DeKok and Variations on Murder

by A. C. Baantjer

  DeKok shook his head.

  “You’ll remember that the butler told us Vreeden did not leave a forwarding address.”

  “Isn’t that strange in and of itself?”

  DeKok shook his head vigorously.

  “For someone in Mr. Vreeden’s position it is more than strange. His voice became theatrical. “Any director of such a large, multi-national corporation would be available to someone, even while vacationing. He has too much at stake.” He paused and made a soothing gesture. “But it is possible for a fatigued or spent executive to suddenly decide he’s had enough and sever all contact and take a leave of absence.”

  “In that case we could send his description to the Bahamas.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “The Bahamas, my dear boy, consists of more than three thousand islands, riffs, and capes, spread out over more than a thousand miles.”

  Vledder was dumbfounded.

  “I never knew you had a penchant for geography.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I don’t,” he said tiredly. “Before your time I had to deal with a perpetrator who fled from Amsterdam to the Bahamas. I called the police in their capital, Nassau. Nassau is on the island of New Providence. I asked if they could look out for him. They laughed at me and explained the logistical nightmare they would face. I was sufficiently ashamed of my ignorance to look at an atlas.”

  “Well, that means we can forget the police there.”

  DeKok chewed on his lower lip.

  “If everybody insists Vreeden is somewhere in the Bahamas, we’ll have a hard time proving he isn’t.”

  Vledder reacted with irritation.

  “We can’t just let it go at that, surely?”

  DeKok gave him a glance that spoke volumes.

  “Why not? One of these days somebody besides us is going to wonder about Mr. Vreeden.” He pressed himself upright in the seat and looked outside. “We’re back in town,” he said with a relived tone of voice.

  Vledder nodded.

  “You want me to drop you off at home?”

  “What time is it?”

  Vledder looked deliberately at the clock on the dashboard. DeKok had a wristwatch, but he never consulted it. It was too modern for his taste. He often talked sentimentally about the watch he had inherited from his grandfather,

  an enormous stainless steel thing with a long chain, designed to be kept in a vest pocket.

  “A little after twelve thirty,” he said. “In the morning,” he added superfluously.

  “Just go on to the station house,” decided DeKok. “We’ll park the car and have a nightcap at Little Lowee’s.”

  Lowee’s birth name was Louis. Because of his diminutive size, he was invariably called “Little Lowee.” For years he had owned and managed the dim, intimate space near the corner of Barn Alley. With a certain amount of pride, he referred to it as “my establishment.” But to most of the underworld it was always known as “Little Lowee’s place.” It was also a favorite haunt of DeKok.

  The small barkeep greeted DeKok enthusiastically. He shook him by the hand. His mousy face was transformed by a broad, welcoming smile. Lowee was one of DeKok’s greatest admirers. He genuinely liked the old inspector. DeKok liked Lowee as well, but he wasn’t above taking advantage of their friendship, if need be. Some might term DeKok’s exploitation of the small bartender shameless. But Lowee never seemed to mind. Vledder knew DeKok and Lowee went way back, predating his time on the force. He also knew the friendship was not one-sided. DeKok protected his small friend as often as he asked him for information or for help on a case.

  “The later the hour, the more welcome the guests,” chirped Lowee in flawless Dutch. Then he continued in his more usual gutter language. “But I gotta say, DeKok, I ain’t bin expectin’ you guys dis late.”

  Lowee spoke a kind of Dutch called bargeons that most Dutchmen would be hard put to recognize. It was the language of his world, of these streets. Although DeKok spoke and understood the vernacular perfectly, he seldom used it.

  He smiled benignly at his friend as he hoisted himself on a stool at the end of the bar, his back against the wall. He knew very well that Lowee had broken just about every law of God or man at one time or another, but he did not judge. On the contrary, in his own way, DeKok loved the little crook.

  “I was afraid,” he said, as he settled himself, “you’d loose sleep if I didn’t show up.”

