Dekok and the Dead Harlequin

by A. C. Baantjer

  The girl looked at Brassel’s face and giggled. Still giggling she pinned a carnation to his lapel. Brassel just stood there, obviously embarrassed. He quickly pulled some money out of his pocket and paid. His face was sour.

  From over the girl’s shoulder, DeKok looked at him derisively. He enjoyed the moment. After the beauty and her basket had disappeared he said mockingly, “You see, Brassel, that’s how you create an alibi. You don’t need the police. I thought I’d give you a demonstration, because I don’t feel much like being invited the next time you plan a murder.”

  He shook his head and spread his arms wide.

  “But I do wonder how long you intend to keep it up. Really, seriously, Brassel, how many more murders are on the agenda?”

  Brassel faced him fully. His eyes glowed angrily.

  “What do you think I am?” His tone was indignant, offended. “I’m not an animal…not a maniac.”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders in a manner meant to be irritating.

  “How would I know? I’ve seen no psychiatric evaluation. What guarantees me you’re not an antisocial deviant bent on destruction? Perhaps you have an irresistible urge to wipe out an entire community. At first glance, though, I’ll admit you look quite normal.”

  DeKok’s laconic manner, his calm, casual, conversational tone got under Brassel’s skin. He was visibly upset. An excited blush spread over his face.

  “I’m not crazy!”

  He yelled so loud that people turned their heads and stared. Mrs. Brassel turned around. In that moment she correctly appraised her husband’s loss of self-control. She stopped and came closer.

  “What’s the matter, Pierre?” she asked, concerned. “Who says you’re crazy?”

  Brassel did not answer.

  She looked at DeKok. There was an icy, disapproving look in her eyes, not to say a hint of hatred.

  DeKok grinned.

  Just then little Ingrid, all but forgotten, suddenly cried, “Hampelmann!” The word exploded. It had the effect of a drumroll or a cannon shot. Nothing could have upset the Brassels more on this festive evening than the single word Hampelmann from the innocent mouth of little Ingrid.

  The Brassels froze in their tracks.

  DeKok watched with calm fascination. He registered what he saw, the shocked faces of the couple. Then, as if in slow motion, he felt Ingrid’s hand being pulled from his own. He watched as Mrs. Brassel took the little girl into her arms in a protective gesture. He felt the nervous tension, but did not understand it.

  Again the little girl repeated the word Hampelmann and pointed upward.

  Somewhere in the maelstrom of his memories, DeKok searched for a handhold on this reality. He often prided himself on his inability to think in a straight line. He knew he was able to jump from one subject to another. He also knew he reached conclusions based on instinct and intuition as much as on logic. He had confidence and reason, backed by an enormous amount of experience. His eyes followed the little girl’s outstretched finger.

  In a single moment of revelation, he made a critical association. Myriad bits and pieces of information fell into place. All at once he understood the how and the why of the case. He stood before a simple stall featuring wooden marionettes with tall dunce caps. The dolls were hand-painted with little red noses. The artist had painted little yellow suns with minute rays on the cheeks. Each puppet wore a costume with black-and-white diamond shapes. Small strings hung down from the dolls. When the strings were pulled, the arms and legs would move in rhythmic unison. DeKok selected the best-looking harlequin.

  He squatted down and motioned. Mrs. Brassel could not hold little Ingrid. The little girl struggled free and ran excitedly toward DeKok. Her eyes were bright

  with joy.

  A friendly grin appeared on DeKok’s face.

  “Hier mein Kind,” he said in his best German. “Hier hast du deinen Hampelmann.”

  18

  Inspector DeKok rose slowly from his squatting position. The friendly, indulgent expression on his face disappeared as soon as Ingrid had her harlequin in her arms. His usually good-natured, craggy face was hard, almost grim.

  He walked toward Brassel, his mouth compressed into a straight line, his heavy torso on a slight incline. His posture was so threatening that Brassel stepped back farther and farther.

  DeKok walked on inexorably. He was an irresistible force of nature—nothing could stop him. Pierre Brassel fled, evading DeKok, until he could go no farther. He ran backward into a group of bantering farmers. Only when he tried to escape again did DeKok grab him. He placed his large, hairy hand on Brassel’s chest and bunched the man’s shirt into his fist.

  “Who?”

  Pierre Brassel panted heavily but did not answer. His nostrils quivered and there was fear in his eyes. Nervous tics ran along his cheeks.

  “Who?”

  Brassel remained silent.

  DeKok tensed his arm and pulled him closer. Brassel’s face was right in front of his own.

  “WHO?” DeKok roared.

  The raw bellow bounced against the walls. Several nearby visitors were shocked. All interest in charity abruptly disappeared. A crowd gathered around Brassel and DeKok. Neither bingo nor the fortune-telling minister’s wife could compete with the sight of the two men. The hopeful expectation of a good fight held some onlookers spellbound.

  Upset by the unexpected and unwanted commotion, a few of the elderly ladies rushed to the scene. With the tenacity of dowagers on the rampage, they tried to separate the two men. They were doomed to fail. DeKok did not let go.

