DeKok looked around and grinned to himself. He had to confess he knew few cities outside of Amsterdam. He never had the urge to travel. When he thought about it, he realized he had been to a few other cities and towns in Holland, but had never been abroad. He simply lacked the desire and curiosity. He preferred to be at home, enjoying his wife’s culinary achievements, or ambling through the old inner city, where he knew every stone in every street.
He glanced at Vledder, who was behind the wheel. The young inspector looked pale and tired.
“Had a bad night?” he asked, concern in his voice.
“Yes, very bad. I kept waking up.”
“Why?”
Vledder was irritated.
“Why?” he snarled. “Because you have the wonderful talent to continually surround a person with new problems.”
DeKok looked surprised.
“Me?” he exclaimed, offended. “I don’t bring you any problems! I don’t confront you with riddles—others do that.”
Vledder snorted.
“Why were you so happy when Lowee gave you that folder last night?”
DeKok’s eyes held a glint of mischief.
“I was happy?”
Vledder nodded with emphasis.
“I know you. How long have we been partners? You were so happy, so fascinated, as if you had received a gold ingot.”
DeKok shrugged.
“I never looked inside. The text on the cover somehow got to me. ‘Come unto us,’ he quoted, “‘we take care of your death until the funeral.’” He looked at his partner. “Doesn’t that intrigue you?”
Vledder slowly shook his head.
“Why should it?” he asked contemptuously. “I read it front to back last night. I couldn’t discover anything significant. It’s a publication from the HPD.”
DeKok moved in the seat.
“The HPD?”
“Yes, the Holy Pact of the Dying.”
The corners of DeKok’s mouth pulled down in a sorrowful expression.
“Does such a group exist?”
Vledder nodded.
“Certainly it exists. Because you seemed to be so fascinated with the folder, I checked before you came to the office.”
“And?”
“The HPD is a kind of sect, with unique beliefs. It is independent of any recognized religion. The folder is one of the ways they attract members.”
“People preparing to die?”
“No, the idea is to live in anticipation of death.”
“I don’t understand.”
Vledder sighed demonstratively.
“It’s not that complicated. One of their people explained it all to me.”
“Who explained what? Come on, this is like finding hen’s teeth.”
“It was a man I reached by telephone. I simply called the number inside the folder. The contact would have preferred a personal interview. When I insisted, he told me the HPD was dedicated to giving people the opportunity to prepare for death, relieved of all worldly concerns and worries. According to my informant, death is too abrupt and too final, always comes unexpectedly and too soon. People generally don’t have the time or opportunity to reconcile themselves with God and the world. This group wants to assist in that process.”
“A noble goal,” said DeKok admiringly. “Their effort deserves support.” He glanced aside. “And where is this noble organization located?”
Vledder did not answer. Although Vledder’s attention was on the road, DeKok felt he was avoiding the question.
“Where is the HPD located?” repeated DeKok insistently.
The young man gripped the steering wheel tighter. There was a stubborn expression on his face.
“Antwerp,” he said finally.
Vledder parked the VW near the fence surrounding Sorrow Field Cemetery. Both inspectors got out and walked in the direction of the chapel.
It was markedly less cold than on their previous visit. There was almost no wind, and the ice thawed on the trees.
DeKok unbuttoned the top of his coat, allowing the cool air to refresh him a bit. When they reached the chapel, they scanned the group of attendees. They spotted Little Lowee, looking out of place, in a group of well-known underworld figures. A little farther away, DeKok recognized a number of aging prostitutes, old acquaintances of Apache Alia. There was also a small group representing the Salvation Army. Their sober uniforms fit in well with the decor.
The same undertaker, in top hat and gray gloves, went from one person to another with the condolence register.
DeKok nudged Vledder.
“Go and ask if you can borrow the book afterward.”
Vledder was feeling obstreperous.
“I don’t feel much like it,” he protested. “It’ll just mean more trouble and more work.”
The gray sleuth looked at him for a moment, then stepped resolutely away. With a smile, Vledder stopped him.
“Relax,” he mocked, “I’ll just wait until his hat blows away.”
“There’s no wind,” DeKok protested.
Vledder laughed.
“I just don’t understand,” he shrugged, “what you want with that book.”
DeKok gestured around.
“I just want to know if there are people here who also attended the Assumburg funeral.”
Vledder was taken aback.
“You expect that?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
DeKok looked irked.
“Do I speak Russian?”
Vledder shook his head.
“Apart from the fact that each gentleman found his end in Antwerp, I see no other similarities.”
“You forget one important fact.”
“Which is?”
“Both gentlemen were well known to be rather comfortable financially. But when death suddenly struck, both were penniless.”
Vledder gave DeKok a measuring look.
“Death did not strike suddenly,” he corrected. “That’s clear from what has been said. They both knew perfectly well death was near.”
“That, too, is a point of similarity,” nodded DeKok.
