DeKok swallowed again.
“Jan, eh, Jan is dead.”
She did not change visibly. Her long, sinewy fingers reached for a pack of cigarettes and some matches on the round table in front of her.
“So,” she said resignedly, “so it finally happened.” She lit a cigarette with shaking hands. She inhaled deeply. “It finally happened,” she repeated. Her voice sounded strange, as if from a distance.
Slowly she let the smoke escape.
“I should have expected it,” she murmured. “You know, it was to be expected. I’m not all that surprised, no, not surprised.” She shook her head. “It had to happen, sooner or later.” She sounded melancholy, almost wistful.
Vledder and DeKok listened to the rambling monologue. They allowed her to deal with the news in her own way. Silently they watched as she crushed the cigarette in the ashtray after a few puffs. She moved slowly, with exaggerated caution. She kept crushing the cigarette, long after it had been extinguished.
Slowly her attitude changed. The iron grip of her self-control relented slightly. At first the shock seemed to come from deep within her. The sobs were unstoppable, like hiccups. Suddenly she clasped both hands in front of her eyes and started to cry. Her whole body shook violently.
DeKok felt a deep pity. He placed an arm around her bony shoulders and pulled her softly toward him. She did not resist. She cried her sorrow with long wails from an asthmatic chest. She was a poor, pitiful, much plagued woman, a mother of a failed son.
It took a long time before she calmed down. She picked up a dirty shirt from the floor and used it to wipe her tears.
“How,” she asked finally, “did it happen? Or is that a secret?”
DeKok sighed.
“Of course it’s not a secret.”
“Well?” she urged.
DeKok did not answer at once. He looked at her from the side and tried to estimate her resistance, her ability to absorb another shock.
“Jan was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
“Yes.”
She gave him a bitter smile.
“To tell you the truth, I was thinking the police might have killed him.”
DeKok’s eyebrows rippled.
“Why the police?”
She shook her thin shoulders.
“It was the most obvious. It could have happened.”
DeKok grinned, a bit embarrassed.
“I don’t understand,” he said.
“Ach,” she said, suddenly irritated, “forget it! What does it matter now? He’s dead. Why bother, what’s past is past.”
DeKok sighed. He seemed to do a lot of that, he reflected.
“Listen,” he said seriously, “it’s not a pleasant thing to do, but it’s probably better if you know the facts. You’ll hear them sooner or later anyway. Somebody, we don’t know who, beat Jan on the head with a heavy object. It was murder. My colleague and I are in charge of the investigation. It’s not going to be easy to find Jan’s killer. We don’t have many clues. We hoped you could help us.”
The expression on her face changed. The mildness, the softness caused by sorrow slowly disappeared. It was as if she suddenly realized who was speaking to her. Policemen. And not for the first time in her life, either. The memories of the past left a bitter taste in her mouth.
“Why?” she asked suspiciously. “Why should I help the police?”
“Because it’s your civic duty,” answered DeKok carefully.
She grinned. It was not a pleasant sight.
“My duty?” She pronounced it like an obscenity.
DeKok swallowed.
“Because it concerns your son,” he amplified.
“And it will bring him back?”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“No,” he said, suddenly sharp. “No, that won’t bring your son back. I’m not God. I can’t make that sort of deal with you. I’d hoped, however, that your son’s death would teach you something. Apparently I was mistaken.”
He stood up and walked out of the room.
“Come on,” he said to Vledder over his shoulder, “let’s go. There’s no sense in staying. We’re wasting our time.”
She hastily rose and shuffled after him. She overtook him in the corridor and grabbed the back of his coat.
“When is he coming home, sir?” It sounded pleading, almost scared. “Mister, when do I get my boy back home? He’ll be buried here, won’t he?”
Slowly DeKok turned. Her words hurt him. He already regretted how sharp his words had been, losing his temper. He looked down at her, meeting her gaze. He had a lump in his throat he couldn’t dislodge. Her face again reflected mild tenderness, only expressed by an old mother. DeKok had no defense against it. He placed his hand on the gray head.
