DeKok and Variations on Murder

by A. C. Baantjer

  DeKok looked suspiciously at the man. He was fortyish, dressed in a fashionable gray suit with light blue shirt and burgundy tie. His short, sandy hair was graying at the temples. His face, narrow with high cheekbones and a hawk’s nose, didn’t add to his likeability.

  “And who are you?” asked Vledder.

  The man smiled an arrogant smile.

  “My name is Grauw, Gerard Grauw. I’m one of the directors of Dredging Works Vreeden. About half an hour ago, I was called by a woman who said that something had happened to her aunt, Mrs. van Haesbergen. She said it was serious.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes.

  “How long have you been standing in the door?”

  Gerard Grauw had an implacable look.

  “Long enough. Please go on with your interesting conversation.”

  DeKok’s face became a mask of steel. Ordinarily placid, DeKok could rarely be brought to rage. This was one of those dangerous moments. DeKok was a true Dutchman. The berserker rage of his Batavian forebears was always under the surface.

  “Perhaps you should understand,” said DeKok, evenly, “the elderly Mrs. van Haesbergen has been strangled to death with a scarf.”

  “Shocking.”

  “That’s it?” asked DeKok.

  “Whatever do you mean?”

  “That’s it? Shocking? That’s the only comment you have to make about her death?”

  Grauw looked surprised.

  “What did you expect?” he asked, with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You expected the rending of garments, sackcloth, and ashes? The old crone was nothing to me, other than a thorn in my side. For years she took up space in prime real estate we own.”

  DeKok stared at him in disbelief.

  “You mean the penthouse apartment, here?”

  Grauw nodded.

  “The company should either have the space or the income. Aside from the loss of revenue, our offices are increasingly overcrowded.”

  “So, her death is not unwelcome?”

  Grauw pursed his lips and considered the question.

  “You might put it that way,” he agreed, approval in his voice.

  DeKok suppressed an overpowering urge to bash his fists into the narrow face. It wasn’t easy; he could see himself rearranging the hawk’s nose. He pressed his nails into the palms of his hands, gradually regaining his self-control. Vledder recognized the symptoms. He breathed a silent sigh of relief when DeKok regained his composure.

  “You alluded to thefts. You knew Mrs. van Haesbergen had Mr. Vreeden’s address on Great Exuma?”

  Grauw nodded anew.

  “Yes. I can tell you it caused a lot of commotion this morning.”

  “What kind of commotion?”

  Mr. Grauw waved behind his back in the direction of the corridor.

  “Karin Peters is very upset.”

  “Do we know who that is?”

  “Karin is Mr. Vreeden’s secretary. The old lady had been making a pest of herself. She kept insisting she speak personally with Mr. Vreeden. It had something to do with her apartment. Karin patiently explained, several times, that Mr. Vreeden was not available because he was on vacation in the Bahamas.”

  “And?”

  “This morning she came again. It must have been the fourth time in a single week. Karin explained yet again. When she said Mr. Vreeden was still on vacation, the old woman became furious. She screamed, ‘You are lying. He’s not on vacation at all. Mr. Vreeden is dead!’”

  DeKok feigned astonishment.

  “Dead?” he wondered aloud. “But, then, what about the address?”

  Grauw resignedly pulled up his shoulders.

  “I think she must have found it in one of my desk drawers. As I said, she was always rummaging through other peoples’ things.”

  DeKok spread both hands. He seemed abashed.

  “This is all beyond my comprehension.” There was genuine despair in his voice. DeKok could be a consummate actor when he wanted to be. “If Marlies van Haesbergen had Mr. Vreeden’s address in her hand how could she cling to the belief he was dead?”

  Grauw sighed heavily.

  “Karin had me called in, because the old woman wouldn’t stop,” he explained, patiently. “She had no idea how to handle the situation. At Karin’s request I confirmed Mr. Vreeden was still on vacation in the Bahamas.”

