“Corpulence,” he declared.
DeKok grinned.
“That’s nice.”
Brassel stretched his long legs and leaned comfortably back in his chair. He placed the tips of his fingers against each other.
“The John Bull type doesn’t happen in our family,” he continued. “I can indulge myself with my wife’s culinary offerings and it will have no effect on me.”
Vledder changed position in his chair. The meaningless chatter irritated him in great measure. He preferred to get to the point. His impatient temperament did not like beating around the bush.
“Have you wondered at all,” he asked, “why we’re here?”
Pierre Brassel absentmindedly looked at the inspector, as if annoyed by the interruption.
“Excuse me?”
A blush appeared on Vledder’s face. The unspoken rebuke irritated him even more. He pulled himself forward to the edge of the chair.
“Do you know why we’re here?” he repeated.
Pierre Brassel nodded calmly, unperturbed.
“It seems rather obvious,” he punctuated this remark with a sigh. “You have a problem with the rather sudden death of Jan Brets in the Greenland Arms. I refer to a professional problem, of course. It isn’t difficult to imagine you’re very upset about it. It seems your investigations in the case have been rather fruitless up to the present. You have no starting point, too few connecting links, and so on. Because of my little letter and, of course, my visit to the police station, you believe I can name the murderer.” His tone of voice was strictly businesslike, as if he were discussing the implications of a profit-and-loss statement. “Isn’t that right?” he asked in conclusion.
Vledder caught his breath.
“Right, that’s it,” he uttered. “That’s exactly it.”
DeKok enjoyed himself silently. He smiled behind his hand. The face of an astonished Vledder was positively comical to watch.
Mrs. Brassel entered and served coffee. She had also changed. She now wore a simple gown of black material that contrasted alluringly with her clear ivory-colored skin. She also served a slice of homemade cake, which elicited a compliment from DeKok.
“Wonderful,” he cried out, enchanted. “Extremely fine.
I’ve never tasted anything like it. My wife should have this recipe.”
She gave him a sweet smile.
“I’ll get it to her,” she almost whispered, “before the week is out.”
The secretive tone made DeKok look up in surprise. His eyebrows rippled briefly.
“Before the week is out?” he asked.
Pierre Brassel hastily intervened.
“It’s a matter of tradition,” he said, a little too loudly and emphatically. “My wife is from a very old German family. The special recipes in the family have been handed down from mother to daughter.”
DeKok nodded his admiration.
“A fine tradition,” he said, “worth maintaining.”
Mrs. Brassel smiled dejectedly.
“There are other traditions in our family—” She stopped suddenly. There was a warning in her husband’s eyes. A warning that did not escape DeKok. He looked at her with new interest.
“What sort of traditions, Mrs. Brassel?”
She glanced at her husband and sighed.
“I was referring to less-innocent traditions.”
Brassel laughed, but his eyes contained no humor.
“I’m sure my wife refers to a few common traditions, farmers’ traditions, at least from the Middle Ages. Isn’t that so, Liselotte?”
She lowered her head and nodded.
Brassel immediately turned the conversation in a different direction. In some way he was afraid of what his wife might say. Whenever she spoke, he watched her anxiously, followed every word with singular intensity. It was obvious he preferred to keep the initiative himself. He turned toward DeKok.
“You have,” he asked, “found no mistakes on the part of the murderer during your investigations?” His tone was politely interested.
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“That’s difficult to answer,” he replied thoughtfully. “I’m sure there were mistakes in the murder of Jan Brets. I don’t believe in the perfect crime. However, I must admit we haven’t discovered any mistakes yet.”
Brassel beamed, obviously pleased with himself.
“But that doesn’t mean a thing,” added Vledder hastily. “Just because we haven’t found any mistakes doesn’t mean that no mistakes were made.”
The accountant shook his head and laughed. It was an insulting, contemptuous laugh. Again he stretched his long, thin fingers and placed the tips against each other.