  “Who?” he roared again. “I will not stand by if I can still prevent it!” He shook the younger man so powerfully that he actually lifted him off his feet. His rage was monumental. “Damn you. You insect,” he hissed. “Speak up!”

  Brassel hung his head.

  “Too late,” he said softly. “It’s too late.”

  DeKok released him. He took his wife by the arm and left the YMCA building, his head held high.

  “I’ll never go with you again…never again. If you no longer know how to behave, I won’t be seen in public with you.”

  Mrs. DeKok was angry, shocked, and obstinate. Her bosom rose and fell with sheer indignation. Her face was red.

  “The Brassels are such a nice couple. You attacked that poor man, like…like some hoodlum! How dare you? It’s all because of the job. I know you’re a policeman, but that’s no reason to forget your manners. That was…it was immoral!”

  DeKok gripped the steering wheel of his old car a little tighter and sighed.

  “I am sorry, darling,” he apologized. “You could not know how much I regret this.” He was crestfallen. “You will come to understand. I had to try to save a life, no matter what it took. Only Pierre could have told me…” He paused. “He could have made it so much easier for everyone. Otherwise I would never have tried to force him. You believe me, don’t you? You know how I loathe the use of force.”

  She looked at him from the side and studied the expression on his face.

  “Sometimes I wonder,” she said hesitantly. “It is hard to know what to think when you work your police tricks.” She smiled suddenly. “Could we start with why we would receive or accept an invitation to a bazaar put on for and by people we do not know?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “You don’t have to understand,” he smiled in response. “I’ll explain it all to you later. For now, it’s still a bit complicated and it would take too long.”

  She sighed.

  “But it’s about a murder, isn’t it? That’s what you said this afternoon.”

  “Yes, yes,” he said, “it’s about murder, all right, or rather about two murders.”

  “Two?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Look,” he explained patiently, “while we were enjoying the rummage sale with the Brassels, a second murder was being committed. What is more, both of them knew it. They knew it was going to happen.”

  “Whe
re?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Who was being murdered?”

  DeKok shook his head sadly.

  “That I don’t know either.”

  She laughed with just a tiny hint of contempt.

  “What do you know?”

  DeKok let the car slow down slightly and searched for a stick of chewing gum. His face was worried.

  “Listen,” he said in a hopeless tone of voice, “I know enough, believe me. I know enough to bring this case to a conclusion. As of today, Pierre Brassel understands I see through him. I had hoped to compel him to reveal the name of the second victim. But he did not. He kept his mouth tightly shut. I wonder why. It seems

  so senseless.”

  His wife scooted a little closer to him and placed a familiar hand on his knee. Her anger seemed to have dissipated.

  “Perhaps,” she said sweetly, “you don’t know enough yet. It could be Pierre has some more surprises for you.”

  DeKok sighed.

  “Perhaps. But now I know the why of the first murder. And although I don’t know the name, I do know who was killed tonight.”

  Dumbfounded, DeKok’s wife stared at him.

  “But, b-but,” she stammered, “if you knew that ahead of time, how could you let it happen?”

  DeKok pressed his lips together.

  “I let nobody be murdered,” he said sharply. He was more abrupt than he had intended. “I didn’t know until it was over. I only started to understand tonight. Call it stupidity, lack of insight.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you call it, I did not see the solution in time. It’s positively shameful that a six-year-old had to point the way, give me the clue.”

  “Clue?”

  DeKok grinned, nodding his head.

  “Hampelmann.”

  DeKok lounged lazily behind his desk in the ancient, infamous police station. Reports on Jan Brets lay all over the desk. Before him were all the old documents, arrest reports, dispositions, depositions, and sentencing decrees he’d demanded. He had pored over them at home and had dragged them to the office. This time his reading went much more quickly than before. He knew exactly what he needed.

  Next he went to see Celine, Dick Vledder’s fiancée, to announce Vledder had to report to the office at once.

  The attractive Celine protested vehemently, murmuring things about slave drivers. If looks could kill, the gray sleuth would have been reduced to burning embers. Vledder reluctantly stepped into the car.

  “I just got here,” growled Vledder. “I haven’t seen her all week. So what’s up? What’s so all-fired

  important? You couldn’t let me be for one night? I have a right to…”

  DeKok waited patiently until the torrent of words had dried up. He understood his young partner, but he needed him.

  “How can we find Renard Kamperman?”

  “Who?”

  “Renard Kamperman,” repeated DeKok.

  Vledder looked at him from the side, his mouth open.

  “Who is Renard Kamperman?”

  DeKok did not answer. He focused his concentration on guiding the car onto Warmoes Street. He did not like to drive. By his own admission he was the worst driver in the Netherlands, perhaps in all of Europe. He stopped in front of the station.

  “Let us reason together,” he said seriously.

  They walked past the desk sergeant and climbed the stairs to the detective room. The file on Brets was still spread out on DeKok’s desk.

  Vledder pulled up a chair.

  “All right. You have my attention,” he said. “First tell me who Renard Kamperman is and what the good man has done to attract your attention all of a sudden.”

  DeKok rubbed his face.

  “He died,” he answered simply.

  “Died?”

