DeKok and Variations on Murder

by A. C. Baantjer

  DeKok slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger. He was tense. He did not completely succeed in controlling the shaking of his hand.

  “Is the estate now deserted?”

  “Paul hired a caretaker.”

  “Do you know his name?”

  “Koperman.”

  The gray sleuth sighed and beamed. For the first time during this strange investigation, he felt a slight triumph.

  Vledder looked aside. The sparkle in his partner’s eyes made him wonder.

  “Koperman,” repeated Vledder, not understanding.

  DeKok grinned.

  “That’s Handsome Karl’s surname.”

  14

  From the parking lot on Precious Lady Square, the inspectors drove toward the highway. They passed a number of beautifully preserved canals in the picturesque inner city of Amersfoort. Vledder was behind the wheel as usual, but looking contrite. He felt left out. The entire search for Vreeden seemed to have passed him by. With an angry look he glanced at his partner.

  “Impossible,” he growled. “Karl was in jail. He told us so, himself.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Did you check it out?”

  “No, why should I?”

  “Exactly, you had no pressing reason to do so. As far as we are concerned he’s no more than a casual witness. Given his reputation it seemed as plausible to me as it did to you. But last night I also phoned The Hague.”

  “You’ve been busy … what made you call The Hague?”

  Silently DeKok laughed at Vledder’s defensiveness.

  “You don’t have to be so hard on yourself,” he said mildly. “If anything, I’d have to share the blame. We were equally taken aback by the news of Karl’s engagement as the caretaker in Ireland.” He pushed himself upright in his seat. “While you were at your party I had a couple of enlightening experiences.”

  “Such as?”

  DeKok smirked.

  “Our very own commissaris, accompanied by Judge Advocate Schaap, was waiting for me at the station. They wished to personally acquaint me with the happy tiding that Mr. Meturovski had withdrawn his complaint against us.”

  “What?”

  “Yes. You can stop losing sleep.”

  Vledder snorted.

  “I’m sleeping fine,” he growled.

  DeKok smirked again.

  “Despite the happy announcement, it was not a pleasant conversation. The two esteemed gentlemen wanted to take credit for the withdrawal of the complaint. After all hadn’t they gone to bat for us, telling Mr. Meturovski we are such good boys? Suddenly the depth of the manure became too much for me.”

  A smile broke out on Vledder’s morose face.

  “They excused you forthwith.”

  “Ah but there is more. To revive my sagging spirits, I paid a call on Little Lowee.”

  “Oh, it was Lowee who told you about the estate in Ireland and Handsome Karl.”

  DeKok momentarily closed his eyes.

  “Just let me think a moment,” he said. “I want to be sure you get the complete story. I asked if Karl had gone to see Fat Nellie. You remember, I told him Nellie could use a friend. Well, Lowee told me it would be stupid for Karl to go to Nell. The last time they saw each other she placed a pair of scissors in his back, sharp end first.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Handsome Karl was displaying his utter devotion by strangling her with a scarf.”

  Vledder’s eyes widened.

  “The plot thickens,” he exclaimed, “with a scarf, no less.”

  “He had brought it along for the very purpose,” added DeKok.

  “Then what?”

  “After a few days’ recovery, Karl was back on his feet. Fat Nellie and Little Lowee made sure he understood henceforth he was persona no grata in the fair city of Amsterdam. That is why Handsome Karl wound up in The Hague,” he concluded.

  Vledder grinned.

  “That’s why he concocted the story of his arrest in The Hague.”

  “Little Lowee looked at me in utter disbelief when I told him about Karl and The Hague. He set me straight. According to him, Karl had found a job in Ireland, babysitting some rich guy’s house.”

  “Aha. Then you connected the dots and came up with Vreeden as the possible employer. That’s why you asked Xaveria if she’d ever been in Ireland.” He patted DeKok on the shoulder. “Well done.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Excuse me for asking, what are we supposed to do with the glut of information?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But,” sputtered Vledder, “I thought you were very pleased to have the name Koperman.”