“You two,” he said with a condescending arrogance, “have a strange way of reasoning. Every form of logic is missing from your statements.” He gestured vaguely. “Mistakes,” he explained further, “are only mistakes if they are discovered. They simply do not exist before that. They are born at the moment of discovery. Undiscovered mistakes have no reality.” He paused and grinned. “I hope the gentlemen follow me?” he asked gratuitously.
DeKok pressed his lips together. Brassel’s supercilious manner was getting on his nerves.
“For my part,” he said grimly, “there is but one reality: the murder of Jan Brets.” He stretched an arm in the general direction of the complacent accountant. “Speaking of logic, perhaps you could explain something to me. Why would an intelligent man, a respectable citizen with a charming wife and two young children, be so willing to gamble with twenty years of his life?”
Brassel snorted.
“What are you talking about? Twenty years?”
DeKok gave him a penetrating look.
“The penalty for murder,” he said curtly.
Brassel reacted vehemently.
“Twenty years for murder? In Holland?” He laughed insultingly. “Ridiculous, and you know it! No judge in the country will hand down a sentence of twenty years, even for the murder of a whole village.” He paused and took a deep breath. Calmer, he continued, “In any event, I haven’t committed any murder.”
DeKok grinned broadly.
“Ah, but there’s such a thing as complicity. You could be judged an accomplice before, during, or after the fact.”
Brassel stood up abruptly.
“Accomplice? Accomplice?” He took a few long steps toward the bookcase. His normally pale face was red with emotion. “Here!” he exclaimed, pointing at a row of neatly bound books with gold letters on the spines. “Here, I have the complete criminal code and all relevant jurisprudence for the last one hundred years. I have carefully worked my way through it. I promise you, I know it word for word. I’ve taken advice from the best legal minds in the country.” He stretched a finger in DeKok’s direction. “If you can prove my complicity in regard to the murder of Jan Brets, you’re a lot smarter than all the lawyers, prosecutors, and judges of this century.”
Unimpressed, DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m not a judge, a prosecutor, or a lawyer,” he remarked mildly. “I’m just a simple cop. I don’t have to prove your complicity. If I only have a simple suspicion, I’ve enough to arrest you.” He grimaced. “Of course, the justification for such an arrest is a matter for later discussion.”
Pierre Brassel was getting visibly upset.
“I know the limits of your authority,” Brassel said in a shrill voice. “You cannot arrest me! You can do nothing against me. You haven’t the right.” Goaded by DeKok’s mocking smile, he went on, “You accuse me of being a murderer and you speak of justice?” He shook his head in disgust.
“Mr. Brassel,” DeKok spoke slowly and with a threatening undertone to his voice. “You would do well to remember one thing. You’re able to play this amusing little murder game with me because you rely on my honesty and my trustworthiness as a guardian of the law. I must say, it’s especially flattering. Yes, indeed, my goodwill stands between you and incarceration.”
Brassel
looked at DeKok with suspicion.
“I don’t understand,” he said softly. “Your honesty…my freedom?”
DeKok nodded emphatically.
“If you had read the law correctly, you would have known you were obligated to warn Jan Brets, one way or the other, that he was about to be murdered.”
Brassel smiled a superior smile.
“But I have done so,” he said, self-assured. “I wrote him a note. You probably found it under the corpse.”
DeKok looked at him with feigned surprise.
“A note?”
“Yes. I wrote a warning note.”
DeKok’s face showed only dismay.
“I found no note,” he lied. “None of us has seen a note like that.”
Brassel looked at him, disbelief in his eyes.
“But you must have.”
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “There was no note. I fear this so-called note exists only in your imagination. Therefore we have no choice but to conclude you failed to warn Brets when you knew his life was in danger. You leave me no choice. You committed a criminal offense.”
For the first time, Brassel lost his temper. He stood in front of DeKok and looked down at him. His hands shook. Bright red spots bloomed on his cheeks.