  Lowee grinned.

  “Same recipe?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he dove under the bar and produced a venerable bottle of cognac. He briefly held it up for DeKok to see and then placed three snifters on the bar. With skillful movements he removed the cork and poured three generous portions into the glasses.

  “Busy?” asked Lowee as he placed the bottle on the counter.

  DeKok shrugged.

  “One thing we never have … a slump in crime,” he said. It was one of his stock answers.

  He leaned forward, lifted the glass, warmed it in his hand, and took a sip. With eyes closed he let the golden liquid trickle down his throat.

  Now Lowee and Vledder also lifted their glasses and silently savored the first few sips.

  Then Little Lowee leaned over the bar.

  “If you hadna come,” he whispered hoarsely, “I woulda come by da coop temorro.”

  DeKok laughed.

  “What coop?” he asked.

  “Da Warmoes coop, da copcoop.”

  “Why a coop?”

  “Well, you knows, you guys sit there waitin’ for some crook to lay an egg. Den you runs aroun’ like chickens widout heads. Chicken coop, cop coop. Gedit?”

  DeKok laughed heartily. Vledder smiled sourly.

  “I like it,” said DeKok. “Rings true. But I don’t see you volunteering to visit!”

  “Nossir, it ain’t a primo tourist attraction.”

  “So, what did you need me for?”

  “I godda to talk at you.”

  DeKok noted the suddenly serious face on the other side of the bar.

  “Problems?”

  “Not me.”

  “Well, go on …”

  Lowee stole a glance around the room to make sure nobody was listening. The only other customers were prostitutes, through for the evening. They talked animatedly among themselves, paying no attention to the group at the bar. Doubtless they would have recognized DeKok and Vledder as police officers. They would immediately dismiss them as prospective customers. In addition the police seldom bothered members of the oldest profession. It was, after all, a legitimate business in Holland.

  When Lowee had satisfied himself he leaned closer again.

  “Ya know Black Archie?”

  “Archie Benson—isn’t he Fat Nellie’s son?”

  “He’s da one,” nodded Lowee.

  “Go on,” urged DeKok.

  “Well I’m sorta worried about da guy. He usta come inna place alla time. For four days he ain’t showed. Ain’t bin home—I axed. Archie, he’s a regular guy, but not too smart. You gotta know he’s in deep, eh, trouble.”

  DeKok gave Lowee a long look.

  “Since when did you get the degree in social work?”

  Lowee shrugged.

  “Fat Nellie is some kinda relative to me. She did wanna come n’ see ya, but she’s sort shy. She wants me ta talk to you.”

  DeKok placed his empty glass on the bar.

  “What’s the matter with the boy?”

  Lowee sighed elaborately.

  “Search me. Coupla days ago he was playin’ cards with some guys. Sudden like he says, ‘Where can you bury a body?’ One of them guys wanna be funny and says, ‘Inna Simmetry.’ Well, Archie got mad and throwed is cards onna table. Then he says, ‘Idiot, it ain’t that kinda body.’ Well I ask you, DeKok, don’t that sound like trouble?”

  5

  DeKok got off the streetcar at Station Square. From there he ambled across the Damrak. He enjoyed the view, especially on a sunny day like tod
ay. The wide gateway to Amsterdam was colorful and inviting. There were flags around the docks for the sightseeing boats. They waved against a clear blue sky. The façade of the Stock Exchange building had recently been cleaned and looked like white marble. The terraces of the many bars and restaurants filled with tourists, descending like a flock of birds.

  DeKok was in a good mood. A brief, intense, sleep had recharged his batteries. He loved listening to the various languages people spoke in these gathering places. He watched the families lining up to take the tour on Amsterdam’s canals. He glanced appreciatively at beautiful, young women in abbreviated summer dresses.

  He’d left the world of crime for a brief respite. It lay slumbering in a strange, faraway land. For the moment it didn’t concern him.