  “How did she respond?”

  “To my amazement she asked whether he was at the Hotel Out Island Inn in Georgetown.” I confirmed the address, as well. She became hostile. She said, in so many words, the address was false and she intended to prove it. She said she had a ticket to Great Exuma. Said she was going to check on Mr. Vreeden herself. She planned to depart soon, maybe tomorrow—I’m not exactly sure.”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “Is that address false?”

  Grauw looked at the old inspector with a pitying look.

  “I would have expected,” he said with scorn, “a man of your experience would be better able to evaluate the conduct of an eccentric old woman.” He shook his head. “And, no, the address isn’t false.” With a frustrated gesture he pushed back the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch. “I think,” he smirked, “Mr. Vreeden will have just awakened, or is already at breakfast. He continued in a mocking tone. “What’s the problem? I’ll be happy to give you his phone number in the Bahamas. You can personally inform him of the untimely, er, the passing of Mrs. van Haesbergen. Then you can dispel any doubts you may have by asking after his health.”

  They left the offices of Dredging Works, when the first of the “Thundering Herd” arrived. This was DeKok’s manner of referring to the small army of experts, police dignitaries, and omnipresent CSI people who always converged at murder scenes. DeKok’s policy was to make himself scarce before they started their work. If CSI or the other experts found anything he could use, fine. Meanwhile he didn’t need all the politics or static.

  The two inspectors were depressed. No words passed between them. Their encounter with the glib, oily Grauw left them both uneasy. Each ruminated over the events of the last few hours.

  They reached the back of the Royal Palace, when DeKok finally broke the silence.

  “Did he come on the line at once?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “No, first I reached an English speaking man … maybe a desk clerk or switchboard operator. There was a bit of static before he came on the line.”

  “How did he answer?”

  “He sounded normal. ‘This is Vreeden,’ he said.”

  “Then what?”

  They played this game of questions and answers so often it was a ritual. DeKok already knew some of the answers, but he wanted to set it firmly in both their minds. Repetition, he often said, insures accuracy.

  Vledder shrugged.

  “I identified myself as an inspector with the Amsterdam Police. I said the old widow of his concierge had been murdered, strangled with a scarf. There was a moment’s silence at the other end. It seemed he was deeply shocked by the news. A moment later he returned with, ‘How terrible—I hope you will catch the perpetrator quickly.’ That’s all he said.”

  “His health is good?”

  Vledder grinned.

  “I didn’t ask. He sounded pretty lively to me.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “You should have passed on greetings,” he said after a while.

  “From …”

  “Xaveria Breerode. You could have said, for instance, she’s been very worried.”

  Vledder stopped walking.

  “By God,” he exclaimed, “you’re right. I can’t believe I forgot about Xaveria. Of course, I should have asked why he didn’t, at least, leave a message for her.” He paused and resumed walking. He gave DeKok an accusing look. “It’s your own fault. You let me make the call. Why didn’t you do it yourself?”

  The gray sleuth was unabashed.

  “My English is not all that good … over
the telephone.”

  “What’s different over the phone?”

  DeKok nodded resignedly.

  “Then I can’t use my hands and feet.”

  Vledder thought about that for a moment. Then the accusing look disappeared and a twinkle came to his eyes.

  “Mr. Vreeden is a Dutchman. He’d have been most comfortable speaking Dutch.”

  “Whoever answered the phone wasn’t.”

  They continued on in silence, across the Damrak, past the Beehive Department Store toward Old Bridge Alley.

  Vledder was clearly deep in thought. Heavy wrinkles furrowed his forehead.

  “You know what I don’t understand?” he asked suddenly.

  “Well?”

  “If Mr. Vreeden is alive there’s no apparent motive for anyone to kill Marlies.”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  “Dick Vledder,” he mocked, “sometimes you almost convince me that you have a brain in there.”

  “Go jump in a lake.”

  12

  Vledder slowed down.

