“Suppose you tell me first what we’re after. Perhaps I can help.”
“Yes, of course,” DeKok nodded absentmindedly.
When the elevator appeared they entered and went to the next floor up. Again they walked along a gallery, DeKok in front. Suddenly he halted and Vledder read 123.
“This is where you wanted to go?”
“Yes.”
“There’s no name on the door.”
“No.”
“Who lives here?”
Vledder became a little excited. The blood rushed to his head. DeKok’s mysterious behavior started to fray his nerves.
“Dammit,” he yelled, “say something! What are you wanting to do?”
Preoccupied, DeKok looked up.
“What do I want? I want to go inside.”
Vledder sighed.
“I don’t think anyone is home. Just look, all the curtains are closed.”
“I figured on that, more or less,” DeKok grinned.
Carefully he looked along the gallery. When he saw nobody in sight, he took a small steel instrument from his pocket and used it to attack the lock.
Vledder looked shocked.
“Y-you can’t do that,” he stuttered. “If the occupant complains…”
“I don’t think he will.”
Carefully probing with the sensitive tips of his fingers, the grey sleuth worried the lock.
DeKok was extremely experienced in the opening of diverse types of locks. He knew all about beards and shanks, cylinders and tumblers. Years ago he had followed a personal course of instruction with a friend, a burglar, Handy Henkie. Henkie decided to follow the narrow but honest path of righteousness. So he turned his complete instrumentarium over to DeKok. It was a melancholy offering on the altar of virtue. DeKok used it discreetly on certain occasions.
Suddenly the door of the flat opened. He motioned for Vledder to follow him. Together they entered, and carefully DeKok closed the door behind them.
Softly on tiptoe they slunk forward through the small foyer.
The foyer opened onto a largish living room. The light was diffused, penetrating only marginally through the closed curtains. But it was enough to make out their surroundings.
A combination sofa was placed roughly in the middle of the room. It was a large, pompous piece of furniture consisting mainly of ribbed velvet and chrome. Nearby, closer to the window, was a large standing lamp. A few cheap paintings, the kind bought at roadside stalls, covered the walls. To the left they saw an ugly green vase filled with dried cornstalks on a bare sideboard. The interior was cold and sterile; it was doubtful a woman with a caring hand had ever entered the flat.
Vledder touched DeKok’s elbow.
“What are we looking for?” he whispered.
DeKok shrugged.
“Just look around,” he whispered back. “Be careful not to touch anything. Leave things as they are.”
“Okay, boss.”
DeKok gave his pupil a crushing look. He didn’t like to be called “boss,” and the combination of “okay” and “boss” got him. Hands in his pockets, he entered the kitchen. There, too, the curtains were closed. This was remarkable in a country where people prided themselves on the interiors of their homes. In Holland, people seldom close their curtains, except in their bedrooms. DeKok’s experienced eye, trained to see every detail, inspected the surroundings. He took a lot of time looking at the knives.
Suddenly he heard a muffled cry. Vledder, shock and disbelief on his face, came out of a bedroom.
“What’s the matter?”
Vledder swallowed, trying to control himself.
“In the bedroom,” he panted hoarsely.
“What?”
“Nanette’s clothes.”
18
Spread out on the bed were a dark blue skirt with matching jacket, a white lace blouse, a nylon slip bordered with lace, a garter belt, and a minimal brassiere. Next to the bed, over the back of a chair, were a pair of nylon stockings and a pair of black underwear with “Wednesday” embroidered on them. A pair of blue-and-white pumps were placed neatly under the chair.
For a long while the detectives looked at the tableau.
“Did you see,” whispered Vledder, “that it says ‘Wednesday’ on the panties?”
“Yes.”
“But she disappeared on Thursday.”
DeKok sighed.
“It doesn’t mean a thing. She was still alive on Thursday. That’s certain. In addition to Kristel’s testimony, we also know that from Barry Wielen’s story. He visited her that Thursday at Ye Three Roses. Besides, you may remember I asked you once about underwear with the names of the days.”
