DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain

by A. C. Baantjer

  “You immediately took the initiative,” he said harshly. “You never gave me a chance to bring up the reason for my visit.”

  DeKok bowed his head in mock shame.

  “My apologies,” he said. “We policemen are not known for our tact.” He looked up. “But I take it you came here because there’s something you want to tell us.”

  Young Kruisberg nodded gravely.

  “When we were all standing around the gravesite and the minister was still speaking, a man suddenly ran away. You chased him.”

  “Yes.”

  “Who was that man?”

  Vledder looked puzzled.

  “Why?” he exclaimed excitedly. “Why did you insist that you didn’t know the man who ran away? Why did you say you only ran after him because he was a pickpocket whom you had caught in the act? That’s a strange, stupid tale. You could see from Kruisberg’s face he didn’t believe a word of it.”

  DeKok accepted the criticism with resignation.

  “My story wasn’t all that strange or stupid,” he defended himself weakly. “Cemeteries are pestered by pickpockets. Believe me, I know some experts.”

  Vledder shook his head with disapproval.

  “And I maintain it was a tactical blunder. Your re-

  actions were totally wrong. You wasted a unique chance.”

  “What chance?”

  The young inspector made an emotional gesture.

  “You should have simply told that boy that the man who ran away was his father.”

  “Who has arisen from the dead?”

  Vledder nodded vehemently.

  “Something like that—yes! You could have come to the point, arranged a trap; in the shortest possible time you would have solved the mystery of the miraculously arisen Ronald Kruisberg.”

  DeKok leaned forward and leaned on his elbows. His face was a picture of cooperation and goodwill.

  “Let us,” he began in a friendly tone of voice, “analyze the story of young Kruisberg. Why was he so interested in the identity of the man who ran away?”

  Vledder simply stared at his partner for a moment.

  “Because,” he said heatedly, “because he had noticed several times that the man showed an uncommon interest in him. The man had followed him through town, had hung around his house on the Peat Market. Then he showed himself at the cemetery. You’ll have to admit anyone would be curious.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “If,” he said calmly, “the man was an unknown.”

  Vledder looked startled.

  “But that is what, who, he is.”

  “Are you sure?”

  The young man grinned without mirth.

  “Why else would he come here to ask if you had recognized him?”

  DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. He repeated the gesture.

  “Stop that,” said Vledder, irked.

  DeKok stopped and rubbed his chin instead.

  After a long pause he offered, “If I can still recognize the elder Kruisberg after twelve years, how likely is it that his twenty-four-year-old son doesn’t after just two years?” DeKok grinned. “Think about Mrs. Kruisberg. I watched her during the funeral. Don’t you think she would have fainted with fright to suddenly see her dead husband at her brother-in-law’s gravesite?”

  Vledder’s face became less belligerent.

  “Maybe she didn’t see him.”

  DeKok nodded with emphasis.

  “She saw him, alright,” he said with authority. “She was standing right next to her son.”

  Vledder swallowed.

  “But that means,” he admitted, sheepishly, “the entire Kruisberg family knows Ronald Senior didn’t really die.”

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “The family is now concerned to know if I recognized the old…the dead Kruisberg.” He grinned maliciously. “And I would like them to worry a little longer.”

  For a while Vledder stared at his notes, lost in thought. He looked up after several minutes.

  “How does dying make any sense?”

  DeKok scratched the back of his head.

  “Is that a philosophical question?”

  Vledder shook his head impatiently.

  “No, it is a judicial question. If the elder Kruisberg is alive, not erroneously declared deceased, what could he gain by being dead?”

  DeKok grinned.

  “Awkwardly put, but I know what you mean. Just think about the many people he defrauded, to whom he owes money. Sometimes dying is the only solution. In death the worldly responsibility for a misspent life is judicially absolved. You can’t prosecute or sue a corpse. There’s really only one way out for old Kruisberg.”

  “And what is that?”

  “To remain dead.”

  4

  Together, Vledder and DeKok walked out of the station house and entered the Quarter. The night was as biting as the day had been, and the water in the canals sparkled with a coating of ice. The Red Light District had slowed down because of the cold, but did not sleep entirely. No matter what the hour of the day or night, there were always people in the streets and along the canals. Likewise there were always prostitutes behind the windows of the brothels and in single rooms that formed thousands of “office” spaces devoted to their trade.

  Amsterdam is a veritable labyrinth of narrow streets, small canals, quaint old bridges, dark alleys, and un-expected squares. Exotic, beautiful ladies, well-dressed pimps, and innumerable bars and eating establishments enliven and commingle with the architectural wonders. Amidst the bustling streets come the endless streams of tourists who mix with the locals of the centuries-old

  quarter to create an atmosphere that is beyond duplication.

  DeKok looked resignedly around and greeted a few older prostitutes jovially. He waved away a young girl, new in the business, whom he did not know. A few older members of the world’s oldest profession quickly admonished her.

  At the corner of Barn Alley, the two shivering inspectors escaped into the warm, intimate atmosphere of Little Lowee’s Bar. In contrast to outside, it was remarkably quiet in what Lowee called “his establishment.”