  “As far as it goes, yes, I am. For now, though, I can’t put it to use. It merely proves Handsome Karl knew

  Mr. Vreeden. You see, Karl comes in two distinct but inseparable personas. He is handsome on the surface, but crooked down deep. Vreeden’s wealth must have started him thinking. Karl may not be gullible or slow, but he’s no criminal mastermind.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Something tells me these events, particularly surrounding Vreeden’s disappearance, are being orchestrated. Someone in the background is the brains behind it.”

  “I see.”

  “Yes, and now I’ll take a little nap. It was a short night. Wake me when we get back to Amsterdam.”

  He slid down in the seat and pulled his hat over his eyes.

  When they reached the city, Vledder nudged him. DeKok woke up and looked around.

  “Drop me off on Emperor’s Canal,” he said.

  “You’re not going back to the station?”

  “No, you are. When you get there, call Kruger and tell him to look for Karl’s prints. They will be in his collection. It would be nice if we could find a match in the apartment of Marlies.”

  “And you?”

  “I’m going to have a little chat with Dr. Haanstra, Paul Vreeden’s chest man.”

  DeKok climbed the bluestone steps of the imposing stoop. He looked at the brass plate next to the green, lacquered door. In deeply engraved black letters it read: j. e. haanstra, m. d. consultations from 10:00 until 12:00. From where he stood he could just see a church clock. It was fifteen minutes before noon. He pushed open the heavy door and followed an arrow to the waiting room. The only people in the room were two women. DeKok nodded a greeting and sat down in a rattan chair. He picked up an old magazine and held it before his face.

  As the women discussed their various ailments in embarrassing detail, DeKok tried to close his ears. A buzzer went and one woman disappeared into the consulting room. DeKok felt the remaining woman desperately trying to make eye contact. DeKok felt in no way inclined to get involved with her digestive tract. He hid behind his magazine. The buzzer went off again and DeKok found himself alone. He replaced the magazine and waited patiently.

  After about twenty minutes, the consulting room door opened. DeKok saw a tall, young man in a sparkling white coat. DeKok estimated him to be about thirty years old. His hair was blond and there was the beginning of a beard on his cheeks.

  “Are you the last one?” he asked.

  DeKok looked around the room.

  “Nobody came in after I did.”

  “Please step this way,” said the young man.

  The inspector followed him into the consulting room with his hat in his hand.

  “You’re not a patient of mine?”

  “No.”

  “What is your name?”

  DeKok … with a kay-oh-kay. In full, Jurriaan DeKok, Jurre to my friends,” he added. Actually nobody, except his wife, ever called him anything else but “DeKok.”

  The young doctor sat down behind his desk and invited DeKok to take the seat opposite. The doctor took a blank, pre-printed card and started to make entries.

  “What are your complaints?”

  “A vanished managing director.”

  The doctor looked up in surprise.

  “What did you say
?”

  DeKok smiled faintly.

  “A vanished managing director,” he repeated in a friendly voice. “One Paul Vreeden.”

  The gold fountain pen slipped from the doctor’s fingers and made a blot on the new card.

  “Mr. Vreeden?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “You are Dr. Haanstra?”

  “Certainly—yes, I am.”

  DeKok smiled a disarming smile.

  “And Mr. Vreeden was your patient?” He emphasized the word “was” in the hope of a reaction from the doctor. There was none.

  “Yes, that is to say, he has consulted me from time to time.”

  “Complaints?”

  Surprisingly the young physician responded with little hesitation. “Mr. Vreeden has a weak heart and needs to schedule an operation. His general health is not good for a man his age—his blood pressure is much too high.”

  “Apparently you know about his disappearance?”

  It was as if the young doctor suddenly came out of anesthesia.

  “Who are you?” he asked suddenly, sharply.

  DeKok pointed at the card on the desk.

