DeKok made a vague gesture.
“According to Lowee, it’s a celebration. It’s been exactly twenty-five years since I visited his, eh, his establishment for the first time.”
“Is that right?”
DeKok grinned.
“I don’t know, but I believe Lowee.”
He poured the cognac into large snifters. The first glass he handed to Fred Prins. The young inspector was still a bit pale. His forehead was covered by a large bandage.
“How do you feel, Fred?” asked DeKok, concern in his voice.
“A lot better,” answered Fred. “Apparently I had a slight concussion. Sometimes I’m still a bit light-headed.” He felt his head. “Ann sends her greetings. You know what she calls you?”
“No.”
“A dangerous old man.”
DeKok laughed. He knew Fred’s tiny Irish wife. He had met her several times and understood her. It wasn’t the first time her young husband had been in harm’s way because of one of DeKok’s plans. DeKok shrugged.
“But I didn’t tell you to jump aboard that yacht.”
Fred Prins looked shocked.
“And what would you have had me do? Let that killer just sail away?”
DeKok shook his head.
“I’m truly grateful,” he said sincerely.
Vledder leaned forward.
“Did you know that van Ravenswood was the murderer, I mean before you pulled him out from underneath that table?”
DeKok nodded, then took the first careful sip from his glass.
“I knew,” he said after he had fully enjoyed that first taste.
“How?”
DeKok took another sip and savored it. Then he placed his glass on the small table next to his chair.
“Because of a mistake.”
“What mistake?”
“You see, the murderer placed Kruisberg’s body almost in front of his son’s door.”
Vledder looked puzzled.
“Why was that a mistake? I thought it was a very cunning move. Young Kruisberg had said publicly he would kill his father. When the body was found near his house, suspicion had to fall immediately on him.” Vledder looked intently at his mentor. “You yourself immediately assumed he was the perpetrator. Otherwise you would not have arrested him.”
DeKok nodded guiltily.
“I assumed he was, you’re right. Nevertheless it was a mistake on the part of the murderer—it put me on his trail.”
Vledder shook his head.
“I don’t understand.”
DeKok spread both hands.
“Young Kruisberg had said publicly that he would kill his father, you’re right about that. But to whom did he say it?”
“The people around him,” said Vledder, who started to get a glimmer of the idea.
“Exactly. He told people around him, friends, family, and acquaintances. It was a relatively small circle.” He raised a forefinger in the air. “And in that circle was the man, or the woman, who craftily took advantage of Ronny’s threats. When I was finally convinced young Kruisberg had not killed his father, I knew where to look for the real murderer. The perpetrator had to be somebody from Ronny’s circle of family and friends. I thought about the group and decided only one fit the bill…Robert Antoine van Ravenswood.”
Vledder and the others looked at DeKok with admiration.
“Fantastic,” whispered Fred Prins.
DeKok waved away the praise.
“The question was how to unmask him. How could I induce him to act? Then it came to me. I decided to use his own method. If Ronny’s threats had reached the murderer, then I could feed the killer information in the same way, through Ronny.”
Vledder looked wide-eyed and forgot to drink.
“The letter,” he said softly. “The fake letter Kruisberg supposedly mailed to his son before he died.”
DeKok picked up his glass and nodded. He took a long sip, draining the glass. Then he spoke again.
“Yes. The fake letter allegedly contained a list of names of people who had risen from the dead.”
Appie Keizer moved closer.
“Is that Ravenswood guy suspected of more murders?” he wanted to know.
DeKok gave him a bitter smile.
“He committed a whole series of murders. It’s up in the air whether we’ll ever know the exact number.”
Vledder looked pained.
“Truly, I still don’t understand a thing. What was Assumburg’s role? And what is the connection between van Ravenswood and the Holy Pact for the Dying?”
“He was the founder,” said DeKok.
“What?”
“Yes, he bought an old building on Blood Mountain, in Antwerp,” he added for Prins and Keizer. “Anyway,” DeKok continued, “he called it Heaven’s Gate. Using Brother Gregorius as the spiritual leader, he founded the Holy Pact of the Dying.”
