Vledder grinned.
“Lowee created quite a stir. The street buzz is we’re looking for Archie Benson.”
“Correct,” said DeKok slowly, “only we and the perpetrator or perpetrators know Archie’s disappearance may be linked to another disappearance. And that, my dear Dick, is a small advantage I’d like to keep for a while.”
Vledder frowned.
“Sooner or later somebody is bound to come back to the boat. What if we put it under surveillance?”
A sad smile played around DeKok’s lips for a moment.
“Where are we going to get the manpower? In the old days, when we had plenty of people, it wouldn’t have posed a problem.” He pointed at the trees. “If necessary we would build a crow’s nest in one of those poplars.”
Vledder started the beetle.
“DeKok,” he said, deferring to his mentor, “whatever you do, I’ll stick with you.”
DeKok was touched.
“Thank you,” he said simply.
The drive back to the station house was at a relatively leisurely pace. Vledder parked behind the station and they sauntered to the front of the building, dragging their feet. As soon as they entered the lobby, Jan Kuster, who had relieved Meindert Post as the watch commander, beckoned them. Kuster was red faced and agitated.
“Good thing you’re here.” It sounded forthright and relieved.
“What’s the matter?” asked DeKok.
“I was just about ready to phone the commissaris.”
“Why?’
Kuster licked his dry lips.
“I just got the notification for Homicide, but you weren’t here. After all, you guys are the Homicide Department.”
“What notification?” asked DeKok, impatiently.
Kuster read from the note in his hand.
“Someone just found a dead woman at Emperor’s Canal, 1217 on the top floor.”
For a moment DeKok closed his eyes in a silent prayer, hoping against hope that it was not what he suspected.
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes,” answered Kuster. “Her name is Marlies van Haesbergen. Apparently she was strangled with a scarf.”
10
DeKok looked down at her. She was on her back on a Persian carpet with a blue design. She had apparently fallen next to an easy chair. Her eyes were wide open and a white, silken scarf was wrapped around her tawny neck.
The old detective kneeled next to her. The wrinkled ends of the scarf were bunched up next to her left ear. The killer had evidently approached from the rear, thrown the scarf over her head, and pulled the scarf very tight. The striations in the skin were deep. They attested to the brute strength the strangler used.
DeKok struggled upright. He was gripped by a vague feeling of guilt. Since they had met, he’d known Marlies van Haesbergen was in danger because she had seen Vreeden dead. He had suppressed his worry because the widow had been very circumspect after discovering Vreeden’s body. He had hoped her behavior would have guaranteed her safety.
He looked around the room and carefully observed what he saw. The imposing pieces of furniture in the long, rectangular room were four large club chairs in black leather. The décor was conservative, joyless. The walls were covered with dark blue wallpaper, embellished with gold lilies. A few dark paintings in black and bronze frames hung on the walls. The paintings were obscured by the patina of age.
DeKok breathed deeply. There was the smell of mold, death, and decay in the room. The effect was overwhelming.
Vledder was seated at an antique escritoire near a window heavily curtained in blue velour. He rummaged through papers. The light of a low desk lamp caught his hands in the oval beam of the light.
DeKok turned toward the door. A woman stood in the opening, nervously wringing her hands. DeKok guessed she was close to fifty years old. She was tall, thin, and rather plain. DeKok approached her, treading heavily.
“You discovered her?” he asked.
The woman nodded.
“I’m Annette van Haesbergen,” her voice quivered nervously. “I’m a niece. I visit my aunt about once a week, usually on Thursdays. It was the most convenient day for both of us.” Her lips curled slightly in a wan smile. “I was the only one in the family who still kept some contact with her. Aunt Marlies was a bit eccentric, not very much loved.”
DeKok gave her a searching looked and found some similarity between her and the dead woman.
“But, surely, her eccentricity was no reason for family to avoid her.”
Annette shook her head.
“On the contrary, I liked her very much. Aunt Marlies was always very resolute, sometimes a bit cutting. Despite her years, she was still very much in possession of her faculties. Her mind was clear and sharp.”
“How did you get in?”
“I have a key.”
“Is it an office key?”
Annette van Haesbergen looked surprised.
“There is no other way to reach her apartment.”
DeKok nodded to himself.
“Did you notice anything unusual?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was the front door of the office closed and locked in the usual way?”
“Certainly.”
“And you took the elevator to go upstairs?”
“As always. Everything seemed normal, until I got to Aunt Marlies’ door. It was open.”
“How did you react?”
She shrugged her narrow, bony shoulders.
“I went in and called to my aunt. There was no immediate answer, but she doesn’t always answer right away. I thought she might be checking the offices. She often behaved as if she was still the wife of the concierge. Usually she’d show up in a few minutes.”
“But not this time?”
Miss van Haesbergen shook her head.
“When I felt the delay was a bit long, I decided to take a look. I started toward the door. As I walked around the table I suddenly saw her.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “I must have been sitting for at least fifteen minutes, just a few feet from her.”
DeKok gestured around the room.
“It is rather dark in here.”
