They were in front of a red light, so Vledder darted a quick glance aside, his face beaming.
“Excellent, very good,” he cried enthusiastically. Neither man noticed Vledder was using one of DeKok’s stock phrases. “You have something there. Nobody has to teach you how to suck eggs, no sir. That was a clear, concise explanation, completely logical.” The light turned green. He grinned while he engaged the clutch. “Your performance at the Brassel home was also a classic, by the way. That little white lie about not finding the note shook him to his core.”
DeKok smiled at the memory.
“Yes,” he admitted, “our Pierre lost his cool for a while. In a way, I was surprised. I would have thought him a lot stronger.”
“What do you mean?”
DeKok sighed.
“I thought he was less vulnerable.”
Vledder nodded.
“What do you think? Will we be able to charge him with something, when the time comes?”
“I hope not.”
“What?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, really,” he said, his face serious. “I mean it. I hope we will never have to charge him with any specific crime. I wouldn’t like that at all. I would sincerely regret it. I found him a thoroughly sympathetic man.”
It was a good thing they were in the city, partially sheltered from the gale-force weather. Utterly shocked, Vledder almost lost control of the car.
“Brassel,” he chided, “sympathetic? We are talking about the same arrogant, supercilious citizen who consistently ridicules us? Are you cracked? If Brassel’s little game ever becomes common knowledge, you can kiss your reputation good-bye.”
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“Ach,” he responded with a wan smile, “my reputation can stand the occasional mud bath. That’s the least of my worries; it’s not important what people think.”
He rubbed his face with both hands.
“You see, I actually pitied Brassel tonight. I watched him very carefully. There was more fear than bluster. The apparently oh-so-superior Mr. Brassel is scared stiff something may have gone wrong. He’s not so sure of himself. Despite his careful preparations, even studying the relevant statutes, he’s afraid we can charge him with something. Just think about his vehement behavior when I spoke of complicity.”
Vledder nodded.
“You’re right. But I don’t think that’s reason to find him sympathetic.”
He guided the battered VW around the monument on the dam, aiming it for Warmoes Street. He stopped in front of the entrance to the station house.
The desk sergeant gave them a long-suffering look when Vledder and DeKok appeared in his line of sight.
“There you are, finally,” he called. “Where were you two?”
DeKok looked at him. His eyes questioned the speaker.
“What’s been happening?”
“I tried to reach you everywhere. Your car radio must be on the blink again, or did you turn it off? Anyway, I’ve had a guy here for the last few hours and I don’t know what to do with him.”
“What guy?”
“One Freddy Blaken. He came in to give himself up.”
DeKok assessed the young man’s appearance. Then he pointed at a chair next to his desk.
“Won’t you sit down?” he invited. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your visit?”
Freddy Blaken looked suspiciously at the gray sleuth.
“Pleasure? Ain’t I wanted?”
DeKok gave him a friendly grin.
“Let’s just chat for a while. For instance, about your friend Jan Brets and his untimely demise. You
apparently had no time for us this afternoon. You seemed rushed.”
The man nodded slowly.
“I shouldn’t have run,” he sighed. It sounded sincere. “That was dumb, real dumb. I figured it out later. That’s why I came to give myself up. I’m trying to make up for the bad impression you might have of me. I didn’t kill Jan Brets.”
DeKok grimaced, a look of utter astonishment on his face.
“But didn’t you say, in the presence of witnesses, I might add, you were going to bash in his skull?”
Freddy lowered his head and nodded.
“Yes, I did,” he admitted tonelessly, “but—”
“Here’s my problem,” interrupted DeKok,. “After you made the threat, a few hours later someone murdered Brets by splitting his skull. Don’t you think the coincidence is remarkable?”
Blaken shook his head.
“I didn’t do it,” he said simply.
DeKok ignored the remark.
“Ach,” he said, gesturing grandly, “it’s fairy tale time, is it? Well there are other coincidences. Let me enumerate.”
Blaken jumped out of his chair.
“You don’t get it,” he cried emphatically, “I didn’t do it.”
DeKok placed a surprisingly strong hand on the shoulder of the young man and gently, but irresistibly, forced him back on the chair.
“You will listen,” he said severely, “to what I have to say, Mr. Blaken. I could have had you arrested
this afternoon. And not just because you took off in such a hurry!”
The man swallowed. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“Go ahead,” he said softly. “Please,” he added as an afterthought.
DeKok rubbed his hands through his hair, as if to gather his thoughts. Vledder generally vacillated between amusement and irritation over DeKok’s theatrics.
“There were, Mr. Blaken, only a few people who knew Jan Brets was staying at the Greenland Arms. You were one of the few. You were a member of a so-called syndicate. You knew Brets was in Amsterdam to prepare the way, so to speak. Once you became furious with Brets, you knew exactly where to find him.” He made a vague gesture while he let the words sink in. Then he added, “We know you were in a murderous fury when you threatened to crush skulls. None of it bodes well for you. You threatened, you had opportunity, and you had a motive for murder.”
Blaken looked up, shocked and scared.
“Motive?”
