“I agree with you.”
Vledder looked puzzled.
“Agree with what?”
“We have to go to Antwerp.”
As the inspectors entered the lobby of the police station, Meindert Post, the watch commander, called them over in his habitual stentorian voice.
“Well, Meindert,” said DeKok, “I’m surprised you ever use a radio. Surely you can reach anybody in the Quarter by just whispering their name.”
The watch commander ignored the jibe.
“Somebody’s waiting for you upstairs.”
“Who?”
“A gentleman…member of the fashionable set.”
DeKok gripped his chest and looked shocked.
“A gentleman in Warmoes Street?”
There was a dramatic disbelief in his voice.
“Just cut the theatricals, DeKok. A gentleman is what I said, and a gentleman is what he is.”
“Did you ask his name?”
“Of course,” Post glanced at his logbook. “His name is Ravenswood—Robert Antoine van Ravenswood.”
“A name like that announces him as a gentleman, indeed.”
DeKok turned away from the counter and climbed the stairs with Vledder.
A man was seated on the bench in the corridor outside the detective room. DeKok looked down at him, studying him carefully. Meindert Post was right, he concluded. The man looked like a gentleman. He looked to be a well-preserved man in his fifties, dressed in an immaculate gray suit, a red carnation in his lapel. The gray sleuth recognized the man from the gravesite. He was the man who had been such an attentive escort to the young woman in the black veil.
His legs spread, DeKok stood in front of the bench.
“Mr. Ravenswood?”
The man stood up.
“Yes, van Ravenswood is my name.” For a moment it looked as if he had been startled, but he controlled himself immediately. “And you are the famous Inspector DeKok.”
DeKok grinned.
“Infamous, more likely.”
Mr. van Ravenswood’s dark brown eyes gleamed. There was the hint of a smile below his thin moustache.
“Your ingenuity is virtually legendary.”
DeKok ignored the praise. He determined he’d watch himself with Mr. van Ravenswood. He turned around and led the way into the detective room. While he hung up his coat and hat he invited his visitor to sit on the chair next to his desk. Then he walked around the desk and sat down himself.
“How can I be of service?”
Mr. van Ravenswood turned toward him. His browned face became serious.
“I come here on behalf of Evelyn. I mean the widow Assumburg. I take care of her business.”
“You’re a lawyer?”
Van Ravenswood shook his head.
“No, not at all—I’m on the board of directors of a number of concerns. But Evelyn, I mean the widow Assumburg, has asked me to assist her. It is for a young woman under these sad circumstances obviously very difficult to…” He cleared his throat and continued. “Mr. Assumburg was a wealthy man. He owned a substantial residence at Emperor’s Canal and a large villa in the country, where the couple spent little time. He also had a seaworthy yacht and a substantial balance at Ijsselstein Bank.”
DeKok listened intently.
“And?” he prompted.
Mr. van Ravenswood looked depressed.
“There’s nothing left.”
“Nothing?”
“No. The yacht is gone, and both houses are heavily mortgaged. The payments are so high Evelyn is unable to meet them. Just the interest is out of her reach. Also, the balance at the bank has disappeared.”
DeKok made a dismissive gesture.
“Perhaps Mr. Assumburg did some serious gambling, even recently.”
Van Ravenswood shook his head forcefully.
“I’ve known Henry Assumburg for years. Since before he married Evelyn. He was not an extravagant man. On the contrary, Henry was always extremely careful,
especially in financial matters. He never took any risks.”
“The Assumburgs were married and held their property in common? I mean, there was no pre- or post-nuptial agreement?”
“No, nothing of the kind. They owned everything jointly.”
“And before they married, there were no mortgages on the properties?”
Van Ravenswood nodded.