  Lowee, called “Little Lowee” because of his diminutive size, greeted them from behind the bar. His narrow, mousy face lit up with a bright smile.

  “Long time no see,” he chirped. “Bin scarce, eh? Too cold…too busy, what?”

  DeKok hoisted himself onto a stool in front of the bar.

  “As long as crime pays,” he said soberly, “the police will never have a recession.”

  “And? Do it pay?”

  DeKok grimaced.

  “As never before.”

  Little Lowee laughed.

  “Same recipe?”

  Without waiting for an answer, Lowee dove under the counter and emerged with a bottle of venerable cognac, which he placed on the bar with a sigh of intense satisfaction.

  “Les ’ope dat I always can stash youse a nice bottle like this in da place.”

  There was genuine friendliness in his voice.

  DeKok offered him a warm smile.

  With a series of routine movements, the small barkeep placed three large snifters on the counter and uncorked the bottle. DeKok watched intently as Lowee poured the cognac into the glasses.

  He liked to spend time in Lowee’s bar. He thoroughly enjoyed the company of the man. He liked him because of his many sterling qualities and a little because of his many transgressions. At one time or another, Lowee had probably broken nearly every commandment of God and the law. But, like most denizens of the Quarter, his crimes had always been so-called clean crimes. In all those years the police had only arrested him once for a misdemeanor. There had never been any proof of a felony.

  When Lowee had completed his ritual, DeKok took the snifter in the ball of his hand and gently swirled the liquid around the glass. Then he inhaled the enticing aroma deeply. He closed his eyes and an expression of pure delight transformed his face. Then he took the first, caref
ul sip. Slowly he swallowed, and he could feel the glow of the exquisite liquor warm his entire body.

  “This,” he said, nodding his head, “is a slaking moment for a thirsty soul.”

  Lowee preened under the praise.

  “DeKok,” he said, “you’s a poet.”

  DeKok took another sip and then, still warming the glass in his hand, looked around.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked. “It’s never been this empty.”

  Lowee spread out both hands.

  “I thinks ’alf the Quarter is ’ome, gettin’ a drunk on.”

  DeKok looked a question.

  “Bad news?”

  Lowee nodded with emphasis.

  “Rickie croaked.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes.

  “Rickie of Apache Alia?”

  The friendly face of the barkeep became sad.

  “I ’eard this afternoon from some o’ ’is boys. They hadda fish ’im outta dock in Antwerp.”

  “Murdered?”

  Lowee bowed his head.

  “Poisoned.”

  They walked back to the station house. It was less busy out, with fewer people in the streets and a lot of the windows shrouded in darkness. Even some of the sex shops were closed.

  Vledder glanced at DeKok.

  “Who’s Rickie of Apache Alia?”

  DeKok waved around, taking in the neighborhood.

  “He was a man who grew up in this neighborhood. His mother’s name was Alia. In the old days she lent money to the girls in the business. Interest was a quarter on the dollar.”

  “Twenty-five percent?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “But not per year, by the month.”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “That’s pure usury.”

  DeKok pulled up his collar. The glow of the cognac was fading.

  “When she had earned enough, she bought a bar on the seadike and called it Apache Alia.”

  Vledder nodded to himself.

  “Rickie of Apache Alia,” he repeated slowly. “It almost sounds like nobility.”

  DeKok smiled briefly.

  “Underworld nobility.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  The old inspector made a sad gesture with his hand.

  “Everything and nothing. He did whatever was illegal­—stole, fenced, blackmailed, gambled. He also smuggled, trading in women, girls, drugs…you name it. Rickie never turned down anything. There was a rumor that he didn’t even refuse a killing when asked.”

  “Tough customer.”

  “You could say that.”

  “Old?”

  “He’d be about fifty. But he has no arrest record. In fact he’s never been contacted by the police or judicial authorities.”

  Vledder was surprised.

  “How is that possible?”

  DeKok smiled patiently.

  “Rickie was a smart operator. Others did his dirty work.”

  “And he kept the profits.”

  “Exactly. He inherited the mentality of his mother, profiting from other people’s misery.”

  Vledder shook his head, “You can’t do that forever without paying a heavy price. And it seems somebody finally paid him his due.”

  “It seems so.”

  Vledder suddenly gave a short, barking laugh.

  “At least they didn’t fish him out of an Amsterdam canal. Then we would have had to be involved.”

  DeKok did not react. Suddenly he turned a corner, crossed Old Church Square, and walked into one of the many side streets. Vledder followed him.

  “We’re not going back to the office?”

  The gray sleuth pointed upward at a lit window in one of the houses.

  “She’s still awake.”

  “Who?”

  “Apache Alia.”

  DeKok approached a green-painted door, pushed it open, and worked his two hundred pounds up the narrow staircase. The threads creaked under the weight. Vledder followed.

  The narrow landing was dark. Light seeped over the threshold of one door. DeKok knocked on the door and pushed it open at the same time.

  An old woman in a threadbare kimono was seated at a table near the window. In front of her on the woolen tablecloth was a silver frame surrounding the portrait of a man.

  The woman looked up as the men entered the room. When she recognized DeKok, she turned the framed face down. There was an evil fire in her small green eyes.