“I’ll take care of it myself,” he said softly. “Jan will be buried here.”
A soft smile played over her face.
“Thank you,” she said simply.
They took their leave.
Before the inspectors stepped into the street, she added, “Go see Fat Anton, he may be able to tell you something. He and Jan used to spend a lot of time together.” She sighed. “Tell Anton I sent you,” she added.
She closed the door and shuffled back to the room.
7
Fat Anton did honor to his name.
He was enormous, with a triple chin. His small, recessed pig’s eyes glittered above round cheeks.
He had not taken the trouble to rise. He received the inspectors while in bed. Next to his thigh, hidden by blankets, was a mound in the shape of a woman. Only the top of her head was visible. Fat Anton scratched somewhere under his T-shirt.
“Well,” he said, yawning, “Ma Brets sent you and Jan got banged on the head in Amsterdam?”
“Indeed,” answered DeKok laconically. “In a nutshell.”
Anton looked confused.
“Well, just tell me,” he asked, challenging, “what’s that got to do with me?”
DeKok shook his head.
“Nothing, absolutely nothing.”
Anton’s round face became more cheerful. He spread a pair of mighty arms and looked at DeKok with indignation.
“Well, then what do you want?”
Without waiting to be invited, DeKok sat down at the foot of the bed.
“Listen to me, Anton,” he began amiably, “we have reason to believe that Jan Brets did not stay at the Greenland Arms for fun. He was there working on a job. The Greenland Arms is a boutique hotel, so we believe it was an important job. In other words, he was there for a rich haul.”
Fat Anton grinned.
“I like the way you think,” he said admiringly.
DeKok rubbed his face with the flat of his hand and sighed deeply. He understood full well that he was not getting any further this way. He decided to change his tactics.
“Jan Brets,” he said patiently, “was your best friend, right?”
Fat Anton nodded emphatically.
“Yes, sir, he was,” he agreed.
“Excellent,” said DeKok. “That helps. Well, your best friend, Jan Brets, is dead, murdered. Somebody was nasty enough to break his skull.”
“A dirty trick,” reacted Anton spontaneously. “They shouldn’t have done that.”
DeKok swallowed.
“Yes, Anton,” he said, his voice catching in his throat, “you’re right, a dirty trick. That’s why I’m asking you, his best friend, whether it’s possible his murderer had anything to do with a job.”
Anton thought deeply. It was visible. He rubbed a greasy hand over stubbly hair. A painful expression appeared on his face.
“It’s possible,” he said after a while. “It’s possible, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Nobody knew about the job.”
DeKok sighed.
“Anton, you knew about it.” There was amazement in his voice and on his face.
“Well, yes, of course. I was part of it.”
“Part of what?”
Fat Anton blinked his eyes several times in rapid succession and then laughed sheepishly. “Well, you got me, eh? You got me. I never can shut my big mouth!”
DeKok ignored the remark.
“Go on,” he said, “you were part of what?”
“Part of the gang.” It sounded reluctant.
“What gang would that be?”
Fat Anton shrugged his colossal shoulders.
“Well, you know, gang sounds impressive…real American, you know. It was just a few of the guys.”
“What guys?”
Anton shook his head.
“You got it, Inspector,” he said with irritation in his voice. “Jan and I belonged to a group, all right? I already said too much, so you shouldn’t ask anymore. That’s useless. I won’t give you the other names anyway.”
DeKok smiled a winning smile.
“Oh, well,” he said, “we won’t discuss it anymore. You don’t want to betray anybody, and I understand that.” He took a deep breath. “Just one more thing, what sort of haul are we talking about?”
Fat Anton looked reluctant.
“I’d rather not say.”
DeKok looked at him evenly.