“I see what you mean. Evelyn would have had to be informed about any mortgages. She does recall that about fourteen days before his death, Henry had her sign a number of official-looking papers.” He made a despairing
gesture. “You know how trusting some wives can be. Evelyn wasn’t knowledgeable about business, so she was disinterested. One might say she was careless. She cannot remember what kind of papers they were.” He sighed deeply. “Legally, I’m sure it’s all correct. Mortgage bankers are very careful. They don’t do things on the spur of the moment. I can’t help wondering what happened to the money. Just the villa in the country currently carries a mortgage of more than a million euros.”
DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.
“At the funeral,” he said slowly, “in the chapel, the preacher made a few remarks that seemed to indicate Mr. Assumburg had led an, eh, an eventful life. Would it be possible that he was aware of his imminent death and decided to donate his assets to charity?”
Van Ravenswood grinned. It was a strange, crooked grin that gave his handsome face an impish expression.
“Henry and charity?” he exclaimed. “My dear Inspector DeKok, a greater contrast is unimaginable. The two just don’t go together.”
DeKok smiled faintly.
“You say you have known Mr. Assumburg for years. Have you any idea why he would need to liquidate his assets for cash?”
“Perhaps he was being blackmailed.”
“By whom?”
“His murderer.”
DeKok nodded slowly to himself.
“Has Mrs. Assumburg been interviewed by the Antwerp police regarding his death?”
Van Ravenswood shook his head.
“Not yet. She did receive a friendly invitation. Tomorrow we travel to Antwerp.” He reached for an inside pocket and handed DeKok a letter. “Mrs. Assumburg has authorized me to report a case of forgery and fraud.”
DeKok cocked his head at his visitor.
“Forgery and fraud?”
“Yes, both. Someone closed his bank account and took the cash—the day after his death.”
8
Once the distinguished gentleman Robert Antoine van Ravenswood left, Vledder pointed at the complaint form in front of him. Upon DeKok’s instruction, he had taken custody of the letter. Next he’d completed the official charge sheet, charging “parties unknown” with forgery and fraud.
“What do we do with this?”
“Investigate.”
“Why? We’re homicide. Why don’t we just send it to the financial police or, better yet, forward it to the Antwerp police? They are the ones who are handling Assumburg’s murder.”
DeKok shook his head.
“The money was taken here in the Netherlands, from a Dutch bank. This is entirely a Dutch affair.”
“But it is not our affair.”
“No?”
Vledder reacted with his usual agitation.
“If it is a Dutch affair, it’s still not a homicide case. And if it has something to do with a homicide, it’s a case for the Belgian police. But for a Belgian murder, there would have been no question of forgery. The murderer must have taken the money and other papers from his victim. On the papers he undoubtedly found Assumburg’s signature. He had only to practice signing his signature. The rest was child’s play.”
“Think so?”
Vledder nodded emphatically.
“That’s self-evident. All of Assumburg’s money has been withdrawn from the bank.”
DeKok bit his lower lip and shook his head.
“It isn’t all that
simple,” he said pensively. “The murderer ran a great risk presenting himself as Assumburg. With the sum involved, he might have been asked for additional identification. Also, some employee of the bank might have known Assumburg personally. If the fraud were detected, he would have immediately been charged with the murder as well.”
“How do you mean?”
“He certainly would have to explain how he came into possession of the papers of the murdered Assumburg. I know money has a tendency to blind people, but for a murderer who had planned his deed some time before—”
Vledder interrupted.
“How do you know the murder was planned?”
DeKok looked surprised at the question.
“Assumburg knew he was going to be killed. Maybe someone leaked the plan…or the murderer threatened him.”
“So you’re abandoning my suicide theory?”
DeKok shrugged.
“The withdrawal of Assumburg’s bank balance after his death sort of puts the suicide on shaky ground.” He paused and scratched the back of his neck. “Like van Ravenswood, I do wonder what happened to all the money from the mortgages.”
“That went to his blackmailer.”
“It also went to his murderer?”
“Sure, why not.”
DeKok looked doubtful.
