Dekok and the Dead Harlequin

by A. C. Baantjer

  DeKok swallowed.

  “Mrs. Kamperman,” he said. There was a dramatic, almost theatrical quality to his voice. “Upstairs are two children, your children. They’re asleep. I do sincerely hope they keep their father, but I’m afraid it’s already too late.”

  It was as if a sudden understanding came over her. DeKok’s words had touched her. Her eyes widened, her chest rose and fell rapidly.

  “What’s going on?” she wailed. “What’s happened to my Renard?”

  DeKok rubbed his tired eyes with a weary hand.

  “I really don’t know,” he admitted, bone tired. “However I suspect something serious may have happened.”

  He stood up and placed a comforting hand on the young woman’s shoulder.

  “Please try to cooperate with us. Tell us honestly where your husband went tonight. Perhaps we won’t be too late.”

  She lowered her head.

  “He went to Amsterdam.”

  “Where?”

  “The Greenland Arms, a hotel.”

  “The Greenland Arms?”

  “Yes, he was to meet somebody there.”

  Renard Kamperman was supine, with arms and legs stretched out wide. He had the same peculiar appearance of a wooden harlequin. The image of the harlequin was striking. The waxen face of Renard Kamperman was frozen in a grin. He grimaced, as had Jan Brets.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” exclaimed the concierge of the Greenland Arms. “Well, I mean, only the guy is different.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “The guy is different,” he repeated pensively, “only the victim has changed.” He paused. “You should never swear, certainly not against yourself,” he added gently.

  He looked at Vledder, who was busy taking notes and measurements. DeKok had the sense of time standing still. He felt the world had stopped rotating on its axis, the sun had stopped rising and setting. It was surreal.

  DeKok’s expression was one of deep discouragement. Hands in his pockets, he looked around, searching for differences. He found none. Everything was exactly the same. Except for the victim.

  He walked out of the room and counted the number of paces to the elevator. There were thirty paces, back and forth. When he was again in front of the door, he realized there should have been at least one more difference. He looked up. The number twenty-one was painted on the door.

  Wildly, he took the concierge by an arm.

  “Why,” he cried furiously, “did you rent this room? Who had the unmitigated gall to break the seals?”

  The concierge looked at him, astonishment on

  his face.

  “But we were told we could.”

  “By whom?”

  The concierge swallowed.

  “Your…your own chief, your commissaris.”

  “What?”

  “Yes, sir, our director called your commissaris several times to ask if the seals could be removed.”

  DeKok stared at him.

  “Your director called personally?” His eyes narrowed.

  The concierge nodded vehemently.

  “Yes, yes. I was there myself. The director’s calls, several of them, were all to the commissaris at Warmoes Street. The first time was shortly after you placed the seals. His request was denied. He cursed a blue streak.”

  “And?”

  “During the following days he called regularly. Apparently he finally got permission yesterday afternoon…permission to break the seals, I mean. The word came right away, instructing us to remove the seals and ready the room for occupancy.” He made a helpless gesture. “So, of course, we immediately obeyed the director’s orders.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes, of course, I understand.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger. “I don’t think,” he began thoughtfully, “I met your director the last time, did I?”

  The concierge shook his head.

  “No, the director didn’t come down until after you and your colleague had left. He lives upstairs, in the penthouse suite, you see. Since his illness, he doesn’t concern himself with the actual running of the business as much. It’s usually left in the hands of the department heads and the assistant manager. But somebody probably told him what happened.”

  “Who?”

  “Not me.”

  “Who, then?”

  The concierge shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Could have been anybody, even a bellhop or a chambermaid.”

  DeKok sighed.

  “How did he react? Was he upset about his hotel getting such notoriety?”

  Slowly the concierge shook his head.

  “He didn’t say anything about it. After he found out he just asked me what had happened. I told him as much as I knew, also about the sealing of the room.”

  DeKok nodded slowly to himself.

  “The list you gave me last time, I mean the list of personnel. Wasn’t the name of the director on that list?”

  The concierge grinned.

  “No,” he said indignantly, “he’s the director, of course he wasn’t on it.”

  DeKok hid his face in his hands and groaned.

  20

  Inspector DeKok continued to search around. Room twenty-one of the Greenland Arms looked normal once more. The nervous activity of the police had ceased and Renard Kamperman’s corpse had been removed. Only a small bloodstain was still visible, the only remaining evidence of a crime.

  “Are you finished?”

  Vledder looked at the room one more time and nodded.

  “I think so,” he said with hesitation. “I don’t think I missed anything.” He took his notebook and read through his notes. “Yes,” he concluded, “I’ve done everything I can.”

  DeKok nodded approvingly.

  “Excellent, very good. Then you’d better go.”

  Vledder pointed at the door.

  “What about the seals?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders with a tired gesture.

  “Ach, no.” His voice was lethargic. “Leave it. It makes no difference, not anymore. We know everything. Anyway, there won’t be any more murders, not here. This was the last vengeance of the harlequin.”

  Vledder looked at him with confusion.