Annette van Haesbergen nodded in agreement.
“Aunt Marlies didn’t like a lot of light—she felt it chased the good spirits away.”
“You knew at once she was dead?”
“Yes,” she answered evenly. “It was clear she had been murdered.”
“What did you do?”
“First I called the police. After that I tried to reach Mr. Vreeden in Bergen. But I had no success. There was no answer. Then I phoned Mr. Grauw. He promised to come at once.”
“When is the last time you saw your aunt alive?”
“It was Saturday, Saturday afternoon, around four. I had done some shopping in the city and decided to stop by to see her.”
DeKok kept her eyes in his gaze.
“Did your aunt say anything at all to indicate she was in danger?”
The woman looked pensive. After a few seconds she nodded slowly.
“Aunt Marlies seemed preoccupied. When I remarked on it, she spoke to me sharply. She said: ‘Strange things happen in this building.’”
“What sort of strange things were happening?”
Again Annette smiled wanly.
“She said, ‘Dead people just disappear like that,’ and she snapped her fingers.”
DeKok feigned surprise.
“She said that?”
“Yes.”
“Were you alarmed by what she said?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “ As I said, my aunt was a bit eccentric. When I was ready to leave, she came to the door with me and patted me on the shoulder. ‘Never mind, child, I’ll work it out,’ she said.”
“Afterward did you speak with anyone about what your aunt had said?”
She shook her head decisively.
“To be honest, I dismissed it. Old people sometimes get delusional.
I thought she was imagining things.” She bit her lip. “But now she’s dead …” She did not finish the sentence. Tears welled up in her eyes.
There was a noise on the landing. DeKok stepped quickly into the corridor. Dr. Koning approached from the direction of the elevator, followed by two men from the coroner’s office. DeKok took off his hat and reached out a hand.
“Thank you for coming right away,” said DeKok, shaking hands with the old coroner.
“We happened to be in the neighborhood,” said Dr. Koning. He sighed. “We’ve had another overdose in an abandoned building, another squatter. When we heard the call on the radio, I decided to stop by here, first. I knew you would be here.” He shook his head and sighed. “It is so wearing having to witness so many young lives cut short because of drugs.”
DeKok led the coroner into the room. Koning took off his old, greenish Garibaldi hat, carefully pulled up his striped pants, and kneeled down next to the victim.
Carefully, with short tugs, he pulled the scarf a little away from the neck. He studied the striations. Then he closed the eyes of the corpse. For a moment he remained next to the corpse. Then he put one hand on the floor. DeKok hastened to help him up. The old man’s knees creaked as he stretched.
Koning replaced his hat and then took out a pince-nez from a vest pocket. He took a large silken handkerchief from another pocket and slowly polished the glasses. When the glasses had been cleaned to his satisfaction, he replaced the handkerchief in his pocket, but placed the pince-nez on his nose.
“She’s dead,” he announced.
“I suspected it,” answered DeKok. Under Dutch law a person cannot be considered dead until death has been established by a physician. In the case of a crime victim, only a coroner, who is always a physician, can certify death.
Dr. Koning peered at DeKok.
“Nothing strange about the striations on the neck,” he said in his creaky voice. “However the murderer was a person of great strength.”
“A man, then?” asked DeKok.
“I couldn’t say. By saying the murderer had great strength, I meant in relation to the victim. It could have been either.”
The old coroner nodded and once more lifted his hat to pay his respects, and walked out of the room.
As soon as Dr. Koning’s figure disappeared, DeKok turned again toward Annette. He placed one arm around her shoulders in a gesture of tenderness.
“I advise you to go home, now,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “That would be best. I will keep you informed, so you’ll be able to make funeral arrangements.”
She looked at him. Her thin lips formed a tight line and there was an angry glow in her eyes.
“And when will you arrest her killer?”
DeKok looked at her.
“Soon,” he said evenly.
Bram Weelen, the police photographer, made his pictures in great haste. He carefully repacked his beloved Hasselblad and disappeared after a brief goodbye.
DeKok ambled over to Kruger, the dactyloscopist, who was studying a slide on which he had transferred some fingerprint impressions.
“Something bothering Bram?”
“How do you mean?”
“He bolted out of here with barely a word.”
Kruger made a note on the back of the slide.
“His oldest daughter is in the hospital,” said Kruger, “she’s about to give birth.”
DeKok laughed.
“Bram is going to be a grandfather.”
Ben Kruger looked annoyed.
“Is that somehow strange?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, but I’ve known Bram since he was a bachelor. Grandfather seemed a long way off back then.”
Kruger did not react. He was always a bit reserved. The expression on his thin face rarely changed. He carefully gathered his equipment together and, just as carefully, packed it in his suitcase. Then he walked out of the room. At the door he turned around and lifted his suitcase slightly.
“I’ll let you know if I find something.”
DeKok nodded and waved. He knew Kruger would most likely find anything significant, if there was anything, long before the small army of crime scene investigators descended on the room.