“Usually a blackmailer doesn’t kill the goose that lays the golden egg. Add to that the fact I don’t believe the blackmail theory. Assumburg made a living out of crime rather openly. A man like that is not an easy mark.”
Vledder threw his hands into the air.
“Then what?” he asked gloomily.
DeKok did not answer him. He leaned forward and rested his chin in the palms of his hands. He stared into the distance.
After a long silence he began to speak slowly.
“It just doesn’t make any sense,” he mused. “There’s no obvious connection, and there are too many gaps. What we have so far defies any kind of logic: Henry Assumburg orders a minister to adorn the truth at his funeral. He has his wife sign some documents, heavily mortgaging his properties. He cheerfully travels to meet his murderer. As if in passing, the killer withdraws all the cash from the Assumburg bank account.” He shook his head slowly. “Dick Vledder,” he concluded, “this stinks to high heaven.”
Slowly he rose from his chair.
“Tomorrow we’re going to visit Ijsselstein Bank. We still have a few contacts there from the past. Perhaps they can tell us how the murderer acted while he cashed out the accounts.”
Vledder nodded meekly.
“That’s tomorrow, what are we going to do now?”
DeKok glanced at the large clock on the wall. It was past eleven. Suddenly he grinned.
“How about a cognac?”
Little Lowee looked pleasantly surprised when the two inspectors entered his intimate bar. Then he quickly wiped his hands on his soiled vest. With raised eyebrows he came from behind the counter and approached DeKok.
“You ain’t sick, is youse?” he asked, worried.
DeKok smiled.
“Why, Lowee?”
Lowee pointed around the bar.
“Two times youse show inna week. It ain’t ’appened in years, months anyways. So, wassa matta, youse ran outta work? Them wise guys onna strike or what?”
DeKok grinned.
“If that were only true. Then we could spend a few days here. Personally, I hope they’ll organize into a union.”
“Aw, come on, DeKok, a for-real union widda prezident anna secetry and all?”
“Sure. The change is badly needed. The underworld is the only group without a forty-hour work week.”
Lowee grinned.
“I tink I’ll purpose dat.” He held out his hand. “How’s about a small durnation for da strike fund?”
DeKok laughingly ignored the hand. He hoisted himself onto a bar stool next to Vledder while Lowee slipped behind the bar to complete the ceremony with the bottle and the snifters.
“Proost,” said Lowee, “onna long life full o’ crime.”
DeKok raised his glass.
“But only with a well-organized trade union.”
The barkeep took a careful sip of the splendid liquor and then replaced the glass on the bar. Confidentially he leaned closer to DeKok. His friendly, mousy face became somber.
“Youse gonna go to da funeral?”
“Whose funeral?”
“Rickie. They brung ’im to Mokum. Tomorra he’s gonna be planted at Sorrow Field. I gotta invite.”
Mokum is the underworld word for Amsterdam. No-body seems to know the roots of the word. Lowee generally spoke Bargoens, the language of thieves—a mixture of Dutch, Cockney, Yiddish, and Papiamento. Papiamento was the language of the Dutch Antilles, a mixture of Dutch, Portuguese, and several African dialects. Bargoens is almost impossible to understand. DeKok was fluent in it; but lately Lowee had cleaned up his language as much as possible, for Vledder’s benefit. He still spoke an atrocious Dutch, but at least it was generally understandable. It had not always been that way. There was a time when Lowee delighted in speaking straight Bargoens with DeKok all the time while studiously ignoring Vledder. It made for some interesting conversations. Lowee would be rattling away, and DeKok would respond in proper Dutch. It was like listening to one side of a telephone conversation.
“Me, too,” said DeKok.
“Youse, too? Apache Alia done invited you?”
The inspector shook his head.
“No, I’ve been invited by the Belgian police.”
Lowee shook his head in puzzlement.
“They’s figurin’ onna heibel?”
