DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  “You want to make sure he’s who he is?” replied DeKok, “But I don’t think you’ll find his prints on file. He was, how shall I put it … a more or less respectable man.”

  “We’re all more or less proper citizens,” commented Kruger, “but I’ll just make sure.”

  DeKok nodded, his thoughts already elsewhere. Vledder came back and asked Kruger a question.

  “Are you prepared to make casts of footprints?”

  “Yes, I have the stuff in the car. Did you find something?”

  Vledder turned to DeKok.

  “Because Bram had to leave so quickly, I took a look around on my own. There are definite footprints in the garden, on the edge of the path,” he pointed at the window. “They lead from here to a window a few rooms down.”

  “Which room?”

  “Isolde’s room.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin thoughtfully. A fleeting little smile appeared.

  “In that case Penny may indeed have seen Uncle Izaak in the garden last night.” He looked up. “Do the footsteps go anywhere else?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “They end in front of the old lady’s room. There they are a bit smudged and the toes of the shoes are deeper, as if someone stood tip-toe to look inside.”

  “Fine,” said DeKok. “What else?”

  “I retraced the footsteps to here.”

  “This room.”

  “Exactly, I found some mud from the flower beds on the tiles in front of the doors.” Vledder pointed at the French doors.

  “Did you find a stick?”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “There are lots of bushes close to the house. It might be there, somewhere. I actually looked only at the footsteps. The forensic team may find it, if it’s there.”

  “Were there signs of a break-in?”

  Vledder shook his head resolutely.

  “Not that I could see. All the windows of the house, even those in the upper level, are intact. No scratches or signs of forcible entry. And the security is quite adequate … bolts, dead-bolts, even some chains.” He looked at DeKok with an apologetic smile. “No chance for Igor to get in,” he added slowly.

  DeKok stared into the distance.

  “Unless … unless someone from the inside let him in.”

  They were all together in the cheerless living room with the view of the meadow. Isolde Bildijk in the center, stiff and straight in her ornate “throne.’ Her nephew Ivo stood to her right, looking the part of the evil vizier to his monarch. His puffy hand rested on a projection from the back of the chair.

  DeKok approached slowly, insolently.

  As before, Irmgard was seated on the wide bench to the left. Her children were again lined up behind her. Everything was the same as the previous day, except that Izaak was missing. Vledder glanced at Penny. The little girl wore the same red velvet dress. She winked at DeKok.

  DeKok ignored it, did not give any indication that he had seen anything. He stopped in front of Isolde’s throne and briefly bowed his head.

  “I wish to express my … eh, my sympathies regarding the sudden loss of your nephew, Izaak,” he said formally. “It must have been a cruel blow for you, so shortly after the loss of your dedicated gardener.”

  Mrs. Bildijk pressed her lips together in disapproval.

  “The gardener was a servant,” she said sharply, “an inferior. Izaak was a highly regarded member of my family.”

  DeKok nodded to himself as if he had just confirmed something.

  “That distinction does not count as far as I’m concerned. And I assure you no judge will give greater weight to one life than to the other, when I deliver the murderer to justice.”

  Isolde Bildijk shook her head.

  “Our values differ,” she said with a resigned tone in her voice. “I’ve been sorely disappointed in your conduct in this matter, Inspector.” She sighed deeply. “And you came highly recommended as an excellent detective.”

  Once again DeKok nodded to himself. The expression on his face did not change.

  “Perhaps ‘some’ overestimate my capabilities.” He leaned closer. “But I will catch the killer.”

  Isolde Bildijk smiled condescendingly.

  “I’d like to know when that will be?” she demanded.

  DeKok looked at her with a penetrating look.

  “It will be when I have finished my work—when I have sufficient evidence to convict.”

  This time she gave a short, barking, derisive laugh. It sounded unpleasant and insulting.

  “Evidence! Why would you bother with that? I had evidence against my gardener and you refused to take him into police custody.”

  DeKok remained passive.

  “I regret it more than I can say,” he said evenly. “If I had arrested him he might still be alive … he would not have been executed.”

  Isolde Bildijk snorted. Her nostrils trembled and her eyes had a malicious light in them.

  “What are you trying to insinuate?”

  “His murderer was a Bildijk.”

  Vledder drove away from the coach house with so much speed the gravel spun away from the rear wheels. He looked at DeKok with a puzzled face.

  “What made you say that?”

  “Eh?”

  “The gardener has been murdered by a Bildijk.”

  DeKok sat up straighter and pointed out the window.

  “Those carcasses are still there,” he censured.

  “I have phoned them again,” Vledder apologized. “Apparently they have had no time to collect the birds.” As he negotiated the gate he remained silent. Once they were on the road, he spoke again.

  “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  DeKok smiled as he unearthed a peppermint from his breast pocket. He dusted it off and put it in his mouth. Only then did he turn to Vledder.

  “It was a gut reaction,” admitted DeKok. He grinned boyishly. “It was precipitated, more or less, by the irritating behavior of that wicked old woman.” He sighed. “Happy Lake is like a keg about to burst. It’s full of passions and contrasting emotions. I wanted to force a reaction … any reaction.”

