Carelessly Vledder shrugged his shoulders. He did not understand the direction, or the purpose, of DeKok’s question.
“I don’t know,” he said hesitantly, “a few days…a week perhaps?”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“A few days, a week,” he repeated. “You’re right. Certainly after a few days the slender stems would wilt.”
Again he looked at the colorful bouquet, an admiring look in his eyes. Only after several minutes did he turn away. His face was expressionl
ess, like a mask. He crossed the room and halted in front of the journalist.
“Barry Wielen,” he said calmly, “there’s but a single person able to arrange ordinary wildflowers in such a refined and artistic manner…your friend Nanette, the wild daisy from Ye Three Roses.”
3
Inspector DeKok raked his thick fingers through his stiff, grey hair. It was a habit when he was deep in thought. Lazily he leaned back in his chair, his relatively short legs on the edge of the desk. Nanette’s disappearance disturbed him, but he did not know exactly why. People disappear daily. Tracing them is one of the routine jobs assigned to detectives all over the country. Sometimes people who disappear are just plain tired—tired of their wives, their husbands. They have had it with jobs, bosses, houses, offices, and worries. In fight-or-flight mode people walk away from it all. But usually these flights toward freedom do not last long. It seems freedom too has its negative aspects. There is a certain comfort and protection in familiar surroundings, even in the sweet slumber of the daily grind.
DeKok pressed his lips together.
But Nanette, so it seemed, was different. There was no question of dissatisfaction with life, no flight from the daily grind. Something else caused her sudden disappearance, a different motive…but what?
Without more definite information there were no logical conclusions to be drawn, no matter how hard one tried.
He took his legs off the desk and produced a large sheet of paper from a drawer.
HOW OR WHY OR THROUGH WHOM DID NANETTE DISAPPEAR? he wrote in big letters at the top of the page. It was as if the thought so occupied him that he needed to see it in front of him as a sort of challenge to his imagination. He sighed, put the pen down, and looked at the question. Perhaps fear?
Vledder sat at his own desk, looking over his notes. He still did not understand DeKok’s interest in the disappearance of Nanette Bogaard. It was commonplace to wait a few days before investigating reports of missing persons. That was the usual procedure. Long years of experience had shown it was virtually useless to panic right away when a person turned up missing. DeKok should know that. He was an old campaigner. How long had he been on the job—twenty, twenty-five years?
DeKok and the Somber Nude Page 2