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“No, I don’t think they expect trouble,” he explained. “It’s more or less customary for police to attend the funeral of a murder victim. Keep an eye on who’s interested. Some killers have the uncontrollable urge to attend the funerals of their victims.”
“Stupid,” was Lowee’s comment.
DeKok slowly rocked the glass in his hand, warming the cognac.
“You heard anything?”
“About Rickie bein’ wacked?”
“Yes.”
The barkeep looked around the bar, then he leaned closer.
“Rickie was broke.”
DeKok grimaced.
“Rickie?” he said, disbelief in his voice. “That’s hard to believe.”
Lowee nodded with emphasis. His face was serious.
“I heard. Apache Alia done tol’ me. You knows, Rickie ain’t never bin married. He ain’t got nobody. Alia izzada onliest ’eir. She done some askin’ around.”
“And?”
Lowee pulled his thumb from underneath his chin.
“Nuttin’. She run to city hall. Them five houses Rickie got a coupla days before ’e gone peiger, they ain’t ’is no more.”
“They were sold a few days before he died?”
“Yup.”
“What about a last will and testament?”
“Nope, nuttin’ onna paper.”
“Cash?”
“Notta nickel.”
DeKok grinned without mirth.
“But how is that possible? Rickie made tons of money, especially the last few years.”
Lowee spread both hands wide.
“Well, there ain’t nuttin’ to find. Alia says there was nuttin’ but letters askin’ for dough anna lotsa unpaid bills.”
DeKok’s face creased with concern.
“It’s not that I’m sorry for Alia. She made enough in her day. But it is a strange situation.”
Lowee murmured agreement. Vledder remained quiet, listening intently.
“I done checked widda lot of da guys, but nobody knows wha’ hoppen. Alia says they shook him down before they killed ’im. She say it coulda bin a vendetta. Rickie dome make ’isself some enemies.”
“Did she mention names?”
Lowee shook his head.
“I only knows she godda few of da guys to ’e
lp ’er.”
“Get revenge?”
Lowee grinned.
“Call it justice.”
DeKok drained his glass and waved away a refill.
“Have you any idea in which direction she’s looking?”
“Look like,” he said carefully, “datta Antwerp is a town with lotsa dealings in glimmers, and Rickie usta do a lot in that business.”
DeKok pursed his lips.
“I know Rickie dealt in diamonds, but the business is closed to outsiders, based on trust. You only cheat once in that business and you’re simply frozen out. You never make another legal deal.” He paused, trying to follow Alia’s reasoning. Then he turned back to Lowee.
“Was Rickie in Antwerp often?”
“At least one, two days a week. He brung me a coupla stones sometimes.”
DeKok smiled.
“I didn’t know you dealt in diamonds.”
“If there’s green innit, I’m innit.”
DeKok yawned and asked Vledder for the time. It was almost midnight. Slowly he lowered himself from the stool.
“Bye, Lowee,” he said tiredly. “I’m going to get a few hours sleep.”
Lowee raised a hand.
“Wait a sec. Almost forgot.” He turned and took a long folder from between some bottles. The cover was overprinted with autumn leaves in glossy red and yellow. The text was in Gothic letters.
“Apache Alia goddit in Rickie’s place. She ask me to give it to youse, if I sees you.”
The gray sleuth looked at the folder. The tired expression on his face changed to a steel mask as he read the text on the cover.
“Come unto us,” he read aloud, “we take care of your death until the funeral.”
Below the text, almost at the bottom of the page, was a penciled notation. It was the word “Me” with a question mark.
DeKok pointed it out to Lowee, who nodded.
“That’s Rickie’s fist, alright.”
9
The new day started with a brilliant sun rising from behind Central Station. It turned the ice on the trees into millions of blinding, glistening diamonds.
DeKok looked at it with pleasure. He loved his city. It was an unlimited love that was part of his soul. As far as DeKok was concerned, there was no city in the world that could equal Amsterdam for its beauty. What other city could boast so much beauty, such a diversified population, and…so much crime?
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 6