  “You already have my name. I’m a police inspector, attached to Warmoes Street Station, here in Amsterdam.” He made a rueful gesture. “I wanted to tell you right away, but you were so efficient, so professional, I—”

  Doctor Haanstra interrupted vehemently.

  “You should have identified yourself immediately,” he stormed. “That is your obligation. You tricked me into revealing confidential information about my patient.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “I asked if you knew about his disappearance. You haven’t answered.”

  Haanstra shook his head.

  “No, I was not aware. As far as I knew Mr. Vreeden was on vacation in the Bahamas.”

  “Did Mr. Vreeden tell you he was going on vacation, say, in connection with medicines he was taking?”

  “Yes, yes,” hesitated the doctor. “He told me. In fact he was acting on my advice. I felt it would be beneficial for his total well being to get away from work for a while.”

  “Why the Bahamas?”

  The doctor was getting agitated.

  “It was his call,” he said, testily. “He could have gone to Volendam, as far as I was concerned.” He paused and a suspicious look came into his blue eyes. “Who says Mr. Vreeden has disappeared?”

  DeKok tapped his chest.

  “I do.”

  The doctor’s anger escalated.

  “You?” he mocked. “Who are you to take up my time because you have decided Mr. Vreeden has disappeared?”

  The cynical tone made no impression on the old sleuth. He was convinced the young doctor knew more than he revealed. He looked around the room. On the desk he noticed a brown chest with drawers. The tops of cards protruded from some drawers. Plastic dividers separated the cards alphabetically. It was obviously the doctor’s patient file. There were only a few cards under “V.”

  He left the doctor’s question unanswered and pointed to the incomplete card under the doctor’s hand.

  “Do you fill out a card like that for all your patients?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Also for Mr. Vreeden?”

  Dr. Haanstra paled. His hand moved to the card file, but DeKok was faster. With one hand he pushed the box out of the reach of the doctor and with the other hand he lifted the cards under “V” out from behind the divider. One by one the cards went through his hands. When the last card had been replaced on the desk, he looked up. With a threatening look on his face he stood up.

  “Dr. Haanstra, there is no card here for Mr. Vreeden.”

  15

  DeKok walked back to Warmoes Street from Emperor’s Canal. He was not happy. The conversation with the young doctor had ended with a vague, unsatisfactory, explanation as to why Paul Vreeden’s patient card was missing. It was food for thought. DeKok also thought Dr. Haanstra knew more. Once again DeKok had more questions than answers. Was the doctor’s reticence indicative of his involvement in the conspiracy? What was his connection to all of this?

  It started to rain, a penetrating, miserable drizzle. It gave a shine to the streets. DeKok raised the collar of his coat and pushed his little hat farther down. He surveyed his surroundings. Amsterdam was at its most beautiful in the rain, he mused. Ancient facades mirrored themselves in the glistening asphalt. Amsterdam sparkled.

  As he walked his mood lightened a bit. It could have been the depressing weather. DeKok reveled in what some people found dreary. He went through Palace Street to reach Dam Square. The pigeons seemed to enjoy the rain, too. They flew around, hoping for a handout.

  He stopped at a deserted, wet bench. It seemed an age since he had sat here. It was the day he spotted Marlies van Haesbergen and followed her. The day she bought the tickets from the travel agency. An eternity of just two days had passed.

  He caught himself going over her death and whether he could have done more to prevent it. He stopped short of agonizing. His old mother had often said, “Man derides, but God decides.” DeKok’s work gave him a more complicated view. Too many people, he knew, refused to await God’s decisions. Rather they took it upon themselves to make life and death decisions. These, he reflected, were the kind of people involved in this macabre dance. What was it they wanted? He desperately wanted to pinpoint a motive.

  He tried to picture the elusive Mr. Vreeden. Paul Vreeden’s passport photo helped little. It did reveal the face of a forceful man, a man who knew what he wanted. Xaveria Breerode had given an eloquent description of a man whose high energy level belied his stress level. His character she described as old fashioned, open, and uncomplicated. He distributed 1,000 Euro notes like candy in high-stakes gambles for multi-million dollar contracts. Did Paul Vreeden’s habit of spreading cash around provide someone a motive?

