“I liked Jan a lot better than Freddy, almost from the start. He was so much more cheerful. Freddy warned me about Jan, told me to stay away from him. According to Freddy, Jan was dangerous, a brute with at least one murder under his belt.” She smiled indulgently. “But Freddy was just jealous.”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“And jealous people…” He did not complete the sentence, but asked, “Do you know if the syndicate has actually executed any operations?”
“No, I don’t think so. Everything was still in the planning stages.”
“Do you know any other participants? Have you ever heard the name Fat Anton?”
Slowly she shook her head.
“I never knew the names of the others.”
“The man from Amsterdam, do you know him?”
Again she shook her head.
“I don’t know him. Just heard his name once or twice. It was Brasser, Brassel, something like that. I don’t know exactly.”
DeKok took a deep breath.
“Listen to me, this is important: do you know of any other people who referred to Jan Brets as a clown or
a joker?”
She waved her hands vaguely.
“No. Freddy was the only one.”
DeKok remained silent for a long time. Then he picked up his hat from the floor and rose slowly to
his feet.
“Come on,” he ordered, “put on something more suitable. You’re coming with me.”
Taken aback, she looked at him.
“With you?”
DeKok gestured impatiently around.
“You certainly don’t expect me to leave you alone in the house while Freddy walks around, maybe with murder on his agenda?” He shook his head emphatically. “No, my dear girl, it would be out of the question. You’re coming to Amsterdam with me. I know of a small, friendly hotel where you can hide out for a while. It’s safer for you and better for my peace of mind.”
She voiced her objections, but finally agreed to DeKok’s request.
As she went to leave the room to pack, DeKok followed up with, “Please keep it modest,” he said with small-minded conservatism. “People already look at me strangely.”
12
“What’s your opinion of Cynthia Worden?” Vledder was still intent on processing DeKok’s report of the events in Utrecht. His brain tried to assimilate the new information and make it fit with what they already knew. The new developments, he thought, opened a number of fresh perspectives. “Can you trust her, you think?” he asked.
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“What do you mean by trust?” he asked carefully. “She seemed to me to speak the truth.”
“So Freddy Blaken really threatened Brets?”
“Oh yes, no doubt about that. I even assume there were witnesses who would testify under oath.”
Vledder spread out both arms.
“Well,” he said impatiently, “what are we waiting for?”
DeKok looked at him, cocking his head to one side.
“What do you want to do?”
“Arrest Blaken, what else?”
“On what grounds?”
“Murder.”
“Oh.”
Vledder slapped his hands flat on the desk.
“Yes,” he cried enthusiastically, “he’s the man we’re looking for. Just think: yesterday we couldn’t understand why Brets was murdered. There was no motive. Now we have motive of jealousy. We didn’t know why the corpse was placed in that strange harlequin position. Well, here’s the explanation. Freddy called Jan a clown, and he posed Jan’s dead body like a clown.” He looked seriously at his mentor. “It all fits!” he continued. “Freddy Blaken hated Brets so much he wanted to insult him, even in death. That’s why he posed him like a harlequin. You see what I mean? He made a statement: Jan Brets, the clown,
is dead.”
A strange silence fell on the room. The last words of the young inspector echoed around the bare walls. It was as if the death of Brets had become tangible. DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.
“Jan Brets,” DeKok said tonelessly, “clown unto death.” He looked encouragingly at his protégé. “Clever,” he added admiringly, “very clever. It’s a great theory. My compliments.”
Dick Vledder looked at him, suspicion in his eyes. He listened for a tone of sarcasm in DeKok’s voice. There was none. The admiration of his older colleague seemed sincere.
“But it won’t be easy,” continued DeKok, “to find Freddy Blaken. I asked Cynthia specifically, but she didn’t know where he could be. Anyway, she’s scared stiff of her former boyfriend. I had to assure her several times she would be safe in the hotel.”
“And is she?”
DeKok sighed deeply.
“It seemed the only solution. What else could I do? I could hardly give her a police escort, not with the shortage of personnel. And it just wouldn’t do to place her in protective custody. I don’t think she belongs in jail. So long as our Cynthia doesn’t show herself in the street, the hotel is the safest place for her. I know the owner. He’ll keep an eye on her. Of course she isn’t registered under her own name. She registered as Mrs. Vledder.”
Vledder looked at him, wide-eyed.
“Why Mrs. Vledder?” he asked, irritated.
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“What does it matter? I couldn’t think of anything else at the time. Anyway, you could do worse for a wife. Cynthia is quite beautiful.”
Vledder looked daggers at him.
“Beautiful or not,” he growled, “I don’t like it. From now on, use your own name for that sort of thing. If Celine discovers there’s already a Mrs. Vledder…”
DeKok laughed heartily.
“Aha,” he joked, “so, that’s the problem!”
Vledder snorted.
“There’s no problem,” he exclaimed, “but I would like to draw your attention to the elderly gentleman who has been waiting for you for more than an hour.”
“An old man?”
Vledder nodded.
