DeKok did not change his expression, but came to full alert.
“Who is Robert?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Robert Achterberg, a nice young man she met while she was working. They went out a few times.”
“A relationship?”
Heusden made a defensive gesture.
“Oh, no, certainly not,” he said, apparently shocked at the notion. “No, no, it was just a relaxed friendship between two young people.”
“You know him?”
“Who?”
“This Robert.”
“Of course I know him. He even lived here for a while. About a week ago he suddenly left.”
DeKok leaned forward and concentrated his total attention on the face of the man across from him.
“Robert,” he said icily, “is dead.”
Heusden’s mouth fell open in unfeigned surprise.
“Dead?” he repeated.
“Yes, murdered.”
For a moment it looked as if the man was about to faint, but he recovered his composure quickly.
“Was he shot?”
DeKok nodded slowly.
“Yes, indeed. Shot dead.”
The man clapped both hands over his face and groaned.
“Maria…she did it after all.”
They drove away from Emperor’s Canal. Both men remained silent as Vledder guided the VW through the busy traffic in the narrow streets.
DeKok sagged down in his seat. He had pushed his decrepit little hat deep down over his eyes. The interview with Matthias Heusden, he thought, clarified a number of things. It also raised a number of new questions.
As they reached a wider street with less traffic, Vledder glanced aside.
“Are we going to arrest her?”
“Who?”
“Therese’s mother.”
DeKok pressed himself into a more upright position.
“Oh, the impetuousness of youth,” he chided. “The fact that Maria threatened to shoot Robert does not automatically mean she did.”
“She had a motive.”
DeKok shrugged his shoulders.
“She didn’t think Robert Achterberg was a suitable partner for her beautiful daughter. How many mothers do not immediately approve of their daughters’ choices?” He grinned. “I clearly recall my own mother-in-law was not keen when she met me for the first time.”
Vledder reacted vehemently.
“Here’s the difference—you are alive. Not all disappointed mothers make death threats.”
DeKok nodded.
“You’re right,” he said, resigned. “In light of Robert’s death, we must take the threats seriously. We’re obliged to speak with her expeditiously. For the present, I do not feel inclined to arrest Maria, however. Heusden’s statement alone is no basis for arrest. As far as I’m concerned, we are already holding a woman at Warmoes Street who doesn’t belong in custody.”
Vledder downshifted, narrowly avoiding a bicyclist. The cyclist appeared intent on suicide. Without looking or signaling, he swerved from one side of the road to the other. Vledder smiled when he saw the bike come to a sudden stop next to a good-looking girl burdened with shopping bags. “Knight on wheels rescues damsel from paper dragon,” he mused.
“Can’t you use Heusden’s story to release Antoinette?” asked Vledder while he shifted up and lost sight of
the couple.
DeKok grimaced.
“I can try, of course. Maybe it will succeed. On the other hand, I run the risk of having the commissaris order me to find, arrest, and incarcerate Maria de la Fontaine. We know it is a possibility, and we know he’s none too particular in weighing the evidence. He certainly would leap at a chance to charge her with murder.”
Vledder grunted in agreement.
“You know what our next step should be?” asked DeKok brightly.
Vledder had known his partner, mentor, and friend for a long time.
“Lowee,” he said without hesitation.
DeKok nodded.
“My throat is suddenly dry. I thirst after a glass of fine cognac.”
Lowee, a man of diminutive stature, was known throughout the quarter as “Little Lowee.” He and DeKok had been close acquaintances for years and had developed a genuine friendship built on respect.
Lowee had a bar on the corner of Barn Alley. He called it his establishment. The sparsely lit, intimate space was a gathering place for the working girls of the neighborhood.
This is where they came to rest and relax—Black Trudie, Red Sonia, Blond Greta—they all came to Lowee’s. Here is where they sipped sweet drinks, exchanged gossip, and discussed the economic aspects of their business.