  “What are you doing here?” she snarled.

  DeKok took off his hat and lowered his chin to his chest.

  “I just heard from Little Lowee what happened to Rickie,” he said somberly.

  With a shaking motion, Alia placed her hand on the back of the portrait.

  “And?”

  It sounded like a challenge.

  DeKok made an indecisive gesture.

  “I, eh, I saw your light was still on,” he said shyly. “So I thought…eh, then I thought, ‘It’s her son, I should express my sympathy, deliver my condolences.’”

  Hesitatingly he held out his hand.

  Apache Alia raised her chin in the air.

  “You’re not really expecting me to shake your hand, are you?” Her voice was harsh, hostile. “And you don’t have to pull such a sadsack face, either, as if you’re sorry he’s dead. Don’t try to tell me my Rickie was a friend of yours.”

  DeKok retracted his hand and shook his head.

  “No. Rickie was no friend of mine, certainly not.” He shrugged. “But I never bothered him in the least.”

  Apache Alia grimaced.

  “You never had the chance!” She sounded belligerent. With a crooked finger she tapped the side of her head. “My Rickie had brains, he knew what was what. You, with your stupid police brain, couldn’t touch him. He was just too smart for dumb cops.”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck. He understood the bitterness of the old woman. He took a chair and sat down across the table from her. When she removed her hand momentarily, he picked up the portrait, turned it right side up, and pulled it closer.

  “Are you sad, Alia?” he asked in a sympathetic voice.

  Tears suddenly filled her eyes.

  “Can’t you tell?” She swore loudly and with venom.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Of course,” he said softly and evenly.

  For a long time he stared at the portrait. He was familiar with the face. He had met Rickie several times in response to anonymous phone calls. The accusations were usually vague, never proven. He looked up.

  “How old was Rickie?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Too young to die.”

  Alia swallowed.

  “They poisoned him.” She shook her head. “Poison! You can’t get more cowardly and depraved.” With the back of her hand she wiped her eyes. “Rickie wasn’t all that bad, not nearly as bad as people said. People portrayed him as cruel…a beast. But he wasn’t like that at all, really. A mother knows her own child.”

  DeKok pushed the portrait back toward her.

  “A mother knows,” he agreed amiably.

  Apache Alia pointed at the portrait on the table.

  “Do you know that my boy gave a lot of money to the Salvation Army?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I did not know that.”

  “Deep down, Rickie was very religious. When he was small and I was still living wild, he went to parochial school. The nuns told him about God and stuff. He learned about Maria and Our Dear Lord. He never really abandoned religion after that.”

  DeKok coughed discreetely. He didn’t know how to react to the information. Rickie of Apache Alia as a

  religious person was a phenomenon he could not reconcile in his mind.

  “Had Rickie felt threatened lately?” he asked, all business.

  Alia folded her hands and rocked slightly in her chair.

  “Not really,” she whispered. “But he did know what was going to happen to him.”

&n
bsp; DeKok gave her a searching look.

  “Rickie knew?” There was disbelief in his voice.

  “Before he left last week, he stopped by. Rickie was nervous, not his usual self.” She looked up. “He was sitting right there, where you are sitting. I’d never seen him so tired, dispirited. I asked him if something was the matter. Then he took my hands and said, ‘Mother, don’t be afraid if I die. And above all, do not grieve for me.’”

  DeKok took a deep breath.

  “Is that what he said, Alia?”

  Her head moved, hardly noticeable.

  “Those were his last words to me.”

  5

  The next morning, Inspector DeKok felt half asleep as he rode along in the streetcar he sometimes took to work. He had not slept well the night before. The face he had seen at the gravesite dominated his thoughts. Tossing and turning, he fretted if Vledder was right. Had he been mistaken in identifying the face as belonging to the long-dead Ronald Kruisberg? After all, one doesn’t often meet a man who has risen from the dead. Only after finally convincing himself he had not made a mistake had he sunk into a deep sleep. But the sleep had been too short—all too soon the alarm clock reminded him it was time to start another day.

  At the stop near Roses Canal, a heavyset woman dropped into the seat next to him. Her weight pressed against him. As the streetcar turned, he felt as if he was being flattened against the window. Across from him was a man reading a newspaper. DeKok squinted to read one of the headlines, something about there not being enough ice on the Frisian lakes, rivers, and canals to organize the Eleven-City Skating Race. He thought briefly about the race. He had attended it only once. It was a grueling race on the ice around the Province of Friesland. The skaters covered about fifty miles in the bone-chilling cold, usually accompanied by a merciless polar wind. The ice was not smooth, especially on the lakes, where ridges and other uneven places proved hazardous. He remembered thinking while he was watching the group of skaters go by that he would never submit himself to such an ordeal. Just walking outside at such a time was a test of will and determination.

  When the streetcar reached Central Station, he exited with a sense of liberation. He was now only a few blocks away from the station house. He stretched to get the last few kinks out and crossed Dam Square. In front of him he saw the swaying shape of a heavyset woman. He slowed down and took a slightly diverging course. No sense in being squashed twice in one morning.