“You have a passkey?”
“Yes.”
“Who else has one?”
“Almost everybody, except for dining room and kitchen personnel. Maid service, room service, front desk personnel, and myself. Of course, there is also an emergency key for management. Personnel may not use their passkeys except in emergencies. There are very strict rules. We always knock first, for instance. You know what I mean? Nobody wants to barge in on a guest unannounced.”
DeKok nodded.
“How many passkeys are available?”
“About twenty.”
“And you know exactly who is entitled to have and use such keys?”
“But of course.”
“Excellent,” murmured DeKok, “very good.” Then he continued, a bit louder. “In about half an hour I would like to talk to everyone who has such a key. Get them all together in the reading room.” He pushed his hat a bit farther back on his head. “For the time being, you may leave us to do our work. Oh yes, I would also like a list of all the guests, their room numbers, and a floor plan for this floor.”
The concierge bowed.
“But of course,” he said with professional servility. “Of course, I’ll take care of it. I’ll take care of it at once.” Then he asked, “May I be of service in any other way, gentlemen?”
DeKok grinned at the man and his obvious worry about the hotel’s image. The concierge was struck by the way it transformed the inspector’s face. A grinning DeKok was irresistible.
“In a moment,” said DeKok, smiling, “two rather formidable gentlemen will arrive, dressed in dark coats and accompanied by large leather suitcases.”
“Yes?”
“Please welcome them in my name and have them immediately conveyed to this room. Those two gentlemen, you see, are the world’s greatest experts in photographing corpses and taking fingerprints.”
“Oh,” said the concierge.
“Yes,” agreed DeKok. “And in case,” he continued, “you spot any gentlemen of the press, you will be so kind as to deny them access past the porter’s lodge. Understood?”
The concierge bowed obsequiously.
“Excellent,” said DeKok, “thank you very much.” He closed the door of room twenty-one in the face of the bewildered concierge.
Vledder had been roaming the scene of the crime for some time as DeKok finished his conversation with the concierge. He had inspected the bolts on the French doors to the balcony and was now busily engaged in a number of measurements to determine the exact position of the corpse. He compiled it all into a sketch of the crime scene.
When DeKok turned away from the door, Vledder pointed at a hockey stick on the floor next to it. This was an unusual kind of hockey stick. Apart from the usual tape on the handle, the blade, too, was heavily wrapped. The tape around the blade was newer, obviously applied rather recently.
DeKok took a clean handkerchief from a pocket and lifted the stick between thumb and index finger. It almost slipped from his fingers. The stick was unusually heavy.
“What on earth?” he exclaimed, surprise in his voice. “This stick has been weighted. Something heavy, perhaps lead, has been attached to the blade. It’s hard to see at the moment, but I bet next year’s salary the bottom tape has no other purpose than to keep weights in place.”
He looked at it closely.
“You know, young Vledder,” he remarked after a while, “I think this particular murder took some time in the planning. It’s the result of a well-conceived, detailed scheme. Look at the hockey stick, for instance. The new tape has been very carefully applied. At first glance I’d say that it’s the result of several hours’ work.”
He sighed sadly.
“I’d say it has been altered with care and devotion better applied to more productive labor. The killer, whoever he or she may be, obviously took pride in the preparatory work.”
Vledder did not react to the musings of his mentor. He did not seem interested. He sulked. There was an obstreperous look on his face. It did not escape DeKok. He replaced the stick where he had found it and walked over to Vledder.
“What’s the matter, Dick?” he asked pleasantly. “Aren’t you satisfied with the course of events?”
Vledder stood up, his measuring tape in hand.
“No,” he said, annoyed. “I’m not satisfied with the course of events—not at all. I think you made a serious mistake.”
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“I’m really not aware of having made a mistake.” It sounded like an apology. “Tell me, what mistake
was that?”
“You shouldn’t have let Pierre Brassel just get away!”
The old inspector sighed deeply.
