Little Lowee laughed.
“Same recipe?”
Without waiting for the answer, Lowee reached under the counter and produced an excellent bottle of Napoleon cognac, a bottle he reserved exclusively for DeKok.
After the usual ceremony—Lowee always drank a glass with him—DeKok leaned back against the wall. He idly wondered why he had given up smoking. It had been more than twenty years, but he still longed for a good cigar while he listened to the piquant conversations between the whores and the other denizens of Lowee’s.
It was amazing what they talked about when off duty. Their business was seldom, if ever, a topic of conversation.
It was quiet right now. Just Annie to provide a little entertainment. She sang as she walked from one table to another. It was a sad song, maybe autobiographical, in the meanest Amsterdam dialect. Loosely translated, it was all about a naive girl who threw away her innocence for ten euros. She sang it with a surprisingly good voice.
Little Lowee leaned confidentially over the bar.
“What about da stiff in da Greenland Arms?” he whispered. “Anything to do wiv’ youse?”
DeKok took another sip from his drink and nodded imperceptibly. Lowee sometimes acted as an informer, but only for DeKok. It was on a need-to-know basis, and nobody else needed to know about it.
“It was somes guy from Utrecht. Some of da boys ’ere knowed ’im.”
“Who?”
“Well, youse know, some of da guys dat hang around. I thinks they knows ’im from inside.”
Grinning, DeKok nodded.
“Have you heard anything,” he asked carefully, “about plans for a major job in the city? I mean any talk on the street about a big haul?”
Lowee shook his small head.
“Nah, nuttin’. I ain’t heard nuttin’.”
DeKok looked at him for a long time. His eyes seemed to want to read the thoughts behind the small forehead. Lowee avoided his gaze.
“No?” asked DeKok.
A nervous tic developed on Little Lowee’s cheek.
“Should I have?” he asked sullenly.
DeKok smiled.
“No, no, you shouldn’t have. It’s just a bit strange.”
“Strange?”
DeKok sighed.
“Yes, Lowee, I can’t help but wonder. If it was such a big deal, why bring a guy all the way from Utrecht? Don’t we have professional thieves in Amsterdam?”
Lowee nodded emphatically.
“I should say so,” he said, pride in his city evident in the tone of voice. He had momentarily lost his underworld accent. “We don’t need them guys from Utrecht for nothing.” He picked up the bottle. “Another one, DeKok?”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“Listen, Lowee,” he said after a while. “Say someone did recruit a guy from Utrecht for a job in Amsterdam, what does that mean to you?”
Lowee pulled a face.
“It would stink!”
DeKok emptied his second glass and slid off the bar stool.
“My dear Lowee,” he said in parting, “you’re right. Something reeks.”
With that clarification in his mind and two cognacs glowing softly in his stomach, DeKok left the small bar and walked back in the direction of the station house.
He stopped at the corner of Warmoes Street and looked at his watch. It was half past seven. He had plenty of time. But it was the time that tortured him, because he had no idea what to do next. There was no rhyme or reason in the investigation of Jan Brets’s murder. DeKok knew he would have to wait for whatever revelations would come in order to unravel the facts in this perplexing matter. He’d begun to think of it as the Case of the Dead Harlequin. The harlequin was vital to the case. It was inconceivable that a killer would arrange the corpse in that particular position for no reason. It had to be symbolic, or was meant to send a message. He could not think of a single explanation. Again he felt he’d stepped into the absurd. He knew better than to take this personally. However this felt like a practical joke designed for DeKok. The joke was so sinister, he refused to believe that it was only a joke.
He pushed his dilapidated little hat farther back on his head and looked around. About thirty yards away the blue lamp with the word politie glowed in front of the police station. He did not feel like returning. Vledder would not have arrived yet anyway.