DeKok nodded with special emphasis.
“Jealousy. You were envious of Brets because of his interest in Cynthia, which she seemed to reciprocate. Jealousy, Mr. Blaken, is a powerful motive for murder.” He paused. “And another thing, young sir, the murderer placed Brets’s corpse in a position that closely resembled a harlequin. Apparently you were the only one to call Jan Brets a clown and a joker.” DeKok pushed his lower lip forward. His tone became sarcastic. “All things considered, what do you think your chances would be in front of a judge?”
Again Blaken shook his head vigorously.
“I didn’t do it,” he exclaimed. “It’s all false, false, false.”
DeKok sighed.
“How long have you known Pierre Brassel?”
“Brassel?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t know him.”
DeKok looked at him intently. A dangerous fire sparkled in his eyes.
“You must know him.”
Blaken hid his face in his hands.
“I don’t know him. I don’t know him.” There was despair in the voice.
“Didn’t Brets introduce you?”
“No, I never met Brassel. Jan told me about him. That’s true. He was supposed to be the man behind the scenes, the organizer, the tipster.”
DeKok nodded.
“When was Operation Harlequin scheduled for execution?”
Blaken looked at him with a stupid look on his face.
“Operation Harlequin?”
“Yes.”
“Hey…I don’t know. I never heard of no Operation Harlequin.”
“Then,” cried DeKok in exasperation, “what would Brassel need you for?”
“He needed my connections in case he needed a fence. Look, I have relations, people who buy things without asking questions. Jan knew it, he used to send me his ‘excess inventory.’” In that m
oment Freddie’s expression made him look like a faithful basset hound. “If I was ever interested in other people’s business, it was long ago. People trust me not to ask questions. In my business, curiosity can be fatal, in more ways than one. See no evil…hear no evil…speak no evil.”
DeKok smiled just thinking about it.
“Nevertheless,” he tried, “Jan Brets did visit you regularly.”
Freddy displayed a sad grin.
“He didn’t come to see me. Not for business, that is. He came for Cynthia. The bastard. He knew we’d been engaged for two years, knew we planned to marry.” He paused, shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody should wish anybody dead, even an enemy. But Jan Brets deserved what he got, in fact, he asked for it. Maybe the killer did me a favor, but I don’t know who it was. It had to happen sooner or later.”
DeKok nodded. He rose from his chair and walked over to the peg in the wall and grabbed his raincoat.
“Come on,” he tossed over his shoulder, “let’s go.”
Vledder looked at him in surprise.
“What about him?” He glanced at Freddy.
DeKok nodded.
“Put on your coat and hold on to Freddy.”
They abandoned the detective room and walked down the dark old corridor to the stairs. They said good-bye to the desk sergeant on the way out. Before long they were on Damrak. Damrak connects Dam Square to Station Square, in front of Central Station. DeKok halted abruptly in the middle of the deserted street.
“Take Freddy to Hotel Dupont,” he ordered. “Tell the owner it’s all right.”
“What about you?”
DeKok gave him a tired smile.
“I’m going home. I’ll walk. I need the fresh air.”
He waved farewell and disappeared in the rain.
Vledder and Blaken stared after him.
They saw him shuffle along the other side of the street, his raincoat tight around his large body, his little felt hat tipped far forward. He looked like a drunken reject from the bar scene, refused his last drink.
He did not turn around.
16
An agitated DeKok paced up and down the large detective room. His face gave away a stormy, foul mood. It was nine o’clock and there was no coffee. The culprit was the new, very young Detective Bonmeyer. According to the duty roster, the boy was supposed to have taken care of the coffee that morning. He was too inexperienced to know an early burglary and interrogation were not his first priorities. In DeKok’s eyes, this was simply unpardonable. Nothing could be more important than the first coffee of the morning. He read poor Bonmeyer the riot act in the choicest possible terms. DeKok took the youngster to the window, pointing to the Royal Palace. Should the palace be burning, Bonmeyer’s job was to first make coffee. Regardless of what might be going on, DeKok expected his coffee to be ready.
Right in the middle of another thunderous expression of dissatisfaction, the phone rang. DeKok leapt toward it, grabbed it, and yelled into the receiver.
His tone changed almost immediately when he learned who was on the other end of the line.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brassel, what can I do for you? An appointment? Yes, of course…this morning, at ten? Most certainly. Where would you like to meet? Here? Ah, if not at the station, where do you suggest? What’s that you said? Yes, the restaurant in Amstel Station? Yes, I know where that is, no problem. Until then, good day, Mrs. Brassel.”
Gently he replaced the receiver and scratched his neck. What did the handsome Mrs. Brassel want? Why did she insist upon meeting on neutral ground? A commuter railroad station in the suburbs was not the ideal place for an assignation of any sort. He immediately rejected the possibility that she had fallen head over heels in love with him. That was simply too absurd. Even his wife, a model of indulgence, had taken years to get used to his looks. In the end, she couldn’t resist him or his friendly boxer. No, he reflected with a sigh, it would be business, just business. Anyway, they would have fresh coffee in the restaurant.