“The night watchman from Bunsum. He had to be here by noon, you said. Remember?”
DeKok gripped his head with both hands.
The man looked very neat. He wore a brown corduroy suit with leather patches on the elbows. He did not look at all like a night watchman. He looked more like a bohemian, with long, wavy hair and a well-trimmed beard. His brown eyes darted restlessly around.
DeKok apologized sincerely.
“I’m very sorry,” he said, “to have kept you waiting so long. You have every right to complain about my behavior. I hate to admit it, but I’d forgotten we were expecting you. It simply slipped my mind. I’m so sorry, please excuse me.”
The old man laughed.
“To be truly repentant,” he said, “is no shame. It’s therefore remarkable how seldom it happens.”
DeKok looked closely at the old man. He detected both spirit and education in the voice. It surprised him.
“You’re a night watchman?” he asked tentatively.
The old man nodded cheerful assent.
“For Bunsum, on Drain Street.”
“How long have you been doing that?”
“About two years. Ever since my wife died.” The old man looked sadly in the distance. “It was necessary,” he continued. “I simply had to find something to do, or I would have died too. My daughter was right. ‘Papa,’ she said, ‘find something to do. You’re just pining away.’ She introduced me to the younger Bunsum.” He smiled shyly. “That’s how I became a night watchman.” He paused. “You see,” he continued, “it suits me and my daughter very well. When I come home in the morning, I fix her breakfast and call her in time to go to the office. I sleep while she’s at work. She sleeps while I’m at work. It’s an ideal arrangement. We get along just fine, my daughter and I.”
DeKok nodded.
“What was your profession before you became a night watchman?”
The old man pulled his beard while he a
nswered.
“A teacher. I taught industrial arts, mechanical drawing to be exact.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, it’s a bit different. But I had to retire, you see, at sixty-five. I’m almost seventy now, in just a few more months.”
DeKok showed his admiration.
“Well, you certainly don’t look it,” he said. “You look very fit.”
The old man beamed.
“Well, I am. I can still take care of myself.”
DeKok nodded slowly. He wondered if the old man was fit enough to fend off a thug wielding a reinforced hockey stick. He did not think so.
“You ever have any problems on the night shift?”
“Oh no. There isn’t all that much worth taking, I think. Actually, I’m less of a watchman and more of a handyman. I like to keep busy, so I fix things.”
“But the firm finds it necessary to have a guard at night?”
“Yes.”
“Do you work Sundays?”
The man nodded emphatically.
“Certainly, quite a few weekends.”
“Including this coming Sunday?”
A smile lit up the man’s face.
“No,” he said, shaking his head, “as it happens, not this coming Sunday.”
“You have a replacement?”
Again the man shook his head.
“No, no replacement. This coming Sunday there won’t be anyone on duty.”
DeKok’s eyebrows started one of those amazing dances. The old man watched in fascination.
“No guard?” questioned DeKok. “But…”
“Oh, it doesn’t matter, once in a while. Young Bunsum thought the same when I asked him. After all, it would be rather coincidental if something were to happen the one time I’m not there.”
DeKok swallowed.
“S-sir,” he stuttered, “why won’t you be there this Sunday?”
The man’s eyes sparkled.
“My daughter and I,” he said, “have both been invited to a party.”
“A party?” asked DeKok.
He nodded emphatically.
“Yes, my daughter is a secretary for Brassel & Son, CPAs. Her boss, Mr. Brassel, is throwing a party for the staff at his house next Sunday. He invited me as well.”
DeKok rubbed his face with both hands. It was an extremely weary gesture. Finally he found his voice again.
“I think,” he said tiredly, “I have enough information for the moment, Mr., eh…”
“Petersma,” supplied the man.
DeKok smiled politely.
“Mr. Petersma, thank you very much for coming to see me, and once again my sincerest apologies for having kept you waiting.”
The old man stood up and walked toward the door.
“Just one more question,” called DeKok. “When did you get the invitation to the party?”
He reflected a moment.
“Two weeks ago,” said Mr. Petersma.
With his head in his hands, both elbows resting on the desk, DeKok stared into the distance. He was dazed. His usual melancholy expression had turned desolate. He felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into quicksand. His brain worked at top speed. Restlessly it looked for a point of reference, a handhold, a starting point. Vledder took a chair and placed it across from him.
“So, Brassel’s lovely secretary, the green-eyed brunette with the irresistible dimple on her cheek, is the daughter of Bunsum’s night watchman.”
DeKok grinned.
“Exactly the same night watchman who was supposed to be knocked down by Jan Brets during Operation Harlequin. The one for whom the hockey stick
was meant.”
“But,” said Vledder with wonder, “there’s something that doesn’t compute. There would be no watchman for Brets to knock down.”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“You’re right, Dick, it doesn’t compute. The carefully prepared hockey stick was superfluous. The watchman wasn’t going to be there. He’s been invited to a party.”
Vledder swallowed, a sudden lump in his throat.
“A party at Brassel’s.”
DeKok stood up and started to pace up and down the detective room. He stopped in front of the window and looked outside.