“I was thinking about something completely different then,” nodded Vledder.
DeKok ignored the remark. He leaned over the bed. A few long blonde hairs sparkled against the dark blue of the jacket. He looked at them carefully but left them untouched. Then he walked around the bed and took one of the nylon stockings from the chair and went to the window. Carefully he pushed the curtains aside and in the brighter light looked at the fine mesh of the stocking. Vledder came closer.
“You see something?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No ladders. The rest of the clothing too seems undamaged and spotless.”
“And?”
“It can mean one of two things. Either Nanette undressed herself, or the one who undressed her had plenty of time to do it. I don’t know if you have ever tried to take off a woman’s clothes…” He looked preoccupiedly at Vledder and sighed again. “Never mind, forget it,” he added.
He walked away from the window and placed the stocking over the back of the chair again. Then he looked thoughtfully around.
“A purse is missing, I think, and some form of outer clothing. Women almost always carry some sort of purse. As far as rain gear is concerned, it rained buckets last Thursday.”
He rubbed his hand over his grey hair.
“I’m sure there’s a raincoat around here somewhere. But I also think we better not touch anything else for the moment. We might destroy some evidence.”
He gestured toward Vledder.
“Go downstairs and use the radio to get ahold of the desk sergeant at headquarters. No wait, better use a phone booth. Everybody listens to the police band these days, and I don’t want the press here. Not yet, anyway. Ask the sergeant to alert the guys from forensics, the lab, and so on. Also ask for a plumber.”
“A plumber?”
“Yes, a person with tools able to open and close pipes, remove gratings, fix leaks, you know.”
Astonished, Vledder looked at his mentor.
“What in the world do you want with a plumber?”
“What do you think? I want to solve the case, of course. Why else are we here?” He raised a cautioning finger. “And don’t forget the dactyloscopic service. I’m very curious to see what sort of fingerprints we can find here. You see, this is an interesting apartment.”
Vledder’s face looked disappointed.
“Listen, DeKok,” he said, darkly, “I know that you’re very good, an old hand. And I’m still young and I can still learn a lot from you. I get that.” His tone changed, became almost threatening. “But I’ve had it with the hide-and-seek games. You tell me now how you knew about this apartment or I won’t move another muscle.”
“Oh, really?” DeKok rubbed his chin.
“Yes!” It sounded like a challenge.
DeKok made a sad, almost comical gesture.
“Well, if you put it that way…” For another instant he kept his face expressionless and then it changed into a warm, broad smile. “You’re right. You most certainly are entitled to a complete explanation. I just wanted to stimulate your imagination, that’s all. That’s why I was so mysterious. Believe me, it isn’t mysterious at all. It’s no more than following up on a certain train of thought. I’ll explain it as soon as you’ve finished calling. Fair enough?”
“All right
.”
DeKok took another tour of the apartment as soon as Vledder had disappeared. In the foyer, on a peg behind the door, he found a blue plastic raincoat. On a shelf above was a dark handbag. He took the purse to the living room and inspected the contents. It contained the usual makeup articles—handkerchief, lipstick, mirror, powder puff. There was also a Dutch passport in the name of Nanette Bogaard. Searching a bit further he found a small flashlight, a key ring with keys, and a small, flat cardboard box filled with glass ampoules of morphine.
Vledder came back within a few minutes.
“Well?”
Vledder sighed.
“It isn’t going to be easy, but the ‘thundering herd’ will be here shortly.” He threw himself down next to DeKok on the couch.
DeKok smiled. Everybody knew his special name for the horde of specialists who always responded to murder crime scenes. Vledder’s remarks meant the full crew would be here—photographers, fingerprint people, forensic experts. This was the complete crew, not just a weekend standby group.
“Excellent,” said DeKok, “very good. Meanwhile I found something special here.”
