Company tomorrow morning. You won’t rest anyway until you’ve spoken personally to the manager. You could inquire, tactfully, how much cash they keep on the premises. If possible, offer him a friendly hint to change accountants. We’ll see each other again, here in the office, at about noon. Please be sure you bring the watchman with you.”
“Bunsum’s night watchman?”
“Yes, I want to talk to him.”
“Why?”
DeKok was becoming visibly upset.
“Because,” he blurted out angrily, “I want to know what in blazes is going on!”
They put their coats on and walked down the long corridor to the stairs. DeKok felt his feet starting to hurt. It was a bad sign, he knew. His feet always hurt when a case did not progress satisfactorily. With some difficulty, he stumbled down the stairs. Vledder was walking in front of him. Outside, in front of the station, DeKok called him back.
“In a little while,” he remarked nonchalantly, “if you happen to have a few spare minutes before going to sleep…”
“Yes?”
“I would like you to think about an interesting question.”
Vledder looked at his mentor absentmindedly.
“Question?”
DeKok nodded.
“Yes, why was Jan Brets murdered?”
A bit lost, DeKok ambled through Utrecht. He felt like a fish out of water. He did not like to leave Amsterdam. He preferred to operate where he knew every street, every alley, and every canal. Utrecht was strange territory. All he really knew about Utrecht was that it contained the tallest cathedral in the Netherlands. He looked around. The canals, he found, did not compare favorably to the canals in Amsterdam. The bridges were too high, the windows too low. It was almost like a foreign country, he thought bitterly.
His old felt hat sat on the back of his head, his reliable raincoat rested on one arm. He ambled along, reading street signs. Feeling strangely isolated, he finally reached Servet Street. Cynthia Worden, a woman who knew Jan Brets, lived on Servet Street. DeKok had her phone number, 271228. He idly wondered what sort of a woman she was. Jan Brets called her twice from the Greenland Arms. Was he her lover?
Servet Street was a narrow passage. It crept along the shadow of the cathedral, which dominated the skyline. DeKok passed a few small shops and stopped in front of a door embellished with a red plastic sign. Cynthia Worden, he read. Underneath were the words photographic model. With his little finger he rubbed the bridge of his nose and with the other hand he rang the doorbell.
There was no response to his ring—no movement, outside or in. He looked at the clock tower. It was almost nine thirty: too early or late to call on a model? What time did beautiful people go to bed? Again he pressed the doorbell, and kept his finger on it. After a while, he placed one ear against the door and listened. He could hear the faint buzz of the doorbell from the inside. Otherwise all was silent.
Carefully DeKok looked around. People on Servet Street were busy, he noticed. Much too busy to pay a lot of attention to a middle-aged man in a ridiculous hat who had a friendly smile on his face and constantly rang someone’s doorbell.
He searched his pocket for a small tool from Handy Henkie’s instrument emporium. It consisted of a brass tube the size of a pocketknife. The tube encased a number of telescoping, adjustable steel pins and something that looked like the beards of keys. DeKok had gained a certain expertise with the innocent-looking gadget. Shielded by his raincoat, he felt for the lock. It did not take long. Within two minutes the door was open. The hinges squeaked slightly as he pushed the door open.
After he closed the front door, he stood just inside and listened for a while. There was no sound. The squeaking of the door had not elicited a response. Carefully, balancing on his toes, he walked down the hall. It was remarkable to see him float silently, moving his oversized body. From a distance it looked like telekinesis or a witch’s spell. Following pure impulse, he passed the first door but stopped in front of the second. Softly he tried the handle. It moved. With one hand on the doorknob, he suddenly sensed how Jan Brets had died. It had been a quick death. It must have happened almost immediately after he innocently entered his hotel room. He never saw death approach. His assailant waited, ready to strike with the reinforced hockey stick. DeKok grinned silently to himself. Perhaps he was now in the same predicament. He, however, was not unwary. Forewarned is forearmed, he thought. He carefully stepped back, turned the knob, and pushed the door slightly. He pushed just a little too fast. The door flew open wide and slammed against something. Every muscle in DeKok’s body tensed. The open door revealed nebulous half-light without form, without color. A sensual perfume wafted toward the open door. That was all.
Slowly his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The room he was in took on shape and dimension. He discovered a wide canopy bed in the center of the room. Gossamer curtains hung down on all sides, enclosing the bed. It was a dream, a symphony of pink spun sugar.
Hesitatingly alert, DeKok slowly stepped into the bedroom. Almost immediately he sensed the overpowering presence of a woman. The surrounding scent tingled his skin, stimulating his senses. He walked over to the unmade bed and felt the pillows. The pillows were still warm. Only moments before, somebody had warmed the bed.
The air crackled with electricity. The man or woman who had slept in the bed could not be far away. His sharp gaze roamed around the room. He did not see a hiding place anywhere.
Suddenly he stepped back and smiled.
“I would come out from under the bed,” he said pleasantly. “It must be uncomfortable. Also, it’s probably dusty.”
It took a few seconds. A female head with long blonde mussed hair emerged from underneath the bed. The head turned. The eyes stared at the flat feet of the policeman. With amusement, DeKok observed how the woman’s astonishment gradually increased.