Vledder shook his head.
“I understood the founder was Paulus Verhoeven.”
DeKok did not respond. Instead he lifted the bottle and poured another glass for everyone. After everybody’s drink had been replenished, he replaced the almost empty bottle on the table and lifted his own glass. He took a long, satisfying swallow.
“I’ve been involved with crime for many years,” he mused, studying the glass in his hand, “and each time I’m again amazed by the way in which a specific type of crime originates.”
He placed the glass on the small table next to his chair and sat up a little straighter.
“Let’s take Brother Gregorius, a man who described Paulus Verhoeven as a worthy, noble man. He said Verhoeven believed love for one’s fellow man should not be a platitude and actions speak louder than words. Those words Brother Gregorius could have applied to himself, because Gregorius was sincerely concerned about the fate of his fellow human beings. He has tried several times to organize a homeless shelter, a haven for the outcasts of society. But each time he’s had to abandon his plans for lack of funds.”
Vledder wanted to say something, but DeKok motioned him to be silent.
“Then our brother,” continued DeKok, “met Paulus Verhoeven, a man with a criminal background and a lively imagination. The meeting was not an accident. One might say both were laboring in the same
vineyard. Verhoeven was known to have founded several so-called charitable organizations. He got people to collect or donate money so he could live the good life from their efforts. Verhoeven found the righteous Gregorius amusing. Over time, a sort of mutual appreciation developed. The result was that Verhoeven decided to support Brother Gregorius financially. When the homeless shelter in Kerkrade was no longer feasible, Verhoeven bought the old building on Blood Mountain for Brother Gre—”
“Yes, yes,” said Vledder impatiently, “but you said that van Ravenswood was the founder in Antwerp.”
“I’m coming to that,” said DeKok patiently. He used the opportunity of the interruption to take another sip from his glass.
“Come on, then,” urged Vledder.
“Very well,” DeKok sighed. “Meanwhile the judicial police in Belgium were making life difficult for Verhoeven. There were all kinds of complaints against him stemming from his fraudulent sectarian activities. Convictions threatened. In his mind, Paulus saw the prison doors opening wide. It worried him.”
“But—” began Vledder. DeKok shushed him and continued.
“One day, Verhoeven saw a man who looked a lot like him among the castaways who visited the temple. Verhoeven’s criminal mind conceived what he thought to be a brilliant idea. He talked to the man, asked him about his family, inquired into the man’s background. A criminal background or brush with the law could have resulted in the police having fingerprint records. Think about that for a moment. To make a long story short, Verhoeven invited the man for a vacation in Switzerland, in St. Moritz.”
DeKok looked at Vledder.
“Now do you see the pattern?”
The young inspector nodded slowly.
/> “Yes, the derelict died.”
DeKok took a deep breath.
“Indeed. Verhoeven pushed the unsuspecting man into a ravine…complete with his own identity papers. The unknown man was found several days later. He was buried under the name Paulus Verhoeven, permitting the real Paulus Verhoeven to return under the alias he liked so much, Robert Antoine van Ravenswood.”
Mrs. DeKok entered the room carrying platters of culinary delights. Vledder, who knew the drill, hastily went to the kitchen to get the rest of the food. He placed the platters on the sideboard. Some of the platters were placed on warming plates. Then he returned to his seat, barely able to contain his impatience.
“What about Assumburg?” he asked.
DeKok did not answer but went to the sideboard, inviting the others to follow him. The men each took a plate and loaded it with the various hors d’oeuvres, canapés, and other finger foods Mrs. DeKok had prepared. DeKok, as usual, went heavily for the croquettes, but did not neglect the fresh steamed shrimp and satays. As the others returned to their seats with their heaping plates, DeKok poured a sherry for his wife. She took it with a fond smile and found a seat near the table.
When DeKok had reseated himself, he took a big bite of a croquette.
