“So, he came to your office?”
“Yes.”
“And who entered?”
“What do you mean?”
“Who was the man who entered your office?”
“Why, Mr. Assumburg.”
DeKok’s mouth fell open.
“But that’s impossible,” he stammered, momentarily loosing his professional composure. “That’s impossible,” he repeated. This time he was more collected. “At that time Mr. Assumburg was dead…murdered in Antwerp.”
The cashier slowly shook his head.
“He was not dead, certainly not. On the contrary, Mr. Assumburg was the picture of health.”
DeKok stood up from behind his desk. Slowly he began to walk up and down the detective room in his characteristic ambling gate. He loved doing that. It seemed his thoughts ordered themselves according to the cadence of his pace. And there was, he thought, a lot to sort out. The facts and events of the last few days were so chaotic. There were no obvious connections, no unifying thread. Everything seemed to mock reality…a contradiction to physical laws and commonsense logic. You just don’t run into dead people. But that is exactly what had been happening. Despite all the mocking and ridicule, nobody was going to convince him otherwise—he had seen the dead Ronald Kruisberg in the cemetery during Henry Assumburg’s funeral. He was convinced Mrs. Kruisberg, too, knew her husband was still alive.
But how was that possible? The question persisted. His puritanical soul did not believe in ghosts materializing. He was too sober and skeptical. And what of the appearance of the recently buried Mr. Assumburg?
A long life of crime fighting had created a mildly cynical outlook on life for DeKok. It left little room for the paranormal or occult. His mouth suddenly shaped into an amused smile. He resumed his seat behind his desk. He looked at his younger colleague.
Vledder had spread the bank’s papers on his desk and was doing something with his computer. Uploading, or throughputting, or something, thought DeKok. The technical maneuvers were incomprehensible to the gray sleuth. He passively watched Vledder make some keystrokes and saw the papers swallowed by a small, flat machine. As the papers emerged from the back of the machine, Vledder stacked them neatly. One piece of paper, smaller than the rest, he kept aside and stared at. It was the final receipt with Assumburg’s signature.
“It’s incontrovertible,” he mused aloud. “The date is right anyway, February 19. It was the day after Assumburg died in Antwerp.” He looked at DeKok. “I compared the signature with the samples on record at the bank.”
“And?”
Vledder grimaced.
“Real, suspiciously real. And it’s certainly not a simple signature to duplicate.” He stared at the receipt, then waved it in the air. “Two hundred and fifty thousand euros. What do you think? Would it provide enough incentive to return from the grave?”
DeKok growled.
“Maybe. But would it be enough to bribe St. Peter at the pearly gates?”
Vledder laughed.
“Why would St. Peter want all that money?”
DeKok stared listlessly into the distance.
“Sometimes,” he said slowly, “I feel Heaven could do with a little infusion of capital.”
Vledder hardly heard him.
“Whoever took the money out of Ijsselstein Bank must have been a master con artist.” There was admiration in his voice. “It wouldn’t be all that easy to assume a disguise good enough to fool that old, dried-out head cashier. He was convinced he was dealing with the real Assumburg.”
DeKok’s face fell. His partner’s words irritated him.
“You would do well to forget those stupid stereotypes in your thinking,” he censured. “If you persist, you’ll make some big blunders in the future. Captains of airplanes are not always dapper and brave. Priests are not always meek and patient. Freighter captains are not always drunk. Bank employees are not always old and dried out…” He paused and took a deep breath. “Head Cashier Jansen was alert and careful.”
Vledder grinned.
“Not alert enough, otherwise he would have spotted the con.”
DeKok’s face became expressionless.
“There was no swindle.”
Vledder gaped at him.
“No con, eh, no swindle?”
“No.”
Vledder waved the receipt in the air.
“You mean…” He did not finish the sentence, confused.
DeKok nodded.
“Jansen paid out the funds to the correct party. He paid Hendrik-Jan Assumburg.”