  “You seem convinced.”

  DeKok nodded, his face haggard.

  “Yes, I am,” he sighed. “Convinced and very sad.” He gave Vledder a wan smile. “Come on, Dick, it’ll be so late otherwise.” He looked at his watch. “You can be in Gouda in no time. Be careful, don’t speed. Please try to tell Mrs. Kamperman as gently as possible. She was already extremely upset. She needs to be told very gently. Try to comfort her as best you can. Locate relatives. By all means, she needs to know as soon as possible.”

  Vledder smiled uncomfortably.

  “I’d much rather you came with me. You’re so much better in these situations. I never know how to handle someone else’s sorrow. I usually get so upset myself.”

  DeKok slapped him lightly on the shoulder in a fatherly, comforting way.

  “That doesn’t matter, Dick,” he said. “Nothing against that. Sorrow is universal.”

  Vledder sighed.

  “You’re really not coming along?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I’m staying here.”

  “In the hotel?”

  “For the time being. I promised myself an interview with the hotel director.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Well, all right, then,” he said, a melancholy look on his face. “I’m off then. I can just picture what’ll be waiting for me in Gouda, a crying woman and terrified kids. I hope she has family nearby, otherwise I may have to wake the neighbors.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Do the best you can,” he said simply.

  A gruff expression on his face, his old felt hat far back on his head, DeKok stood in front of the concierge’s desk. He rapped on the wood with a flat hand.

  Startled, the concierge looked up.

&nb
sp; “Oh,” he stammered, confused, “I didn’t know you were still on the premises. I thought you’d left at the same time as your colleague.”

  DeKok grinned maliciously.

  “No, my friend,” he said threateningly, “I’m still here. I stayed behind, stayed to have a nice little chat with your director.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” answered DeKok. “Now will you be so kind as to announce me?”

  The concierge sighed deeply.

  “Mr. Gosler,” he hesitated, “is ill. Very ill, I must say. For months now, he hasn’t received anyone in his suite. This is most certainly not a good time. It’s well past midnight.”

  DeKok forced his lips into a broad smile.

  “I know what time it is, my friend,” he remarked with syrupy sarcasm, “you don’t have to tell me.” He shook his gray head. “I didn’t ask you the time, now did I? No, I just asked you to announce me to your director. That’s all.”

  The concierge pulled his head between his shoulders.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, avoiding the issue, “I…”

  That is as far as he progressed.

  DeKok leaned over the desk. In a casual, irresistible manner, he grabbed the man by the neck. He pulled him from behind his desk.

  “Come, friend,” he hissed, “show me the way.”

  The concierge struggled in DeKok’s grip.

  “If you’ll permit me,” he squeaked, “I’ll call ahead. That would be better, I think.”

  DeKok released him.

  “Excellent, a good idea. Call him first. But be sure to let him know that I insist on speaking with him.”

  DeKok raised a cautioning finger.

  “And, just in case mister director has some exalted but mistaken idea of his own importance, you will enlighten him. It would be a serious error were either of you to keep me out here, cooling my heels. Regardless of any law to the contrary, I will personally break down his door.”

  The concierge studied DeKok’s determined face and swallowed nervously.

  “Really,” he exclaimed, impressed and scared, “I really believe you’d do it.”

  DeKok grimaced.

  “You can bet your life.”

  “I shall seriously complain about you. You can depend on that. The commissaris at Warmoes Street is a personal friend of mine. He wouldn’t approve of you bothering a seriously ill person in the middle of the night. You’re acting outside the law. You overstep your authority, yes, you’re far exceeding your authority.”

  DeKok nodded toward the man seated across from him. He gave him a pitying smile. The director’s stern look melted into weariness. He’d tried his best to be as menacing as his speech. His behavior was a sad demonstration of physical deterioration. He rested his head against the high back of the chair and wheezed.

  DeKok looked at him, outwardly unmoved. The inspector searched the face intently, looking for a family resemblance. The genes were undeniably there. The man had blonde hair and blue eyes. Long, thin hands deformed by arthritis emerged from the sleeves of an oversized robe. DeKok judged the man to be about fifty years of age, but realized immediately it was a hunch. The face was wan, marked by a stealthy disease that had left indelible signs of its progress. Fredrich Gosler looked at least fifteen years older than his true age.

  “It’s strange,” sighed DeKok, “singular, really. Every-body connected to this case knows exactly how to tell me the limits of my authority. The same people keep saying a great deal about justice.” He shook his head in displeasure. “You see, the latter bothers me to no end. We know from history that peace is the main topic of conversation just before a war.”

  Gosler leaned forward.

  “I don’t understand you,” he said softly.

  DeKok grinned his irresistible grin.

  “I do believe your intelligent brother-in-law would have understood me, Mr. Gosler. What I mean is most wars are waged in the name of peace. A great deal of injustice is practiced in the name of justice.”

  For a long time Gosler looked at him thoughtfully.

  “You,” he faltered, “you know why those two had to die?”

