“People generally come to express the desire of becoming a member of our Holy Pact.”
“The Holy Pact for the Dying?”
The old man’s eyes lit up.
“You have heard of us?”
DeKok nodded, his eyes never leaving Brother Gregorius.
“Certainly.” He took out the folder with the autumn leaves in yellow and red and held it up. “Encountering this in Amsterdam prompted our official curiosity.”
The man on the throne showed amazement.
“A simple brochure?”
“Indeed, a simple brochure, but the text is intriguing. ‘Come unto us, we take care of your death until the funeral.’”
Brother Gregorius smiled.
“That is correct. We prefer to go no further. The burial, or cremation, pertains to earthly concerns. There are those who specialize in such ceremonies. We nurture and accompany the dying until death has occurred.”
“You provide hospice services?”
The man in the purple surplice pursed his lips.
“We differ from the concept of the usual hospice care. Our convictions don’t conform to prevalent opinion. For us, dying is not an end, but a beginning.”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“I don’t understand.”
Brother Gregorius sighed.
“Dying commences at birth. What one calls ‘life’ is, in fact, a path to death. Living is a dying process. We are all mortals…in other words, we’re all dying.”
DeKok looked sad.
“I’m sorry,” he said apologetically, “but I find your opinions rather pessimistic.” He waved the brochure. “I think this call to come unto you will fall on deaf ears.”
Gregorius raised a finger in the air.
“You are mistaken. If the response stays at the current level, we will soon have to dedicate a second temple.” He waved around. “This edifice is rapidly becoming too small.” He raised his arms and allowed the wide sleeves of his surplice to slide down, then he brought his arms down and put his hands together. “In these anxious times,” he explained further, “most people are so actively engaged in ‘living,’ they consequently fail to allow themselves the time to concentrate on dying. Reading our brochure is a turning point for many people. It causes them to think…to think about themselves and their existence. In many cases it is a depressing, sobering experience.”
DeKok finally sat down. Vledder followed his example. They found that despite the imposing chair of their host, all their heads were almost at the same level.
“You are saying,” said DeKok slowly, reopening the conversation, “you mean people discover they are no longer satisfied with their present existence, merely by reading your brochure?”
Gregorius nodded.
“Exactly, they become dissatisfied because they realize they have been thinking wrongly—living is not important, but dying is.”
“And you’re prepared to help them with that?”
“It is our task,” said Brother Gregorius piously, staring at the ceiling. “We want to be helpful, supportive. We want to gather those who are lost, nurture them and accompany them.”
“Unto death.”
Brother Gregorius lowered his eyes from the ceiling and smiled at DeKok.
“Death is not horrible, fearsome, or revolting; death is the fulfillment of dying.”
DeKok pressed his lips together and put the brochure back in his pocket. The distorted, convoluted explanations of Brother Gregorius had not erased the purpose of his visit from his thoughts.
“How long has the Holy Pact existed?”
“A little over seven years.”
“And the temple has always been here, on Blood Mountain?”
“Our first haven was in Kerkrade, in Holland, but it did not last very long. We decided our objectives could be better served in a harbor city.”
“And the choice was Antwerp.”
“Precisely. We considered Amsterdam, but there is little faith left in that city of sin.”
“Did you originate the Holy Pact?”
Brother Gregorius sadly shook his head.
“The founder was Paulus Verhoeven, a worthy, noble man. Paulus Verhoeven found that love for one’s fellow man should not be a platitude.”
“Is he still alive?”
“No. He fell into a ravine during a vacation in Switzerland. He did not survive the accident.”
“When was that?”
“Five years ago.”
“And you continue his work?”
Their host folded his hands in an attitude of prayer and bowed his head briefly.
“Yes, humbly, in the spirit of our founder.”
DeKok resisted the urge to say ‘Amen;’ instead he rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.
“How do you finance your temple?”
“We receive donations…donations from the dying.”
“How much,” asked DeKok casually, “was the donation of Mr. Strijdbaar?”
Brother Gregorius smiled delicately.
“Brother Sodomius, we called him that because of his activities in Amsterdam’s Red Light District, was very generous. He has assured the continuance of our temple for a long time to come.”
DeKok felt his heartbeat rise. The unctuous, at times condescending, tone of the brother irritated him.
“Brother Sodomius was murdered,” he said sharply.
Brother Gregorius nodded calmly.
“And that is why you have come all this distance?”
“Among other reasons.”
The man seemed surprised.
“I was under the impression the Belgian judicial police had successfully concluded the matter.”
“Successful?” snarled DeKok. “For whom?”
“Brother Sodomius. I understand that his funeral was very respectful and in good taste.”
DeKok desperately tried to control his mounting anger. He failed.
“Brother Sodomius,” he asserted wildly, “was here in Antwerp, at the very moment he was supposedly being buried.”
Brother Gregorius looked at DeKok with an oily, insincere smile on his thin lips.
17
Vledder laughed out loud as they walked away from Burchtgracht.
