Dekok and the Dead Harlequin

by A. C. Baantjer

  “Good, have Vledder report.”

  “As you wish,” replied Corstant quietly. He replaced the receiver and looked around. When he spotted Vledder he motioned him closer.

  “The boss wants you, Dick. Better take a deep breath, he’s really upset.”

  Vledder shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s not my fault,” Vledder smirked. “I’ve always been very nice to him.” He put his coat on, arranged his tie, and left to meet his commissaris.

  The commissaris was beside himself. He paced up and down his office like a caged lion and vented his torrent of anger and frustration on poor Vledder.

  “Two murders in three days,” he roared, “and what does it get me?” He banged the desk with his fist every time he passed by it. “What do I have to show for it? Eh? Answer me that! I’ll tell you what I have. Two microscopic reports, that’s what I have! And what’s in those reports? I’ll tell you what’s in those reports. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!” He raised both arms despairingly toward the ceiling. “What have you two accomplished while you’ve been too busy to report? Am I perhaps privileged to know? So, tell me, Mr. Inspector, who’s the boss around here? DeKok or me?”

  Vledder dared a cautious remark.

  “You are, Commissaris.”

  “Right,” he hollered, “I am! I know that and you know that! But does DeKok know that? Perhaps you could ask him!”

  Vledder swallowed.

  “I will, sir,” answered Vledder earnestly.

  The commissaris controlled himself and sat down behind his desk. Venting his rage had soothed his nerves. He was visibly relieved. He stroked his gray hair with a steady hand and indicated to Vledder to sit down.

  “Three murders in two days,” he lamented.

  “Two murders in three days,” corrected Vledder.

  The commissaris gestured impatiently.

  “Yes, well, that’s what I mean. This is just the kind of thing the press eats up—both murders in the same hotel, actually in the same room. There has to be a connection. It’s too much of a coincidence. You were there, weren’t you, I mean after the deaths of Brets and Kamperman?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Both times,” he admitted.

  “And, eh, what does DeKok say about it?”

  “DeKok is never very forthcoming in a situation like this. The last time we spoke he gave me the impression he was close to a solution. He did mention he had sufficient evidence to catch the killer.”

  The commissaris nodded thoughtfully.

  “So, is that what he said?”

  “Yes, sir. You should know DeKok isn’t a braggart. If DeKok says—”

  The commissaris did not want to hear any more praise. He stood up. He looked down on Vledder with a penetrating look from beneath his bushy eyebrows.

  “Have DeKok report to me.”

  It was an order.

  Vledder made an apologetic gesture.

  “I really don’t know where he is. I called his home this morning, but he isn’t there. I spoke to his wife. She doesn’t know where he is either.”

  The commissarial face was getting dangerously red. He stretched his arm in the direction of the door.

  “Then you find him. For all I care you put out an APB on him, but find him!”

  It echoed through the room.

  Vledder nodded.

  “Yes, sir,” he said timidly. “Yes, sir, I will.”

  Then he fled from the room.

  DeKok guided his personal VW through the old inner city of Amsterdam. He had just completed an extended visit to Dr. Brouchec. Now he was hunting for a parking spot as close as possible to the respected firm of Brassel & Son.

  The interview with the doctor had confirmed his opinion about Fredrich Gosler’s illness. Gosler, himself, had no illusions.

  At first the good doctor had been reluctant to cooperate. But when DeKok threatened to arrest Fredrich Gosler and went on to describe the lurid conditions in the cells at Warmoes Street, the doctor had relented. In the strictest confidence, so he told DeKok, he had shared his medical opinion and prognosis. DeKok had asked for a written statement, but the doctor had categorically refused.

  “Just wait,” he had said.

  But it was exactly the waiting that put DeKok in a predicament.

  When he finally found a place for his car, he got out and ambled over to the Brassel office. His face was serious. The creases in his forehead were deeper and sharper than usual. He had a plan, but he knew the risks involved. He also knew the letter and spirit of his official instructions. He had a booklet, with several supplements, containing specific official responses to any given situation. DeKok had no special love for rules and regulations. People were important to him. His greatest challenge was weighing the needs of people against the requirement to strictly adhere to “the book.”

