DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  DeKok had used all his persuasion to get Irmgard’s cooperation. She was his only chance. Irmgard looked for ways out—she stalled with one excuse or another. She wanted to consult her husband, but he could not been reached. She wanted to wait until she could reach him, before agreeing. DeKok had explained patiently how she was in grave danger as long as the murderer had not been caught. In the end she agreed.

  DeKok sighed deeply, but silently. He felt his pulse and found it calm and steady. He knew more or less what would happen, but could not be absolutely sure. He sneaked another peek at his watch. Time seemed to stand still. Every minute seemed an eternity.

  Suddenly they heard soft footsteps in the corridor outside the bedroom. The door of the room opened slowly.

  DeKok saw the legs of dark trousers and what looked like cowboy boots. The heels were elevated. Vledder and DeKok held their breath. The boots stopped behind the chair. There was a sudden movement, the whistling of air, followed by the sound of an impact. A blonde wig was thrown across the room and a dented, wood head rolled over the brightly colored carpet.

  Later DeKok remembered what happened then as a slow-motion picture. The two inspectors emerged from underneath the bed.

  Overwhelmed and bewildered, Igor Stablinsky looked at them as if he had seen ghosts. He stood transfixed, but the trance lasted only a second. He pirouetted swiftly and fled. Before Vledder and DeKok could reach the door, Igor had closed and locked it.

  Vledder smashed a shoulder into the door, but the door did not give an inch.

  DeKok shook his head in disgust and pressed the button on the phone in his hand. He barked a number of commands, while Vledder took a chair and smashed the window. He took a quick look at the glass shards remaining in the frame. With a rapid movement he swept the chair across the remaining shards. He tossed the chair behind him and jumped out of the window. DeKok followed close behind.

  They ran through the garden around the house. When they reached the front of the house, they saw a car parked in front of the steps leading to the front door. It was a large, dark vehicle.

  Isolde Bildijk stood next to the open rear door, leaning on a stick. Igor was in the process of helping her into the car. He slammed the rear door of the vehicle behind Isolde, ran around to the driver’s seat, and slid behind the wheel. The engine caught immediately, and the car sped away, spewing a fountain of gravel behind it.

  Vledder pulled his service weapon. DeKok said nothing, but ran after the disappearing car. He counted on Vledder’s good sense not to fire the pistol at the fleeing car. Outside of the rapidly increasing distance, steadying for an accurate shot would have been out of the question. Running distances and shooting don’t mix, except in Hollywood.

  Igor swiftly increased speed. He had almost reached the gate when two police cars turned into the gate, almost side by side. The lights on top of the cars were flashing and their high beams blinded everyone in their path.

  Igor, too, lost his vision for a moment. Instinctively he turned the wheel and crossed the lawn, headed straight for the pile of dead geese. The impact and the slippery surface caused the vehicle to tip over on its side. A second bump rolled the car on its roof. The car progressed a few more feet upside down, stopping against an immense oak with an impact that shook leaves off the tree.

  DeKok had watched with consternation. He kept running in his strange duck gait. He had seen Isolde Bildijk thrown from the car. Her body landed close to the now scattered heap of dead geese. Her cane was nearby. DeKok knelt next to the body. Isolde’s eyes were closed, but she was still breathing. Quickly DeKok examined the body. His hands carefully, but thoroughly searched for blood, or fractures, but he could find no obvious trauma.

  Suddenly, in the reflected glare of the police headlights, DeKok noticed the approach of a pair of high-heeled boots. He looked up.

  Igor Stablinsky paused a moment to pick up the discarded cane and hefted it in his right hand.

  DeKok held his eyes on Igor. The old inspector was panting and half crouched down. He forced his breathing to be normal and then pulled his mouth into an ugly grin.

  “You wouldn’t dare, Igor. Not this way. Once a coward, always a coward—you don’t have the guts!

  Behind him, DeKok heard rapid footsteps on the gravel.

  “Mr. DeKok … Mr. DeKok!”