DeKok sidled over to the end of the bar and hoisted his heavy frame onto a bar stool. It was his regular place. From here he could lean his back against the wall and oversee the entire room. Vledder sat down beside him. Little Lowee had just settled a fistfight between rivals in the world’s oldest profession. He placed the brawlers at separate tables and announced a round on the house.
As he turned toward the bar, he spotted DeKok. With a happy smile on his face he trotted over.
“Glad to see youse,” he chirped. “Gimme a sec whilst I calm down the dames. Gotta keep ’em from starting again.”
He quickly produced a tray and filled it with liquor glasses. With a bottle in each hand, he simultaneously poured a brown liquid into some of the glasses and a green one into the others. He placed the bottles on the counter behind him, picked up the tray, and distributed the drinks to loud cries of approval from the former contenders.
He returned to the bar and placed the tray under the counter. When he reappeared, he had three large snifters in one hand and an expensive-looking bottle of cognac in the other.
“Lookie wadda I find,” said Lowee in a proud voice.
DeKok nodded with greedy eyes.
“You can’t even read the label,” objected Vledder.
Lowee looked with affection at the almost faded label.
“Never youse mind,” he said with almost a snarl. “It’s from a small vineyard in the Grand Champagne region of Cognac. They make the best cognac in the world.” His underworld accent had miraculously disappeared. “Fifty years in the cask, think of it!”
Vledder could not let it go.
“I’ve seen cognac that’s older,” he snorted.
“Oh, yeah. Bottled cognac, I’m sure.”
“Certainly.”
“Well, young man,” began Lowee in perfect Dutch, “let me tell you something about cognac. Cognac ages only fifty to fifty-five years in the cask. After that time it simply does not improve anymore. In the bottle, cognac ages and improves very little, if at all. A hundred years in the bottle does not give you as good a cognac as just ten years in the cask. This bottle,” he stroked the bottle tenderly, “is some of the finest cognac you’ll ever taste.”
DeKok was happily surprised to hear Lowee speak without his heavy accent, but his mouth watered at the talk of cognac.
“I know, Lowee, I know. Please pour. You’ve tortured me enough.”
“Sorry,” said Lowee as he took a corkscrew and went to work on the bottle.
Both Vledder and DeKok became immediately aware of the aroma that emanated as soon as the cork was removed.
Lowee reverently poured large measures in the three snifters and handed one each to Vledder and DeKok. He picked up the last one himself and put his nose in the glass. DeKok did the same, and after a long sniff he raised his head, tears in his eyes.
“Lowee,” he said with admiration in his voice, “you’ve outdone yourself.”
He took a sip and savored the taste. Slowly he allowed the liquid to find its way down his throat. A look of total bliss appeared on his face. He took a second, slightly larger sip; bliss turned to ecstasy. He cautiously placed the glass back on the counter.
“Lowee,” he panted, “words fail me.”
A happy grin spread about Lowee’s mousy face.
�
��I knowed youse ’da like it.”
Vledder blinked, as astonished with the drink as with Lowee’s sudden switch from perfect Dutch to his usual thieves’ language.
Silently and slowly, the three men drained their glasses. When Lowee prepared to refill them, DeKok stopped him with a gesture.
“No, Lowee, save it for another occasion. One glass of this nectar is enough. But please, put the bottle in a safe place. I wouldn’t want anything to happen to it.”
Lowee stopped the bottle with a fresh cork and placed it under the counter.
When he stood up again, DeKok looked at him thoughtfully.
“Your cognac,” he said earnestly, “almost made me forget I wanted to ask you a question.”
“Das okay, lemme see wad I can do.”
“I’m looking for a woman.”
“I get all sorts a dames. Gotta gimme more.”
“She’s in the business.”
“Godda name?”
“Maria, Maria de la Fontaine.”
Lowee’s eyes were small and deep set, his features narrow. His prominent front teeth protruded over a sharp chin, giving him the look of a small rodent. When he wrinkled his nose, the effect was uncanny.
“Who?”
“Maria de la Fontaine,” repeated DeKok.
Lowee’s face changed again. Suddenly he burst out laughing.