  “Well, even so,” said Vledder, “we’re in a jam. Our case is at a dead-end. I hope something happens soon, or we’ll never solve it.”

  “You don’t think two murders are enough?”

  The young inspector shook his head.

  “That’s not what I mean. Every murder is one too many. Like you, the murder of old Willem troubles me the most. I certainly cannot fit the pieces of this puzzle together, but I’m also very affected by the senseless waste of his death. If we could limit ourselves to the murder of Izaak, it would be easy to decide on a motive.”

  “I’m listening,” said DeKok.

  Vledder drove the car onto the shoulder and switched off the engine. He turned toward DeKok.

  “Irmgard, Ivo, and Izaak had motive,” he began, enthusiastically. “They’re all hot for the inheritance they expect from Aunt Isolde. To make her nervous, one of them sends her threatening letters.”

  “It suited their purpose to have the gardener falsely accused.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Next, they decide to kill the geese she kept for protection.”

  “Again, the gardener is fingered for the despicable act.”

  “Yes,” said Vledder impatiently. “But you see what happens? The threats and the death of the geese set off an alarm. Isolde issues an emergency invitation to the heirs to come to Happy Lake. They gather, ostensibly, to help protect and support her during this distressing time.”

  DeKok was genuinely interested.

  “You’re doing very well … go on.”

  “Izaak, tired of waiting, decides on his own to hasten the departure of his aunt.”

  “So the others did not know?”

  “No … that is … they didn’t have to know.

  “But they would profit.”

  Vledder shrugged a bit uncertainly.

/>   “Well, maybe they conspired. Or maybe Izaak did not take them into account … perhaps his own financial difficulties were too pressing. Maybe he figured his share of the loot would be sufficient for his needs.”

  DeKok gave his colleague a long, thoughtful look.

  “But why Izaak,” he asked finally.

  Vledder sighed at so much incomprehension.

  “Think about the footsteps in the garden that ended at Isolde’s bedroom. And think of what the little girl told you. She saw Izaak walking around with a stick.”

  DeKok smiled politely.

  “It sounds reasonable, but Aunt Isolde is still safe and sound on her throne in the living room.”

  “Something went wrong,” said Vledder.

  “What?”

  Vledder was getting irritated.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It could have been a matter of control … of direction. Perhaps somebody else had the same idea and bashed in the wrong skull.” He remained silent for a moment and pressed his lips together while he made an obstinate gesture toward his older colleague. “One thing I know for sure,” he continued doggedly, “one of these days the carefully coiffed head of Aunt Isolde will roll. I’m certain of that.”

  12

  As they reached the city, they passed the old Palace of Justice. It looked terrible, all covered with graffiti. DeKok looked at it. It pained him to see the old, venerable building so neglected. He saw it as a sign of the times. Law and justice were daily denigrated, the symbols of law and justice vandalized.

  DeKok was thinking out loud. “There is some soul of goodness in things evil. Would men observantly distill it out.”

  “What?” asked Vledder. “Is that a quotation?”

  DeKok gestured at the old building.

  “I was just thinking about right, justice, and the law and the low esteem in which they are kept.” He grinned sadly. “The quote is from Shakespeare’s Henry V.”

  “Well at least he held out some hope,” laughed Vledder.

  “Maybe, but what about ‘There’s small choice in rotten apples?’”

  “He didn’t say that.”

  “Oh, yes. It’s in The Taming of the Shrew.”

  “My, you’re in a pessimistic mood.”

  “On the contrary, in a pessimistic mood, I would have said, ‘Destroy the seed of evil, or it will grow up to your ruin.’” He paused and then he said: “It means to kill evil at birth, or it will return with a vengeance. It’s from Aesop,” he added.

  “Rather drastic, I think. But I thought Aesop just wrote fables.”

  “This is from a fable, The Swallow and the Other Birds.”

  Vledder seemed dumbfounded by so much erudition and they continued in silence.

  Long Leiden Side Street looked less sinister in the daylight. The furtive movement of shadowy figures had dissolved. Vledder parked close to number one hundred ninety-seven and they got out of the car. Vledder locked the doors and followed DeKok.

  “Why are we here?”

  “We’re looking for German Inge.”

  “I see. Of course, you’re not going to visit Crazy Chris, not during the day.” He grimaced. “Do you really expect German Inge to tell you where to find Igor?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “After Willem’s death, I was blindsided by Izaak’s demise. I had not foreseen anything like it. I’m wondering whether Izaak’s visit here last night was only for sex.”

  “But what other reason could there be?”

  DeKok did not answer. He stopped in front of the door. He pulled a little brass instrument from his pocket … once a present from an ex-burglar. It allowed him to open virtually any lock.

  Vledder shook his head in disapproval.

  “You can’t do that,” he protested. “Not in the middle of the day, in broad daylight. Besides, she’s probably home. The girls usually don’t start work until the evening.”

  DeKok seemed deaf. He looked at the lock and then selected a particular combination of extensions from the brass cylinder. Within a few seconds the lock opened and he pushed against the door. It moved.