“You did find it,” he screamed. “You must have found it,” he repeated with special emphasis. He spoke slowly, like a teacher in front of particularly stupid students. His voice thundered through the room. DeKok remained seated, unmoved. He thoughtfully rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger and looked up at the man in front of his chair.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Brassel?” he asked, sarcasm dripping from his voice. “Aren’t you feeling well?”
Pierre Brassel gestured wildly, waving his arms.
“That’s low,” he spat angrily. “It is a false, mean, underhanded lie. You have the note. Of course you have the note. You found it under the Brets’s body. I wrote it and Fre—” He stopped suddenly, swallowed the last word as a horrified look appeared on his face.
The red spots of anger disappeared. All color drained from the man’s face. He looked pale as a ghost. Mrs. Brassel, too, was thoroughly shocked. But she recovered faster than her husband.
“I believe I understand, Mr. DeKok,” she said softly. “You’re just trying to scare my husband, aren’t you? You did find the note of which he speaks?” She spoke in a sweet tone, as if beseeching him. “You just want to let him know that you could have said the police found no note and my husband gave no warning.” She sighed deeply. “You meant you could say that if you were a dishonest person.”
The door opened at that moment and a darling little girl of about six entered hesitantly. She wore light blue pajamas. Long ringlets of blonde hair spiraled from her head to her shoulders. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes with tiny fists.
“Ich kann nicht schlafen,” she said softly, whining in German. “Soviel Schall.”
Mrs. Brassel sprang up, went to the child, and led her out of the room with softly soothing words.
This brief interruption gave Brassel the opportunity to regain his composure. He sat down again and the color slowly came back to his face. He rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand.
“The poor child must have been wakened by the noise,” he said with a sigh. “But then, you did give me a scare.”
DeKok ignored the remark.
“Your daughter?” he asked.
Brassel shook his head.
“No,” he answered, “little Ingrid isn’t my daughter. She’s my niece, the youngest daughter of my wife’s brother. She’s just staying with us for a visit. She’s a rather nervous child. Very sensitive to surroundings, people around her.” He gave a tired smile. “My own children are different, less vulnerable. They sleep through anything, even an earthquake.”
Mrs. Brassel returned after a few minutes. She held an index finger in front of her lips, a recognizable gesture in any country.
“Ingrid’s asleep again,” she said. “Please, let’s be less noisy. The child is such a light sleeper.”
She turned toward DeKok.
“The problem of the missing warning note has meanwhile been resolved, I hope?”
DeKok nodded.
“Indeed, I did find it,” he answered with a smile. “It was underneath the corpse, as your husband guessed.”
She breathed a sigh of relief.
“In that case, would you like another cup of coffee?”
Vledder and DeKok nodded in unison.
“What about you, Pierre?”
Brassel looked up, momentarily lost in thought.
“What?”
“Coffee?”
“Coffee? Yes, yes, all right.”
DeKok grinned.
“Absentminded, Mr. Brassel? Where were your thoughts? On a pitch?”
Brassel looked at him, incomprehension on his face.
“Pitch?”
“Yes, the pitch, the field. After all, it isn’t all that long ago you were the captain of your university’s field hockey team, was it?” DeKok scratched his ear with an embarrassed gesture. “You were especially recognized for your hit work, your stick technique, I believe.” He grinned his irresistible schoolboy grin. “Or do I have the terms wrong? I know little about field hockey.”
15
Vledder guided their trusty old VW Beetle back to Amsterdam, keeping his speed at under forty miles per hour. They drove along the Amstel River; the dam on the Amstel was the origin of the name Amsterdam. The river was wide, much wider than normal. Water splashed up on the road. A sharp, howling wind created whitecaps on the dark water. It was somehow sinister. More so, reflected Vledder, when one realized the surface of the river was several feet below sea level. On a night like this, only the dikes, the sand dunes, and the ubiquitous windmills stood between Holland and impending disaster. Dark clouds chased one another along the sky, blotting out the moonlight. Silhouetted against the dark sky, a lone farmhouse took on a ghostly appearance.
