Vledder grinned.
“He must have been quite a character. The police were glad to be rid of him.”
“How’s that?”
“Paulus Verhoeven had a habit of starting all sorts of sects, cults, and organizations. He founded Youth for Peace, The Saints of the Last Supper, Back to Simplicity—”
DeKok interrupted the summing up.
“And the Holy Pact for the Dying.”
“Yes.”
“It seems he was a man of imagination.”
Vledder nodded.
“And he always seemed to be able to convince people of his absurd notions. When they became enthusiastic enough, he had them collect money, giving them meager room and board in return for long hours of hard work. As in many cults, some people donated all their worldly possessions.”
DeKok grinned.
“So Verhoeven could live it up.”
“Exactly. When the police were too close on his heels, he fled to Switzerland with all his liquid assets.”
“And, ultimately, fell into a ravine near St. Moritz.”
“Yep.”
DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.
“Do you remember where in Switzerland Aunt Evelyn met Assumburg?”
Vledder slapped his forehead.
“Of course, also in St. Moritz.”
18
A desultory, depressing rain descended from a low cloud cover. It became so persistent that it looked as if it would never go away, leaving Amsterdam forever shrouded in rain.
DeKok pulled up his collar and pushed his dilapidated hat farther down on his forehead. He ambled in his typical disjointed gait along the gravel path of the cemetery. Water dripped from his face.
Kruisberg Senior was again going to be buried at Sorrow Field. DeKok felt he should be there. It was a question of piety, as well as respect for the living and the dead—two concepts that he believed should not be mocked by mortal human beings.
Vledder positively refused to accompany him.
“I just don’t feel like it,” he said. “We’ve been to Sorrow Field twice, both times for nothing. I don’t want to waste time again.”
DeKok understood, so he did not insist. Silently he left and commandeered a patrol car to drive him to the cemetery.
Sorrow Field looked especially sad and desolate. There were no colors. Even the birds had sought shelter. DeKok ambled on, his head bowed. When he looked up, he saw a man in the distance. He was waiting under an overhang of the chapel. When DeKok came closer, a smile of recognition played around his lips.
“Ronny,” he said, pleasantly surprised, “are you the only one here?”
Young Kruisberg nodded, a grave look on his face.
“Nobody else wanted to come. Mother didn’t. Aunt Evelyn wouldn’t. Jenny stayed home as well. ‘For me,’ she said, ‘your father never lived. He’s been dead for years…dead and buried.’”
DeKok looked at him sharply.
“And what about you, Ronny? When did your father die for you?”
The young man closed his eyes for a moment.
“At the moment,” he said softly, “I saw him dead in the canal. That’s when I realized, for the first time, there was a bond between us. It was a strange feeling; it was both confusing and paralyzing, a mixture of sadness, connection, and guilt.”
“Guilt?” queried DeKok.
Ronny nodded.
“Perhaps not guilt in the conventional way you mean. I wasn’t the one who took a weapon in his hands, the one who actually administered the blow.”
DeKok smiled kindly.
“So, what causes your guilt?”
Ronny sighed deeply.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about everything for the last few days and nights. A lot happened in a short period of time. I think I became more adult. I grew up enough to know my mother and I have done my father an injustice. We should have accepted his return. I mean, his return from the dead. Instead of fear of the past, we should have shown courage and strength for the future. We lacked trust. Not just trust in my father, but trust in ourselves. We couldn’t trust in the possibility of starting a new life.” Sadly he shook his head. “We never gave him a chance.”
DeKok’s face was expressionless.
“His murderer didn’t give him a chance either.”
A hearse approached at a disrespectful speed. Near the chapel the car stopped. The wide tires skidded slightly on the gravel. A man stepped out and approached them at a run. He pointed over his shoulder.
“You’re here for Mr. Kruisberg?”
They nodded.
“Oh,” said the man, visibly disappointed. “You may follow us.”
He ran back through the rain. He got into the car and the hearse moved off at a slow pace.
Ronny Kruisberg and DeKok followed on foot. Silently they walked side by side. The shiny black car led the way. The exhaust stank.
The path to the grave was long. The rain came down without pity, soaking the two men. DeKok once again wiped the water from his face.
“I have a strange profession,” he began carefully, “full of contradictions. One would expect there to be no room in our job for lying and cheating,” he gestured sadly. “But, sometimes, it’s unavoidable.”
For a while they walked on in silence.
“You told my partner,” DeKok began again, “you were prepared to give us your full cooperation.”
Ronny nodded as he looked aside at DeKok.
“Yes, I said that.”
“And did you mean it?”
“Absolutely.”
“Even if there are, eh, certain risks involved?”
The young man nodded again.
“Even then.”
DeKok slowed down. The stink of the exhaust bothered him.
“In that case I would like to ask you,” he said, “to say something to people around you, people you see rather often. Tell them, in confidence, that the day after his death you received a letter from your father, a letter he must have mailed shortly before he died.”
“A letter?”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“A letter,” he continued slowly, “wherein your father wrote a list of names, names of people who, like him, have come back from the dead.”