“So that’s what’s eating you,” he said. His tone was resigned. “I thought so back at the office.” He rubbed his broad face, then raised a cautioning finger. “Just take it from me, Dick, a policeman should always be extremely careful with intelligent people. They can cause a lot more trouble than the not so bright ones. Pierre Brassel is extremely intelligent, much more intelligent than you think. He’s fully aware of what he’s doing. Even if we don’t yet understand his motives, his background, that’s our fault. That’s a lack of insight on our part for which we have nobody to blame but ourselves, certainly not our friend Brassel.”
“That’s not the issue,” exclaimed Vledder sharply. “That’s not the point! We should just have kept him and we should have interrogated him until he told us exactly what we wanted to know.”
Eyebrows rippling like woolly caterpillars, DeKok looked thoughtfully at his partner. “You don’t believe,” said DeKok finally, “that we can force someone to tell us things he doesn’t want to tell us. It’s an ethical question with limits that every policeman must determine for himself.” He paused. “For the sake of argument, however, please state the legal grounds on which we could have kept Brassel in custody.”
“He knew about the murder.”
DeKok nodded calmly.
“Certainly, on that we agree. What else?”
Vledder looked at him with amazement.
“What else? Even had we been unable to charge him as an accomplice, he still had the legal obligation to warn the police a crime was about to be committed. Let’s see, how exactly is that phrased? Oh yes, ‘at a time sufficient to prevent the commission of the crime.’ He didn’t do that.
While he was acting the charlatan in the detective room, mouthing all sorts of nonsense, he calmly allowed the victim to be murdered in this room.”
Vledder became more and more agitated. The blood rushed to his head. Nervous tics developed on his cheeks.
“Damn it!” he cried, knowing full well DeKok disapproved of strong language. “He knew where and how it was going to happen. Jan Brets was going to have his skull cracked in room twenty-one, the Greenland Arms. He knew it as well as if he had done it himself.”
“And is that possible?” asked DeKok seriously. “Could Pierre Brassel have killed Jan Brets?”
Vledder sighed.
“No,” he admitted reluctantly. “Not if the concierge spoke the truth about seeing Jan Brets alive at precisely eight o’clock.”
DeKok nodded.
“Exactly,” he said. “If we take that as our starting point, possibly we’ll find additional witnesses who can corroborate. If Jan Brets was still alive at eight o’clock, then no matter how much you regret it, Pierre Brassel could not possibly have committed the murder.”
DeKok looked around the room. Then he continued, “I haven’t seen any ingenious remote-control apparatus. The hockey stick was handled in an orthodox manner. I mean, someone lifted the stick high with both hands and brought it down hard enough to break Brets’s head. That someone could not possibly have been Brassel.”
He placed a fatherly hand on Vledder’s shoulder.
“Apart from that, you’re absolutely right. Brassel knew the murder was about to be committed. He did indeed have the legal obligation to inform someone, whether police
or victim…”
Vledder shot DeKok a questioning look.
“What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I’m saying: he must warn one or the other, police or victim. The law provides for either opportunity. Pierre Brassel is not guilty if he warned the victim in time. Obviously it would have to be timely.”
Vledder made a wild, uncontrolled gesture.
“But, DeKok,” he cried, irritated, “surely you know he didn’t warn the victim either. Otherwise this wouldn’t have happened.”
DeKok raised a restraining hand.
“Wait a moment. We have no proof. It’s entirely possible the murderer warned Jan Brets. Maybe Brets chose to ignore the warning, considering it to be a bad joke. Remember how you reacted to Brassel’s letter? You thought it was a sick joke.” He shook his head. “No, Vledder,” he sighed, “we can’t do a thing about Brassel under the present circumstances. Any action would result in incarceration, and that is a terrible word.”
4
DeKok pointed at the corpse on the floor.
“Well, Bram, what do you think of our harlequin?”
Bram Weelen, the rotund police photographer, forced his lips into a grin.