“What you mean,” he said knowingly, “is that with Jan or without him, you and the others will finish the job.” He made an expressive gesture. “I understand,” he continued. “There will be a larger share for everybody else.”
Suddenly a female head emerged from the blankets next to Anton. The young woman had black curly hair. Streaks of makeup ran down her pale face. Obviously she had heard the entire conversation from under
the blankets.
“You,” she announced decidedly, “you’re no longer part of it. Not you. I don’t care what the others do, that’s their business. But you’re out of it. To hell with the whole mess! I never trusted this setup. Now you see it yourself. Jan Brets is already dead. You could have listened to me and Jan when I said not to trust the jerk. He’s disgusting—” Fat Anton tried to push her head back under the blankets. “He’s such a fine gentleman,” she managed to add.
“Shut up, Marie,” growled Anton. “Stay out of this. It’s none of your business.”
“What fine gentleman?” asked DeKok, very much interested.
“Well,” said Marie vehemently, “the accountant, the jerk who gave Brets the tip in the first place, of course.”
“I beg your pardon?” DeKok tried to believe what he was hearing.
“Yes, the accountant. Come on, Anton, what was his name again?”
“Pierre Brassel?” asked DeKok hopefully.
Marie’s pale face brightened up.
“That’s him exactly, Pierre Brassel.”
DeKok stood in front of the window of the detective room, both hands folded behind his back. The early morning light already stole through Corner Alley. The birds on the roof of Warmoes Street sang and chirped in a tone so clear and pure, it was as if they were in a quiet monastery garden rather than just above one of the seamiest districts in Europe.
“What an evening, what a night,” sighed DeKok. “One for the books. Barely ten hours ago, Brassel walked in here and we stepped into this morass.”
He rolled back and forth a few times on the balls of his feet in an attempt to drive the leaden feeling out of his calves.
“We got a break when Inspector Meyden in Utrecht was able to tell us at once where we could find Fat Anton. I’m not all that familiar with the Utrecht underworld. It might have taken us a long time to find him on our own.”
Vledder came and stood next to him.
“Really,” he said sadly, “we’ve not made any progress with the investigation. Fat Anton was not exactly a gold mine of information.”
Smiling, DeKok shook his head.
“That Anton,” he said, grinning at the recollection, “what a mountain of flesh. He almost needed the entire king-sized bed by himself. The man’s a colossus!”
Vledder nodded.
“Too bad, despite everything, he didn’t want to tell us who else is involved. They could still be targeting someone or something unknown.”
“Yes,” agreed DeKok, “it’s too bad. I would have given a week’s salary to find out what sort of tip Brassel passed along. It must have been something the boys liked very much. To form any sort of gang, or even a ‘group of guys,’ is not all that common in this country. The Dutch criminal is by nature a pure individualist. He doesn’t form groups; at most he’ll work with a single partner.”
Vledder made a gesture.
“You know,” he said, “when NATO conducts exercises, the story is the Dutch army always gets the lowest ratings in unit maneuvers, but the Dutch soldier is always rated first in guerilla warfare. Perhaps with the inspired leadership of Pierre Brassel, the so-called gang managed to overcome their natural aversion to cooperation. Who knows what he promised them.”
DeKok looked at his watch.
“It’s almost six o’clock. I propose we first get a few hours’ sleep. We’ve had enough for one day. I asked the Utrecht police to send me the complete file on Jan Brets. They promised to deliver it to my house sometime in the morning. I’ll read it at home. You never know. Maybe I’ll find something.”
“I could have researched all that using the computer.”
“Yes, I know, but I want the actual file. What you call the hard copy. I want to see all the handwritten notes, the corrections and the deletions. It helps me form a more complete picture.”
Vledder looked searchingly at his mentor.
“And what about me?”
DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.
