DeKok and the Somber Nude
Page 16
Right in front of him was a little girl, perhaps six years old or less, with a doll in her arms. He jumped wildly in a desperate attempt to avoid the child. It was an uncalculated jump and he lost control. His left foot slipped, found no traction. He fell on the granite floor with a sickening thud.
Dazed, almost unconscious, he remained down. He heard the screams of women and children from what seemed a distance. It was a strangely thrilling sound of people in panic. He opened his eyes and looked for the source. He could not see very well. The images blurred. Next to his head was a doll. He could make out the shape and the features. It was an old plastic doll with a fixed smile. It fascinated him. He did not know why. He could not tear his eyes away from that fixed, soulless smile. He was still looking at it when he lost consciousness.
“What was the verdict at the hospital?”
Vledder sighed.
“He’s in shock. For the time being we’re not allowed to ask him any questions.”
“Is his condition serious?”
“No, not exactly. The doctor thinks he will be all right in a few days. In retrospect it wasn’t all that bad.”
“Is the little girl injured?”
“Nothing but a few scrapes and bruises on her arms and legs. Her mother already took her home.”
“I’m glad for that,” said DeKok, relieved.
Vledder bit on his lower lip.
“Me too, believe me. I really feel partly responsible for that tumble, you know. I should never have given Pierre a chance to run away. If I had just let him enter all the way, we would have had him. That guy was so fast.”
“I hope,” grinned DeKok, “you arranged for surveillance in the hospital.”
“Of course, what do you think? I managed to convince the commissaris to assign two constables. One in the corridor and the other one next to the bed.”
“What about the windows?”
Vledder shook his head wearily.
“No problem. The windows look out on a closed courtyard; he cannot escape.”
DeKok rose from his chair.
“Excellent,” he said. “Really excellent. Two constables seem more than enough then. I wouldn’t want to lose our friend at this late date, you see.”
“For certain, you worked hard enough to get ahold of him. Have you heard anything from technical services?”
Slowly DeKok nodded.
“Yes, just before you came back from the hospital, I talked with Doctor Beskes from the lab. He told me that they’d found blonde hair on the sides of the garbage chute and in the grating of the drainpipe in the shower. They also found evidence of human tissue, corroborating my theory that Nanette was killed and dismembered inside the flat.”
“And what about prints?” asked Vledder while nodding agreement with DeKok’s statement.
“They found prints all over the place—in the kitchen, the bathroom, everywhere. With so many, it’s too soon to identify individual prints. They have to be compared and correlated.”
“What do you think?”
“I think they’ll find matches.”
Vledder looked at him probingly.
“You mean, eh, the prints will probably belong to Pierre Popko and Nanette?”
“Yes.”
Vledder shook his head and sighed.
“To be completely honest, I don’t understand a thing. How, for instance, did those two get to use the apartment belonging to Staaten? And why would Popko murder Nanette? What motive did he have? I can’t see it. Really, I can’t see it.”
With hands deeply buried in his pockets, DeKok began to pace up and down the large detective room. Slowly his feet shuffled over the worn linoleum. Despite his success so far, he was depressed and discouraged.
He halted in front of the window. The rain hid the rooftops across the street in a nebulous veil.
“Raining cats and dogs,” he murmured. “Dog days.”
Suddenly he thought about his old mother and her superstitious fear of those days in July. It evoked tender feelings. DeKok smiled softly to himself. He saw the so-familiar face in his mind’s eye, two sparkling eyes in a lovely face full of dear wrinkles. “Careful, my boy,” he heard her say, “the dog days of summer can be dangerous…dangerous…danger…” Her voice echoed in his brain.
He remained motionless in front of the window for a while longer, trying to come to a decision. Then he turned, took his hat and coat, and waddled out of the office.
“Come,” he called from the door, “we’re going to the hospital. I want that painter’s story today, now!”
Vledder looked at him in astonishment.
“But,” he called after him, “what about the doctor?”
DeKok ignored him. Unperturbed, he walked on. Vledder followed him, shaking his head, his raincoat in a bunch on his shoulders.
DeKok could never really get used to the typical smell of a hospital—that combination of Lysol, carbolic soap, and other, less identifiable odors. Whenever he had to visit a hospital in the line of duty, he made his stay as short as possible.
“Where is he?” he nudged Vledder.
“Upstairs, second floor.”
They climbed the stairs. A couple of young nurses darted past them. Vledder showed his most pleasant face and a beaming smile. DeKok did not exert himself.
They found a young constable in the corridor on the second floor. He stood in front of a door, legs wide apart.
DeKok grinned at him in a friendly sort of way.
“I’m Inspector DeKok.”
“Yessir, with a kay-oh-kay. I’ve seen you before,” laughed the constable.
“Excellent. Where’s your partner?”
“Inside. Holding the suspect’s hand, I expect.”
“Excellent,” repeated DeKok grinning, “just fine. Just call him out here, will you? Vledder and I will take over for a while. Look around, get a cup of coffee, pinch the nurse, whatever. Be back here in about half an hour.”
“Half an hour?” grimaced the constable.