Crowds of tourists shuffled past him. They came from the direction of the more respectable tourist attractions such as the Rijks Museum, with its magnificent collection of Rembrandts. Now that it was getting dark, people would begin to converge on the Red Light District. During the summer especially, the old neighborhood seemed to be Europe’s main attraction. A cacophony of voices engulfed him in as many languages as in Babel. DeKok looked pensively at the throng. He suddenly remembered that Jan Brets, too, had spent three days in Amsterdam before he met his untimely end. What had he done during those three days? How had he passed the time? Did he meet anyone…was he there to meet someone in particular?
He mentally chased the questions. He waited a little longer, and then abruptly turned around. He went looking for Handy Henkie.
Handy Henkie was an ex-burglar. Henkie, a consummate professional, suffered a sudden attack of remorse. For no apparent reason he left his criminal pursuits to follow the narrow path of respectability. He rarely slipped. Henkie considered DeKok to be the greatest influence in his redemption. As a token of gratitude, and to remove a source of temptation, Henkie presented his instruments to DeKok. Henkie, first and foremost a master machinist, had invented and modified tools for his burglary trade. DeKok had to practice long and hard to use them. Sometimes, when absolutely necessary, DeKok would utilize Henkie’s tools and talents. On those rare occasions, neither Henkie nor the tools failed him.
DeKok breathed deeply. He laboriously hoisted his two hundred pounds up the narrow, creaking stairs. He hoped Henkie would be home. The mere idea that he might have climbed to the fourth floor on a fool’s errand affected his mood. He was already asking himself if he had not been too impulsive. Perhaps he should have asked Henkie to come to the office?
When his breathing was more or less under control, he knocked and entered simultaneously. Henkie, slippers on his feet, was watching television. His mouth opened in surprise when he recognized his visitor. A tic developed along his jaw. He seemed struck speechless.
DeKok walked over to the TV and calmly pulled the plug out of the wall socket. The image of a talking man faded into a black screen. The echo of the voice remained momentarily in the room.
The inspector smiled pleasantly at Henkie.
“Pardon, but I’d hate to have the television distract us, it’s so rare I come calling,” he said. He paused, then continued. “By the way, good evening.”
Henkie swallowed.
“Good evening, Inspector.”
DeKok nodded encouragingly.
“Good evening, Henkie.”
He lowered himself into an easy chair, placed his old hat on the floor next to him, unbuttoned the top buttons of his raincoat, and stretched his legs comfortably in front of him. Meanwhile, he looked at Handy Henkie, who nervously pulled on his shirt. DeKok enjoyed the confusion of his host.
“I suddenly felt the need to pay you a visit,” he started cheerily. “I haven’t seen you for some time, and I wondered…”
“You wondered what?”
There was suspicion in Henkie’s voice.
DeKok made a gesture.
“I wondered how you were. You see, that’s all it was. I was just concerned.”
Henkie laughed. It was a strange, nervous laugh. At the same time his sharp eyes anxiously explored DeKok’s face. He knew that face. It had become familiar over the years, from many conversations and even more interrogations. DeKok hadn’t changed much. He still had the deep furrows on his brow and his trademark eyebrows. He had the same friendly gray eyes and laugh lines around the mouth. One never knew whether DeKok’s mouth said what DeKok meant.
> “I’m all right.”
DeKok grinned.
“I can see that, I can see that. You’re in better shape than Jan Brets.”
It hit a nerve. Henkie reacted vehemently.
“That’s a rotten thing to say,” he cried out. “A stinking, rotten thing to say. Jan Brets is dead. I hadda find out from the paper.”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“Yes,” he admitted with a sigh, “Brets is dead. Somebody bashed his skull all to pieces.”
Henkie moved in his chair.
“So, what’s it to me?”
“That’s one of the things I wonder about.”
Henkie grinned without mirth.
“That’s what you came here for?”
“Yes.”
“Now yer pullin’ my leg!”
“I mean it.”
Suddenly Henkie rose from his chair and gestured wildly, like a pitchman trying to sell snake oil. There was a hint of fear in his eyes.