11
Vledder shook his head in despair.
“That’s just an assumption…an assumption based on the observations of one man.” He gave DeKok a challenging look. “Why could the cashier not have made a mistake? Surely that’s possible? Of course Jansen says he paid out to the right person. That’s his justification. Otherwise he has to admit he made a huge mistake.”
DeKok had a sober look on his face.
“I did not make a mistake,” he said calmly, “when I saw a live Ronald Kruisberg at Sorrow Field. Jansen did not make a mistake when he paid out to a live Assumburg.”
Vledder banged his fist on the desk.
“But both are dead and buried.”
“I don’t believe that anymore.”
Vledder looked dumbfounded.
“You don’t believe it anymore?” he exclaimed fiercely. “We were both at Assumburg’s funeral, and I made a neat report for the Antwerp police in which I confirmed the burial.”
“And?”
Vledder gesticulated wildly.
“What do you mean and? You don’t want to suggest I made a false report, do you?”
DeKok shrugged.
“You didn’t know any better,” he said calmly.
The young inspector snorted loudly. His nostrils flared and his face turned red.
“And I still don’t know any better,” he bristled. “As far as I’m concerned, Assumburg is dead and buried. Dead and buried he remains. Don’t ask me to have a hand in bringing him back to life.” He pointed at DeKok. “And as far as Kruisberg is concerned…”
Vledder did not complete his sentence. He fixed his attention on a young woman who was at the entrance. She turned to the detective nearest the door who pointed at Vledder and DeKok across the room. Her gaze followed the pointing finger. She turned away from the desk and approached the back of the room.
DeKok studied her as she approached. She was slender. She wore dark slacks and sturdy walking shoes. As she headed in their direction, she removed a fur coat and draped it over her arm. She had shoulder-length wavy blonde hair. Her free hand held the leash of a beautiful dog, a sand-colored German shepherd with a dark-brown back and black snout. The dog looked alert, ears erect, listening for the slightest sound. As the dog flowed nearer, its eyes became restless and the hair on its neck and shoulders rose.
DeKok loved dogs. After the death of his faithful boxer, he’d obtained another dog. DeKok had shamelessly maintained that his first animal looked like him. They were, he said, “as close as twins.” Almost inevitably, the second dog, Monty, was another boxer. DeKok again insisted the dog looked just like him. It was not always certain who was the dog and who was the master. There were times when Monty took the lead and, with no need for words, determined what DeKok should or should not be doing.
Now, without fear, DeKok kneeled down next to the dog. Then he looked up at the young woman.
“What’s his name?”
“Droes.”
“Droes,” repeated DeKok and savored the name on his tongue. At the same time he became aware that the young woman was extremely beautiful, lovely. He took in her exquisite oval face. Her ivory skin and almond eyes made an indelible impression. He stroked the dog’s head a few times and scratched behind the ears of Droes, who tentatively began to wag his tail.
DeKok stood up and pointed at the chair next to his desk.
“How may I be of service?”
he asked politely.
She took the seat and with a gesture made the dog lie down. Then she leaned toward DeKok.
“I’m Jenny…Jenny Klebach. Actually it’s von Klebach, but I don’t use it. It sounds too German.” She tilted her head to one side. “And you are Inspector DeKok?”
DeKok nodded slowly. The attraction that seemed to surround her like an aura disturbed his concentration.
“With a kay-oh-kay,” he said automatically.
She smiled tenderly.
“Ronny told me you would react that way.”
DeKok was able to concentrate again.
“Who’s Ronny?”
“Ronny. Ronald Kruisberg.”
DeKok made a gesture in her direction.
“From the old Peat Market, with the view of Mint Tower.”
Jenny Klebach smiled again, more broadly. Her mouth opened slightly and two small dimples appeared on her cheeks.
She praised him. “You have a good memory.”
DeKok gave her a searching look.
“Did Ronald send you?”