DeKok paid no attention to his surroundings. He did not see the clouds or the rain. Windmills all over the country were turning madly under reefed sails, keeping water tables at manageable levels. DeKok remained completely detached. He did not care whether Vledder had trouble distinguishing between roadway and river surface. He sat low in the passenger seat, almost on his shoulder blades, his hat deep over his eyes. He yawned with obvious pleasure.
“I’m sleepy,” he allowed between two huge yawns. “Let’s stop a moment at the station, just in case. Then we’ll go home.”
Vledder nodded slowly, his eyes glued to the road. The beam of one headlight on the VW wasn’t straight and gave him less visibility than he would have liked. On the other hand, it did allow him to keep a weary eye on the wild water of the river. As they approached the city, the driving became a little less stressful.
“I have a feeling,” said Vledder, “there’s another murder in the offing.”
DeKok groaned from underneath his hat.
“One murder is enough for now, thank you very much. Just try to control your feelings.”
Vledder laughed.
“Was Pierre Brassel really a hockey player?”
“Yep, a good one too, so I’ve been told.”
“And the stick, I mean the hockey stick that killed Brets, was that one from Brassel’s personal collection?”
DeKok nodded, but Vledder did not allow his eyes to stray from the road. DeKok said, “Yes, it belonged to Brassel. The lab found traces of the initials PB in the wood. Apparently it was done years ago, with a pencil. It had worn down, of course, but it was still detectable with the right instruments. No results on the tape or the lead, yet. I understand there’s little to go on. Perhaps they can find out where it came from, but to tell you the truth, it seems not to be very important.”
Vledder sighed deeply, stretching to relieve his cramped muscles.
“I don’t understand it at all.”
He was piqued, sounding almost like a spoiled child. “We’ve nothing but why—why this, why that,” he continued. “One thing’s for sure: Brassel’s playing with fire. Were it not for a cast-iron alibi, he would have been locked up long ago. He could very likely have been convicted of the murder of Brets. Just think of all the evidence we could have presented.” He smiled bitterly. “But all that evidence is for naught. We were with him when the murder was committed. We can hardly move the time of death to suit the prosecution.”
DeKok laughed and pushed his little hat back on his head. He raised himself in the seat with difficulty.
“Here’s the thing, Dick,” said the gray sleuth, looking for words, “the ridiculous letter he wrote, the one asking for an appointment, had only one purpose. It was to provide him with an airtight alibi for a murder he knew was going to be committed. He helped plan a killing, of that I’m convinced.” He turned in his seat, faced Vledder. “You see, my boy,” he continued, “it’s especially the last part I don’t understand. It bothers me the most.”
“How’s that?”
“Well you see…” He stopped, raised a finger in front of his eyes, and stared at it, as if he had never seen it before. “Brassel apparently participated in the preparations voluntarily! Certainly he had no objections. He didn’t try to stop the killer, no, he extended a helping hand.” Again he paused. “Why does one commit murder, particularly a carefully premeditated murder? Why help the murderer prepare to kill the victim?” DeKok found a use for the finger in front of his face, he added the rest of his fingers and counted on his outspread hand “Greed, vengeance, jealousy, fear, blackmail.”
He lowered his hand, glanced disinterestedly out the window, and shook his head.
“As far as I can determine,” he continued his soliloquy, “none of those motives would have driven Brassel. Think about it. Brets was a crook, but a broke crook. He was still living with his mother. We saw for ourselves it was anything but luxurious. Nothing is known about any Brets/Brassel contact in the past. They didn’t know each other before Brassel sought out Brets for the alleged break-in at Bunsum. Somehow we must see all this as related to the act of preparing for murder. The real motive is not connected to any of it. It has to do with something that happened before.”
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 11