“How did you get in, who are you?”
DeKok laughed.
“Those are two questions at once. I never answer more than one question at a time.”
She stared at him from her position on the floor.
“What are you doing here?”
DeKok did not answer directly. His mind was busy with something else. He also wondered about the strange perspective from which she was looking at him. It must be a comical sight for her.
“Why don’t you,” he proposed, “come out from under the bed. That way we can continue the conversation at a more normal level.”
She sighed audibly.
“You will have to leave a moment. I’m not dressed.”
DeKok made a decision.
“Just tell me where your clothes are. I’ll hand them to you and I’ll turn around while you put them on.”
He saw her hesitate.
“I promise,” he said with a winning smile. “Believe me, that still means something to men of my age.”
She stretched a slender arm toward a low bench in front of a dressing table.
“My robe.”
DeKok picked up the desired article of clothing and tossed it in her direction. Then he turned his back discreetly. A few seconds later she walked by him on bare feet. She was a good- looking woman, no taller than shoulder height on a man like DeKok.
“Come into the living room,” she said. Her voice was devoid of any kind of accent.
She walked down the corridor in front of him. DeKok followed complacently. Meanwhile, he admired her supple figure. Although giving the appearance of ethereal fragility, she was not skinny as models often are. On the contrary, her figure seemed pleasantly filled in all the right places.
In contrast to the bedroom, the living room was drenched in daylight. The sheer window curtains formed the only barrier between the room’s interior and the outside world. The décor was tastefully modern. Modern paintings, in bizarre color combinations, managed to impart a cheerful atmosphere.
Cynthia Worden curled up like a cat in a sort of hammock on legs and gestured DeKok toward a wide bench without armrests. She se
emed completely at ease. DeKok gazed at her searchingly, looking for signs of age or stress, but could not find any. The daylight didn’t compromise her beauty.
“How did you get in?”
“I rang,” answered DeKok.
She nodded.
“I heard that. You are, how shall I say it? You are rather tenacious.”
“When you didn’t answer, I came in. Your front door,” he lied, “was not locked.” He ignored her astonished gaze. “Perhaps I should introduce myself,” he continued. “My name is DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay. I’m a police inspector from Amsterdam. I’ve been assigned the investigation regarding the death of Jan Brets.”
He saw the shock go through her. Her alluring pose was immediately forgotten.
“You’re from Homicide?”
The corners of her mouth trembled. She stood up from her hammock and grabbed a pack of cigarettes. Changing her mind, she threw the pack down again and fiddled with a cigarette lighter. She lost her composure.
“What do you want from me?”
Her voice sounded scared.
“Just a bit of information, is all,” said DeKok. “For instance, who was the victim to you? What was your relationship?”
“Well, there was no question of an affair.”
“Tell me what to call it.”
“What?”
“Your relationship with Jan Brets.”
She sat down again in the hammock, very chaste, the robe tight around her knees.
“We were friends.”
DeKok nodded.
“All right,” he said. His tone was one of resignation. “You and Brets were friends. Excellent, we’re making progress. Therefore I can assume you would mourn his death, isn’t that right? After all, that’s common, isn’t it…among friends and acquaintances?”
She looked sharply at him, trying to gauge whether he was joking. His face showed utter sincerity.
“Well,” she said finally, “we weren’t really close.”
“Yet he called you twice, shortly before his death?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
The corners of her mouth trembled again.
“Just conversations, nothing special.”
DeKok pressed his lips together. He did not feel like conducting a long and laborious interrogation. Time was short. He had to be back in Amsterdam by noon.
“Now, you listen to me,” he said sternly. “As a rule I couldn’t care less about conversations between young men and women. I have an interest in Jan Brets. He is dead. Somebody smashed in his skull, and I want to know who and wherefore, Ms. Worden. You have some explaining to do. Oh, and I would encourage you to explain your comic behavior in hiding under the bed.”
She did not answer, but lowered her head. DeKok suddenly noticed she was crying. A few tears dropped on the hands in her lap. DeKok resisted the urge to get up and place a protective arm around her shoulder. He would have liked to do it. But he remained seated, outwardly unmoved. In a very short period he had witnessed too many—too rapid—mood swings. It made him suspicious. He waited patiently for her to dry her tears. When she looked up again he saw that she had cried real tears. He let her be, waited until she spoke of her own accord.
“I’m afraid, Inspector,” she said after a long pause. “It seems best to tell you everything. Really, I’m afraid for my life. When you opened the door of my bedroom, I thought you’d find me and kill me.”
Her voice was now calm, without emotion. She was no longer posing. Her big blue eyes were serious.
“Is that why you crawled under the bed?”
She nodded.
“I thought it was him!”
“Who?”
“Freddy Blaken.” She sighed deeply. “A former boyfriend of mine.”
“Well, what about him?”
The expression on her face changed. There was total, unadulterated fear in her beautiful blue eyes. She stretched her arms toward DeKok beseechingly.
“You must catch him!” She uttered this wildly. “You must find him as soon as possible. You must arrest him before he comes back here. He killed Jan Brets!”
