Vledder laughed out loud.
“The most wonderful beer in a special glass. It puts Lowee’s cognac to shame.”
DeKok looked stubborn.
“That’s quite a claim.”
Vledder nodded.
“I can tell you in all confidence that angels brew it, and only the Flemish know how to pour it just right.”
“And the Flemish live in Antwerp?”
“Absolutely.”
DeKok smirked.
“Then, in a little while, I’ll want a...what’s it called?”
“A bolleke.”
Down beautiful marble stairs they descended from the platform level to the entrance hall. Downstairs, DeKok looked with awe at the vaulted glass ceiling that seemed to reach for the sky.
“A railroad station like a cathedral,” he exclaimed with admiration. “A rest stop for pilgrims on their way to eternity.”
Vledder gave him a puzzled look.
“Who are those pilgrims?” he asked.
DeKok waved enthusiastically around.
“We…all of us…roaming travelers on a racing planet.” In a happy, almost exuberant mood, he walked through the large doors to the outside. Vledder followed him without question. The ebullient behavior of his
colleague confounded him. He hardly recognized his old mentor.
Outside, DeKok looked back at the building. The designation of the building was written in large letters in both Flemish and French. He could readily understand the Flemish; it seemed a lot like Dutch. Seeing the French words made him suddenly realize that Belgium was a country with two official languages. Sort of like Canada, he mused.
From the station, Keyserlei invited them. It was a broad, festive boulevard that reminded DeKok of pictures he had seen of Paris. To one side, large and dominant like the Empire State Building, he saw the monumental Mercantile Center. At one time, every merchant involved with the shipping business had had offices there. But as the importance and volume of Antwerp Harbor grew, the various businesses had spread out over the city. Now at least one third of the offices were occupied by companies unrelated to the shipping business.
DeKok looked around with admiration. To a man who had wandered almost his entire lifetime through the narrow streets of Amsterdam’s inner city, Antwerp was a revelation. Clean, wide streets sported no graffiti.
“A blank wall is a fool’s paper,” he said, thinking about the graffiti that so plagued Amsterdam.
“Did you say something?” asked Vledder.
DeKok nodded.
“Something my mother used to say,” he said. “Although they did not have magic markers or spray paint in the old days, she gave me insights about a lot of things.” He paused and gesticulated. “Don’t you notice something different?”
Vledder shrugged.
“Little girls in blue sweaters and gray skirts,” he said grudgingly. “Orthodox Jews with long beards and black coats.”
DeKok shook his head.
“I don’t mean that. Look at the store windows…open and enticing. No gates, no shutters, no barricades against criminal violence. The middle class seem to be able to live here in freedom and without fear.”
Irritated, Vledder stood still. DeKok’s cheerful voice and the implied criticism of their own city bothered him.
“You seem to forget,” he said heatedly, “we’re here to investigate a series of cold-blooded murders with tentacles reaching as far as Amsterdam.”
DeKok did not react. He ambled casually away from Vledder, determined not to have his pleasure spoiled. It was, after all, the first time he had left Holland. Happy, like any tourist, he enjoyed the different sights and sounds of Antwerp. After a short hesitation, Vledder increased his pace to catch up.
“In heaven’s name, what are you doing?”
DeKok smiled benignly.
“Exploring Antwerp.” He pointed at a building. “And what is this?”
“The old Mercantile Building,” said Vledder with a sour face. “But as far as I know, it’s no longer used as that.”
“It looks more like an old church after a mob smashed all the statues.” He pointed to the left, where a raucous noise resonated from a closed space. “And what is that? What’s happening there?”
Vledder sighed elaborately.
“It’s the Skipper’s Exchange. The skippers of the barges still go there to bid on freight.”
“Oh,” said DeKok.
DeKok looked around and moved into a side street, a rebellious Vledder at his heels. He wandered aimlessly through old streets that seemed to have been transplanted from the Middle Ages. He studied the facades and gables of the old houses, absorbed the charm of the many squares. He finally stopped in front of the dark entrance of a tavern. He looked at his young colleague.
“Are you buying?”
Vledder nodded and led the way.
It was a narrow, intimate, and cozy room. High windows with yellow- and green-stained glass shed a diffused light on rough, heavy trestle tables and benches. DeKok selected a place near the open hearth. Vledder sat down across from him. A well-built young woman approached them with a question in her eyes, and he ordered two bollekes.
“How long are we going to be walking around?” Vledder asked DeKok.
“What time is it?”
Vledder sighed, looking at his wristwatch.
“Almost two o’clock.”
“Good,” said DeKok. “In a little while we’ll order a taxi and have ourselves driven to the Palace of Justice.”
The woman returned and served dark brown beer in two large, round glasses with a long stem. She placed a bowl of salted peanuts between the two glasses. DeKok looked at her.
“How far is it from here to Burchtgracht?”
“Blood Mountain?”
DeKok reacted confused.
“It’s more a temple…Heaven’s Gate.”
The young woman shook her head. There was a mysterious, secret smile on her full red lips.
“No, not a gate to Heaven…but a road to Hell.”