He showed the raincoat and the handbag with passport and ampoules. Vledder scrutinized the items.
“Well, at least we can be sure of one thing,” he said after a while. “Nanette was here in this apartment.”
DeKok nodded.
“But she left in the nude.”
“Is this,” Vledder asked, “a conclusion based solely on your observation of her clothes and the personal effects we found here? Or is this also a part of a particular train of thought?”
DeKok smiled.
“Both,” he answered. “When we found Nanette’s body parts in the dump, I was puzzled. Why those horrible mutilations, why was the body cut into pieces? I just couldn’t find a reasonable explanation. Mutilations after death are certainly nothing new, but the thing is that they usually serve some sort of purpose. However twisted and criminal, there is typically a reason. Just think about Kameda, the Japanese suitcase murder of a few years back. We found just the torso and the arms in the suitcase. The head, the legs, and the hands were missing. We concluded the killer wanted to make it more difficult to identify the victim. As you know, the head and hands provide practically the only sure means of identifying people. Humans don’t have brands, or logos, except for body art. With just a torso it is almost impossible to identify the remains with any degree of confidence. Conversely, the head offers all sorts of methods for positive identification. Just think about the eyes, the mouth, the hair, the shape of the nose, the teeth. Hands, too, are characteristic because of the fingers and fingerprints.”
DeKok was now in full “orator mode.”
“In addition to obscuring the identity of the victim,” he continued animatedly, “criminals sometimes use mutilation to dispose of the corpse. We have numerous examples in the history of crime. I name, just by way of example, the infamous French killer Landru, who first strangled his victims and then burned them. Without amputations, his method of disposal would have been impossible. His coal-burning stove was not very big.”
“A nice man, this Mr. Landru,” laughed Vledder.
“Indeed, but I digress. We’re not dealing with the Case Landru, but with the Case Nanette. What struck me as incongruous was finding all of them. There was nothing missing—head, torso, hands were all there. It seemed significant to find them relatively close together. One could only conclude the mutilations had not been performed in order to hide the identity of the victim.”
Vledder moved a little deeper into the cushions of the sofa, intently serving as DeKok’s audience.
“But what was the purpose? It remained a puzzle. It was a worker at the dump, Claus Boer, who told me the garbage in which the remains were found came from Amsterdam West. Even so I didn’t make the connection. It caused me a few extra grey hairs, I can tell you, trying to figure out the killer’s purpose.” He smiled. “Remember how the suburbs there became absorbed by the city and new developments? Most of the apartment developments formed small villages. They had names like Ditch Canal, Mill Lake, Ox Village, Halfway, and so on. To make it harder, or easier, depending on your point of view, some of the original names were replaced with new ones. Even individual buildings had names. In Mill Lake and Ox Village they continued building residential barracks with assembly line methods. Anyway, all these new buildings are equipped with individual garbage chutes covered with airtight flaps in the kitchens. Residents pop any sort of refuse into the chutes. Large containers below the building catch and gather everything. Then the trucks from sanitation pick up the containers, gather the contents, and away we go.”
“I understand,” exclaimed Vledder, “of course, the chute! The murderer got rid of the corpse by means of the chute, and that naturally could only have been done in pieces. The chutes aren’t all that big.”
“Indeed,” nodded DeKok. “In the case of a heavyset person it would have been impossible: the parts would have had to be smaller yet. But Nanette was a slight girl, not very big at all.”
He became silent, lost in thought. It was as if he saw it happen. He could envision detailed images in a fleeting flashback. Only after several minutes did he continue.
“Of course, there remained questions. How could we establish which building, which flat, which chute? In short, exactly where was Nanette Bogaard killed?” He pulled his lower lip over his upper lip. “I took those questions to the inestimable Mr. Slosser of the registrar’s office. As a point of departure I used the names of people we have met and about whom we knew something. The question was whether any of those names could be connected with an apartment building in Amsterdam West.”
He used his pinky to rub the bridge of his nose.