“It’s a comedy of errors,” he said wistfully. “A farce for our amusement, if only Jan Brets had not been so thoroughly killed.”
He turned toward Vledder.
“You went to Bunsum this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you mean, nothing?”
Vledder shrugged his shoulders in a careless gesture.
“Exactly what I’m saying. Mr. Bunsum had no idea what a burglar could find worthwhile in his building. There was nothing to steal, he thought. The big money, the real money, went straight to the bank. There was only a small amount of petty cash in an old safe.”
“What about their accountant?”
“It wasn’t Brassel.”
“No?”
“No.”
DeKok’s eyebrows were getting a workout. Vledder watched, fascinated. He carefully tried to imitate the movement. As always, he failed.
“But,” said DeKok after a long pause, “Brassel’s secretary had enough influence with Bunsum & Company to make sure her father would get a job as night watchman.”
Vledder nodded.
“Easy enough, if Brassel cooperated.”
“How’s that?”
Vledder smiled a secret smile.
“They’re friends.”
“Who?” DeKok sounded impatient.
“Brassel and Bunsum. They were in grade school together.”
13
Inspector Vledder thought deeply. His youthful face was serious. His chin stuck out and a deep vertical wrinkle appeared on his forehead. Suddenly his eyes lit up. The chin withdrew and the deep crease disappeared.
“I’ve got it!” he exclaimed. “It’s as clear as day.”
DeKok, who was studying a floor plan of the Greenland Arms, looked up, a blank expression on his face.
“What’s clear?”
Vledder sat down across from him.
“Why Brassel invited the watchman to his party.”
“Oh yes, why then?”
“Easy,” smiled Vledder. “He didn’t want his secretary’s father to come to harm.”
Shaking his head, DeKok looked at Vledder.
“I’m certain,” he said, “that it’s not exactly as simple as you think. Just think for a moment about what Marie Sailmaker told us yesterday. Do you remember how she told us it had been agreed during the planning at Fat Anton’s house to do something about the night watchman? Remember how Brets was supposed to take care of that? Brassel supposedly suggested it could best be done with a hockey stick? That was about a week ago! At the time, Brassel already knew there would be no guard on duty. He had invited the guard a week earlier.”
Vledder groaned as if in pain.
“Yes,” he cried, angry with himself. “You’re right. It’s true. Petersma had been invited a week earlier, two weeks ago.” He stared out the window, chewing his lower lip. He resumed after a moment’s hesitation. “But why didn’t Brassel say anything? Why would he propose to render the watchman harmless and why would he suggest the hockey stick?”
DeKok raised both arms.
“Yes,” he said, exasperated. “Why indeed? Why was Brets killed with the prepared hockey stick?”
At that moment the phone rang. Vledder picked it up.
“No, one moment.” He handed the phone to his partner. “It’s for you,” he added.
“DeKok here.”
“I promised to call you,” said the voice at the other end of the line, “if anybody took an interest in Mrs. Vledder, the lady you brought over earlier today.”
“Yes.”
“There was a man here a little while ago.”
“And he asked for Mrs. Vledder?”
“No,
he didn’t ask for Mrs. Vledder, but he meant her. He called her something else.”
“What?”
“He called her Cynthia, Cynthia Worden.”
DeKok threw the receiver down and went over to the peg to get his coat.
“Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “let’s hit
the road.”
“Where to?” asked Vledder, surprised.
DeKok was struggling into his coat on the way to the door.
“Hotel Dupont and Freddy Blaken.”
The owner-doorman-waiter-chef of Hotel Dupont quickly dried his hands on a white apron and led the policemen to a seating arrangement in the small lobby.
“It was a good-looking young man,” he explained, “black hair, good clothes. He made a bit too much noise, maybe. You know what I mean? The guy was macho, didn’t seem to have good manners, he used some vulgarity. I’d guess his age at about twenty-five. He asked to speak to the girl who had checked in this morning. I pretended I didn’t understand him and asked him what girl he was talking about. That’s when he mentioned the name.”
“Cynthia Worden?”
“Yes.”
“What next?”
“Nothing. I told him as far as I knew, there was no Cynthia Worden staying here. I didn’t lie. Then he left.”
DeKok laughed.
“Did he leave a message or did he tell you he would be back?”
“No, he didn’t do either. I’m sure he’ll be back, though. He seemed surprised not to find her here. He asked if there were any other hotels on Martyrs Canal.”
DeKok nodded.
“Where’s the girl now?”
“Upstairs, in her room.” The hotel owner pointed with his thumb.
The inspectors stood up and walked toward the stairs. Halfway there, DeKok turned around and asked, “Did our little beauty make any telephone calls after I left?”
“No, at least not from here. I have no phones in the rooms, just this one at the desk.” The man shook his head. “I would have seen her,” he added.
“Did she leave at all?”
“Just for a minute, to get some cigarettes. Maybe a few minutes.”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully. He walked a few steps back and stopped in front of the hotel owner, hand on his chin.
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 9