“He was ahead of you, on all fronts and on all points. The way in which he mocked your suggestion that Assumburg and Rickie are still alive was very subtle. He never looked shocked. On the contrary, he remained calm, reasonable. He appeared not to take you, or your ideas, very seriously.”
DeKok looked angry.
“And you enjoyed that?”
The young inspector shook his head.
“Not really. But if Brother Gregorius is connected to this case, we have a dangerous enemy.”
“Somebody we’ll have to take seriously?”
Vledder nodded earnestly.
“It won’t be easy to penetrate the temple. Gregorius feels completely safe and secure—with reason.” He made a frustrated gesture. “What kind of proof do we have? For that matter, what do we suspect? What do we have to go on? We have a brochure Rickie apparently once had in his possession. We know for a fact Kruisberg, under his alias as Vries, picked the temple as his residence. That’s just about all we have.”
DeKok stood still, his legs spread. His face was a steel mask. With a gesture of barely controlled anger he raised three fingers in the air.
“Three,” he hissed. “Three men—Kruisberg, Assumburg, and Rickie—lived here. These three were members of the so-called Holy Pact for the Dying. All three died and have been observed alive.” He took a deep breath. “Perhaps we do not yet have any evidence related to those facts. Maybe even the most stupid lawyer will laugh us right out of a courtroom. However, you can be sure of one thing, whether Brother Gregorius is or is not dangerous, I will unlock Heaven’s Gate!”
Vledder solemnly nodded and motioned for them to continue on, knowing better than to push DeKok’s temper.
Down the street they passed a
few aged prostitutes behind curtains. But the activity in the neighborhood did not compare with the constant stream of visitors to Amsterdam’s Red Light District.
On a corner they saw a corpulent man in the door of a cafe.
DeKok ambled toward him.
“Perhaps you can help us?” he asked politely. “We’re looking for a temple…Heaven’s Gate.”
“You’re a Hollander, aren’t you?” asked the man in Flemish. The Belgians and especially the Flemish always referred to the Netherlands as Holland. In the French-speaking part they spoke of Hollande and never Le Pays-Bas.
“Yes,” said DeKok.
The man pointed in the direction from which they had come.
“You must have passed it, back there,” the man said, suddenly switching to formal Dutch.
DeKok smiled.
“We did not notice it.” He hesitated a moment. “Does the temple have a lot of visitors?”
The fat man nodded.
“People constantly come and go. Sometimes it looks like Central Station. Tramps, homeless, addicts—
everybody is welcome there.”
Vledder noticed that in all the formal Dutch, the word station was pronounced the Flemish way. The man had said stasie, pronounced as “staaahsee.” It sounded pleasant and familiar to Vledder’s ears.
DeKok smiled.
“And what if one does not belong to those, eh, categories you named?”
The man gave the inspectors a long searching look. Then he shrugged.
“That doesn’t bother the brothers,” he said nonchalantly. “They are devoted to charity. They feed the hungry and quench the thirst of those in need.”
DeKok bowed his thanks and walked back in the direction the man had pointed out.
Vledder grinned.
“I’m afraid we’ll have to reconsider our opinion of Brother Gregorius.”
DeKok did not react. When they were out of sight of the man in the cafe, they took a side street and set a course for the Great Market.
Vledder snorted.
“I can’t say Antwerp has helped us much,” he said somberly.
DeKok looked around.
“We’ll find a hotel for the night.”
“Tomorrow we’re going back to Amsterdam?”
DeKok nodded.
“First thing tomorrow morning please go see the chief commissaris. Ask what he knows about Paulus Verhoeven, who died five years ago in Switzerland. We’ll meet up again at Central Station.”
Vledder looked suspicious.
“And what about you?”
The gray sleuth shrugged.
“Me? I’m going back to the Skipper’s Exchange.”
DeKok was not the type of man who was immediately at home in a strange place. For some reason he felt differently about Antwerp. With the confidence of someone who had lived in the city for years, he walked across the Great Market, passed the town hall, and admired the facades of the old guild houses.
Without consciously thinking about it, he found his way to the Skipper’s Exchange and entered the building. It was busy, smoke filled, and loud. In the center of the large space a few skippers were seated at long trestle tables. Their faces were weather beaten, and almost all smoked pipes. From time to time they would look at the large blackboards around the wall, where chalked messages about freight and destinations were continually updated. The atmosphere was that of an auction, but there was no auctioneer.
Along the walls were high, narrow Gothic benches that looked antique and uncomfortable.
A man approached DeKok from behind a counter. He had a big stomach barely contained by a yellow t-shirt. He gave the Amsterdammer a long, searching look.
“What ship?” he asked suspiciously.
DeKok grinned broadly.
“The ship of state,” he said mockingly. “We carry a lot of freight, but not much of it is going anywhere.” He paused and studied the crestfallen face of the man and changed his tone of voice.
“The skipper of the Stella Maris,” he said. “Does he come here?”
The man nodded affirmatively.
“Certainly,” he said, switching to formal Dutch, having identified DeKok as a Hollander. He turned around and pointed at a silent, lonely figure on one of the uncomfortable benches along the wall. “He’s sitting right over there.”