Mr. H. J. M. Opdenbroecke, the small, dapper chief commissaris of the judicial police, Antwerp, nodded. His face was serious.
“I can well understand the reaction of the young woman in the tavern,” he said in his juicy Flemish. “It’s a typical Red Light District…not as grandiose as your quarter in Amsterdam, but yet—”
DeKok interrupted.
“I haven’t seen the name Blood Mountain on any map of Antwerp.”
Opdenbroecke smiled.
“It is not an official name, but every true citizen of Antwerp can point you to Blood Mountain.” There was a twinkle in his eyes. “Even many of your citizens are familiar with the directions.”
DeKok laughed.
“Where does the name originate?”
The chief commissaris made an almost imperceptible movement with a shoulder.
“At the top of Blood Mountain there is an ancient slaughterhouse. It is now a museum. In the late Middle Ages, it was the main slaughterhouse serving the city. It was also the headquarters of the butcher guild. The name is possibly associated with the blood of slaughter. More probably the name is much older than the slaughterhouse. Nearby is The Stone, an old fortification, which also served as a prison. The Inquisition used it for in-terrogations and conducted executions on the square in front of the building. You see, since one of the favorite forms of executions in those days was decapitation, a lot of blood was spilled there.”
“And thus, Blood Mountain,” said Vledder, who often stated the obvious.
“Yes, although it’s not a real mountain, more a slight rise in the terrain. I wouldn’t even call it a hill. It’s really a neighborhood, you see.”
“Yes,” said Vledder, belaboring the point, “like the Bowery in New York; bowery is an old Dutch word for ‘orchard.’ There’s probably not a fruit tree in the entire city!”
Before either could bring up more examples, DeKok diverted their attention to the case.
&nb
sp; “Have you ever had any official contact with Holy Pact for the Dying, Chief Commissaris?”
“We know, of course, they’re headquartered at Heaven’s Gate, Burchtgracht. However the behavior of the members of that sect has never given us reason to take official notice.”
DeKok rubbed the back of his head, as if perplexed.
“At your request,” he said, “my colleague and I attended the funerals of Messrs. Assumburg and Strijdbaar. Regarding both people, we have indications they may still be alive.”
The chief commissaris smiled politely.
“We heard something like that. It seems rather improbable to us. The identification of both victims, from our side, was extremely careful and thorough, no doubt. Nevertheless you have my personal assurance of our complete cooperation with your investigation.”
“Thank you, we’re most appreciative,” answered DeKok. “We hope we won’t have to abuse your hospitality.” He consulted copies of the reports from Amsterdam. “From your reports we learned that Mr. Strijdbaar’s body was recovered from Bonaparte Dock. Is that a harbor basin?”
“Yes.”
“And the body of Mr. Assumburg?”
“From the same dock.”
“Both were poisoned?”
“Correct.”
“What was the initial reason you suspected a crime in the case of each of the two bodies?”
Mr. Opdenbroecke leaned back in his chair.
“In both cases there was trauma to the head. Also in both cases, part of the face had been removed…probably because of the screw of a passing vessel. By order of the investigating judge the bodies were turned over to the laws doctor, the pathologist in Holland. The doctor found trauma was not the cause of death in either case. However he did establish there was no water in the lungs. Therefore, as you know, death was not the result of drowning. Our pathological department works differently from yours in Holland. So, the bodies were transferred to the technical police laboratory for toxicological testing. They came to the conclusion that death had been induced by poisoning.”
“What kind of poison?”
“Curare.”
DeKok sat up straighter.
“Curare?” he repeated. “Inca arrow poison?”
The chief commissaris nodded.
“The poison used in these murders is a new variation, curarine. It was not procured from South America, but from an ultramodern pharmaceutical factory in Holland.” He spread his hands in a resigned gesture. “Its use leads to practically the same result. Paralysis of the muscles of the breathing organs followed quickly by death.” He sighed. “I have been told that these days there are doctors who use it for euthanasia.”
DeKok thought about it. Curare, curarine…he had never encountered either in his long career. How did this strange, exotic poison fit into the puzzle? Would the discovery of the poison prove to be key evidence? How was he going to use it to prove a case?
“Who discovered the corpses?” DeKok asked suddenly.
“One Johannes van den Bosch, owner and skipper of the motorized freight barge Stella Maris.”
“Both times?”
“Yes.”
“Trustworthy?”
Opdenbroecke smiled.
“He’s a Hollander.”
DeKok frowned. Suddenly the chief commissaris sat up straight and looked in amazement as DeKok’s eyebrows seemed to come alive. Opdenbroecke was convinced that two hairy caterpillars were dancing on DeKok’s forehead. Vledder had noticed the sudden interest and quickly turned to DeKok. By that time, however, the incredible phenomenon had subsided and there were just two bushy eyebrows left on DeKok’s forehead.
The gray sleuth seemed unaware of the brief consternation he had caused. He was pondering the sly chief commissaris. Was he a worthy opponent or ally? The man was hard to judge. Tentatively he looked up from his notes.
“What, eh, is the location of Bonaparte Dock in relation to Burchtgracht?”
Opdenbroecke did not answer at once. For the first time he showed some hesitation.