11
DeKok raked his fingers through his hair. The wild accusation from Cynthia had not shocked him in the least. He knew from experience not to give her emotional statement much weight. He took all spontaneous allegations with a grain of salt. They were usually the product of suppressed emotions; he needed supporting facts, evidence, or a witness.
He looked at the young model. She sat before him, shivering in her robe, a frightened child. He suddenly recognized her face. With surprise he remembered having seen her hundreds of times, laughing cheerfully from upbeat advertisements on billboards, in the papers, in magazines. He grinned bitterly. The way he saw her now was not an example of exuberance.
“Why don’t you put on something warmer,” he encouraged. “You don’t have to be tempting, beautiful, or provocative for me. I’m just a civil servant with the soul of a petty official.” He made a sad gesture, pointing at her. “All that would be wasted on me.”
A faint smile brightened her face momentarily.
“Just a moment, then,” she said and left the room.
She returned within minutes, dressed in jeans, a thick, formless sweater, and a pair of fuzzy slippers in the shape of rabbits. She had also found time to brush her hair. It framed her face in glorious waves. She was one of those people who could dress in sackcloth and still be striking.
“So,” said DeKok when she had seated herself again, “your former boyfriend Freddy Blaken killed Jan Brets?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She pulled her head between her shoulders.
“He hated Brets. Freddy was jealous of him.”
DeKok nodded.
“The same feeling of hate, of jealousy, prompts him to seek your death?”
“Yes.”
Thoughtfully DeKok pulled on his lower lip.
“Well,” he said with a sigh, “if Freddy’s love for you was in proportion to his present hatred, he must have been very enamored.”
Her eyes locked with his. The tone of mockery in his voice had not escaped her.
“People witnessed the threats,” she said sharply. It sounded like a reproach.
“Witnesses?”
“Yes. There are plenty of people who heard Freddy say what he would do. ‘First I’ll break that clown’s skull. Then I’ll come after you,’ he said.”
DeKok sat closer to the edge of the bench. He seemed suddenly very much interested.
“Clown?”
“Yes.”
DeKok looked at her with amazement.
“He called Jan Brets a clown?” he asked.
She nodded emphatically.
“Clown, or joker. You see, Freddy couldn’t stand Jan being the life of the party…any party. After Jan managed to grab the spotlight, Freddy would curse. He didn’t like Jan, said he was a show-off.” Her tone of voice changed. “Jan was fun. He was a fun guy. That’s why I went with him.”
DeKok sighed. The eternal triangle, he thought.
“And you left Freddy for that?”
“Yes. Freddy took himself so seriously. I mean moody, gloomy. Finally I couldn’t stand it anymore.”
“When was the final break?”
She did not answer at once. She finally succumbed and lit up a cigarette. She inhaled deeply, as though she was enjoying her first cigarette after quitting.
“I’ve been avoiding Freddy the last few days,” she said through her wreath of smoke. “I just happened to meet him again recently in a bar. That was the day before yesterday. I told him it was over between us, that I was dating Jan and that he didn’t need to come back.” She sighed, crushing her cigarette after only a few puffs. “It developed into quite a row.”
DeKok nodded.
“He became furious. That’s when he said he would kill Jan and you?”
“Yes.”
“So this took place on the day so
meone murdered Jan?”
Her head barely moved in assent.
“Yes. It was the day of the murder,” she repeated tonelessly.
They remained silent. Outside, on Servet Street, they heard a car honk and a child yell something.
“His threat makes it appear,” said DeKok after a pregnant silence, “that Freddy made good on his promise, as far as Jan Brets is concerned.”
He spoke more to himself than to the young woman. He rubbed his hands over his face pensively. His thoughts built an image. He tried to relive what happened in the Greenland Arms.
“How did Freddy know,” he asked suddenly, “where to find Jan Brets?”
“How? They were in the syndicate together.” There was surprise in her voice.
DeKok’s eyebrows rippled briefly.
“What syndicate?”
“Yes, well, they were part of an organization to…” She stopped talking, then went on, “I don’t really know if I’m supposed to talk about it.”
DeKok looked at her evenly.
“Jan is dead,” he said flatly.
“You’re right,” she agreed, “it doesn’t matter anymore.” She moved a blonde lock of hair out of her eyes. She made an ordinary gesture elegant. Her blue eyes were moist.
“Someone from Amsterdam,” she whispered, “approached Jan. It was evidently a man well-placed in the business world. He asked Jan to build an organization in Utrecht, a syndicate to execute a series of burglaries.”
“But why in Utrecht?”
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I think the man said something about Utrecht being centrally located, with a hub of connections and roads, you know? After all, we are in the center of the country. Anyway, he thought it would be easier to operate from Utrecht than from Amsterdam or Rotterdam, for instance.”
“Go on.”
“Jan liked the plan and went in search of partners. He knew Freddy Blaken from before. About two weeks ago he stopped by to ask Freddy if he wanted to join.”
“And?”
“Freddy was interested and Jan became a regular visitor.”
DeKok sighed.
“With fatal consequences?”
She nodded.
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 8