DeKok thanked the man, then walked over to the seated skipper. He sat down next to the object of his visit.
“Johannes van den Bosch?” he asked softly.
The man raised his eyebrows slightly.
“Van den Bosch, yes, that’s me.”
“Dutchman?”
The skipper looked a question.
“Would that be a recommendation?”
The gray sleuth smiled.
“My name is DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay. I’m a police inspector, connected to Warmoes Street station in Amsterdam.”
“You’re a long way from home.”
DeKok made a helpless gesture.
“I’m officially involved with two murders that happened here in Antwerp. According to my information, you discovered both corpses.”
“That’s right, they were floating in the basin.”
“I presume you have given the local authorities all the pertinent information?”
“Of course.”
DeKok hesitated for a moment; the bench, with its narrow seat and vertical back, was exceedingly uncomfortable.
“Could there be something, eh, something you might say in retrospect, that was a bit unusual?”
The skipper shrugged his shoulders.
“The bodies were a bit high in the water. When drowned people surface, usually no more than the top of the head is visible. Corpses usually float just below the surface. But with these corpses, the backs, too, were above the water.”
DeKok nodded his understanding.
“With a regular drowning no air remains in the lungs as a rule. But there was air in the lungs of these two individuals. They weren’t drowned, they were poisoned. They were dead before they hit the water.”
Van den Bosch stared at the opposite wall.
“There was something,” he said slowly, “I didn’t realize until much later.”
DeKok moved on the bench. The skipper seemed immune to the uncomfortable seat.
“What was that?” prompted the inspector.
“About two or three days passed between the discovery of the corpses. Both times there was a Dutch yacht in the harbor, at the Bonaparte Dock.”
“And not during the days in between?”
“No.”
“Do you remember the name of the yacht?”
“It was the Vita Nova. I’m always interested in seagoing yachts. It’s a kind of hobby. A few months ago the yacht was in Six Harbor, in Amsterdam. I remember admiring her for a while. She’s a beauty.”
DeKok held his breath.
“Do you know the name of the owner?”
Van den Bosch nodded slowly.
“A certain Assumburg, but I’ve no idea who that might be.”
The train left smoothly from Antwerp Central Station. DeKok leaned back and stared at the houses that slipped by. He slipped into a melancholy mood. In a few hours, the gray sleuth had come to love the city. He knew one day he would be back. Perhaps he would cleanse a robber’s nest. In any event, he’d certainly like to walk once again through the silent squares and the sixteenth-century streets. He’d also enjoy another bolleke in a narrow tavern with leaded stained-glass windows.
Vledder disrupted his reflections.
“Chief Commissaris Opdenbroecke asked if we had achieved anything.”
“What did you tell him?”
“The truth. I said, in fact, Brother Gregorius humiliated us.”
DeKok turned his gaze away from the window and looked at his partner.
“Is that the way you feel about it?”
“A bit, yes.”
DeKok shrugged.
“He was very courteous and kind. I canno
t say otherwise. Apart from that, we’ll have to prove, find solid evidence, that this temple is no more than a front for nefarious activities.” He scratched the back of his neck. “This morning I also had an interesting meeting,” he said, changing the subject.
“Oh, yes?”
“Yes, with the skipper of the Stella Maris.”
“Where?”
“At the Skipper’s Exchange.”
Vledder laughed.
“You said you wanted to go back there.”
DeKok nodded complacently.
“It was worth the effort. Skipper van den Bosch has an eye for seagoing yachts.”
“And?”
“Twice he has seen a beautiful yacht in Bonaparte Dock. Soon after each sighting he found a floating corpse next to his barge.”
Vledder’s eyes widened.
“Why didn’t the Belgian police tell us about that?”
Opdenbroecke didn’t know…he still doesn’t know. It’s a detail the skipper only realized later.”
“Can we trace that yacht?”
DeKok smiled.
“It shouldn’t be too difficult. It’s a Dutch yacht, the Vita Nova. Van den Bosch knew the yacht and even knew the name of the owner.” He paused for effect. “The owner is a certain Mr. Assumburg.”
Vledder almost fell out of his seat.
“What?” he exclaimed.
“Skipper van den Bosh had seen the yacht a few months earlier in Six Harbor in Amsterdam.”
Vledder looked pensively out of the window, not really seeing anything.
“It could fit,” he said eventually. “Assumburg did have a seaworthy yacht. Van Ravenswood told us about it when he came to file a complaint for fraud and forgery.”
DeKok rubbed a flat hand over his face.
“On the way back to the train station,” he sighed, “I’ve been wondering how to fit this new development into the whole. I can’t yet figure it out. Who was in command of the yacht? Was it a dead, newly arisen Assumburg…or was it someone else?”
The train approached the Dutch border at high speed. For awhile both men were silent, lost in thought. As they crossed back into Dutch territory, Vledder looked up.
“Should we inform the Belgian judicial police?”
DeKok nodded.
“Certainly—we cannot keep this to ourselves. By the way, what did the chief commissaris tell you about Paulus Verhoeven?”
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 12