“Dat’s Mother Goose,” he roared.
DeKok looked nonplussed.
“Who’s Mother Goose?”
“Maria de la Fontaine.”
“How did she get the nickname?”
Lowee made a denying gesture.
“No, no, dat’s her real moniker. Maria Goose.” He leaned confidentially on the bar. “Maria Goose usta work the Sea Dike inna place of One-Eyed Rita. Then she got knocked up. Chased johns ’til she was seven months. Dint hurt ’er business any. In them days, Maria were a knockout. Anyways, da kid was a real knockout offa kid. Maria called da kid Trees, after her mother.”
DeKok nodded. Trees (pronounced trace) is a common diminutive in Holland, short for the name Gertrude.
“Go on.”
“When da kid growed up, people called her Trees of Mother Goose.” He looked at DeKok with a question in his eyes. “Somethin’ gettin’ through?”
“Yes, of course. Trees became Therese.”
Lowee grinned.
“You got it. Baby Trees gets work assa model, and she don’ think Goose is real classy. So she changes it to de la Fontaine, youse know, after some Frenchy. Da guy writes fairy tales. In da quarter we knows Therese de la Fontaine is another fairy tale. Goddit?”
DeKok nodded agreement. He rubbed his face with a flat hand and laughed.
“Maria, Mother Goose, did she ever use the name de la Fontaine?”
Little Lowee shook his head.
“Da hubby wants her to, but Maria don’ go for that kinda stuff.” He looked at DeKok. “Wadda youse wanner for?”
“Murder.”
The small barkeeper pulled a face.
“Murder? Nasty business.”
DeKok nodded.
“A young man was killed on Beuning Street. He was about twenty-five years old. We think his name is Robert Achterberg. There are some rumors—”
Lowee interrupted.
“Robert Achterberg?”
“Yes.”
“A photo clicker…soft egg?”
DeKok made a hesitating gesture.
“He did appear to be weak, or maybe just frightened,” he admitted.
Lowee lifted his chin.
“Then you godda right guy.”
“You know him?”
Little Lowee nodded slowly.
“Yeah. He made a killin’ hisself…kiddie porn.”
8
Little Lowee waved a cheery farewell as the inspectors left the cozy warmth of his establishment. It rained a cold, penetrating drizzle. The elms along the canals dripped steadily. Sparse light from the old-fashioned streetlamps shone on the cobblestone pavement. Clouds of grey vapor wafted across the water of the canals.
Despite the depressing weather, it was busy in the quarter. Nothing seemed to dampen the erotic drives of the city’s visitors. Prostitutes stayed busy. Men lined up in queues several doors down, waiting turns for the prostitutes of their choice. The men tried to look disinterested. They chatted with each other and smoked cigarettes. They might have been waiting in line for soccer tickets.
DeKok saw them, but he did not notice them. They were part of the scene in the district. He pulled up his collar and pressed his hat deeper over his forehead. The revelations of the little barkeeper, he felt, had given his research a new impetus. He worried simultaneously about how to convince Commissaris Buitendam to release Antoinette Graaf. He had strong convictions; every minute the innocent young woman spent in custody increased his sense of guilt.
Vledder interrupted his thoughts.
“Is porn enough motive for you?”
DeKok laughed.
“Are you implying,” he asked, “that his alleged involvement in producing or selling pornography was a motive for his death?”
“Is that so strange?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No. It is one possibility, but unlikely in Amsterdam. Look around you. If involvement in the porn trade were a motive for murder, half the quarter would be dead. We should keep in mind that Robert was convinced the attempts on his life were prompted by his love for Therese.”
Vledder nodded.
“The question is, how to prove it? How were the two connected, really? Perhaps Therese was more than just a love interest. Perhaps she was also his partner and his model. It would explain why Therese fled from her home after Robert’s murder.”
DeKok whistled briefly.
“Afraid of the same fate?”
The young inspector enthusiastically waved both arms.