The young woman shook her head resolutely and the dog at her feet lifted its head slightly.
“Ronny doesn’t know anything about this,” she said sharply. “And I hope he will never find out. He doesn’t like it when I, as he says, mother him.”
DeKok smiled amiably.
“It’s a feminine characteristic I admire.”
“Ronny doesn’t. He becomes very angry whenever I try to protect him.”
“And that is necessary?”
“What?”
“That you protect him?”
Jenny nodded slowly to herself.
“I think so. All isn’t well with Ronny. Not really. He’s almost impossible to live with—it’s gotten worse, especially the last few days. He’s snarly, nervous, and tense.” She bit her lower lip. “And he’s more often with his mother than with me.”
“In Diemen?”
“Polderland, yes.”
“Did something happen?”
Jenny Klebach shook her head.
“Not between Ronny and me.”
“Between Ronny and whom?”
For a moment she looked around, a panicky look in her eyes.
“Nobody. It’s his mother.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“What’s the matter with his mother?”
The young woman did not answer. She turned her head away and the German shepherd suddenly stood up, tense and alert.
“What’s the matter with his mother?” repeated DeKok, more insistent.
Jenny swallowed.
“Ronny’s father died two years ago in a traffic accident, in Antwerp. He was buried here, in Amsterdam. But now his mother keeps saying his father is still alive.”
DeKok moved uneasily in his chair. He glanced at Vledder, but the young man had his eyes on his notebook, busily taking notes.
“Where did she get that idea?” asked DeKok.
Only someone who knew him very well, like his wife, could have detected the undertone of tension in his voice. But the dog suddenly looked at him and flattened its ears. Jenny had not noticed anything.
“She says she saw him.”
“Where? When?”
“A few days ago, at Sorrow Field during Ronny’s uncle’s funeral.”
“Mr. Assumburg?”
“Yes.”
“And is Ronny trying to talk her out of her silly idea?”
She shook her head.
“He believes his mother without question. He even thinks he might have caught a glance of him himself.”
“Where?”
“Near our house, on the Peat Market.”
DeKok looked doubtful.
“But that’s impossible. Dead is dead. There’s no way back.”
“I said the same thing,” nodded Jenny. “But Ronny won’t listen. He’s rebellious and bitter. Ronny’s father seems to have been a, eh, an unpleasant man, to say the least. The very idea he’s still alive gives his mother nightmares.”
“And Ronny?”
She lowered her head, tears filling her eyes. The dog moved restlessly and put its head on her lap.
“I’m afraid. I’m scared to death.”
“Why?”
“For Ronny. He’s changed so…I just don’t know him anymore. I’m afraid he’ll do it for real.”
“What?”
“Kill him.”
DeKok leaned closer, ignoring the soft warning growl of the dog.
“Kill whom?”
She looked up with a teary face and subconsciously patted the head of the dog.
“His father. He’s said several times, ‘If he’s still alive, I’ll personally bash his head in.’”
“You think he means it?”
Jenny Klebach nodded her head, tears rolling down her cheeks.
“I’m afraid so.”
After Jenny Klebach and her dog had left, DeKok looked questionably at Vledder.
“Any comment?”
Vledder shook his head.
“Give me a moment. When I take notes, I don’t really think about the meaning of what’s said. Usually that happens when I transcribe my notes on the computer.” He glanced at his notes, then looked up and shook his head ruefully.
“We,” he said formally, “will have to accept a live Ronald Kruisberg as a reality.”
DeKok laughed out loud.
“We?” he exclaimed, pleasantly surprised. “You were the one who had trouble with it, right? I was convinced the moment I had to give up chasing him at the cemetery. I only wondered at the time how, and if, I could revive the old Spanish Enterprises fraud case.”
Vledder grinned sourly.
“Well, if you wait until young Kruisberg kills his father, it will be a homicide case and you’ll be free to pursue it to your heart’s content.”