“Yes, well, a harlequin,” he grinned again. “You’re right, that’s what it looks like, a doll with strings. In my opinion, his assailant posed him in this manner. Let’s face it, it’s hardly a natural position.”
DeKok chewed his lower lip.
“You ever see this before?”
Bram shook his head.
“Never. I have not seen anything like it before. I’ve photographed a lot of corpses, but this is singular, and not a little strange.”
He walked carefully around the corpse.
“What was the cause of death?”
DeKok pointed at the hockey stick.
“It’s almost certain this was the murder weapon, a hockey stick, probably weighted with lead. It was used to bash his head in. Look at the blood from the left ear. It almost certainly indicates an injury to the base of the cranium. I haven’t looked any closer. We’re waiting for Dr. Rusteloos. I expect he’s on the way. Perhaps he can give us some clarification about the strange position. It really intrigues me.”
Bram nodded.
“Yes, it’s pretty weird. As I said, I’ve never seen a body posed this way.” He called to Kruger, the fingerprint expert. “Hey, Ben, you ever seen anything like this?”
Kruger shook his head. His face, always melancholic, was particularly solemn.
“No,” he said sadly. “It’s a new one to me, too.”
Bram grimaced toward DeKok.
“And I’ve had to work with that for the last umpteen years.” It sounded like a lament. With a sigh he unpacked his Hasselblad. He started taking the usual shots: wide-angles, snapshots, detailed close-ups. Bram used his camera with the eyes and hands of a master. He was an artist who had accidentally strayed into police work.
Meticulous in his own way, Kruger quickly finished with his dusting and search for prints. The hotel room was not very big. After his virtuoso performance with the brush, the catch was minute.
It took about twenty minutes for both experts to finish. Each completed his rather grim ritual by donning his dark overcoat. Then each hefted his heavy suitcase and disappeared in silence and efficiency. Kruger did not even bother to say good-bye. Bram turned at the door.
“If I were you, DeKok,” he said, pointing at the corpse, “I’d look for a sinister joker.”
“Where do you suggest?”
Bram pushed his lower lip forward.
“That’s your business.”
DeKok waved him away.
“Thanks for the tip.”
Although DeKok was used to working with Dr. Koning, Dr. Rusteloos was a respected man in his field. DeKok appreciated his direct nature and was not offended when Rusteloos wasted little time on greetings. He immediately lowered himself on one knee and started to explore the body with his sensitive fingers. When he turned the head of the victim slightly, the damage to the skull was clearly visible.
“This was quite a blow,” he said, studying the edges of the wound. “As far as I can see, it was but a single blow.” He smiled bitterly. “But one blow was more than enough.”
DeKok showed him the hockey stick.
“Could this have been the weapon, doctor? The stick has been weighted at the bottom.”
Dr. Rusteloos looked intently at the weapon.
“I believe so,” he said carefully, “but I can’t give you a definite opinion at this time, you understand. I want to do a more careful examination of the body, but at first glance the stick could very well have been used as the weapon. Superficially, I’d say the wound could have been caused by such a device.”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“And doctor,” he continued, “what about the position of the victim? The position of the arms and legs? Is that normal? I mean, if somebody collapsed after a fatal blow on the head, would it be reasonable to expect the body to assume that position?”
Slowly Dr. Rusteloos shook his head.
“No,” he said hesitantly, “it’s most unusual. I’ve never seen anything like it.” He stared pensively at the corpse. “Strange indeed, a strange pose. It reminds me of something. It reminds me of—”
“A marionette, a harlequin,” completed DeKok.
“Exactly right, yes, a harlequin.”
It sounded comical coming from him.
Further investigations in the hotel did not produce much. The personnel had very little to say. The management had accounted for all the passkeys; not one key was missing, and everyone had the keys he or she was supposed to have. An elderly elevator operator corroborated the concierge’s statement: Mr. Brets had entered the hotel at eight o’clock or, at most, five minutes later. He had picked up his key at the desk, and the elderly operator had conveyed him to the third floor. He had even observed Brets walking down the corridor to his room. The doors had closed, and the elevator had again descended. Nobody had entered the lift on Brets’s floor. In any case, with the exception of Mr. Brets, the witness had seen nobody else on the third floor.
