DeKok and Variations on Murder

by A. C. Baantjer

  “I don’t think that’s likely.”

  “So, where would you start to look?”

  The old inspector sighed.

  “If the man hasn’t been home for four days,” he said patiently, “we’ll find traces. There will be unopened mail, unread newspapers, that sort of thing. I hope to find some support for my opinion, my surmise.” He pushed himself up in the seat. “Of course,” he went on, “the easiest thing would be to ask his secretary his exact whereabouts.”

  Vledder nodded in agreement.

  “Frankly, I thought visiting his office would be your first move.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I don’t think it would be wise. I would have to explain to his secretary why I’m interested in Mr. Vreeden.”

  “His suspected death isn’t enough?”

  “No, his secretary would just give me a lovely smile and tell me Mr. Vreeden is in the Bahamas on holiday.”

  Vledder took one hand off the wheel and waved it nonchalantly.

  “Then we’ll go to the Bahamas to verify it.”

  DeKok laughed out loud.

  “I think that our esteemed commissaris would have a heart attack. The expense alone would send him into a fit.” He had to stop himself from enjoying the image. “In any event, it’s not that simple,” he continued. “To involve us officially I must have evidence to point to Vreeden’s murder. We must have judicial standing to get the commissaris’ approval to act. Sharing Marlies van Haesbergen’s story won’t get us anywhere. I also wonder if I’m allowed to do that.”

  “Do what?”

  “Share the story with any official.”

  “I don’t see the harm?”

  DeKok shook his head, as if to clear it.

  “If Vreeden is really dead, somebody is responsible. Marlies is the only witness. Sharing her confidence could put her in harm’s way. Her own subconscious fear could explain why she waited four days before coming to the police.”

  They drove on in silence for awhile.

  When they left the city behind, the rain intensified. Vledder increased the speed of the wipers, and DeKok sank back down in the seat. He pushed his dilapidated felt hat down over his eyes. Vledder concentrated on the road, but there was a thoughtful look on his face.

  “If we can’t release the story and can’t act in any official capacity,” said Vledder, breaking the silence, “it seems ridiculous to look into it. Maybe we’re just snooping. Perhaps we should bide our time, until someone comes forward to report Mr. Vreeden missing.”

  DeKok pushed his head back.

  “And who would that be? Vreeden isn’t married, has no children, and appears to have no close friends. It could take a long, long time for anybody to realize he’s disappeared.”

  Vledder did not answer at once, but his face mirrored his dissatisfaction with the answer.

  After a while he ventured, “You’ve pretty much convinced me the man is dead. If his secretary maintains he’s on vacation in the Bahamas, she must be involved with his death.”

  DeKok pushed himself up in the seat and peered over the dashboard.

  “She could well be,” he said, scanning the surroundings, “but it doesn’t have to be that way. She could have been misled by someone in authority or, at least, someone she would believe.”

  Vledder shook his head in irritation.

  “DeKok, this is a mess!”

  DeKok laughed.

  “Watch it, Dick,” he said. “We have to make a left turn here to get to Bergen.”

  Like Seaside, Bergen is primarily a vacation resort. The whipping rain had cleaned the streets and it had driven the holiday makers indoors. Bello, a, legendary steam locomotive, was the central town monument. Usually the center of holiday activity, it stood deserted and forlorn.

  The sight of Bello reminded DeKok of an earlier visit to the coast, a few years before. He’d been sent there because of the dramatic death of a nurse, Georgette Mirabeau. As he recalled it was about the same time of the year.

  Even now DeKok wondered what could they hope to accomplish?

  They left the town center, driving in the direction of Schoorl. Eternity Lane was a narrow, twisting road, flanked by impressive elm trees. From the road they saw luxurious villas and bungalows, half-hidden by luscious greenery. The house numbers were all but invisible under landscaping, and it was too dangerous to park on the narrow road. Vledder entered a driveway, got out of the car, and examined the number on the gate post. It was number 748. He got behind the wheel, backed out, and entered another driveway two houses down.