“At first it seemed hopeless,” he went on. “The name Laurens, in all possible spellings, offered no connection. I’d put the brother at the top of my list because of his supposed anatomical knowledge. But because we don’t know if Laurens is a first name or a surname, I couldn’t make a connection. Nanette apparently never registered in Amsterdam before she lived over Ye Three Roses. It occurred to me Brother Laurens might also not be registered in the city. It also seemed to me Nanette must have met him in her capacity as a nurse, before her arrival in Amsterdam.”
“Excellent,” admired Vledder, “really excellent.” Neither he nor DeKok noted his use of one of DeKok’s favorite phrases.
“Barry Wielen,” continued DeKok, ignoring the interruption, “appeared to be a bit of a butterfly. He had lived at a number of addresses in Amsterdam, but never in Amsterdam West. I was beginning to think we would be wasting an entire Sunday in the files, all for nothing. Suddenly old man Slosser discovered the elder Staaten wasn’t registered at Emperor’s Canal at all; his address was recorded as Wood’s Edge 123.”
Startled, Vledder looked up.
“This flat?” he said.
DeKok nodded.
“I almost couldn’t believe it myself—it precipitated my theatrics with the doll. When I picked that old thing up at the dump, I really had no ulterior motive. It was more a whim, a sentimental impulse from an old man. Somehow, somewhere, I saw a connection between the old, discarded doll and the young girl who had been so brutally murdered. Only later did I realize the doll had probably been found in the same area as the body parts. Maybe it seemed a long shot, but the doll and the remains of Nanette could have been dumped by the same truck.”
“I understand. So when that little boy and the woman both recognized Bibette, you felt Nanette’s remains came from this building as well.”
“That’s so,” nodded DeKok.
“So, old man Staaten killed Nanette after all.”
DeKok rubbed his hand over his face.
“I, eh, I don’t think so.”
“What!?”
“I don’t think Staaten killed Nanette.”
Totally confused, Vledder looked at his mentor.
“But this is his apartment! He’s r
egistered at this address.”
“Registered, yes. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he lives here. The elder Staaten is a man with refined taste, a connoisseur. He loves atmosphere, coziness, intimacy. He surrounds himself with beautiful things—paintings, handsome and comfortable furniture. Just look around you. This is a sparsely furnished apartment without sphere or personality, tastelessly decorated. It’s more like a hotel room. No surroundings for the elder Staaten. He would—”
Suddenly DeKok stopped talking.
“What’s the matter?” whispered Vledder.
“Listen, somebody is at the door.”
“The herd?”
“Too soon, no, they can’t be…”
They rose as one and inched toward the foyer door. They could clearly hear the front door being opened. Seconds later they stood nose to nose with a man. It was Vledder’s fault. He opened the living room door a little too soon.
As soon as the man spotted the detectives he reacted immediately. In a flash he turned and ran from the flat.
“The beard!” yelled DeKok. “The beard from The Red Lion. Catch him!”
Vledder started after the man.
19
The bearded man ran along the gallery. His long legs moved at incredible speed, despite a floppy pair of pants. The pale, loose jacket flapped like the wings of a bat. He did not look around.
Vledder followed with a savage determination. He was furious with himself for his actions back in the apartment. He had given the game away prematurely. He had been too ambitious, greedy. He’d given the man just enough time to make his escape. They ran on.
The sudden exertion made Vledder pant heavily. He felt his heart thump in his chest like a steam hammer. The man with the beard fled before him. The distance between him and his quarry increased steadily.
The man shot into the elevator lobby at the end of the gallery. He realized in a flash it would be madness to wait for an elevator. He sprinted to the top of the stairs.
As he passed the bank of elevators on the floor below, he aimed for the next set of stairs. An elevator door opened. A few women and children emerged. Unaware of the situation, the small group formed a sudden obstacle for the bearded man. They were too close. He could not avoid them. His speed was too great.
DeKok and the Somber Nude Page 15