A gleaming black hearse crept across the path leading to the chapel. A short distance behind followed the limousines. The doors to the chapel opened, and a flower-bedecked coffin was carried inside.
As before, DeKok and Vledder followed behind the mourners who crowded into the chapel, assuming their place at the back wall. They watched a distinguished man dressed in black take his place behind the lectern. The man arranged some papers and coughed discreetly. Then, in a theatrical gesture, he reached out with both hands to the congregation.
“May God,” he said loudly, “give you His blessings and peace. Amen.” He lowered his arms and continued more sedately. “And Jesus said, ‘I am the resurrection and the life; he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live. And whoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.’ Today we take leave of…”
DeKok ignored the scripted words of the minister, focusing his attention on the faces in the crowd. Near the front, like a queen surrounded by her ladies-in-waiting, sat Apache Alia with her strangely attired friends. Right behind her, in the second row, in dark, tight suits, were the delegates of the underworld. DeKok idly wondered how many years of jail time the men had served collectively. After a quick calculation, he concluded it was at least a century.
His musings were suddenly interrupted by the speaker.
“De mortuis nil nisi bene,” he exclaimed dramatically. “Of the dead…of the dead you will hear me speak no evil. We mortals have not the right to judge his deeds. If his life, by whatever measure, was wrongly lived, he will already have been judged by Him who knows all the facts. We do not know, and will probably never learn these facts.” The speaker fell silent for a moment and then leaned forward. After a long look at the audience, he bowed his head. “Let us pray for God’s mercy…also for the killer.”
While the prayer continued, the inspectors look
ed at each other.
DeKok nodded.
“Same minister, same speech,” he whispered.
Vledder and DeKok strolled back to where they had parked the car. The burial had been uneventful, with the exception of Apache Alia suddenly throwing herself across the coffin, sobbing and screaming.
The Reverend Sijbertsma had continued the tradition and used the same words at the gravesite as he had done a few days before during Assumburg’s funeral.
Vledder gauged DeKok’s mood.
“Did you see anybody who had risen from the dead?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, it was just a gathering of the underworld. I’ve seldom seen such a prize collection all in one place.”
Vledder smiled.
“I noticed that Little Lowee seemed to fit in well with the wise guys. I really had the impression he’s accepted as one of them.”
DeKok nodded.
“That’s right,” he said resignedly. “And he’s my friend.”
“What about the minister?”
“You mean the same speech?”
Vledder grinned.
“Is it possible that Rickie, too, asked him to adorn the truth?”
DeKok looked thoughtful.
“It’s possible,” he admitted grudgingly. “I sometimes feel anything is possible in this case.” He sighed. “Reasonable or not, the reverend didn’t say anything about it during our visit.”
“But at that time he must already have known that he would be speaking at the funeral.”
DeKok nodded.
“Even so, he could not have known we would also be interested in Rickie’s funeral.” He smiled. “I’m inclined to think that our reverend friend was simply too lazy to write a whole new sermon.”
Vledder grimaced.
“So he just blandly repeated the speech he had used for Assumburg?” There was disbelief and doubt in his voice.
DeKok spread wide his hands.
“Why not? I see no problem. The text was appropriate. Just the listeners were different.” He paused while he thought. “But,” he said, “it might be a good idea if you call Sijbertsma later and ask him who approached him to give the sermon.” With a grin he pushed his hat forward and scratched the back of his neck. “The cream of the underworld listened solemnly to the words of a Freethinking Dutch Reformed Protestant minister. Believe me, it was worth the price of admission.”
Vledder suddenly stood still.
“Antwerp,” he said hoarsely. “Perhaps the request came from Antwerp.”
“Who in Antwerp?”
“The HPD, of course.”
DeKok shook his head in disagreement.
“I don’t know, didn’t they say in that brochure that they take care of you until the funeral?”
10
Vledder started the engine and backed out of the parking place, setting a course for Amstel Dike. DeKok looked around. Near Berlage Bridge an old Rhine barge pushed laboriously through the ice floes. The thaw had suddenly released the Amstel from its icebound isolation.
“You think Henry Assumburg also received a folder from the HPD?” asked Vledder.
DeKok pushed back his hat.
“It seems more important to find out if both were part of the holy pact.”
“Surely that can be established.”
“Certainly. Perhaps the two were so inspired by the lofty motives of the organization, they freely gave up all their earthly possessions.”
Vledder nodded agreement.
“That’s not as strange as it sounds,” he said, admiration in his voice. “It often happens that dying people deed their possessions to nonprofit organizations. It could be a reasonable explanation why neither Assumburg nor Rickie had a penny left when they died.”
DeKok ignored the remarks.
“Did the undertaker promise to deliver the condolence register?” he asked, all business.
The young inspector nodded vaguely. He preferred to avoid the subject.
“Are we going back to the office?”
DeKok shook his head.
“We have an appointment.”
“With whom?”
“The director of Ijsselstein Bank.”