“But, DeKok,” he yelled desperately, “you an’ me goes way back! You know I ain’t that way… I can’t even kill no fly, let alone some guy like Brets. I might ’a done wrong, but I ain’t no murderer!” Henkie looked utterly miserable.
DeKok looked at him unemotionally.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “Did I say you committed murder?”
“Geez, you scared me,” Henkie answered, licking his dry lips. “You talk about murder as if it ain’t nothing.”
DeKok leaned slightly forward.
“Did you know Brets?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“We was both in custody in Haarlem a few years back. He usta walk with me in the yard. He was a safecracker, but he was in for armed robbery, aggravated robbery. He was a violent son of a bitch. Brets wouldn’t stop at nothing.”
“Even murder?”
Henkie nodded assent.
“Yep. He’d do it, if there was something in it for ’im. He was real anti-…anti- somethin’ or other.”
“Antisocial,” supplied DeKok without thinking. He rubbed the back of his hand over his face. Then he asked, “What did he want from you?”
“From me?”
“Yes.”
“Notta damn thing.”
“But he was here this week.”
Henkie’s eyes narrowed. He thought at top speed. Wondered whether DeKok knew or was guessing. It could be a bluff.
“Whaddya mean he was here?” he said finally.
“He came to visit, correct?”
Again Henkie flicked his tongue along his dry lips.
“Jan Brets ain’t been here.”
DeKok sighed demonstratively.
“Listen to me, Henkie,” he said pleasantly, patiently. “You know I have a weak spot for you, but if I were you, I wouldn’t count too much on that. These are the circumstances: when we found Brets in his hotel room, we also found a bag of tools. There were some pretty unique items in the bag. Only an expert could design and use those tools. Right away I figured you’d been a busy boy. We know you saw Brets, understand?”
Henkie bowed his head.
“Jesus. I mean, geez,” he said sadly. “You ain’t never gonna leave me alone.” Even Henkie knew DeKok’s opinion of strong language.
DeKok grinned.
“So, he was here?”
“Yes.”
“What for?”
Henkie stared in front of him and did not answer. There was a melancholy look on his face.
“I didn’t go back, you know,” he said after a long pause. “Maybe you think I did?” It sounded somber. “I just made some stuff for him, a few tools is all. It ain’t against the law!”
“Burglary tools?”
Henkie made a wild gesture. “Wadda ya want from me? It ain’t against the law. You could close all the hardware stores tomorrow if it were that. You can get a crowbar anywheres.”
DeKok laughed.
“So Brets just came for tools?”
“No, he wanted me in.”
“In what?”
Henkie grimaced.
“Something big. He was in a, eh, an organized group. You know, they was like them gangsters in the States, or the Limeys. They had a brain at the top who figured all the angles.”
“So?”
“Oh, yes. They coulda used me, he said.” Henkie made a nonchalant gesture. “I got experience, know-how and things.”
DeKok nodded.
“And?”
“What ‘and’?”
“Did you join?”
Henkie’s face was the picture of indignation.
“Didn’t I promise you back then?” he answered, offended to the deepest part of his so recently reformed soul. “I did promise you I’d quit, didn’t I? Anyway, I just don’t feel like it no more. I gotta good job now, regular pay.” He pointed around the room. “Just lookit, nice furniture, TV, good stuff, and all legit. I never made so much back then…if I did, I’d be too scared to spend it.”
DeKok laughed.
“So, Jan Brets talked about an organization. Did he tell you anything else, for instance, who was the leader? I assume that Brets trusted you?”
Handy Henkie nodded emphatically.
“Oh, sure he did. He trusted me. Didn’t he ask me to join up? He trusted me awright. The boss, he said, was a counter.”
“An accountant,” corrected DeKok.
“Yeah, right, an accountant. You know, one of them fat cats lookin’ after the cash for them big companies. Guy like that knows where the big loot is. The boys only had to go and pick it up.” He pursed his lips and his eyes sparkled. “It sounded real good, yessir, it did. It sounded real good.”