“Oh, I have something special for you. This afternoon I want you to go back to Utrecht. I’d like you to contact Anton’s Marie.” He raised a cautioning finger. “Of course, Anton needn’t be aware of your call. I don’t think she’ll talk freely while her boyfriend is around. I have a feeling our petite brunette can tell us quite a bit about Mr. Brassel and the gang.”
Vledder looked crestfallen.
“That won’t be easy.”
DeKok’s eyebrows vibrated in that inimitable manner.
“Does it have to be easy?” he asked innocently.
“No, not really, but how will I get her alone? I’ve the impression that Anton guards her like a hen guards her chicks.”
DeKok laughed.
“You come up with some crazy comparisons.”
Vledder growled something unintelligible.
“Oh yes,” called DeKok after him, “since you’re in Utrecht anyway, call two-seven-one-double two-eight. It’s a local number.”
8
It was almost seven o’clock.
DeKok had been able to sleep until one in the afternoon. Then he had dressed and taken a short walk with his faithful dog, a boxer with a worried and wrinkled face that considered his boss as personal property whenever he was home. Some people said the dog looked like DeKok, and others said that DeKok looked like the dog. Either way, people were right. There was an amazing resemblance between dog and owner.
DeKok had received the files on Jan Brets from Utrecht. He had used the rest of the afternoon to read them. It had been an exhausting task. Brets’s criminal feats had moved dozens of civil servants to compose stacks of prose. It was about six thirty when the elder inspector had finally wrestled his way through the mountain of paperwork. Now he was back in the office, more than a full hour before his appointment with Vledder. He decided to take a little stroll through the neighborhood.
The neighborhood, in DeKok’s mind, consisted of the famous or infamous (depending on one’s point of view) Red Light District of Old Amsterdam. The district encompassed a veritable labyrinth of narrow streets. There were small canals, quaint old bridges, dark alleys, unexpected squares, and architectural wonders. Enlivening the district night and day were exotic, often beautiful women, well-dressed pimps, and innumerable bars and eating establishments. The population swelled with endless streams
of the sexually addicted and busloads of tourists from all over the world. For centuries, seamen of every nationality mixed with the locals of the quarter to create an atmosphere that could not be duplicated anywhere else in the world.
DeKok knew almost everybody who resided in the quarter; that is to say, almost everybody in the quarter knew him. He was neither feared nor notorious. He was simply accepted as another facet. He represented the law, but it was just another component of an exquisite mélange.
DeKok was actually well regarded in his district. The pimps and the whores treated him with respect. They knew he administered the law with an even hand. They knew he interpreted the dozens of regulations and guidelines with some latitude. He did not violate the spirit of the law, however he had a unique vision of the letter of the law. DeKok was, indeed, one of a kind, a buccaneer among policemen.
He wore an old felt hat on the back of his head. The belt around his raincoat resembled a worn, twisted rope. DeKok had a broad grin on his face as he strolled past old houses and older canals. Here and there he nodded at acquaintances or familiar faces. They always smiled back or greeted him cheerfully.
At the corner of Barn Alley, he furtively slipped into Little Lowee’s small bar. Little Lowee, a diminutive man with a narrow chest and a mousy face, owned a bar frequented by pimps and prostitutes. Little Lowee considered himself a particular friend of Inspector DeKok.
It was still early, and there were only a few customers in the bar. DeKok looked around. He spotted Annie, Cross-eyed Bert’s girlfriend. She had already drunk too much. DeKok estimated the intensity of the quarrel that would surely ensue. He grinned to himself. It would probably end up with a fight. Those two had lived like a cat and a dog for years. But neither seemed able to stay away from the other for more than a few days.
He ambled toward the bar and hoisted himself slowly onto a stool. It was his regular seat. From here he could oversee the entire room and his back was covered in case of unexpected eventualities.
Little Lowee approached with a wide smile on his face.
“How’s da crime bizniz?” he asked pleasantly. It was almost a stock question.
“Up three points,” growled DeKok as if he were quoting the Dow Jones. “It’s a bullish market,” he added.
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 5