DeKok did not object to the CSI. He was a strict pragmatist, especially when it came to the allocation of manpower. He and Vledder worked their cases with great efficacy. Their team consisted of Weelen, the photographer, Kruger, the finger print expert, and specialists such as Dr. Koning and the pathologist. There was also an occasional part-time associate chosen seemingly at random from the available offices. This group had solved more murders in less time than the homicide squad at Headquarters, together with all the CSI officers. DeKok’s unorthodox methods made it unlikely he’d be promoted, but his track record ensured he would never be fired.
While these thoughts went fleetingly through his mind, he motioned to the morgue attendants to indicate they could remove the corpse. Silently they placed the stretcher next to the body. With deft movements they opened the body bag and placed the corpse in it. They put the body bag on the stretcher, covered it with a blanket, and secured it with the straps. Still without speaking, they each lifted an end of the stretcher and walked away.
The old inspector had observed the silent, efficient actions of the morgue attendants many times, in similar circumstances. The sight fascinated him. It was as if they carried an actor offstage, while the curtain was still up. The sight was, somehow, more solemn than the last voyage to the grave. The sight of the attendants with their swaying stretcher often plagued him in his dreams. His other recurrent nightmare placed him at the center of a murder investigation he never seemed able to solve.
He banished his depressing thoughts and turned around to look at Vledder. The young inspector came closer, a half-filled plastic bag in his hand. DeKok looked at it.
“What is all this?”
“I think Marlies van Haesbergen saved everything. I put it all in this plastic kitchen bag, postcards, letters, theater tickets, cancelled train tickets. There’ll be time to sort through everything in the office.”
DeKok nodded vaguely.
“Is the ticket there?”
“What ticket?”
“Remember the ticket to the Bahamas, the one I saw her buy at the travel agency?”
Vledder shook his head.
“I didn’t see it.”
“Did you look carefully?”
“I emptied all the drawers and compartments.”
“What about the secret compartment?”
Vledder looked dumbfounded.
“What secret compartment?”
“Those old cabinets and escritoires often have secret compartments.” He grinned. “In a more romantic time, the lady of the house used to hide her clandestine love letters there.”
He walked around Vledder and looked carefully at the escritoire. It was, he observed, an exquisite work of art by a talented cabinetmaker.
It was not the first time DeKok had searched for a secret compartment in an old piece of furniture. He knew how to proceed.
He began by removing all the drawers, carefully opening each of the doors. He looked again, patiently. After a while he discovered a movable panel. The wood was slightly worn from use, leaving a faint trace of a groove. When he pushed gently on the small panel, a narrow compartment became visible. It contained a brown envelope. DeKok took it out and unfolded it.
Vledder looked over his shoulder.
“The ticket.”
DeKok nodded.
“There is an address, here, as well—Mr. Vreeden, Hotel Out Island Inn, Georgetown, Great Exuma.”
Vledder dropped the plastic bag in shock.
“Then he is alive,” he panted, “in the Bahamas.”
11
Vledder grinned without mirth.
“This isn’t happening—how is it possible?” He looked at DeKok.
DeKok did not answer. He studied the address. It was written in a s
piky handwriting on an unlined piece of notepaper. He showed it to Vledder.
“Is that her handwriting?”
The younger inspector nodded slowly.
“I think so,” he said pensively. “I found quite a few things in her desk written in the same handwriting.”
DeKok replaced the ticket and the note in the brown envelope.
“That address,” he said sadly, “must have prompted her to go to the travel agency and book a trip.”
“To see how a dead Mr. Vreeden spends his holidays.”
DeKok glanced at Vledder. For Vledder the remark sounded cynical, but it touched something in DeKok.
“Exactly,” he said in a moody voice. “To see how a dead Mr. Vreeden spends his holidays.” He placed the brown envelope in an inner pocket and felt for the passport he had found in Bergen. “Everybody around her maintained that Vreeden was on vacation in the Bahamas. She knew what she saw, but the trauma and the contradiction shook her confidence. She must have felt a need to resolve the dichotomy. Remember what she told her niece: ‘Never mind, child, I’ll work it out.’”
Vledder shook his head in sympathy.
“It meant her death.”
DeKok nodded.
“And the murderer had to work fast. There was little time. He had to act tonight. The ticket is for tomorrow.”
Vledder frowned.
“But who knew? I mean who besides us and the people at the travel agency? She wouldn’t have told anyone else she planned to head for the Bahamas.”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“How did Marlies get Mr. Vreeden’s address?”
“She stole it!”
The inspectors looked up. It was a strange voice. The sound came from behind them. They turned around. A tall, slender man stood in the door opening.
He approached them with a slow, slight limp.
“She stole it,” he repeated, nodding his head. “That old woman was always rummaging through the papers in the office. She’s done it for years.”
He stopped a short distance from the inspectors and placed one hand on a hip, his legs slightly spread.
“We caught her any number of times. Mr. Vreeden always protected her. She should have been packed off to an old-age home long ago. If it had been up to me she’d have never had another opportunity to snoop.”
DeKok and Variations on Murder Page 8