“What time is it?” asked DeKok as they exited the car. Although he had a watch, he never consulted it. It was one of his many peculiarities.
“Almost a quarter past twelve,” said Vledder.
“Well, let’s hope the director will receive us. We’re almost fifteen minutes late.”
“And let’s hope he speaks the truth,” added Vledder. “The last one lied. Got himself murdered a few days later.”
“Yes,” said DeKok, remembering an earlier case, “in some countries that would be called justice.”
After climbing the wide monumental stairs, they walked through an imposing lobby toward a man behind a white marble counter. The man was dressed in an impeccable dark blue uniform. His blazer had wide silver lapels embellished with the bank’s emblem.
DeKok took off his hat.
“We’re, eh, Police Inspectors Vledder and DeKok of Warmoes Street station. We have an appointment with Mr. Busenberg.”
The man looked at an enormous clock suspended by chains from the ceiling. He flashed the inspectors a haughty look.
“By this time of day,” he said in a bored voice, “Mr. Busenberg has gone to lunch.”
“In this building?”
“Yes.”
DeKok showed his most winning smile.
“Nevertheless, I am certain Mr. Busenberg will be happy to receive us.”
The man left the counter with obvious reluctance and disappeared through a high door. After several minutes he came back and led the men to an elevator.
“Second floor,” he said wearily. “Mr. Busenberg’s secretary expects you.”
DeKok made a formal bow.
“Thank you so very much; your amiability knows no bounds.”
When the lift doors opened on the second floor, they were greeted by a muscular young woman in a stylish, if severe, business suit with a medium-length skirt. There was a chilly professional smile on her thin lips.
“If the gentlemen will follow me?”
The policemen walked behind her through the long, pink marble corridor.
Vledder nudged DeKok.
“I have a feeling I’m returning to familiar surroundings.”
The gray sleuth rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger.
“Money and crime,” he smirked, “have always been closely connected.”
At the end of the hall, the young woman lifted the handle of a carved oaken door, held it open with an inviting gesture, and then left without a sound.
Mr. Busenberg looked like a friendly, open man. He had light-blond, curly hair and a ready smile on a slightly too-wide mouth. He sat in a seat with a high back behind an immense desk of highly polished dark oak. He rose from his seat, beckoned the inspectors, and offered seats.
After the visitors sat down, Busenberg looked at DeKok.
“I spoke to you yesterday?”
The gray sleuth nodded.
“I telephoned you.”
Mr. Busenberg regained his seat and picked up a piece of paper from his desk.
“I’m familiar with the problems you’ve experienced in the past,” he began carefully. “I hope, perhaps in contrast to my predecessor, to offer my cooperation to the police. Obviously anything I say must be within my authority and not contradictory to the interests of our clients. Hence, immediately after your call, I ordered an investigation.” He pushed a button on his desk. “Have Jansen come in for a moment.” With a winning smile he looked at DeKok and Vledder. “My head cashier,” he explained.
DeKok nodded his understanding.
“We need the name of the man who paid out the balance of Mr. Assumburg’s account.”
Mr. Busenberg made a negating gesture.
“Let us not anticipate each other. It seemed to me better for Jansen to tell you di
rectly, in his own words. It may shock you.”
After a light tap the door opened and a balding man entered the room. DeKok estimated him to be in his late fifties. He wore brown trousers and a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows.
Mr. Busenberg again came out of his seat.
“These are the gentlemen from the police,” he pointed. “They would like to hear from you, personally, about the closing of Mr. Assumburg’s account.”
The head cashier bowed his head in acknowledgement. He took some papers out of the pocket of his jacket.
“I have copies of the payment. That way you will see we made no mistake in the date.”
Busenberg pointed at the papers.
“The police are welcome to the copies…as proof that we acted correctly.” He paused while Jansen placed the papers into Vledder’s outstretched hand. Then he coughed for attention. “Young Mr. Waal came to see you that day and —”
The head cashier addressed DeKok.
“Mr. Waal is one of our younger associates. He serves the clients at the counter. As you know, we’re primarily an investment bank; we do not have a lot of walk-in traffic.”
“We know,” said DeKok.
“Eh, yes. Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon when he told me a certain Mr. Assumburg was at the counter expressing a wish to close his account.” Jansen smiled. “We’re very possessive of our clients. I mean, we find it unpleasant when a client wants to sever his relations with the bank. Therefore I asked Mr. Waal to show Mr. Assumburg into my office so I could talk to him. A conversation like that is often revealing, you understand. Sometimes there are small complaints, misunderstandings—”
DeKok interrupted.
“You knew Mr. Assumburg?”
“Certainly.”
“Personally?”
Jansen nodded.
“I had often been in a position to advise him on investments. I knew his tendencies. Mr. Assumburg was a man who liked to take a calculated risk, if the potential profits warranted it. I remember the day that the shares of—”
DeKok interrupted again. He was impatient with the long-winded explanations.
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 7