He closed his desk drawer, threw one more devastating look in the direction of the hapless Bonmeyer, pulled on his coat, and left the room, still sulking.
Downstairs he met the commissaris, entering as he was leaving. DeKok quickly pulled up the collar of his coat in a forlorn attempt to hide and tried to escape via the rear entrance. He was doomed to failure.
“DeKok!”
Slowly DeKok turned around, forced a friendly grin on his face, and approached his chief reluctantly.
“Good morning, sir.”
The commissaris lifted his hat.
“Good morning, DeKok,” he said cheerfully. “Come with me a moment, would you?”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“I, eh, I have an appointment at ten,” he protested.
The commissars looked at his watch.
“Oh,” he laughed, “plenty of time.”
He climbed the stairs with remarkable agility for a man of his advanced years. A little slower, DeKok followed him.
The commissaris threw his briefcase on a table. Still with his coat on, he sat down behind the desk and stretched an arm toward DeKok.
“Give me your report,” he said. His tone was serious. “We’ll have time to go over it together.”
DeKok swallowed.
“Report? What report?”
The commissaris frowned.
“I do believe,” he said, irritation in his voice, “we agreed. Either you or Vledder was to give me a detailed report regarding the happenings at the Greenland Arms.”
DeKok bowed his head.
“You are absolutely correct, sir,” he said with feigned deference. “We did agree. However, I do not yet have a report for you. We’ve not had time. In any event, we have no details to report. Jan Brets was knocked down with a reinforced hockey stick. That was all there was in the preliminary report Vledder wrote.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We have found little to add,” he concluded.
Angrily, the commissaris rose from his chair.
“I want a detailed report.”
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“I don’t have it.”
“Then you prepare it, at once!”
“I have an appointment.”
The commissaris was getting red in the face.
“I want,” he yelled furiously, “a detailed report today! You understand? I want a detailed report about the Brets case. From you! I don’t care how! Today!”
DeKok was already in a foul mood because of the coffee. With difficulty he suppressed a number of less suitable observations. Instead he bit his lip and sighed deeply. In an obsequious tone he asked whether the commissaris had any other orders.
Yes, the commissaris did. It seemed the management of the Greenland Arms kept phoning him to ask whether housekeeping could remove the seals from room twenty-one. It had been almost two days. They were losing money.
DeKok could not contain himself any longer.
“What a load of horse crap!” he exploded. “Less than forty-eight hours ago a man was savagely murdered in his hotel room! Now the hotel management is whining about a sealed room. My management is whining about a report. Maybe we should call Parliament into session!”
The commissaris showed an almost imperceptible smile on his face. DeKok must be really upset to use a vulgar reference to manure. It was the strongest language he had ever heard DeKok use. He had known DeKok a long time, trusted him, and was prepared to put up with his peculiarities.
“Go away, DeKok,” he said wearily.
DeKok left.
The coffee in the Amstel Station restaurant went a long way toward reconciling DeKok to his fate. He’d already had a bad day. If it progressed the way it started, he could forget it. He reflected philosophically on the life of a cop: down today, up the next. Sometimes it was a blessing not to know what was going to happen next.
He thought about the interview with his chief and the detailed report. He grinned to himself. Who solves a murder by writing a report? T
he clock was ticking and he wasn’t wasting his time. The commissaris should know better. He ordered a second cup of coffee and waited patiently for Brassel’s wife to appear. He pushed his chair back a little and looked around. He had picked a strategic position. He could see the entire room from this spot. It wasn’t busy, there were only a few people in the place. Most were men, probably salesmen from the look of the sample cases. Most of the tables were vacant.
Mrs. Brassel was reasonably prompt. It was just a few minutes past ten when she entered the restaurant. She really was an exceptionally striking woman, with platinum blonde hair. She was dressed in a black astrakhan coat. Her appearance drew immediate attention from the few people in the restaurant. It was as if a sudden breeze rustled through the place.
Calmly she looked around the room. She spotted DeKok and approached him resolutely, with firm, long strides. There was a determined set to her mouth.
DeKok admired the feline suppleness of her body and the undeniable grace with which she moved. She is like a panther, he thought, with barely hidden claws.
Gazing at her, DeKok was convinced it was she who had telephoned Brets shortly before his death. Hers was the female voice with the German accent. Did she try to warn Brets? She knew something, but what?
Slowly he stood up.
“Good morning, Mrs. Brassel.”
“Good morning, Inspector.”
He helped her take her coat off and held her chair with old-world gallantry. A sweet scent of perfume rose from her hair.
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
DeKok ordered from the approaching waiter. It was his third cup, but who was counting? Smiling, he sat down across from her. He looked intently at her, unashamed. She withstood his scrutiny with proud indifference.
“You’re an extremely handsome woman,” he said after a while. “Yes, indeed, extremely handsome.” It sounded official, no more than the establishment of fact. He continued. “Trouble seems to be the lot of beautiful women. I sometimes wonder, is it beauty that attracts trouble or does trouble attract beauty?”
She smiled.
“I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 12