“And then what?”
The gray sleuth looked aside.
“I expect somebody will soon contact you.”
Young Kruisberg pointed at the hearse.
“His murderer?”
DeKok tilted his head back and allowed the rain to hit him full in the face.
“Not just his murderer,” he said solemnly.
“How was the funeral?”
“Depressing—we got soaked.”
“Lots of people?”
“Only Ronny was there to bury his father.”
“Nobody else?”
DeKok shook his head.
“What, no undertaker…no condolence register?” It sounded cynical.
Vledder pushed aside the keyboard of his computer and leaned closer to DeKok.
“Commissaris Buitendam asked for you. He said the judge advocate is contemplating ordering an exhumation.”
DeKok grinned.
“He’ll have no choice. Frankly I was surprised that the management of Sorrow Field agreed to bury the same man for the second time.”
Vledder nodded pensively.
“This is going to be a mess. Who’s in the first grave?”
DeKok snorted.
“Who’s in Assumburg’s grave? And if Rickie isn’t dead, then who’s in his grave?” He shrugged his shoulders. “They are, of course, intriguing questions. To tell the truth, I’ve lost interest in the exhumations.”
“But you wanted them,” said Vledder, confused. “You fought for them. Were you not extremely rattled when Buitendam didn’t approve?”
DeKok nodded.
“That was then, this is now,” he said, unperturbed. “I didn’t see the pattern then. I just thought i
t was an intolerable situation to have people popping up who were supposed to be dead.”
Vledder shook his head.
“And now? Now you know the pattern?”
DeKok evaded.
“Ronald Kruisberg,” he began, “lost his life in a car accident. We have no details; however, chances are the incident ended with an explosion and a fire, which mutilated the corpse extensively. Assumburg and Rickie were both found floating at Bonaparte Dock. Although poisoned with curarine before they hit the water, part of each man’s face was knocked away by the screw of a passing vessel. This is according to the Belgian police.” He paused and shook his head. “The judicial police in Antwerp aren’t fools, and the Belgian investigating judge does not release a corpse if that corpse, in his opinion, has been insufficiently identified. In effect, their methods are not very different from ours. When we find a corpse somewhere, we try to identify it. Note this well, we try to identify, in so far as possible.”
Vledder leaned closer.
“You mean that if a corpse has been mutilated to the extent that positive identification is problematic, neither friends nor relatives are asked to identify the remains. The police must use other methods of identification.”
“Such as?”
“Sometimes we find papers, identity papers, on a corpse.”
“Exactly what happened with these two victims?”
Vledder sat back with a satisfied smile on his face.
“Now I understand why you’re no longer interested in the exhumations. If there are corpses in the graves, they will be so mutilated that they’ll be useless for our purposes as well.”
DeKok gave his partner an approving look.
“Very good.”
DeKok’s phone rang. Vledder picked it up and listened. Then he handed the receiver to DeKok.
“It’s for you.”
DeKok accepted the instrument with a distasteful look. His face fell.
“Already?” he asked hoarsely. “Follow up. And, for heaven’s sake, be careful. Be very careful.”
19
DeKok walked up and down the detective room with wide strides, markedly different from his usual relaxed strides. He was tired, nervous, and apprehensive. The tenseness reverberated in his diaphragm and caused a queasy feeling in his stomach.
Nothing must go wrong. Nothing. A slight miscalculation, a minute misunderstanding, the slightest glitch in the execution of the plan could all be fatal. The worst part was he could not completely protect Ronny Kruisberg. The murderer had chosen a spot without
sufficient possibilities for cover. In his mind he went again over the telephone message from the murderer.
“Come tonight to the tip of Stonehead Pier and bring the letter. You know my price. I will pay you. Don’t try to deceive me. If I find out you’ve made copies, you’ll get what your father got.”
Young Kruisberg had taped the conversation on his answering machine. It was a crackling, obviously disguised voice, without a detectable accent. Even Ronny had been unable to recognize the voice. Vledder and DeKok listened to an enhanced version of the tape. After several repetitions, each drew a blank regarding the identity of the caller. The original tape had been transmitted by telephone, contributing to the problem. They played the enhanced version to Ronny, again via telephone. Ronny, too, remained at a loss.
DeKok didn’t want to risk making personal contact with young Kruisberg. He thought it likely the young man was being followed or was under surveillance. He had not seen him since the meeting at the cemetery. Vledder had made the necessary contacts by phone. He was terse and to the point.
DeKok stood still and looked at the large clock on the wall of the detective room. A quarter past nine. Time was pressing.
The old inspector was familiar with Stonehead Pier. It was a long stretch of dam that stuck out into the River Ij. Warships from foreign nations would usually tie up there during courtesy visits.
The wide dam was closed off with a fence. There was an iron gate where the dam attached to the land. It was the only way to enter the dam from the city. Ronny had to pass through the gate, and after that it would be nearly impossible to follow him unobserved.