“Assumburg,” said Vledder again.
“Give me a moment,” said DeKok, with his mouth full.
Contentedly they all munched away under the benign smile of Mrs. DeKok, who sipped delicately from her glass of sherry.
“Hendrik-Jan Assumburg,” said DeKok after a long interval, “is crooked. He’s a con man, a grifter, and a swindler. He’s also a completely untrustworthy rogue, a womanizer.”
“Alright, but—” said Vledder.
“But,” continued DeKok blandly, “let me first tell you about Ronald Kruisberg. After his flight, more than seven years ago, he wound up in Antwerp. Soon, though, he was destitute. He of course eventually found his way to Heaven’s Gate. Brother Gregorius helped him and, after a while, gave him a regular position in the temple.”
He stopped to eat the last of the shrimp and placed the empty plate on the low coffee table in front of him.
“Meanwhile Paulus Verhoeven,” DeKok went on, “alias Robert Antoine van Ravenswood, discovered a hole in the market. There were, he discovered, a number of people for whom life had become extremely complicated. These people were prepared to pay handsomely to die. Well, our Paulus was an expert, so to speak, and ‘took care of their deaths right to the grave.’ Among the many destitute visitors to the temple he found many convenient candidates for violent deaths. Usually he arranged accidents, but with a twist. In all cases, identification of the body was either very difficult or downright impossible. All carried identification papers that survived in some form or another.”
Mrs. DeKok shook her head, bewildered.
“How can anybody do such a thing?”
DeKok shrugged. In his long career he had seen so much crime that few things still surprised him.
“Assumburg,” he continued, “also heard of the Holy Pact for the Dying. He had reached a point in his life in which dying appeared the only solution. He traveled to Antwerp and visited the temple.”
“Now we’re getting to him.”
“I’m almost there,” soothed DeKok. “Once van Ravenswood had made certain preparations, he traveled to St. Moritz with his intended victim. It was there Verhoeven had so successfully come back to life. But then, something happened that no one had foreseen…”
“What?” they all asked in chorus.
“Assumburg fell in love.”
“Evelyn,” said Vledder.
DeKok nodded.
“Assumburg, who had gotten to know Evelyn under his own name, suddenly didn’t want to die anymore. Van Ravenswood, who also knew Evelyn, was furious. He could do little other than return to Antwerp with the intended victim.”
DeKok paused and poured himself another glass of cognac. He held up the bottle to the others, but they all declined.
“I’ll make coffee,” said Mrs. DeKok and left the room.
DeKok took a long sip before he went on.
“Ronald Kruisberg, duly baptized as ‘Brother Golgotha,’ did not have his eyes in his pocket. He was aware of what was happening. And he, too, wanted to return home with a clean record. Although he lacked money, he managed to convince Brother Gregorius. He eventually emerged as Jan Vries.”
DeKok drained his glass.
“Then, about two months ago, Assumburg invited van Ravenswood to come to Amsterdam. Assumburg’s love had withered. He wanted to be rid of his new life with Evelyn. Van Ravenswood was initially reluctant to deal with Assumburg again. The affair in St. Moritz was still fresh in his mind. But when, against all expectations, he was himself mesmerized by Evelyn’s charm, he decided to take on the job, but with one condition: Aunt Evelyn could not be left without being financially secure.”
“Aha, I smell a rat,” interjected Vledder.
“You’re right. Assumburg agreed, but broke his word. He secretly took out heavy mortgages on his properties and mocked the funeral van Ravenswood had arranged by hiring a minister to adorn his eulogy. He then had the gall to take his entire balance out of Ijsselstein Bank the day after his funeral.”
Appie Keizer grinned.
“A real rascal,” he said mildly.
DeKok scratched the back of his head.
“‘A man’s word is his bond’…that disappeared a long time ago.”
It sounded bitter.
Mrs. DeKok came back with a tray whereupon were cups, saucers, sugar, and cream.
“Shall I get the coffeepot?” asked Fred Prins.