“You mean in relation to the Temple at Heaven’s Gate?”
“Yes.”
“It’s just around the corner.”
16
The inspectors sat enjoying a coffee on the glassed-in terrace of a cafe situated on a lovely little square. In a friendly but firm manner, DeKok had refused the offer of a police escort. He felt more comfortable with just Vledder at his side.
The coffee was delicious, and DeKok enjoyed the sight of the baroque facade of a church nearby. His gaze drifted to the old city library and from there to the statue of the famous Flemish author and printer Plantin. Plantin was said to have taught his people to read. A small sign at the edge of the fountain around the statue stated “No Drinking Water.” DeKok smiled. He was certain the text had nothing to do with the ancient printer.
Vledder interrupted his thoughts.
“What is your plan?”
“How do you mean?”
The young man shook his head disapprovingly.
“We’re not on holiday.”
DeKok ignored the remark. He searched in a pocket and his hand came out with a business card. A re-
production of a painting was on one side of the card. The other side displayed a name and an address. “The tired and true model,” he read out loud.
“Model?” asked Vledder.
DeKok nodded.
“It’s a model of a tavern, a wonderful restaurant. According to this card and some of my friends, it’s not to be missed…a culinary delight. In short, we’re going to get something to eat.”
DeKok and Vledder walked from the restaurant toward the Scheldt River. The river’s banks formed the port of Antwerp. A ferry from England passed in the middle of the river. A Russian ship was docked along the quay, the Russian flag waving from the stern. The outline
of hammer-and-sickle could still be seen under layers of paint on the funnel. To the right they saw a magnificent fortification.
Vledder pointed
“That must be The Stone.”
“I presume so.”
“Then Blood Mountain won’t be far.”
They walked in the direction of the old fort. Just past the fortress a number of narrow streets meandered upward at a slight angle and led to a magnificent castle.
DeKok pushed his hat back on his head.
“Something this gorgeous,” he murmured in awe, “is just called a slaughterhouse in Antwerp?”
They crossed the street and DeKok studied a street sign.
“Burchtgracht,” read DeKok. “This is it.”
Carefully, as if they were followed, they entered the street.
“This must have been the moat around the fortress,” said Vledder. “Burcht means ‘fortress’ and gracht means ‘canal,’ just as in Dutch.”
“Mmm,” said DeKok, only partially listening to Vledder.
His attention was riveted on an old building at the corner of a side street. The building looked decrepit and dilapidated. Red bricks showed as bloody scrapes through the disintegrating stucco.
“Hea en’s Gate,” they read in modern blue letters. The “V” from “Heaven” had disappeared.
Vledder licked his lips.
“This is by no means the Heaven’s Gate I’ve always imagined,” he said, disillusioned.
DeKok nodded pensively.
“This is an earthly version; no pearls here.”
Vledder grinned without mirth.
“I guess so; there isn’t anything heavenly about it.”
For a few more seconds they stood and watched, as though uncertain how to proceed. Then DeKok resolutely crossed the street, approached the green entry door, and pulled on the cast-iron bell pull. From somewhere inside the building a heavy bronze bell tolled.
Before the sound had died out, they heard the rattle of chains and bolts. The person behind the door opened it a crack. A bald man in a purple surplice stood in the narrow opening. He gazed at Vledder and DeKok.
“Are you truly fatigued?” the man asked, eyebrows raised.
To hide an involuntary smile, DeKok lowered his head.
“Verily,” he said evenly, “verily fatigued and weary.”
“Enter, Brothers, outside these walls dying is an ordeal.”
Via the portal they entered a large hall with black marble walls. DeKok judged it inadvisable to continue the comedy.
“My name is DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay,” he said, all business, “and this is my colleague, Vledder. We’re police inspectors from Amsterdam.”
The bald man smiled broadly.
“You should not let it concern you,” he said con-descendingly. “Your profession does not pose insurmountable problems.” He placed a hand on DeKok’s shoulder. “You, too, are heartily welcome.”
DeKok swallowed.
“We’re here to make an inquiry,” he declared. “We would like to speak to your, eh, your leader.”
The man’s face brightened.
“Brother Gregorius,” he said in a jubilant voice. “Pray, be so kind as to follow me.”
He turned and led the way down a long corridor. His open-toed sandals slapped on the marble floor.
At the end of the corridor he stopped in front of a set of imposing double doors and motioned for the inspectors to wait a moment. He opened the right-side door and slipped inside. After a few minutes he returned and bowed.
“Brother Gregorius,” he announced solemnly, “is prepared to receive you.”
A gray, old man was seated on a thronelike chair. He wore a purple surplice, similar to that of the bald man. There was a gold cord around his waist. A number of less ostentatious chairs stood in a half circle before the throne. With a benign smile, he motioned the men nearer.
“Our Brother Simplicius, a name given to honor his noble simplicity of mind, indicated your visit does not concern any personal solicitation. I understand you are both driven by professional motives.”
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“We’re slaves to right and justice.” He paused, studying the old man on the throne. “If we had not come in an official capacity, though, what kind of solicitation could we have made in person?”
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 11