DeKok looked at him searchingly.
“But Jan Brets is dead,” he said callously. “So how good could it be?”
Henkie nodded a bit vaguely.
“Jan Brets is dead,” he repeated somberly. He made the sign of the cross. “God rest his soul.”
They remained silent.
“Tell me something about the timing. When was this venture supposed to take place?” asked DeKok. “I mean, had they already finished the job?”
Henkie shook his head.
“Nah, they was still planning, so to speak. They was doin’ the job soon, he said.”
“When?” asked DeKok, greedy for information. “And where?”
Again Henkie shook his head.
“He didn’t say.”
“Why not?”
“Crap, that ain’t hard to figure out. C’mon, gimme credit. I coulda did it myself. Suppose I wanted their haul? They woulda come up empty handed.”
He grinned at the thought.
DeKok rubbed his hand along his chin.
“But,” he persisted, “Jan Brets must have told you something about the job. After all, he tried to get you to join them.”
Henkie shrugged his shoulders in supreme in-
difference.
“Not how or where, if that’s what you mean. They had a name for it. A code name, you know?”
“A code name?”
Henkie nodded.
“Operation Harlequin.”
“What?”
“Operation Harlequin. Crazy name, ain’t it?”
DeKok swallowed.
9
Much to his surprise, DeKok found his commissaris waiting for him in the detective room. The man seldom interfered with his cases. Therefore, DeKok found it difficult to suppress an expression of amazement when he found his boss, and Vledder, seated in front of his desk.
“Good evening, Commissaris.”
The police chief rose from his chair.
“Good evening, DeKok. Vledder told me that you would be here at eight.” He looked at his watch. “It’s almost nine now. Anyway, since I was around, I wanted to talk to you about the Brets case. Of course, I’ve read your preliminary reports, but the summaries were a little too succinct for my liking. I would like more particulars. The press won’t leave me alone. Apparently someone got w
ind the murder was committed under, let’s say, unusual circumstances. Now speculation and wild theories are out of control. I think the concierge at the Greenland Arms may have said too much. Further, I’m curious to hear your plans in regard to Pierre Brassel. What are you going to do about him?”
“Nothing.”
The commissaris looked at him, thunderstruck.
“Nothing?”
“That’s right.”
“But, DeKok,” exclaimed the commissaris, confounded, “that man, Pierre Brassel, maintains—or maintained—regular contact with the killer. Surely that’s obvious.”
Slowly DeKok divested himself of his hat and raincoat. He did not feel like discussing the case with the commissaris. It made no sense, in fact it only complicated matters. He would much rather proceed on his own. But as a good subordinate, he had certain duties.
“It may be obvious,” he said slowly, “but as far as I know, it’s not against the law to merely know a killer.”
The commissaris sighed.
“That’s not the issue,” he said, slightly irritated. “What I mean is, through Brassel you can find the real killer. I just discussed it with Vledder, and I was disappointed you let Brassel go, just like that.” The commissaris snapped his fingers.
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“What should I have done?”
“D-done?” stuttered the commissaris. “You should have had him followed.”
DeKok grinned. Vledder watched carefully. Not even the commissaris seemed immune to that irresistible grin.
“Sir, it would have been a waste of time and personnel. Pierre Brassel isn’t psychotic, although his letter might lead one to believe otherwise. He conceived the entire plan in order to keep the actual killer out of harm’s way. Brassel voluntarily acts as a red herring. His sole aim was to draw our attention. It’s no more than a ruse. One does not have to be clairvoyant to see that.”
The commissaris swallowed.
“The last was not a nice remark, DeKok,” he
said sternly.
Embarrassed, DeKok bent his head.
“Sorry, sir,” he answered quickly. “I really didn’t mean to be sarcastic. With all due respect, it is clear that shadowing Pierre Brassel is likely to be unproductive.”
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 6