“Yes, about that. And don’t worry about him in the meantime. We’ll take good care of him, and we won’t leave before you’re back.”
The young constable nodded. He opened the door of the room and motioned for his partner to come outside. The partner, a big, dark, muscular man, was sitting next to the bed, a bit embarrassed.
“Come, Sister of Mercy,” he joked, “the detectives will take over for a while.”
His partner rose from the chair gratefully. Any interruption in the boredom of the assignment was welcome. His large face beaming, he left the room.
As soon as the constables had left, Vledder and DeKok approached the bed. They stood and looked at the man who had surprised them in the apartment. They renewed the confrontation.
Pierre Popko looked pale. He was on his back. Bandages formed a sort of turban around his head. He looked calmly at his visitors. The blue eyes were clear.
DeKok took his old felt hat from his head, keeping it in front of his chest. It was an uncomfortable, awkward gesture, as if he did not really know what to do with it.
Vledder looked at him from the side. DeKok irritated him at such moments. Forced bashfulness on his mentor’s part exasperated him to no end. It was nothing but a posture. Vledder knew that. It was designed to keep an opponent off guard. It was so evident, transparent. Vledder could simply not understand how anybody could be fooled.
“How are you?” he heard him ask. It sounded worried.
Pierre Popko gave a wan smile.
“Not too bad, yes, not too bad.” Carefully he felt for the bandages on his head. “My head still hurts.”
DeKok pushed a chair closer to the head end of the bed and sat down.
“Well, that was quite a fall you took.”
The painter tried to grin.
“Yes,” he said with a grimace, “you might say that. How, eh, how’s the child?”
“All right. She had a few scrapes and bruises, nothing serious. She’s home already.”
Silence fell over the room.
Vledder walked away from the foot of the bed. He went to the window and sat down on a short bench, took out his notebook, and poised himself to take notes. He knew this was just the preliminary skirmish. Before long, DeKok would steer the conversation in the direction of the murder. He knew his mentor so well. That was part of his tactic. He would approach the subject in which he was interested calmly, obliquely. It was a sideways approach, virtually undetectable. The painter turned his head carefully; it was obviously painful for him to do so.
“You’re Inspector DeKok, aren’t you?”
“You know me?” asked DeKok, nodding agreement.
“Kristel told me,” answered the painter after a slight hesitation.
“You know Kristel?”
“Kristel is an old friend,” smiled the painter.
“You’ve known her for years?”
“As a friend, yes. I’ve known her since before she started Ye Three Roses on Duke Street. I met her through her brother.”
“Frank Bogaard?”
“Yes indeed, that’s what he calls himself. For one reason or another he assumed his mother’s name as a pen name. His real name is Frank van Daalen. Frank wrote a number of interesting books. I like his work. Somebody introduced us one evening in a bar. It was the beginning of a short friendship.”
“What happened to him?”
Pierre Popko made a slight, almost imperceptible movement with his shoulders.
“I don’t know. As I said, our friendship didn’t last long. He hung around with people I didn’t care for. It eventually resulted in a rift. Later I heard he might have been hooked on drugs. I don’t know whether it’s true or not. We lost touch.”
DeKok nodded.
“But, eh, your friendship with Kristel survived?”
Popko showed some discomfort for the first time since they had entered. The question seemed to worry him.
“Well?” pressed DeKok.
“My, eh, my friendship with Kristel survived.”
His voice sounded suddenly sharper.
The detective leaned closer.
“And when Nanette disappeared…” As casually as possible he posed the question. Like a hawk he looked for a reaction.
A slight blush colored the face of the painter.
“That…that’s something else. It had nothing to do with Kristel and me. I mean, it was outside our friendship. Kristel understood that.”
“I don’t.” DeKok shook his head.
“What?”
“I don’t understand it.”
Pierre Popko sighed deeply.
“Nanette, Nanette was like a drug. Perhaps in retrospect I should call the relationship a disease, an aberration.” He spread his arms wide. “She loved me, she said. She loved only me.”
He shook his head and closed his eyes tightly. His body shook. His lips trembled above his beard. His hands crumpled the sheets.
“She was a snake, a viper,” he hissed. “Believe me, the past few days have been hell.” He sighed, overcome with emotion. It sounded like a sob. “But I have been cleansed, cleansed…”
DeKok felt the painter’s face with the back of his hand. The face was hot. He feared a renewed shock. After all, this interrogation had been prohibited by the attending physician. Without permission, if something happened…
“Let’s discuss this calmly,” he said softly, soothingly. “Calmly like reasonable people. It’ll do you good, believe me. Clearing the air will come as a relief. You do want to talk about it, don’t you?”
Pierre nodded weakly.
DeKok took the sheet and used a tip to carefully wipe the man’s sharp nose, the corners of his eyes, and his cheeks. The painter’s face was bathed in sweat. Drops of sweat beaded on his beard.
“When you visited your old friend Kristel at Ye Three Roses, is that when you first met Nanette?”
“Yes.”
“You found her attractive?”
“Yes.”
“You fell in love?”