  Mr. Vreeden’s house was a lavish villa in a style reminiscent of the 1930s. It was a stately, elegant home, embellished by painted wooden trim and protruding, sculpted gutters. The place appeared deserted, no lighted windows.

  To get the car off the road Vledder drove to the back of the house. The partners left the car and walked down a narrow, paved alley to the imposing front door. They stopped under the portico.

  Vledder looked at DeKok.

  “Do we ring the bell?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “It’s the usual thing when you visit someone.”

  Vledder hesitated.

  “What do we say if someone answers the door bell?”

  “I don’t know yet,” shrugged DeKok. “I’m sure I’ll think of something.”

  There was a discreet brass push button in the white lacquered door jam. Vledder pressed the button. They heard chimes echo through the house. The sound died away and the seconds ticked by.

  Nothing happened.

  Vledder pressed the bell for the second time.

  “It looks as though,” he said nervously, “nobody is home.”

  They waited an obligatory several minutes before walking around the building. The garden was in bloom and well maintained. The paths were inviting and uncluttered, surrounded by white and red rhododendrons. The heavy aroma of flowers penetrated the rain.

  When they returned to the front door, DeKok took a small, brass cylinder from his pocket. It was his “magic door opener,” made for him by a master ex-burglar. DeKok had never found a lock he could not open with the ingenious device.

  Vledder looked worried.

  “We don’t have a warrant, you know.”

  DeKok merely smiled. He expertly selected a combination, glanced again at the lock, made a small adjustment, and inserted the instrument into the keyhole. Within seconds there was a soft click and the heavy door opened soundlessly. Both inspectors entered.

  The beam of his flashlight danced through the spacious lobby, resting for a moment on a beautiful grandfather clock. The clock stood against skillfully carved oaken wainscoting. DeKok approved.

  “The wainscoting is all original,” he murmured appreciatively.

  Vledder did not respond. He felt uneasy. In sharp contrast to DeKok’s apparently cavalier attitude, he could not reconcile himself with illegally entering any building, let alone someone’s home. This wouldn’t be the first time he silently cursed “Handie” Henkie. Henkie and DeKok had been on opposite sides of the law as younger men. Each was meticulous in his methods and each bore the other a begrudging admiration. Sometime after his “retirement,” Henkie gave DeKok his lock-picking tool. Still, as frustrating as DeKok could be, Vledder never wavered in his loyalty and regard for his senior.

  “One of these days we’ll get into trouble because of that burglar’s tool,” he whispered.

  As ever, DeKok ignored the remark.

  “Take a look in the mailbox,” he said.

  Like most houses of its era, this one had a brass-lined mail slot in the door. On the inside of the door a box with a small door caught the mail. Vledder checked the mailbox, but reported it empty.

  “Not a single thing here,” he emphasized. “There isn’t even any dust.”

  To the right of the foyer, DeKok carefully opened a door. It revealed a large, rectangular room with an enormous desk as its centerpiece. The inspector approached the desk and played
his flashlight over the top. It was almost too in order. A row of pens was perfectly aligned at the top of a large blotter, and a desktop calendar showed the correct date.

  DeKok circled the desk and sat down in the majestic swivel chair. He pulled on a couple of drawers. They were not locked. His fingers brushed through papers, making a dry, rustling sound. The contents of the drawers were, primarily, drawings of various harbor installations. There were also business letters on dredging company letterhead.

  Vledder came to stand next to him. He shook his head in disapproval.

  “Tell me you did not just add illegal search and seizure to breaking in,” he said. “Besides the legal implications, Inspector, it’s not … decent.”

  DeKok gave him a sharp look.

  “To do away with a man or a corpse is against the law and, I’m sure you agree, indecent.”

  He returned his attention to the desk and studied the contents of the drawers. Suddenly a thin booklet with a dark blue cover caught his eye. He took it out of the drawer and placed it on the blotter. His fingers shook slightly as he opened the booklet. Vledder leaned over for a closer look.