  He should have turned off to reach Warmoes Street at Old Bridge Alley. But his elation at being free drove him on to Dam Square. He found an inviting bench, sat down, and watched the pigeons. A tall, skinny man crouched down and fed the pigeons from his hands. The birds fluttered around him, some roosting on his head. Each waited for a turn at the food. DeKok drank in the charming tableau to the fullest.

  Suddenly, behind the man and the pigeons, DeKok sighted an old lady crossing the square. She came from the direction of New Church and walked in the direction of Kalver Street, the foremost shopping street in all of Holland. DeKok was less interested in her posture and bearing than in her attire. She wore a little round hat with a veil and a short, narrowly cut dress in the flapper style.

  “Marlies,” he whispered to himself. “Marlies van Haesbergen.”

  He stood up, walked around the man with the pigeons and began to follow the woman. His body reacted without input from his brain. Intuition compelled him to follow where she led.

  Kalver Street was crowded, despite the early hour. But he had no trouble keeping Marlies in sight. The little round hat bobbed up and down like a buoy in the sea of people.

  All at once, however, he had lost her. The little hat had disappeared. DeKok cursed himself. He stopped and looked around. With a sigh of relief he rediscovered her in front of a perfumery. He stood across the street, careful his reflection couldn’t be observed in the window on the opposite side.

  Apparently something had attracted her because she entered the shop. A few minutes later she emerged with a small parcel in a plastic bag. After a last glance at the window, she continued down Kalver Street.

  The Mint Tower was already in sight when she turned right, down Holy Way. There, too, she seemed to be interested in shop windows. DeKok stayed out of her field of vision with some difficulty. Just as DeKok convinced himself Marlies was merely on a shopping trip, she entered a travel agency.

  DeKok waited patiently. Marlies took her time. It was at least twenty minutes before she emerged. She retraced her steps down Holy Way to Kalver Street.

  The old inspector hesitated for a moment. Then he crossed the street and entered the travel agency.

  A handsome woman, around forty, reached her side of the counter at about the same time DeKok reached his.

  “How may I help you?” asked the woman.

  DeKok produced his most winning smile.

  “I’d like to ask you what the elderly client, who just left, was doing here.”

  The woman looked at him for several seconds, a surprised look on her face.

  Her tone was curt and disapproving. “That’s none of your business,” she said.

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “It is my business,” he said firmly, but amiably. “I’m a police inspector, assigned to Warmoes Street Station.” He felt in an inside pocket for his identification. “It is of the utmost importance to know why Mrs. van Haesbergen came here.”

  “You know her?”

  DeKok pursed his lips.

  “I’ve met her,” he said.

  The woman turned around and walked to an impeccably dressed gentleman in a gray flannel suit, seated at a desk. After some whispering they returned to the counter together. The gentleman inspected DeKok’s identification at length. Then he wrote the inspector’s name on a note pad.

  “Make sure you watch the ‘kay-oh-kay.’ I’m rather proud of that,” said DeKok.

  The man behind the counter gave him an irritated look.

  “If you know Mrs. van Haesbergen, why don’t you ask her why she was here?”

  “I fear she won’t tell me the truth.”

  The impeccable gentleman sighed dramatically.

  “Mrs. van Haesbergen,” he said finally, “booked a trip with us.”

  DeKok nodded patiently.

  “Her destination?”

  “Georgetown, Great Exuma.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes. He was not pleased having to extract answers.

  “And Great Exuma is where?” he prompted.

  The man looked surprised at DeKok’s apparent ignorance.

  “Sir, it is in the Bahamas.”

  DeKok opened the door of the crowded detective room. He ambled toward Vledder in his typical, duck-footed gait. Vledder was busily typing away on his computer keyboard.

  “Has Little Lowee any idea the identity of the body?” he asked.

  Vledder rested his fingers and looked up.

  “No, he called about half an hour ago. He told me he had done his best, but he had no new news.” Vledder grinned. “I’m sure that was the gist of his report. Over the telephone his Bargoens sounds even more like gibberish than it does in person. Anyway,” he added spitefully, “it seems the underworld isn’t omniscient, after all.”