“Exactly,” he said excitedly. “Fear, the same fear that Robert felt. She must have known about the attempts on his life. Robert must have discussed that with her. It’s possible that both knew who was making the threats.”
DeKok scratched his neck, deep in thought. He had to adjust to Vledder’s enthusiasm. It wouldn’t be the first time his young partner had convinced himself a theory was true, based on pure zeal.
“Perhaps,” he said at last, hesitating. “The lovely Therese fled her house last night, a few hours after Robert’s murder. Did she flee because of fear, shocked over his violent death? It could be. If so, however, a compelling question arises: How did she know?”
“You mean how did she know the attempt on Robert was successful?”
“Yes.”
Vledder stopped.
“Perhaps she is the killer.”
The grey sleuth did not answer. He ambled along at his own sweet pace. With a few paces, Vledder overtook him. They walked along Rear Fort Canal, through Old Acquaintance Alley, toward Old Church Square.
Vledder looked at DeKok.
“Don’t you think it’s possible?” he asked.
“Therese killed Robert?”
“Yes.”
“If she is the shooter, what becomes of your theory? Why would Robert’s murderer be fearful of sharing his fate?”
“Um…”
Vledder had nothing further to say.
DeKok shrugged.
“It’s all speculation,” he mused. “A possible partnership, the shadow of a murderer involved in the porn world.” He paused for a moment. With a grin he wiped the rain from his face. “You know,” he continued, “it’s amazing the heights a person can reach by keeping both feet firmly on the ground.”
Vledder glanced aside.
“Something your old mother used to say?”
DeKok smiled.
“You seem to know her.”
From the Old Church they walked through Narrow Church Alley back to Warmoes Street. As they entered the lobby of the station house, Jan Kusters, the current watch commander, beckoned them closer. The tall
Brabant native consulted some notes on his desk and then looked up at DeKok.
“A woman is waiting to see you. She is upstairs, on the bench in the hall. She looks to be in her early forties. She said her name is Maria Goose, I believe. She said she has a connection with the murder of Robert Achterberg…said you would want to see her.”
DeKok nodded.
“How long has she been waiting?”
Kusters looked at the large clock on the wall.
“A good half hour, maybe thirty-five minutes.” The watch commander made an apologetic gesture. “I told her you weren’t in. Told her she would be better off coming back at a later time. It’s difficult not knowing when you guys will be in.” His tone became more accusing. “You don’t carry a radio and you make Vledder turn his off—”
Vledder interrupted.
“Too true,” he admitted. “Half the time I don’t even wear the thing, I mean, why bother?”
This time DeKok interrupted. His distaste of modern communication methods was well known. He particularly disliked the constant intrusions. He longed for the days when cops still used call boxes. At least he’d had the option of using the phone or not.
“Just tell me what she said,” demanded DeKok.
“She said she’d wait. Said she had plenty of time.”
“I do not,” growled DeKok. Then he looked at Kusters closely and changed his tone of voice. “If Antoinette Graaf is still awake, why don’t you let her relax in the waiting room for a while? Offer her a cigarette or a cup of coffee—whatever.”
The waiting room in Dutch police stations is a peculiar facility. It is indeed a room where people wait. People in the waiting room are not technically under arrest. But nobody ever leaves without official permission. People can smoke, eat, drink, or play cards in the waiting room. Nevertheless, everyone has to wait.
“Thanks,” winked DeKok as he looked around him. Many times he had reflected on the uniqueness of Warmoes Street. There was probably no equivalent anywhere in the world. He turned to Kusters and said, “God will reward you.”
“You hope.”
DeKok shook his head.
“I know.”
Vledder and DeKok walked up the stairs to the next floor. Waiting on the bench outside the detective room they found a provocatively dressed woman. They stopped at the top of the stairs and DeKok focused his attention on her. She wore a coat draped around her shoulders, offering a fine view of her cleavage. The ample bosom was barely concealed by a low-cut dress. DeKok looked at her face. It was somehow familiar, but he did not think he had ever met her.
DeKok and the Dead Lovers Page 6