DeKok stopped again to think. He rubbed a flat hand over his face again. He wondered how he could have done it. How could he morally justify using the young man for this purpose? What was more important: Ronny’s life or the apprehension of a murderer who, DeKok was convinced, would certainly continue his lugubrious activities?
The old man shook his head. It made no sense to abort the mission at the eleventh hour. Near his desk were Fred Prins and Appie Keizer. Although not part of homicide, Fred and Appie had volunteered their services. DeKok preferred to work with the personnel in Warmoes Street station. He did not like to request homicide personnel from other stations, or from headquarters. Fred Prins was big and strong. Appie Keizer could disguise himself to look like anyone, except a policeman.
DeKok beckoned Vledder.
“Are you going on the boat from the river police?”
Vledder nodded, well aware that DeKok was just asking out of nervousness. Everything was orchestrated. They’d organized, rehearsed, and planned. Nonetheless he answered the question in a casual tone.
“Yes, the boat is a fast one. We’ll be close to the dam, with the lights off. We’ll only appear when you give us the signal.”
Again the old inspector looked at the clock.
“The moment Ronny calls, we’ll take our posts.”
Vledder said nothing, but merely nodded. That was part of the plan as well.
DeKok was crouched behind a large mooring post just below the surface of the pier. In the distance lights twinkled across the water, but Stonehead Pier itself was shrouded in darkness. The sounds of the city only reached him as a faraway murmur.
If he raised himself slightly, DeKok had a reasonable view of the tip of the dam. Fred Prins, he knew, was hidden across the dam in a similar position. Near the gate, Appie Keizer, looking like a derelict, stumbled drunkenly along the fence.
Ronny Kruisberg stood near the tip of the pier. His silhouette was clearly visible against the lights from across the river. Every once in a while he would stamp his feet and walk back and forth.
It was close to eleven o’clock. DeKok wondered from which direction the murderer would appear. There were not many possibilities.
He felt his tension increase. But the vibration had left his diaphragm and was now in his legs. He was wound up like a racehorse in the starting gate.
Suddenly a beautiful white yacht pierced the shreds of vapor that hung over the water. The yacht turned inland, coming alongside the dam near Ronny Kruisberg, its bow pointing at the river. DeKok could easily read Vita Nova on the stern.
A voice from the yacht yelled “Jump!”
DeKok immediately realized the danger. If the young man were to jump, the team would be unable to protect him. He came upright from his place of concealment and yelled at the top of his voice.
“Stand still! Don’t jump!”
His yell caused confusion. Engine noise increased and the yacht gathered speed.
DeKok grabbed Ronny and held him. He felt the young man shake. To his right he heard running footsteps. Fred Prins had also emerged and was running to the tip of Stonehead Pier. He made a powerful jump at the last possible moment and landed on the aft deck of the yacht.
DeKok grabbed his flashlight and waved it wildly over his head. Within seconds a gray shadow emerged from the darkness and came alongside.
DeKok released Ronny and jumped aboard the river police boat.
“Follow the yacht,” he roared.
All the lights aboard came on, including red and blue rotating lights on the top of the wheelhouse. The siren drowned out the sudden roar of the engines. DeKok almost lost his footing as the boat rapidly accelerated.
Vledder came from the lee of the wheelhouse and helped steady the old man.
“Did you see anybody?” asked Vledder while he pick
ed up DeKok’s hat from the deck.
DeKok shook his head.
“Only heard a voice, couldn’t see anybody. It was all too quick.” He pointed at the light mist across the water. “Fred Prins got aboard.”
“Fred? How?”
“He jumped aboard as the yacht was leaving.”
“Did he land okay?”
“I think so.”
A gust of wind cleared the shred of fog for a moment. Suddenly the yacht was in sight. It seemed to be afloat, but rudderless.
Within moments the police boat was alongside. River police personnel fastened the two vessels together. At that instant Fred Prins emerged from the superstructure of the yacht. He limped a little and there was blood on his face. He looked at DeKok with a grin and pointed a thumb over his shoulder.
“He tried to hit me with a hammer, so I had to knock him out.”
DeKok stepped over on the yacht and took a close look at Fred’s head.
“Doesn’t look too bad, the skull seems intact. You may need a few stitches, though.”
A river policeman caught up with DeKok.
“We have a medic aboard,” he said to Fred. “Do you need help getting across?”
“No thanks,” said Fred, and he climbed the railings to the police boat.
DeKok reached the door to the superstructure and walked forward to the wheelhouse, Vledder close behind.
On the floor, in the shadow of a table, was an unconscious man on his stomach. DeKok pulled the body into the light and then turned him on his back to look at the face.
“Robert Antoine van Ravenswood,” panted Vledder.
20
They were all seated in the pleasant, cozy living room of DeKok’s house, comfortably sprawled in easy chairs. The gray sleuth lifted a bottle in the air and tapped the label.
Vledder laughed.
“I can’t read the label from here, but I bet it’s a fine cognac.”
“Yes, a present from Little Lowee. He dropped it off this week.”
Vledder was surprised.
“Why would he do that?”
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 13