  “A passport,” he whispered.

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “It’s a valid passport, issued in Paul Vreeden’s name.”

  Vledder swallowed hard. “He could not have gone on vacation in the Bahamas without a passport.”

  DeKok did not respond. He looked at the photograph. The man’s face was angular, with a broad, strong chin. A man, he mused, with the exterior of someone who knows exactly what he wants.

  “Length: one meter eighty-five,” he read aloud. “Color of eyes: grey-green.” He barked his short, scornful laugh. “At least we know what to look for in a corpse.”

  Vledder crouched down next to the desk and picked up the passport. While DeKok held the flashlight beam on the booklet, Vledder turned the pages in the back.

  “Well,” said Vledder, “our Mr. Vreeden is a real globetrotter.” There was a reluctant admiration in his voice. “He’s been to more than vacation spots—traveled a good deal in the Near East. He’s been to all the OPEC countries, Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Yemen, Saudi Arabia.” He pushed the passport back at DeKok. “Apparently he’s had regular contacts there … either that or he really likes the food.”

  “Is this history or current events?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “When did he make these trips?”

  “Almost all of them were this year.”

  DeKok took the passport from Vledder and weighed it in his hand. With a resolute gesture he placed it in his inside coat pocket. He then fished a large, silken handkerchief from another pocket. He carefully wiped all the surfaces on the desk and the drawers he had touched.

  “A good burglar,” he grinned, “doesn’t leave fingerprints.”

  Suddenly he froze. There was a noise outside. He jumped out of the seat and walked quickly toward the foyer.

  Vledder followed.

  The front door opened. A hand felt for the light switch. The light revealed a neatly dressed man. The man’s eyes were wide with astonishment as he surveyed the two smiling detectives who flanked the grandfather clock in the foyer.

  Still smiling, DeKok took a step forward and bowed lightly.

  “I don’t think I have had the pleasure,” he purred. “Who might you be?”

  The man suppressed his amazement with apparent difficulty.

  “Johan,” he said. “I’m Johan, Mr. Vreeden’s butler.”

  4

  It took a while before Johan gained a full grasp of the situation. His bewilderment quickly turned to an expression of arrogant deference. His handsome face had the look of the maitre d’ in an exclusive restaurant forced to seat two men wearing shirtsleeves and no ties. He closed his mouth and frowned slightly. He looked up and down DeKok’s figure with ill concealed disdain.

  “Who are you?”

  It was a demand, not a question.

  DeKok’s smile froze on his face. His eyes had a cold, hard look.

  “My name,” he said amiably, “is DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed in Vledder’s direction. “And this is my colleague, Vledder. We’re police officers.”

  “Inspectors?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “We’re attached to Warmoes Street Station in Amsterdam.”

  The butler leaned his head farther back, as if trying to view the inspectors from a greater height.

  “May I ask how you gained entrance?”

  DeKok made an apologetic gesture.

  “The door was open,” he lied.

  Johan shook his head.

  “That’s quite impossible,” he blustered. “When I left, I locked the door. It is my job to see after such things.”

  “It was open,” insisted DeKok. “We were surprised as well.” He carefully studied the butler’s face. “The fact is, we were … are worried. Otherwise we would not have entered, open door or not.”

  “The police are worried?”

  DeKok nodded emphatically.

  “Mr. Vreeden sounded apprehensive, when he telephoned and asked me to come to his house.”

  Johan frowned.

  “Mr. Vreeden called you?” he asked, disbelief in his voice. “He asked you to come here?”

  DeKok spread both hands, palms out.

  “He said that he had some serious difficulties, or expected some trouble, in his Amsterdam office.”

  “What sort of trouble?”

  DeKok laughed sheepishly. His weather-beaten face looked innocent, a bit stupid. On the inside he enjoyed himself hugely. Sometimes the game was just good fun.