  DeKok did not answer at once. He rubbed the corners of his eyes with thumb and index finger. It was a tired gesture. A sudden lethargy overcame him. It was as if the tension under which he had worked for the last few days had suddenly snapped as the adrenalin flow had stopped. He could not take pleasure in reaching his goal. On the contrary, it made him feel extremely depressed.

  “Yes,” he answered after a long pause. “I know why you orchestrated the murders.”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “Well, what do you think of the motive?”

  DeKok swallowed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head, “no matter how you slice it, I cannot admire you.”

  Gosler’s face fell. His fingers cramped around the armrests of the chair. The knuckles showed up white. Slowly he pushed himself into a standing position.

  With his arms tightly pressed against his body, almost as if he were on parade, he stood in front of DeKok.

  “Then, Inspector,” he spoke formally, “you must arrest me at once.”

  DeKok looked up. He gazed at the scarecrow figure. Gosler’s robe hung around him in large folds. His dull eyes sank into their sockets, his prominent cheekbones added to the appearance of a death mask. DeKok shook his head.

  “No,” he answered slowly, “I don’t think I will.”

  Gosler looked at him with surprise.

  “But you must arrest me!” he cried out. “I insist. It’s your duty.”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders in a careless gesture.

  “Ach, Mr. Gosler,” he said moodily, “please sit down. You’re much too ill to stand for long. In addition, you cannot order me to do anything. As far as my duty is concerned, I will determine what that is.”

  The hotel director hesitated an instant longer. Then he lowered himself shakily back into his chair. His sallow complexion turned gray. DeKok realized how much effort it must have taken the man to handle the heavy hockey stick with such deadly force. Gosler seemed to read his mind.

  “I’m losing ground rapidly, especially these last few days.” He sounded hopeless. “I’m glad I was able to complete my task. I was afraid I would not be able to do so.”

  He paused and sighed.

  “I must insist you place me into custody, so the world will know what I have done and why.”

  DeKok looked at him sharply.

  “No, Mr. Gosler,” he said, shaking his head. “It is knowledge the world must never know. If your story becomes common knowledge, too many people may rationalize your actions. Perhaps there will be a few in similar circumstances. That is, people unable to be touched by human justice due to illness or im-

  pending death.”

  An ugly grin appeared on Gosler’s small mouth.

  “If you don’t arrest me, I call the commissaris. If he doesn’t respond, there’s always the press.”

  DeKok nodded morosely.

  “I take it,” he said, “that my commissaris is not yet informed?”

  “Not yet.”

  DeKok stared a long time at nothing at all. There was a resigned, sphinxlike look on his face. After a few minutes he stood up. He took the ivory-colored phone from a side table and placed it in the lap of the astonished Gosler. Then he sat down again and gave the sick man a friendly, challenging nod.

  “You know the number of my chief?”

  Confused, Gosler nodded.

  “Excellent,” said DeKok, “then you may call him

  now.”

  Gosler looked at him suspiciously.

  “Now?”

  DeKok gestured.

  “But of course. Why not? As you are talking to the commissaris and/or informing the press, I will be headed directly to Oldwater. There I will take your sister and your brother-in-law into custody. Please note, regardless of the children.”

  He paused.
/>
  “And please, Mr. Gosler,” he continued, “do not think for one single moment they will get off scot-free. Laws, rules, and norms will only guarantee a free society as long as everybody lives accordingly. You see, Mr. Gosler, if necessary, I will perjure myself. If once is not enough, I will perjure myself again and again. Please disabuse yourself of any ideas about my trustworthiness, my honesty. If I have to, I can be just like you—a man without any scruples.”

  Gosler’s eyes narrowed.

  “Is that a threat?”

  “You can take it any way you want. Just be certain of one thing: if you confess as the perpetrator or make public your deeds in any way, your sister and your brother-in-law will go to jail as accessories before, during, and after the fact.”

  Gosler studied his face for a long time, gauging the seriousness of the threat.

  “Yes,” he concluded finally, “you would.”

  Grinning, DeKok picked up the telephone from Gosler’s lap and replaced it out of reach.

  “Come,” he said in a friendly tone of voice, “let us speak about justice.”

  Gosler gave him a tired nod.

  21

  Furious, the commissaris clawed for the phone. The report regarding the most recent murder was in front of him. It was an extremely short report, no more than half a page. It contained the information that the corpse of a man had been found in room twenty-one of the Greenland Arms. The man was identified as Renard Kamperman, age twenty-six, and the circumstances at the crime scene showed a marked similarity to those of the Jan Johannes Brets murder. That was the sum total of the content. That was all. The commissaris was extremely displeased. He banged his fist on the desk and yelled loudly into the telephone.

  “Have DeKok report to me!”

  Inspector Corstant, who happened to pick up the telephone in the detective room, calmly remarked he could not understand the speaker.

  “Have DeKok report to me,” repeated the commissaris, calmer.

  “I’m sorry,” replied Corstant.

  “What?”

  “DeKok isn’t here.”

  “What about Vledder?”

  “He’s here.”