DeKok’s face became serious.
“I approached the family a bit suspiciously in the beginning. I kept thinking the whole Kruisberg thing was a separate case and felt the family was part of it. When young Kruisberg came to see us, I suspected that old Kruisberg’s existence had been common knowledge for some years. It seemed as though I had discovered a secret. Now I understand. Ronny just came to verify his, and his mother’s, observations.”
“What about the threat?”
DeKok stared into the distance.
“I can understand that. But I also hope to catch up with his father before he does. Believe me, I have some searing questions to ask.”
“About Spanish Enterprises?”
DeKok nodded.
“Yes indeed, but I’m even more interested in his, eh, his return from the dead. I feel the Kruisberg thing is just part of a much larger picture.”
Vledder looked baffled.
“How do you mean?”
The gray sleuth rested both elbows on the desk and leaned forward.
“Let’s see if I can recharge your brain,” he said affably. “Ronald Kruisberg and Henry Assumburg knew each other—”
“Yes, they met in Antwerp…through some kind of cult,” Vledder chimed in. He was scrolling through a file on his computer and read the transcript of the conversation with Mrs. Kruisberg.
DeKok nodded.
“Exactum, as Lowee likes to say. Now, can you think of a name for this cult?”
Vledder’s eyes widened and he slapped his forehead.
“Of course,” he said, “the pact, the Holy Pact for the Dying.”
DeKok nodded again.
“I’m not saying it’s true, but it is food for thought. Even more so because Henry Assumburg, too, seems to have risen from the dead.”
Vledder swallowed.
“You mean this, eh, this cult wakens the dead?”
The phone on DeKok’s desk rang. Automatically Vledder picked up on his extension and answered. After a few seconds Vledder replaced the receiver.
“It was the watch commander. Little Lowee is downstairs, wishing to see you. He’s on h
is way up.”
DeKok glanced at the large clock on the wall.
“A strange time for Lowee,” he murmured. Then he looked at Vledder. “Is that possible?” he asked.
“Is what possible?”
“Waking the dead?”
Before the young inspector could answer, Lowee entered the room. With quick steps he approached DeKok and collapsed in the chair next to his desk. DeKok gave him a worried look.
“Lowee, you belong behind your bar.”
The barkeep nodded.
“But I hadda come,” he panted. “I dint wanna wait for youse to show up.”
DeKok grinned.
“It’s that serious?”
Lowee nodded.
“I tole youse I mess around wiv glimmers. But I ain’t gotta time to travel aroun’, you know. I gotta gedda guy to take me places. Anyways, dats why I send Fat Tom for da stuff. ’E know Antwerp. Tonite ’e comes back a bit, um, upset, looks like ’e’s seasick, or somethin’. I seen that an ax ’im wats goin’ on, you knows? And ’e sez ’e’s seen Rickie from Apache Alia. So I makes a joke, you knows, and sez, inna white shirt wiv wings?”
DeKok listened intently.
“Then what?”
Lowee sighed.
“Den Tom shook me wiv both ’ands and ’e sez: ‘I swear Lowee…on the life of my child.’”
12
Little Lowee looked at DeKok with pity.
“I knows itsa problem for youse,” he said sadly. “But I thunk it were impurtent to come tell ya.” He rose. “I gotta get back—they’s drinkin’ all me stock.” He grinned. “Bein’ friends wiv youse is costin’ me enuf.”
DeKok smiled fondly.
“God will reward you,” he said simply.
After Lowee left, Vledder sank down in his chair, a look of consternation visible on his face.
“What sort of case did we stumble into?” he asked agitatedly. “In the morning we bury a man, complete with a preacher and an elaborate ceremony. On the same day the dead is observed in Antwerp, very much alive.”
“Like an old warlock.”
“Huh?”
“Or a banshee, a man or a woman with supernatural powers. They were often seen in more than one place at the same time. I know my grandparents in Urk used to believe—”
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 8