  “That’s what he was going to tell us. He offered to meet in person. I tried to get some idea what it was all about, but he seemed hesitant to discuss details over the phone.”

  “What time did he call you?”

  DeKok asked Vledder what time it was. Vledder told him.

  “It must have been about an hour, an hour and a half ago. We came straight here after the phone call.”

  Butler Johan did not answer at once. He took his time, restoring his supercilious attitude. He divested himself of his coat in slow movements, hanging it on the coat rack in the foyer. Then he walked closer to DeKok.

  “I’m afraid,” he said insolently, “you have been the victim of a bad joke. Mr. Vreeden could not have called you for an appointment. He is not in the Netherlands. Mr. Vreeden has been in the Bahamas for several days.” He paused. “I would have certainly heard about any difficulties in the office. Messrs. Grauw and Middelkoop would surely have informed me, so there have been none.”

  DeKok had a questioning look.

  “And who are these Messrs. Grauw and Middelkoop?”

  “They are company co-directors.”

  The old sleuth nodded his understanding.

  “May I use your telephone to call either or both of the gentlemen? You see the phone call we received sounded authentic.”

  The butler’s face went red.

  “No, you may not have permission to use the telephone. Trust me. There are no difficulties in the office. You may also dismiss the notion it was Mr. Vreeden who called you. May I reiterate? I personally assisted Mr. Vreeden with his preparations. I, myself, drove Mr. Vreeden to Schiphol for his flight to the Bahamas, and saw him off.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin in a gesture of bafflement.

  “You are certain his travel documents were all in order?”

  Johan nodded.

  “Of course. Again, it is my job to ensure everything is in order for my employer’s trips. I check his luggage, travel documents, ticketing.”

  DeKok looked up. Suddenly the vague expression melted, and the butler was confronted by a hard, sardonic face.

  “Ah yes, the ticketing was all arranged,” DeKok said slowly. A hard grin, devoid of joy, played around his lips. “But Mr. Vreeden’s tickets, rather his ticket, was one-way. He may have gone to heaven, or he may have gone to hell. But you’re esteemed em
ployer’s destination was not the Bahamas.”

  The return to Amsterdam was more leisurely. The rain had stopped and the night sky was clear with bright twinkling stars and a pale half-moon.

  DeKok looked out of the windshield, but the beauty of the sky could not lift his somber mood. He regretted having had to use lies to explain his presence in the villa. He reflected, ruefully, he’d do it again if the situation demanded. He felt for Vreeden’s passport inside his pocket. It was a trump card, but one he realized he would not be able to use. He’d come by it illegally. Dick Vledder was right in calling his method of acquiring it unreasonable search and seizure. He had clearly exceeded his authority.

  “Our authority is so restricted,” he said suddenly out loud, “our hands are, more often than not, tied.”

  Vledder looked askance.

  “It’s about time you abide by those restrictions. The arrival of that butler put us squarely behind the eight ball.”

  “Ach,” said DeKok. “He’ll just have to swallow the story of the open door.”

  “But was it wise?”

  “What?”

  “Was it wise to let the guy know you think Vreeden is dead?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “I don’t know what’s wise or unwise in this instance,” he answered, irked. “I’ve seldom felt as stupid as this. It’s like running around with a blindfold in a dark room.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “Leaves you in the dark, but it could be worse.”

  “Oh, yes?”

  “Yes, you could be searching an unlighted cellar at midnight for a black cat that isn’t there.”

  DeKok smiled. Then his face became serious again.

  “Trouble is,” he said, “we’re fumbling around because this is so vague. I am certain of one thing, however, the butler is lying.”

  “He was most unpleasant, but how can we prove he lied?”

  “There you put your finger on it. The whole thing comes down to the same thing. We need evidence. We need evidence to show that Vreeden is dead.”

  Vledder sighed in sympathy.

  “Perhaps,” he offered, “we can contact the authorities in the Bahamas, and ask them to, at least, verify his whereabouts.”