  “Is there anything else you want to do tonight?”

  “What time is it?”

  Vledder looked at his watch.

  “Almost ten o’clock.”

  They walked on, but at the corner of Warmoes Street, Vledder halted again.

  “It’s Celine’s birthday, today,” he said. “And she’s in town. I would like to stop by.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Thanks.”

  DeKok looked worried.

  “I don’t hear much about your love life, lately.”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “What do you want? Between you and me, my job in crime, and her job with KLM it doesn’t leave a lot of time for love.”

  “How long have you been engaged?”

  “Years.”

  “Marriage plans?”

  Vledder was uncomfortable. He scratched the back of his neck.

  “I … eh, I’ve proposed several times,” he said timidly. “But you know what Celine said?”

  “How should I?”

  “She would stick with me a bit longer. ‘Meanwhile,’ she said, ‘you can stay married to the Warmoes Street and that old geezer.’”

  DeKok scowled and pointed an index finger at his chest.

  “She was talking about me?”

  “None other.”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  “Well, give her my love and respect,” he said cheerily. “And be kind to her. I’m going to put a few lines in the Daily Log and then …” He did not complete the sentence. The happy grin disappeared. “We’ll see each other in the morning.”

  He turned around and went into the station house.

  Jan Kuster looked up from his desk when DeKok entered the lobby. He pointed at the ceiling.

  “They’re upstairs.”

  “Who?”

  “Buitendam and the judge advocate.”

  “You told them about the murder at Emperor’s Canal?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They hardly seemed interested.”

  “Then why are they here?” asked DeKok testily.

  Kuster shrugged his shoulders.

  “They asked for you. I told them you and Vledder were investigating the reported murder of an old woman. None of them said another word. They passed me and went upstairs. Buitendam turned around at the bottom of the stairs and told me to send you up as soon as you came in.”

  Commissaris Buitendam sat regally behind his imposing desk. The judge advocate, Mr. Schaap, dressed in an anthracite-gray suit, was seated to the left of the commissaris. DeKok crossed the space to the desk slowly. He had a bad feeling.

  “Please, sit down, DeKok.” It was a friendly invitation.

  Contrary to his usual stubbornness, DeKok took a seat. Meanwhile he studied the two faces before him. The commissaris looked bland and the judge advocate had on his poker face. DeKok always kept in mind the judge advocate was an extremely skillful litigator. No one wanted to spar with him. More than anything DeKok had always disliked the man. By law, the judge advocate is considered to be the lead investigating officer. It was Mr. Schaap’s habit, his style, to remain in the background. He seldom, if ever, appeared in public, not even for the most intriguing murder cases. DeKok had little respect for the manner in which the man exercised the duties of his high office. Schaap, he felt, did not show leadership in his policies. He was also easily influenced by pressures from various factions.

  Commissaris Buitendam stretched his back.

  “The judge advocate and I,” he began in his pompous manner, “are extremely pleased to tell you that Mr. Meturovski, the counselor for Dredging Works Vreeden, has rescinded his complaint against you and Vledder in casu illegal entry and trespass.”

  Despite himself, DeKok swallowed hastily.

  “In writing?” he asked.

  The commissaris shook his head.

  “Tonight, by telephone. Written confirmation will be forthcoming. But we considered the mere revocation of the complaint of sufficient import to inform you at once.” Buitendam lifted his chin. “I’d be remiss in not letting you know both the judge advocate and I have repeatedly urged Mr. Meturovski to reconsider what happened in Bergen. We made it clear you and Vledder have admirable, not to say unblemished, records.”

  DeKok pressed his lips together. His fighting spirit was aroused. He took a deep breath before he spoke.

  “In other words, he did it as a favor?”

  The judge advocate cleared his throat.

  “Look at it as balancing considerations … eh, interests.”

  “Whose interests?”

  “Yours, Vledder’s, and Dredging Works Vreeden, who like to maintain an amicable relationship with the judiciary.”