  DeKok heard Penny’s voice and turned around. At the same time he realized his mistake. He had turned his back on Igor. He dropped flat to the ground.

  A shot went off and the cane fell from Igor’s hand. With a grotesque gesture Stablinsky threw both arms high in the air before collapsing.

  DeKok kneeled on one knee. Crying, little Penny flew into his arms. The old inspector closed his eyes for a moment and tried to control his emotions.

  “What … what’s the matter, honey?”

  His voice trembled just a little.

  The little girl pointed at Igor’s corpse.

  “That man … that’s the man who beat Uncle Ivo.”

  19

  DeKok later invited Vledder and the two young detective-sergeants, Elsberg and Brink, for a cozy evening at his home. He was well aware that the gruesome end on the Happy Lake estate had left unanswered questions.

  During that desperate end game, in fact, Elsberg and Brink confided they would love to know what exactly was happening. It was the first time the two young men had been present at the end of one of DeKok’s cases. Vledder, of course, knew most of the details from the report he had prepared for the commissaris. But some details had been left out. DeKok had added those verbally when he presented the report to Buitendam.

  The gray sleuth sank down in his leather club chair. He still felt the tension of the last few days in his bones. It seemed to last longer than on previous occasions. It seemed to abate much slower as well. He had succeeded but, literally, at the last minute.

  He looked at the young people surrounding him and wondered how much longer he would be able to put up with the mental and physical stresses of his demanding job.

  His mind wandered toward Little Lowee and a faint smile flashed across his wide face. Only this morning the diminutive, scrappy barkeeper had sent over a splendid bottle of cognac from his own hidden cache. Apparently word had spread via the underworld grapevine to Lowee’s rather less savory circles. There was a brief note with the bottle. ‘Proost …

  to a long life, but not so long for Igor.’ The note was in Lowee’s almost indecipherable scribble. It was a harsh sentiment, but DeKok understood Lowee. In his own way, he did not just celebrate Igor’s death, but lauded DeKok’s survival.

  DeKok rose from his chair and picked up Lowee’s bottle of cognac. With keen anticipation he filled the wide, deep snifters and served his guests.

  Mrs. DeKok appeared from the kitchen with platters heaped high with a variety of delicacies. The Dutch seldom drink without eating, and have filled entire cookbooks with recipes for just that purpose. The variety of food the Dutch call “bitter food” would put a smorgasbord to shame. It is called “bitter” food, because the Dutch National drink, Jenever, is commonly called a ‘bitter.’ Mrs. DeKok was a culinary genius, who performed magic in the kitchen. Vledder, who knew her reputation well, cast greedy eyes over the mouth-watering display.

  Mrs. DeKok arranged the platters on a sideboard, while she gave Vledder an admiring smile.

  “I heard the whole story,” she said. “You saved my husband’s life.”

  The young inspector shrugged shyly.

  “Now I’m beginning to understand why DeKok never wants to carry a weapon and why he’s always insisting that I never use one. My fingers are sore and bruised from report writing … was it necessary to shoot the victim fatally … what other means were at your disposal … was the life of your colleague really in danger?” He shook his head in mock despair. “And then the interviews at headquarters and in our own station. It was all the way over the top.”

  He paused for a moment and made a movement toward the trays with food.
Then he controlled the urge to stuff himself.

  “I really wonder about those guys at headquarters,” he continued. “Igor Stablinsky was probably the most dangerous person we’ve encountered in years. There’s clear evidence of at least two murders on his conscience—at the time, probably three more. As the officer involved, I was expected to make a split-second decision to fire or not. I regret I had to take a life, but I still don’t see how I could have acted otherwise.”

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “I share some of the responsibility,” admitted DeKok. “I should not have turned my back on him when Penny came running toward me. If Dick had not acted,” he added cynically, “this party would have been a wake, with me as the guest of honor. The old lady’s cane was filled with lead.”

  “With lead … but why?” asked Brink.