  DeKok ignored the latter comment.

  “We can hang on for a while. Lowee hasn’t had a lot of time to ask his contacts,” he said as he sailed his dilapidated little hat in the direction of the peg on the wall and missed. He left the hat on the floor and sat down behind his desk.

  “What do we know about Archie?”

  Vledder made a few entries on his keyboard and then pushed it away.

  “Lowee says there’s still no sign of him.” He paused and looked pensively at DeKok.

  “Where have you been this morning?”

  DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.

  “I followed a woman.”

  “You what?”

  “Yes.”

  “At your age?” he teased.

  “What about my age?” queried DeKok.

  Vledder shrugged.

  “A bit old to be pursuing women, I’d say.”

  DeKok mumbled something uncomplimentary.

  “One is never too old,” he answered, irked. “But I wasn’t following just any woman and it certainly wasn’t romantic. I saw Marlies van Haesbergen on Dam Square and I decided to follow her. This morning she booked a trip to the Bahamas.”

  Vledder was genuinely surprised this time.

  “What?”

  DeKok nodded calmly.

  “She appears to be headed for Georgetown on Great Exuma.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw her enter a travel agency. I waited till she left. Then I went in and asked what she had been doing there.”

  Vledder shook his head in bewilderment.

  “What business does she have in the Bahamas?”

  Commissaris Buitendam, the tall, stately police chief of Warmoes Street Station, waved with a narrow, elegant hand, “Have a seat, DeKok.”

  “I’d rather stand,” DeKok reacted, stubbornly. There was no personal enmity between DeKok and his commissaris. His aversion to these meetings was based on the latter’s tendency to limit his, DeKok’s, authority and freedom of movement. DeKok clung to his own opinions and trusted his own methods when it came to detective work.

  Buitendam made an appeasing gesture.

  “As you like.” He paused to make an impression, stretched his back in the chair and took a deep breath. “I’m afraid you have gone too far this time, DeKok. Our judge advocate, Mr. Schaap, has just called me and he takes your actions very seriously.”

 
DeKok feigned surprise.

  “What actions?”

  The commissaris cleared his throat.

  Mr. Meturovski, an attorney for Dredging Works Vreeden, has filed a complaint against you and Vledder.”

  “What is the nature of this complaint?”

  Commissaris Buitendam brought both hands together, forming a steeple. It was a gesture of superiority.

  “He accuses you of illegal entry and trespassing.”

  “What?”

  The commissaris frowned.

  “Was I not clear enough?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Certainly, I understood what you said. But the complaint astounds me—it is completely unjustified. Neither Vledder nor I would gain illegal entry, nor would we trespass.”

  Buitendam consulted his notes.

  “The complaint states you and Vledder illegally entered the domicile of a Mr. Vreeden last night. This is the testimony of a Mr. Johan Mindere, butler on the Bergen premises, who surprised you and Vledder in the foyer of his employer’s home.”

  “That’s correct.”

  The commissaris grinned supremely.

  “So, it was trespass and illegal entry.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I object to the characterization of our presence there as illegal. Circumstances dictated we enter the villa.”

  “Please explain yourself.”

  DeKok made a tired gesture.

  “Last night,” he lied with conviction, “I received a telephone call from a man who represented himself as Mr. Vreeden. He told me he was the managing director of a large dredging outfit, located at Emperor’s Canal.” He looked into the commissarial eyes. “And that’s well inside our precinct.”

  The commissaris nodded agreement.

  “Mr. Vreeden,” continued DeKok, “said that he had discovered some serious problems in his office. He asked to see me, personally.”

  “What sort of problems?”

  DeKok spread both hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “That, I don’t know. Naturally I asked him. He was reluctant to elaborate, other than to say he suspected criminal activities. As he refused to discuss it further over the telephone, I invited him to visit us at the station.”