By looking at the register, they learned Brets had arrived three days earlier. He was registered as Jan Johannes Brets, age twenty-five, merchant, 315 Brooklyn Street, Utrecht. The front desk clerk had assumed the name was correct because the guest had used a passport for identification. The register contained the passport number. It would have been simple to check the accuracy of the number with a single phone call.
Brets had checked in with almost no luggage. There was a small carry-on bag found under the bed, nothing remarkable. However, the contents of the bag were remarkable. It contained an extensive, well-maintained selection of burglary tools.
In the process of interrogation, the investigators learned Brets had not mingled with the other guests. He hadn’t associated with anybody. As far as anyone knew, he received no visitors in his room. His only meals at the hotel had been breakfasts. For the rest of each day he had been absent. His behavior had not prompted management to pay particular attention; his comings and goings had been like those of any guest on business.
DeKok found it all very disheartening. The investigation in the Greenland Arms could be considered a dud. Once more, DeKok addressed the concierge.
“Did anybody ask for Mr. Brets around eight o’clock?”
“At the desk, or with the doorman?”
“Either.”
The concierge was obviously trying to remember.
“No, not as far as I know.”
“Telephone?”
The concierge’s face cleared up.
“Yes, just a moment, somebody called.”
“What time?”
“It must have been shortly after eight.”
“Who called?”
The concierge shrugged his shoulders.
“That I don’t know. The caller did not mention a name. It was a woman. She asked if Mr. Brets was in.
”
“And?”
“Well, I answered yes, because I had just seen him pick up the key. I asked if I should call him or ring his room, but she answered, ‘Never mind’ and broke the connection.”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“You have some experience with this sort of phone call. Tell me, was it his mother, his wife, a fiancée, a lover?”
The concierge smiled.
“That’s difficult to say,” he sighed. “It didn’t seem to be any of those. If I had to guess, I’d say there was no intimate relationship. The lady sounded cooler, businesslike. She sounded a bit hurried…maybe nervous.” He paused and was lost in thought. “There was something about the voice,” he added after a while. “There was something about the voice,” he repeated.
“What?”
The concierge pulled on his lower lip, mulling over his recollection. Suddenly he looked up. “I’ve got it,” he said happily. “I remember now. The voice had a German accent. You know what I mean, a German who’s been living in Holland for years, speaks perfect Dutch but yet you can hear…”
DeKok nodded.
“I understand.”
The attendants from the coroner’s office entered. They pushed the arms and legs of the harlequin into a straight line, slid the body into a body bag, and placed it on the stretcher. DeKok watched their movements intently.
After the corpse had been removed, DeKok made a last round of the room. Then he locked the door and sealed it.
In the meantime, Vledder checked to see how much time it would take to go from the entrance of the hotel to room twenty-one. It took exactly four minutes, including knocking on the door.
After more than three hours, the inspectors finally left the Greenland Arms.
It was quiet in the streets. Vledder and DeKok headed for the station house on foot. Vledder carried the hockey stick and the athletic bag of burglary tools. They crossed Damrak, one of the wider streets in Amsterdam. It was nearly deserted. Damrak led to the dam, a large square that was popular as a hippie gathering place during the sixties.
DeKok followed his young partner. Because of his duck-footed waddle, he was behind by a few paces. His old, decrepit felt hat was pushed to the back of his head as he walked and thought. Meanwhile, he whistled a Christmas carol with sharply pursed lips. “Oh, come all ye faithful.” He was distinctly off key. He always whistled off key, and always Christmas carols, regardless of the time of year. In the center of the large square he suddenly halted. Involuntary thoughts drifted toward Christmas presents. He recalled the previous Christmas. Then he walked on.
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 3