  “Old Willem did that for her when she complained about being a poor defenseless invalid in a large, unguarded house. She was on about having no means of protecting herself.” He grinned sadly. “In reality, she already intended to use the stick to wipe out her nephews and her niece.”

  Vledder had not known that.

  “Really, was that her plan?”

  “Yes,” answered DeKok. “I’ve spent quite a few hours with her in the hospital. She was very calm, and collected. She also did not hold anything back. Very forthcoming.”

  Vledder gave him an intent look.

  “Does she know Igor is dead?”

  DeKok closed his eyes, a painful look on his face.

  “I debated telling her, but to my surprise, she hardly reacted at all. Actually, she registered relief, as if she had been freed from a burden.”

  Mrs. DeKok could not let that go by unchallenged.

  “But he was her son!” she exclaimed.

  “Agreed,” answered DeKok, “but a son who brought her little joy.”

  A silence fell, finally broken by Elsberg.

  “But I don’t understand it all. What was that woman after? And who is this Igor and how is he connected to it all?”

  DeKok smiled tolerantly.

  “I understand,” he said, “but before we go any further. Let’s have a sip of cognac and …” he pointed at the trays, “that smells delicious.”

  Mrs. DeKok took a small plate and loaded a variety of snacks for her husband. The three young men were making their selections as well, guided by Vledder who was familiar with the delicacies Mrs. DeKok provided. The two sergeants filled their plates according to Vledder’s directions. Vledder was trying to decide between two kinds of tiny cream puffs. One kind was filled with a delicate fish ragout and the other kind was filled with an aromatic meat ragout. In the end he took a generous helping of both. He added a few slices of pickled herring and several varieties of cheese. Ruefully he looked as his filled plate, but than realized he could go back for seconds, or thirds, or more.

  The three young men reseated themselves while DeKok bit with relish into a croquette, liberally covered by spicy mustard. Mrs. DeKok smiled benignly at the men, but did not eat anything herself. She sipped at her sherry and looked at DeKok with a meaningful glance.

  “Oh, yes,” said DeKok, hastily swallowing the last of his croquette and taking a swallow from his cognac. “Vledder, too was on the wrong trail for a while. I was not, because I was not on any trail … I was just puzzled.”

  “DeKok!” warned his wife.

  “All right … al right … . Originally Vledder thought, and I did not disagree with him, that the two nephews, Ivo and Izaak, and the niece, Irmgard, were after each other in order to gain the inheritance from their Aunt Isolde. We started to look at the events at Happy Lake in that light and drew the wrong conclusions … despite my doubt about the motives, I could not think of any other possibilities. It was not until after our conversation with Uncle Immanuel, in Bussum, that I started to understand what could have happened.”

  “Please allow me to observe,” said Brink diffidently with a heavy Rotterdam accent, “that at this point it’s all Greek to me.”

  “You’re right, Johnny,” conceded DeKok. He picked up his glass and took another swallow. “I’ll try to sketch in the background as concise and as complete as possible. If there are still any questions after that, I’ll answer them as best as I can.”

  DeKok placed his glass next to the small plate with food on the little table next to his chair. With a resolute gesture he turned away from the temptations and faced his audience.

  “Once upon a time …” he began, then laughed sourly. “It’s not a nice fairy tale … but, then, fairy tales are never very nice.”

  “DeKok!” warned his wife again.

  “Yes,” continued DeKok, “once upon a time, not so long ago, there was man called Izaak Bildijk. He earned a fortune young, married, and had four sons. The first son was called Ignatius, the next one was called Iwert, the third was Immanuel, and the fourth son was Ilja. Izaak Bildijk bought the Happy Lake estate to settle down and raise his family. At his death, he left the entire estate to his eldest son, Ignatius. The estate included the house and all its surrounding lands. In addition to the large garden, there were a great number of acres of farmland under lease to neighboring farmers.”

  “So, Ignatius was the lucky heir,” remarked Elsberg.