  DeKok gave Schaap a barely disguised, scornful look.

  “Has Mr. Meturovski personally consulted with Mr. Vreeden in this matter?”

  The judge advocate put two fingers behind the collar of his shirt as if to give himself air. The question had visibly surprised him.

  “I’m sure that has happened. Why do you ask?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I don’t believe a word of it.”

  Mr. Schaap seemed shocked.

  “Why should Mr. Meturovski not have consulted with Mr. Vreeden?”

  DeKok grinned.

  “No consultation took place, because no contact is possible. Mr. Vreeden is dead.”

  “What?”

  DeKok maintained his insolent grin.

  “Dead … dee-ee-aa-dee.” He meant to mock them. “For reasons known only to themselves, several people have been active in camouflaging the demise of Mr. Vreeden. There is a conspiracy to make it appear Mr. Vreeden is on vacation in the Bahamas.”

  Buitendam looked bewildered.

  “That cannot be true,” he said.

  DeKok nodded with emphasis. His impertinent grin had changed to a grim smile.

  “But it is true. And Mr. Meturovski, the man who so nobly withdrew his complaint, is up to his neck in it.”

  Mr. Schaap turned red down to his neck. The red color was in stark contrast to his spotless white shirt.

  “I presume,” he said bitingly, “that you have evidence to support this slanderous accusation?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I regret,” he said in a friendly, reconciliatory tone of voice, “we have no hard evidence, not yet. However, until I have evidence, neither Mr. Meturovski nor any of his minions can lead me down the primrose path.”

  Buitendam’s blood pressure climbed precipitously. With a prominent vein throbbing on his head, he stood up from his chair and pointed at the door of the office.

  “OUT!!” he roared.

  DeKok left.

  Jan Kuster looked on as DeKok entered a terse report about the murder at Emperor’s Canal in the Daily Log.

  “You didn’t take long,” he said, a question in his voice.
>
  DeKok underlined his entry and looked up.

  “We could have taken all day—neither of them has had his first thought,” he said venomously.

  The watch commander grinned.

  “A commissaris of police and a judge advocate?” he said dubiously.

  DeKok pushed the log book away and nodded.

  “When I say something the gentlemen don’t want to hear, they kick me out of the room like a dog. They aren’t smart enough to ask questions, let alone listen to answers.” He took a deep breath. “If they would just listen, I could explain on what I base my opinions. There could be an exchange of ideas. We could work out a strategy. Their idiotic posturing makes me …” He did not complete the sentence, but stood up and walked away.

  At the counter he stopped and turned around when Kuster called him.

  “Are you going home?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, I’m stopping by at Little Lowee’s. I need to get rid of this nasty taste in my mouth.

  DeKok ambled through the Red Light District, unhurried. In contrast to the morning and early afternoon, it was very busy. Groups of people crowded in front of the sex cinemas and gaped at inflatable dolls and other sex toys.

  The gray sleuth walked by without paying attention. He had on occasion looked into some of the sex-shop windows and had been amazed at the variety with which the phallus had been duplicated. In real life, he was certain, there was not that much variety. Perhaps, he thought, he did not have enough imagination in those matters. It was also why soulless women, inflatable or otherwise, made little impression.

  He reached Rear Fort Canal and crossed Old Church Square. Here the street prostitutes crowded along the sidewalks. Some of the older women greeted DeKok and he responded politely. Some of the newer prostitutes tried to entice him, or engage him in conversation. He ignored them. Their sisters in “the life” would set them straight concerning the senior inspector.

  Near the corner of Barn Alley, he pushed aside a dark-brown, leather curtain and entered the cozy, dimly lit bar. He’d so often found solace here. Prostitutes taking short breaks occupied most of the tables. Some greeted DeKok, or nodded in his direction. There was no one at the bar. Lowee filled an order for his waitress and turned toward DeKok at the moment the old man hoisted himself onto a stool.