  He climbed the bluestone steps to the front door and rang the old-fashioned brass bellpull. After a minute the heavy black-lacquered door opened. A green-eyed girl confronted him. There was a dimple in her left cheek. DeKok lifted his hat with a flourish and smiled.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said amiably, “DeKok with, eh, a kay-oh-kay. Please tell Mr. Brassel I want to speak to him.”

  A bit shyly, Vledder adjusted his tie.

  “Mrs. DeKok,” he said beseechingly, “do you really not know where your husband is? The commissaris is furious. He’s yelling and screaming for DeKok, justifiably so. I mean, Mrs. DeKok, you know how I like your husband, but he hasn’t been in the office for more than three days. That’s absurd, let’s face it.”

  Mrs. DeKok nodded.

  “You’re right, Dick, it is absurd. I can’t understand myself what’s come over him.” She laughed at him. “Of course I know where he is. But he told me that he wasn’t available to anyone.”

  Vledder pulled a hurt face.

  “Not even to me?”

  She smiled tenderly.

  “Come back at eight tonight, Dick. I’ll make sure he’s here.”

  22

  DeKok greeted his young colleague heartily. He shook his hand for a long time, placed a friendly arm around his shoulder, and led him to the cozy living room. DeKok’s face beamed. He seemed genuinely please about Vledder’s visit.

  “I do believe, Dick,” he said jovially, “I owe you an explanation. Of course, I would have told you everything in time, but my wife took pity on you. She persuaded me to explain everything now.”

  Mrs. DeKok winked at Vledder.

  “Really,” she said with a smile, “it wasn’t all that hard.”

  “But my wife is right,” added DeKok seriously, “why not, after all? We’ve been working together for some time. I know I can trust you.” He gestured. “And I need that trust. You see, I must ask you to keep this secret. You can’t talk about anything I tell you, for the time being. Please do not reveal anything to the commissaris—especially not the commissaris. You must understand that I’m not avoiding him for no reason.”

  Vledder looked surprised.

  “Is he involved?”

  DeKok laughed.

  “No, not really, thank goodness. But if he knew the whole story, he might force me to arrest the murderer. And I don’t want to.”

  Vledder looked at him with disbelief.

  “You don’t want to?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, I do not. I’ve a number of reasons for that, reasons I’ll try to explain in the course of the evening.”

  He pointed at some comfortable leather armchairs.

  “Come on, Dick, pull up a pew.”

  He walked over to a cabinet, returning with a bottle of French cognac. He showed the label.

  “What do you think?”

  Vledder nodded wholehearted approval of the choice.

  DeKok took a couple of large snifters and warmed them gently over a small flame. Then he poured with total concentration. A connoisseur, DeKok loved good cognac. He savored the stimulating aroma, the tantalizing taste, the war
ming glow. A good glass of cognac was a sensuous pleasure to DeKok, total bliss.

  “I have,” he started after his first sip, “made a lot of mistakes in this case. Mistakes are almost inevitable in our profession. During every investigation, especially at the start, we grope. Every step, no matter how carefully taken, can lead in the wrong direction. We can never be afraid to make mistakes. People who are afraid to make mistakes avoid making decisions. It begins with circumventing and ends in fearful inaction, something peace officers cannot afford. No, Dick, I’ve never been afraid to make mistakes, never dodged decisions.”

  He took another sip and replaced his glass carefully.

  “But, to business,” he continued. “From the first it was certain Pierre Brassel couldn’t possibly be the perpetrator. He produced incontrovertible alibis for both murders, making him untouchable. As you know, it was clear he was in contact with the killer. He told us he was completely aware of his plans and cooperated with those plans. He was a sympathizer, but who was the real murderer? Who was the man behind Brassel? Intriguing questions, to say the least. What came to occupy me was the why. As Jan Brets was dying, Brassel was playing a dangerous game, revealing outright complicity! So the motive became the key.”

  He glanced at Vledder, moved himself more comfortably in his chair. His hand strayed to the glass beside him, but he controlled the movement.