  “Yes. A man named Renard Kamperman was murdered tonight. Don’t ask me how I know. It would take too long to explain.”

  Vledder bit his lower lip.

  “Do you know who did it?”

  “Come again?”

  “Who killed Kamperman?”

  DeKok grinned.

  “The same person who killed Jan Brets.”

  “What?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes, the same killer.”

  “And that would be?”

  Moodily, DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know yet! I have some suspicions, and I believe we have enough information to discover his identity.”

  Vledder nodded pensively.

  “Do you know where this Kamperman was killed?”

  DeKok shook his head, despair on his face.

  “You’re asking the same question my wife asked me an hour ago. It’s a dumb question. Of course I don’t know where he’s been murdered. That is why I had to separate you from your Celine. You see, Dick, I knew Kamperman would be murdered before I knew his name. Brassel invited me to provide him a second alibi. While we were together, I discovered the motive for Jan Brets’s murder.” He sounded irritated with himself. “I know it sounds like the raving of a lunatic, but it’s what happened.”

  Vledder sighed.

  “Well, if I understand you correctly, Kamperman could have been killed anywhere. How do you propose we figure it out?”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck.

  “There’s only one thing to do. We have to look for Kamperman. Once we find his residence we’ll have something to go on. I checked. The last known address is eight years old.”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “Eight years? He’s probably moved by now.”

  DeKok picked up the scattered pieces of the Brets file and threw them in a drawer.

  “We don’t have a choice,” he said, a determined look on his face. “We have to check that address—it isn’t much, but it’s a start.”

  19

  “What can I do for you?”

  The young woman looked shyly at the two men on the doorstep. She kept a hand on the doorknob.

  DeKok turned his hat in his hands, visibly embarrassed.

  “Renard Kamperman?”

  She looked at him suspiciously.

  “That’s my husband, yes.”

  DeKok rubbed the back of his hand along his dry lips and sighed.

  “We would like to talk with you for a moment. My name is DeKok, with, eh, a kay-oh-kay. This is my colleague Vledder. We’re inspectors with the Amsterdam police.”

  The woman brought her hands to her throat in an automatic reflex.

  “Has something happened?” she asked fearfully.

  DeKok lowered his head somewhat.

  “No,” he answered, hesitating. “That’s to say, we’re not sure. Not exactly, I mean. It’s all a bit difficult.” He looked past her into the corridor. “Perhaps we could speak better inside? It’s a bit windy out.”

  She nodded, slightly dazed.

  “Come in.”

  She opened the door wider. Everything looked clean, fresh, and pleasant. The décor was modern, no frills. A tricycle in the corridor indicated a small child and a rack with drying diapers told of a baby.

  “We did have a little trouble finding you,” said DeKok pleasantly. “Happily one of your former neighbors remembered your husband. He said Mr. Kamperman had taken a job with a large firm in Gouda. That’s all she knew, but it proved to be enough.”

  She offered the policemen a seat on a sofa.

  “I don’t know where my husband used to live.” She sounded irked. “I have no desire to know. We’ve been married four years. Renard is a good father.” She looked at DeKok as if he was an enemy. “To me, it’s everything. Nothing else matters.”

  Apparently she wanted to blot out her husband’s past. She was in denial, or suffering from selective memory. DeKok was certain, however, she was very well informed.

  “Where’s your husband?”

  She did not answer.

  “Where’s your husband
?” repeated DeKok, more insistent.

  She looked at him as if trying to read his thoughts.

  “Don’t you know?” she asked dubiously, suspicion in her voice.

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, Mrs. Kamperman,” he said affably, “we do not know where he is, positively not. Please know we’re not here to cause any problems. We’re here as friends. As far as we know, your husband has done nothing illegal.” He paused and sighed deeply. “Mrs. Kamperman,” the tone of voice had changed, had a sad undertone, “we fear for your husband’s safety. I believe your husband has been enticed to a specific place.”

  She blinked her eyes while she stared at him. Slowly she sank into an easy chair. She remained seated with her hands in her lap.

  “Enticed?” she asked hoarsely.

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “Yes,” he said softly. “Enticed. I don’t know how else to say it. I don’t know how. Perhaps it was by letter. Perhaps someone approached him.” He leaned toward her to better see her reaction. Then he asked, “Does the name Brassel mean anything to you?”

  He saw the shock, and a wave of pity overcame him. She recognized Brassel’s name. No doubt she had heard it. DeKok knew what it meant.

  “Has Brassel been here, or did he write?”

  She looked at him wildly.

  “What’s happened?” she cried, anxiety in her voice. “What do you want from me? What do you want with my husband? You said so yourself, he hasn’t done

  a thing.”

  DeKok bit his lower lip.

  “Mrs. Kamperman,” he said soothingly, “please tell me, where was your husband supposed to be tonight at eight o’clock?”

  She did not answer, but pressed her lips together defiantly. DeKok sighed, but his expression remained friendly, indulgent, understanding.

  “My dear Mrs. Kamperman,” he said earnestly, “please believe me. In your own best interest, tell me where I can find your husband.”

  She shook her head.

  “No.” Her voice was determined and stubborn. “I won’t tell you anything. I promised not to talk about it.”