  “You must never underestimate the element of surprise during an investigation,” lectured DeKok as he replaced the small instrument in his pocket.

  Vledder let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “But this is breaking and entering, DeKok,” he remonstrated. “It is burglary. One of these days you’ll get in a lot of trouble.” He sounded worried.

  His older colleague grinned naughtily. His face looked cheerful as if he had just won a prize. His conscience was not bothering him a bit.

  “I can’t help it,” he said with a straight face, “if German Inge doesn’t keep her door locked. Some people are very careless.”

  Vledder did not appreciate the joke. His face stern, he followed DeKok into the dark corridor. The only light came from a small window over the front door that they closed behind them.

  DeKok signaled Vledder to walk to the end of the corridor.

  “There’s a small kitchen with a back door. The door leads to a tiny backyard, surrounded by a wall. No matter who tries to leave that way … you stop him, or her.”

  Vledder nodded and disappeared toward the back of the house.

  On the left side of the corridor a door was ajar. DeKok entered carefully and found himself in a long, narrow room. Near the center, against the wall, was a young woman asleep in a double bed. Despite the streaked make-up, DeKok recognized her as the woman who had received Izaak Bildijk the previous night. He loosened his coat, placed a bra, a pair of panties, and some stockings on a different chair and sat down in the chair next to the bed. His attitude was calm and relaxed, as if he often came for a visit.

  Meanwhile he listened for noises, but the old house was quiet. On the floor above he heard light footsteps and the sound of a radio. He could barely hear Vledder rummaging around in the kitchen.

  He let his eyes wander around the room. On the street side, a small table held a telephone. A late-model television set sat on the floor next to the table. With the exception of the TV, the furnishings looked to be the products of forays to flea markets. The bed was none too clean, either. The dingy, gray sheets and pillowcases had not been washed for weeks. They lent a rancid odor to the room. Suddenly squeamish, DeKok wondered how Izaak could have stayed here as long as he did.

  After a few minutes the woman on the bed started to toss and turn. It seemed she was aware of his presence in the room. She sat bolt upright in the bed and stared at DeKok with wild eyes.

  “Who, who are you? How did you get in? What are you doing here?”

  DeKok gave her his best smile.

  “That’s too many,” he said cheerfully. “That’s three questions all at once.” He leaned forward and stretched out his hand to the woman. “My name is DeKok … with kay-oh-kay. I’m a police inspector.”

  German Inge took his hand and shook it briefly. Then she fell back on the pillow.

  “A cop,” she said. It sounded disillusioned. “I’ve already reported myself. I told you I’m no longer missing.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “That’s not why I’m here.”

  She raised herself again to a seated position, baring her breasts.

  “Then what do you want?”

  DeKok gave her an admiring look.

  “For a German Inge, you speak excellent Dutch.”

  She shrugged her shoulders.

  “My mother … mother is Dutch, from Scheveningen.” She laughed at him. “What do you think of my ‘sch’?”

  Like any Dutchman, DeKok knew that the “sch” sound, which is pronounced as a single letter, is just about impossible for a foreigner to pronounce properly.

  “Very good,” praised DeKok. He tossed her the panties and the bra. “Put something on, you’ll catch a cold.”

  She caught the clothing.

  “You’re just like my grandfather,” she griped. “He would always yell at me when he saw me naked.”
r />   “Perhaps he liked dressed Ingeborg better than naked Inge,” smiled DeKok.

  She let the words sink in. Then she gave him a tender look.

  “You’re not bad … for a cop.”

  DeKok accepted the compliment placidly. He watched as she put on the bra and pulled on the panties under the blanket. Then she stepped out of bed. She was beautiful, he observed, tall, slender with a feline grace. When she put on a blouse, he saw the puncture marks on her arm.

  Their eyes crossed.

  “How long have you been on heroin?”

  “Two years.”

  “You started because of Igor?”

  Inge shook her head as she put her long legs into a pair of black jeans.

  “I was already a user before I knew Igor.”

  “Have you seen him? That is since you returned from Germany?”

  “No.”

  “He’s been asking for you.”

  “I heard that.”

  “Does he know you’re here?” asked DeKok while he gestured around the room.

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  She smiled sadly.

  “Nothing stays a secret with Igor. I was back here less than an hour when he called me on the phone.”

  DeKok gave her a searching look.

  “Do you know where he is?”

  German Inge’s comfort level suddenly changed. She took a cigarette from an open pack next to the bed and turned it around in her hand.

  “I don’t know where he is,” she said hesitatingly. “I’ve never known much. Sometimes he comes over … for a night.” She pointed at the telephone. “Most of the time he just rings.”

  “When?”

  Again the sad, tired smile.

  “At night … always at night … to ask me how much I made.”

  “Last night?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Did Igor call you last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “What time?”

  “Half past one … two o’clock … thereabouts.”

  “When Izaak was here?”

  She lit the cigarette from a lighter and took a long drag. She exhaled. Through the smoke she looked at the inspector with suspicion.