“No, you sit there,” she answered as she put the tray on the table.
Vledder just beat Appie on the way to the kitchen. He returned with the coffeepot.
All except DeKok poured themselves coffee. When DeKok’s hand went back to the bottle, his wife placed a cup of coffee in his hand. He accepted it without protest.
After all were seated again, Vledder raised his hand for silence.
“Did van Ravenswood poison the men who were found in the water?” he asked.
DeKok shook his head.
“According to van Ravenswood, who made a complete confession this morning, it was Brother Gregorius. Van Ravenswood took care of the necessary mutilations.”
“How did Gregorius get a hold of curarine?”
“He met a Dutch tramp, a former laboratory assistant who had stolen the stuff from his employer. In a tragic twist, the same lab assistant served as a substitute for Assumburg and was poisoned with the curarine he’d procured.”
Mrs. DeKok looked shocked.
“As far as I know, you’ve never had such a sickening case before.”
The gray sleuth smiled.
“My soul has not been sullied by it.” He pointed at Vledder. “It seems best for you go to Antwerp tomorrow and give Chief Commissaris Opdenbroecke a complete report. My wife and I will pick you up at the station tomorrow night. I’ve taken a day off.” He stole a glance at his wife. “I have to take her into town…to buy me a new suit.”
The three of them walked across the Damrak after leaving Central Station.
“How did it go?” asked DeKok.
Vledder nodded with admiration.
“The judicial police made quick work. I was there when Brother Gregorius was arrested on Blood Mountain. It made me sad. There was a group of needy people waiting in front of the door, none of whom understood what was happening.” He paused. “But with all that, we owe Brother Gregorius a lot of thanks.”
“How’s that?”
“He kept accurate records. There was a complete list of people van Ravenswood used as victims. Beside each name was the name of the arisen person, complete with real name and new alias.”
DeKok pushed out his lower lip.
“That’s going to stir the dust.”
Vledder nodded.
“Opdenbroecke immediately used the information
. Just before I left they came in with Rickie. They had picked him up in the bar of his hotel.”
“Behind a bolleke.”
Vledder laughed.
They entered the Victoria Hotel for a cup of coffee.
“What do you think about our adventures in Antwerp?” asked DeKok.
“Wonderful,” said Vledder enthusiastically. “I’ve met nothing but nice people. Would you believe I even like Brother Gregorius? If I weren’t a Dutchmen, I’d want to be Flemish.”
DeKok laughed out loud.
“What do you want? There are no better Dutchmen than the Flemish.”
Mrs. DeKok gave her husband a disapproving look.
“Jurriaan,” she said sternly, “don’t let the Belgians hear you.”
About the Author
A. C. Baantjer is the most widely read author in the Netherlands. A former detective inspector of the Amsterdam police, his fictional characters reflect the depth and personality of individuals encountered during his nearly forty-year career in law enforcement.
Baantjer was honored with the first-ever Master Prize of the Society of Dutch-language Crime Writers. He was also recently knighted by the Dutch monarchy for his lifetime achievements.
The sixty crime novels featuring Inspector Detective DeKok written by Baantjer have achieved a large following among readers in the Netherlands. A television series based on these novels reaches an even wider Dutch audience. Launched nearly a decade ago, the 100th episode of the “Baantjer” series recently aired on Dutch channel RTL4.
In large part due to the popularity of the televised “Baantjer” series, sales of Baantjer’s novels have increased significantly over the past several years. In 2001, the five millionth copy of his books was sold—a number never before reached by a Dutch author.
Known as the “Dutch Conan Doyle,” Baantjer’s following continues to grow and conquer new territory.
The DeKok series has been published in China, Russia, Korea, and throughout Europe. Speck Press is pleased to bring you clear and invigorating translations to the English language.
DeKok and the Geese of Death
Renowned Amsterdam mystery author Baantjer brings to life Inspector DeKok in another stirring potboiler full of suspenseful twists and unusual conclusions.
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain Page 14