“Not immediately.”
DeKok paused. He smiled encouragingly at the painter. Pierre had become a lot calmer. The friendly, softly insistent voice of DeKok had calmed him. He did not shake anymore.
“What happened next?”
“Nanette was so different from Kristel, more outgoing, more frivolous. When she found out I painted, she forced herself on me persistently, shamelessly. She wanted to come to the studio to model for me.”
Softly he grinned to himself.
“At first I refused. Really, I didn’t want to get involved. You see, she was downright scary. Whenever she was with me I felt confused, unsure of myself, restless. It was as if I didn’t exist anymore. You understand? I lost track of who I was. I became a creature without a will of my own.”
He remained silent for a while.
“One night Nanette told me she loved me.”
He covered his face with both hands.
“From then on everything went wrong.”
“How’s that?”
Popko licked his dry lips.
“She told me that she would make me famous, a great painter. She believed painting was more than a matter of talent or technique; it was more a matter of marketability. It didn’t matter so much what you painted, as long as people talked about it. She told me she knew a reporter. She was certain she could convince him to write a number of articles about me.”
He smiled wanly and swallowed before he continued.
“It sounded too good to be true. You must keep in mind I’d never been very successful with my paintings. I live in poverty, really, in an old barn on Prince’s Island. I call it my studio, but it’s little more than a shack. At night it is a playground for rats. Once, when I showed Staaten how the rats had been gnawing on my paints, he gave me the key to his flat in Wood’s Edge. I was allowed to use the flat as a bedroom.”
He rubbed the back of his hands over his dry lips.
“I used to take Nanette there from time to time. Whenever she was with me, I lived in a sort of dream. It was almost a drunken stupor. I felt like I walked on air, wings on both feet.”
DeKok nodded, understanding.
“How did Nanette meet Staaten?”
“Through me. I told her about Staaten, told her the apartment belonged to him. I explained that he was wealthy and owned a fantastic collection of paintings. I told her he sometimes gave me a commission.”
He took a deep breath. Talking seemed to become easier.
“She pressed me,” he continued, “to introduce her to him. She wanted to meet him, ostensibly to persuade Staaten to give me important projects.”
“And that’s how you received the commission for the nude on the sofa?”
“That painting was not a commission.” He shook his head.
“What?”
“No, it was just another of Nanette’s ideas. ‘Let’s show old man Staaten what I look like,’ she said. ‘The more he sees, the more curious he’ll be.’”
“Why use the red sofa?”
“That was another of her ideas. Once, in a sentimental mood, Staaten had told her about his wife. Nanette was a good listener when she wanted to be. She knew the red sofa was a favorite of the late Mrs. Staaten.”
Pierre Popko swallowed.
“She wanted to get old Staaten crazy enough that he would ask her to marry him.”
“And she enlisted you to help her?”
“Yes. I made a few nice sketches of her. Pretty realistic, almost provocative. I showed them to Staaten. He was visibly shaken.”
“How could you help her? She loved you, or so she said. And you were supposed to help her trap Staaten? That’s incomprehensible.”
Pierre buried his face in his hands again.
�
�I don’t know. I don’t know anymore.” There was despair in his voice. “She talked about a marriage of convenience. It wouldn’t mean anything, wouldn’t affect our relationship. On the contrary, it would bind us closer together. A marriage with a rich man would also afford her the opportunity to do a lot for me professionally. And as soon as Staaten died, there would be plenty of years left.”
He moved his head from side to side.
“I really don’t know anymore. I was simply drugged, mesmerized. I was also apathetic. It was as if I had lost every shred of judgment.”
“When did you regain your senses?” asked DeKok, watching him closely.
Popko pressed himself into a sitting position. He sat straight up in bed and bent his head backward. His mouth was partially open. It was as if he was stretching himself after a long and deep sleep.
“I finally woke up,” he said softly, “when I saw her dead in front of me. It was as if I had been awakened from a nightmare. It was all so unreal, even her death. When I finally realized it wasn’t a nightmare, I cried over her corpse. I wept a long time, so long I had no tears left.”
“And then?”
The painter slid back down in the bed. He rested his head on the pillow and stared at the ceiling.
“Suddenly,” he went on, “I realized Nanette had to disappear. She couldn’t remain in the apartment. That was impossible…unthinkable. After all, Staaten knew I used the flat. I panicked. In a wild, unthinking impulse I lifted her onto my shoulder and walked out onto the gallery. There’s an emergency staircase. Almost nobody ever uses it.”
He paused again, lost in memories.
“I was almost downstairs when a car stopped at the bottom and somebody came up the stairs. My heart stopped, I can tell you. I turned around and climbed the stairs as rapidly as possible. It was easy. Nanette wasn’t heavy. I saw a number of cars and bicycles on the road behind the building. Suddenly I realized I was visible from everywhere. Anybody could notice me. Scared, I ran with the corpse over my shoulder as fast as I could, but my fear grew more intense. I heard sounds that weren’t there. I saw doors open that were closed. It was hell, complete hell. I think I’d lost my mind when I finally got her back in the flat.”