  DeKok continued, “The usual motives didn’t seem to apply. As you said aptly, they didn’t compute. We found no connection between Brets and Brassel, at least not a connection that would imply a motive. Brets’s murder seemed senseless. But Brets was not an incidental victim, on the contrary. Brets was carefully selected as the victim. Brassel sought him out and enticed him to take a room at the Greenland Arms.”

  DeKok raised an index finger in the air.

  “What determined the choice of victim? I mean, why Brets? After all, he was a relatively unsuccessful burglar from Utrecht, a minor thug, right? Who would benefit from his death? We knew early on there was no direct connection between Brets and Brassel. I concluded there had to be an indirect connection, an indirect motive. The only way to unravel this was through the man behind Brassel, the real killer. But who was that?” DeKok grinned. “I kept thinking like that, in circles, always the same questions.”

  “I haven’t heard any mistakes yet,” observed Vledder.

  DeKok sighed.

  “We’ll get there. As you will remember, we visited Brassel in Oldwater the day after the murder of Brets. We met Brassel’s wife. Because of certain remarks, but more so because of her behavior, I left with the distinct impression the real murderer could be found within the Brassel family circle. It was a good hunch, it certainly provided a reasonable explanation for Pierre’s behavior. After all, we make sacrifices for family. It seemed to me Pierre might, indeed, play his little games to help a family member.”

  DeKok made a grand gesture.

  “If I had continued that train of thought at the time, I might have been able to prevent the murder of Renard Kamperman.”

  Vledder, his drink forgotten, looked at his mentor with astonishment.

  “But why didn’t you?”

  DeKok gave Vledder a weary smile.

  “Simply because I overestimated Brassel’s intellect and his knowledge of the law.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  DeKok grinned ruefully.

  “Do you remember we discussed the so-called warning note after we found Brets? Brassel became visibly upset when I lied to him. When I told him we hadn’t found the note under the corpse. From his reaction I concluded that Brassel placed an inordinate amount of importance on this warning note. I was right!”

  DeKok sighed deeply.

  “At that time, though, I came to the wrong conclusion. Had the killer been a family member, Brassel would not have had to warn the victim. He did warn Brets, though. Therefore I concluded the real perpetrator was not a member of his family.”

  Mrs. DeKok leaned toward her husband.

  “You mean,” she said slowly, “that Brassel wouldn’t have had to write a warning note if the killer were a member of his own family?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “That’s right. He didn’t have to inform the police, nor the intended victim. Since it concerned his own family, he could have invoked the right of extenuation.”

  “Right of extenuation?”

  “Yes, that’s what we call it here. According to Dutch law, nobody has to cooperate in the criminal prosecution of a blood relative. Most countries have something similar. The best-known example is the Fifth Amendment to the Constitution of the United States. It prohibits self-incrimination. In other words, it says no one has to testify against himself or herself. The laws in most countries also prevent a husband from testifying against his wife, and vice versa. Dutch law goes further. In Holland, so-called Fifth Amendment rights extend to self and first-degree relatives: wives, sons, daughters, parents, siblings. Anyway, Brassel did not know that, or he did not understand it. It doesn’t matter, I was misled, regardless.”

  Vledder looked at him searchingly.

  “Misled?” he asked.

  DeKok rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Yes,” he sighed, “the murderer was a member of his immediate family.”

  Mrs. DeKok rose from her chair.

  “How about some coffee?” she proposed.

  DeKok nodded agreement, glancing at the bottle of cognac with regret. He lifted his glass and drained it. Then he poured himself another measure and raised his eyebrows at Vledder. Vledder hastily agreed a refill would be most welcome.

  Mrs. DeKok watched with an indulgent smile.

  “Well, what about coffee?” she repeated.

  “Yes, darling,” said DeKok, “and some of that cake, you know, from Mrs. Brassel’s recipe.”

  Mrs. DeKok looked at him with mocking eyes.

  “Why don’t you call it harlequin cake?”

  DeKok laughed briefly.

  “Yes.” He smiled at his wife. “Why not? Coffee and harlequin cake.”

  Vledder could hardly contain his patience. He could have done without the intermezzo. He would much rather listen to DeKok unravel the rest of the story. But he knew his partner. The gray sleuth was not to be hurried.