  “Exactly,” continued DeKok. “Ignatius married in due course. The happy couple produced a daughter, whom they called Isolde. Rather than a blessing, Isolde became a curse to her parents. She was, what’s called a ‘bad seed.’ Promiscuous in her early teens, by eighteen she met a Polish violinist in Amsterdam. This gypsy musician, Peter Stablinsky, inveigled her to abandon her life and family in Amsterdam to accompany him on his tours of Europe. Once she discovered she was pregnant, she demanded he marry her. They married and stayed for a time in Gdansk, where the child was born. The child they named Igor. Isolde and Peter were not finished wandering. They left Igor with his Polish grandparents in Gdansk, rather than be burdened with a baby boy. Their actions did not serve them any better than they served the child. Without an anchor or responsibilities, the couple broke up. Russia was the end of the line—they officially divorced there. Isolde went back home, to Holland.”

  DeKok paused and gave his wife a plaintive look. She handed him the bottle of cognac and he poured himself a generous measure. He held up the bottle, looking at his guests in an inviting manner. They all hastened to get a refill. When they had all settled back in their chairs Mrs. DeKok asked a question.

  “What about the child?” she wanted to know.

  “Igor stayed with the grandparents in Gdansk. Isolde never gave herself a chance to develop a nurturing side, assuming she had one.”

  “That’s incredible.”

  “During her long absence,” DeKok went on, “things had changed at Happy Lake. Isolde’s parents had died and the estate had reverted to the second son, Iwert.” DeKok raised an index finger in the air. “Now it gets complicated,” he warned. “Isolde’s uncle, Iwert, who had inherited the estate in his turn, was not married. Isolde challenged the inheritance, contending she should have inherited the estate of her parents. In fact, she had a valid claim. But her very rich Uncle Immanuel, Iwert’s brother, arranged for them both to stay at Happy Lake. In order to quell the rumors, Isolde decided to marry Iwert.”

  “But that was incest,” protested Elsberg.

  “Yes, but one can marry a blood relative with a special dispensation from the Crown. Historically, only the aristocracy applied for such a dispensation, in order to preserve a particular bloodline. It has always been, however, available to all citizens. And the Bildijk family had enough influence to get it approved in record time.”

  “So, she married her uncle, the brother of her father.”

  “Yes,” answered DeKok. “And thereby she achieved a double status. She remained the niece of her rich uncle Immanuel, but at the same time she was the ‘aunt’ of her cousins, Ivo, Izaak, and Irmgard … the children of her youngest uncle, Izaak.”

  “And there�
�s where I went wrong,” interrupted Vledder. “Just like Ilja’s children, I saw Isolde as just an ‘aunt,’ the widow of their uncle Iwert.”

  DeKok encouraged him by lifting his glass in salute.

  “Exactly,” he confirmed, “just like you … like all of us, they forgot or did not know Isolde was an equal heir of their uncle, Immanuel.”

  “Aha,” exclaimed Brink suddenly. “Now, I see. If Isolde killed her cousins, she would be the only heir left of Immanuel’s fortune.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “Greed is often the primary motivation for murder,” he said thoughtfully.

  Elsberg gestured impatiently.

  “But what about Igor, how does he fit in?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “At first, he did not fit in at all. When his father died, relatively young, he stayed with his grandparents, who merely told him that his mother was Isolde Bildijk of the Netherlands, the daughter of a rich family. At first Igor spoke only Polish and German, but he studied Dutch and when he was sure enough of himself, he traveled to Happy Lake and presented himself to his mother. That was the day that Isolde’s paralysis first manifested itself. She made him swear never to come to Happy Lake during the day and paid him whatever he asked. And that was a lot … she had to sell the leased lands and took several mortgages on the rest of the estate in order to satisfy Igor’s demands. Finally she could no longer pay her son. And although she lived very frugally, the debts piled up. The only one who knew was Willem, the gardener. His meager wages had not been paid for a year. But he was very attached to Isolde, stayed on, and did whatever she wanted. She used him outrageously.”

  He paused and nibbled on some of the food. Then he drained his glass and looked around for the bottle.

  “No,” said his wife. “Finish what you started, first.”