  Suddenly DeKok’s sunny nature broke through. A light came on in the dark recesses of his brain. For a moment he imagined that a sunbeam had penetrated the thick, gray clouds above and hit him in the neck. He licked a raindrop from his upper lip and walked on with a broad grin on his face.

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Ben Kruger could not do anything with Handsome Karl’s prints. The only fingerprints in the apartment were those of the occupant and her niece, plus a few partials. There were traces of gloves.”

  DeKok received the news passively as he sank down in his chair.

  “What did you do with the scarf?”

  “I put it in a plastic bag,” he said as he opened a drawer in his desk. “I handled it with tweezers.” He produced the bag from the drawer. “I haven’t sent it to the lab because I was thinking we could use it to set a trap.”

  “What sort of trap?”

  “I thought we could use a canine. We let the dog sniff Karl. Then we let the dog sniff about a dozen scarves. One of them will be this scarf. If Karl handled the scarf, the dog will pick it out.”

  DeKok looked dubious.

  “I don’t know about that. If you let the dog sniff you, wouldn’t the dog pick out the scarf you handled? Wouldn’t the dog automatically match the last smell it was exposed to? No, I don’t have much faith in it, other than as a last resort.” He raised a finger in the air. “Even if the dog were to identify Karl, a jury might find it interesting, but the courts would not count it as evidence.”

  Vledder’s shoulders drooped.

  “So you have a better idea of how to catch him? Or do we wait for the next murder victim, and hope Karl makes a mistake?” He sounded bitter.

  DeKok stood up and leaned over his young colleague.

  “Do you know who the next victim is?” he asked.

  Vledder lowered his head.

  “It’s all so disheartening,” he sighed. “I can’t figure out what it’s all about.” He looked up. “Did the doctor know anything?”

  “Yes,” said DeKok slowly, “he knew a lot more than he told me.”

  “Haanstra?”
>
  “Yes.”

  “What could he know?”

  DeKok did not answer. He had noticed a shadow behind the frosted glass inset of the door. Then there was a knock on the door.

  “Come in,” yelled DeKok, across the empty room.

  It took a few seconds. The door swung open. A short, corpulent man appeared in the opening. He wore a rumpled, brown suit. The rain had plastered his receding hair to his skull. His tanned face was round and puffy with deep circles under slightly bulging eyes.

  DeKok beckoned. The man approached, breathing heavily.

  “Are you Inspector DeKok?”

  “Indeed.”

  The man fished a large red handkerchief from a pocket and wiped the sweat and rain off his forehead.

  “I would like to speak to you.”

  DeKok pointed at the chair near his desk.

  “Please have a seat.”

  The man hesitated, looked around the room and at Vledder.

  “Privately.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “This is my colleague, Vledder. He hears, sees, and does not speak.”

  The man sat down, obviously disappointed.

  “My information is of a confidential nature, I would rather have no—”

  “Witnesses?”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean,” protested the man. “I just don’t want anything to leak out. Nobody knows I’m here.”

  “You prefer to remain anonymous?”

  “That’s not necessary.” The man shook his head. “I don’t mind you knowing who I am. My name is Middelkoop, Henri Middelkoop. I’m one of the directors of Dredging Works Vreeden at Emperor’s Canal.”

  DeKok took a chair across from his visitor, his back to Vledder. He gestured breezily.

  “It looks as though you just returned from the Bahamas.”

  Middelkoop’s face froze.

  “No, no, you’re mistaken. Mr. Vreeden is in the Bahamas. I just returned from the south of France.”

  “I beg your pardon,” said DeKok, smiling mildly.

  Middelkoop again gripped his handkerchief and moved in his chair.

  “There have been,” he began diffidently, “some strange developments in my office during my absence. I refer, in particular, to the death of Mrs. van Haesbergen. It has affected me deeply.”