  In due course, Mrs. DeKok returned with coffee and cake. Meanwhile she chatted cheerfully about Mrs. Brassel’s marvelous recipe. The atmosphere was relaxed, as though solving murders was the furthest thing from their minds. Finally Vledder could stand it no longer. He edged closer to the front of his chair.

  “How,” he asked with barely contained impatience, “did you discover the killer was a member of the family?”

  “Hampelmann.”

  Vledder did not understand the cryptic remark.

  “Hampelmann?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes. It’s the German word for harlequin.”

  “It doesn’t mean a thing to me,” replied Vledder, annoyed. “I only know both Brets and Kamperman were found in positions reminiscent of marionettes…harlequins. What does the German word have to do with it?”

  DeKok sighed.

  “Hampelmann is very much to the point. The corpses were purposely arranged in that position.”

  “Got it, but why?”

  DeKok smiled faintly.

  “As a symbol.”

  “Symbol? A symbol of what?”

  “Justice.”

  “Justice?”

  “Yes, Dick, justice. To understand, we have to go back in time a little.”

  He drained his cup and Mrs. DeKok almost immediately refilled it.

  “A few years before World War II, a certain Heinrich Gosler was arrested by the Nazis. Gosler’s wife, a Jewish girl, fled to Holland, taking her two small children with her. She got to Haarlem. She had a brother living in Haarlem. Jacob Hampelmann, the brother, had fled Germany years earlier. He owned an antique business there. At considerable risk to herself, Frau Gosler returned to Ge
rmany after about a month. Her purpose was to somehow rescue her husband. It is likely the Nazis soon caught her. Nothing further was ever heard of the Goslers, husband or wife. As far as anyone knows, they perished in a concentration camp.”

  He paused briefly, reflected.

  “The two children, Fredrich and Liselotte,” he resumed, “stayed in Haarlem with their Uncle Hampelmann. The antique dealer took care of them as if they were his own. He provided each of the children an excellent education. How he managed to do that under the circumstances, under the noses of the German occupation forces, would make a heroic saga, no doubt. He managed, one way or the other. Naturally the children were devoted to their Uncle Hampelmann.”

  Thoughtfully, he rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger. Vledder and Mrs. DeKok hung on his every word.

  “On to our victims. About eight years ago, Jan Brets and Renard Kamperman met in one of our incomparable reform institutions. A juvenile judge had placed both boys, seventeen and eighteen, respectively, in reform school. Jan Brets had endangered life and property in and around Utrecht. Young Kamperman had committed a series of burglaries in and around Haarlem. He had also failed in an attempt to burglarize Hampelmann’s antique shop. Brets and Kamperman exchanged experiences and ideas. Kamperman told Brets about Hampelmann, who was generally known to be a very rich man. According to Kamperman, he’d failed to rob Hampelmann because the old antique dealer was ‘as alert as a stinking German shepherd.’ Brets had a remedy, which he shared.”

  He sighed deeply. Then he continued.

  “Oh, yes, Brets knew how to fix it. If he got his hands on Hampelmann, the old man would sleep, never to wake. This pair planned cold-blooded murder and burglary in reform school. The very next weekend they earned passes for good behavior. The first night out they hitched a ride to Haarlem, bought a hammer, and bashed in old Hampelmann’s head. The total proceeds of the robbery amounted to less than ten euros.”

  Mrs. DeKok shook her head in horrified astonishment.

  “But that’s terrible,” she exclaimed.

  “Indeed, terrible. Fredrich and Liselotte were extremely upset, to say the least. They were devastated. Neither was at home when it happened. Fredrich worked in a hotel, where he was groomed for management. Liselotte was staying with Pierre Brassel, her fiancé. Brets and Kamperman were soon apprehended. Both confessed. The crime scene investigation revealed how strenuously the elderly gentleman defended himself against his attackers. Brets had hit him so many times with the hammer he could not have been saved, death was inevitable. Fredrich Gosler wasn’t spared any details. He went into a savage rage and he swore that he would avenge his uncle’s murder.”