DeKok and the Dead Lovers

by A. C. Baantjer

When they reached Amsterdam, Vledder dropped DeKok at home. Next he would return the car to the station.

  Before he took his leave, DeKok asked his partner one more thing. “Before you go home, please make an appointment with Harold Buis.”

  Exhausted by the excursion to Baarn, DeKok had crawled into bed and slept like log. He’d spent most of the day puttering around the house.

  DeKok ambled across the Damrak. He looked at a clock in a shop window and noted the time. It was just past seven o’clock in the evening. He must hurry. He was to meet Harold Buis at eight o’clock. He still didn’t know what kind of St. Nicholas surprise he would buy for his wife. He allowed his thoughts to drift. He thought of buying a vase or pitcher. After all, it was his fault a silver ewer worth a million and a half euros passed her by.

  He grinned to himself, remembering the surprise. He felt strangely content not to be able to buy her such an expensive present. Wealth couldn’t be equated with happiness. Many rich people were unhappy. He thought about Manfred Nettelhorst, a dedicated gatherer of unblemished beauty. Therese made a perceptive observation. Nettelhorst restricted the young beauty’s behavior, depriving her of a normal life. Without a sexual agenda, he objectified her. He did not merely look at Therese’s naked, unblemished body. He viewed it to ensure his investment was intact. It was a surreal ritual, stemming from an unconscionable contract. As bizarre as it was, DeKok could not reconcile it

  with murder.

  The St. Nicholas surprise had faded from his thoughts. When he checked the time again, he discovered it was nearly eight. As he entered the lobby of the station house, the clock on the wall confirmed the time.

  Harold Buis shook his hand. DeKok looked in surprise at his colleague. The likeness was indeed striking—the same height, the same posture, the same moustache, the same hair.

  The grey sleuth grinned.

  “I can almost believe that DeBeau has risen from the grave.”

  Harold Buis smiled.

  “You mean Charles Montagne?”

  DeKok reacted, surprised.

  “You knew him?”

  Buis nodded his assent.

  “He is a Frenchman, but he’s been in the Netherlands for more than a year. He comes to visit the immigration office periodically. He has to renew his residency permit. The guys in the office always call out, ‘Harold, your brother is here!’ They think they are so funny.”

  “DeBeau is dead.”

  “Dead?”

  DeKok made a vague gesture.

  “Somebody fired three bullets into his chest last night. It proved to be fatal. He died within minutes, in the arms of his girlfriend.”

  Harold Buis looked properly solemn.

  “But what do you want of me?”

  “I want you to replace him.”

  Harold’s moustache twitched.

  “I’d rather stay alive.”

  DeKok nodded in agreement.

  “That’s the idea—we want you alive.”

  19

  It was quiet on the canal, but cold and windy. DeKok shivered in his thin trench coat. He stood at the corner of Hart Street and waited for the Wester Tower clock to chime ten o’clock. That was to be the signal.

  Less than a hundred feet from his position at the canal’s edge were two unmarked police cars. They were part of DeKok’s arrangements.

  Dick Vledder and Fred Prins were in one of the cars.

  The grey sleuth hoped he would not need the two junior detectives. He wanted to avoid any unnecessary risks.

  DeKok had also arranged for DeBeau’s coat to be sent to him at Warmoes Street Station. Later, when DeKok asked Harold Buis to put on the garment, Buis balked. Bullets had torn through the fabric. The coat was blood stained. Against his better judgment, Buis now wore the dead man’s coat over a bulletproof vest. The illusion was complete—he was a ringer for DeBeau. He sat in a parked car right across from number 1316.

  The senior inspector decided against a bulletproof vest for himself. He was beginning to regret the decision. He was not fearful of being shot, but he was freezing. The vest would have afforded some protection against the bitter cold.

  The Wester Tower clock began to chime. DeKok was distracted, anxious. He tingled with a combination of anticipation and intense pressure. In his long career he had orchestrated many such events. He had the confidence of experience. He had successfully concluded more cases than he could count. He planned meticulously, but unexpected factors could complicate matters.

  “The best-laid plans of mice and men…” DeKok did not have time to complete the thought. He hoped the element of surprise would determine the outcome. He had no other viable option, except to arrange to ambush his suspect’s peace of mind.

  When the tenth peal of the tower clock dimmed, DeKok stretched. Outwardly unconcerned, he stepped from the shadows of Hart Street onto the quay of Emperor’s Canal.

  He stopped in front of number 1316 and rang the bell. He knew the surveillance cameras displayed his image on screens inside the mansion. With a certain amount of effort, he forced an innocent smile.

  After many long minutes the door opened. The real estate broker stood in the doorway, dressed in a beige dressing gown.

  Their eyes met.

  DeKok stood smiling in the doorway. Behind him he heard footsteps. The footsteps came nearer, steady and purposeful. DeKok could almost feel Harold Buis’ breath on his neck. He stepped aside.

  Tombs completely lost his composure. DeKok could see the man’s face freeze in bewilderment. His eyes widened as he began to panic. He raised both hands to his face, fingers spread, as if to protect his eyes from seeing some unspeakable evil.

  “NO!” His scream echoed along the canal. “No, that’s impossible. It cannot be…”

  DeKok pushed Harold Buis aside and stepped closer to the broker.

  “Henri Tombs,” he said formally, “I arrest you on suspicion of murder.”

  20

  DeKok opened the door of his house and found Vledder on the stoop. The young man smiled shyly. A beautiful bouquet of red roses hung from his left hand.

  “For your wife. The longer I work with you, the more I admire her.”

  DeKok laughed.

  “Is that a compliment?”

  “For her, yes.”

  Vledder entered the hallway.

  “Harold Buis here yet?”

  The grey sleuth nodded.

  “He’s sitting next to my wife, talking nonstop. Fred Prins can hardly get a word in edgewise.”

  Vledder rubbed his nose and snorted.

  “Braggart. He’s telling everybody that we solved the murders because of his intervention.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “In a way he’s absolutely right.”

  Together they entered the living room. Mrs. DeKok immediately stood up and shook Vledder’s hand. She was clearly delighted to receive the roses. She pointed to a deep easy chair.

  “Please, sit down,” she said heartily. “My husband was wondering where you were.”

  Vledder made an apologetic gesture.

  “Since we’re computer reliant at Warmoes Street, I get to do all the typing and enter all the data. It takes time.” He turned to DeKok. “And I need answers to a whole bunch of questions.”

  DeKok made a dismissive gesture.

  “We can take care of that later, better yet tomorrow. This, however,” he held up a bottle of fine cognac and pointed at the faded label, “this cannot wait much longer.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “Did Lowee donate one of his precious bottles?”

  “No, this is a present from Therese de la Fontaine and her mother, although Little Lowee delivered it in person.”

  “Leave it to Lowee,” said Vledder with a grin. “His reach extends to every corner of Amsterdam, and he knows exactly who can supply the very thing his favorite cop appreciates most.”

  While Vledder seated himself, DeKok was busy at the sideboard. Carefully he uncorked the rare, costly bottle of c
ognac and set prewarmed snifters in a row. He poured with élan. Little Lowee could not have done better. He distributed the glasses.

  Then he raised his glass.

  “To emotions,” he said. “To the emotions that rule our lives.”

  “Hear, hear,” said the others, and they all took a sip.

  DeKok closed his eyes and allowed the liquid to explore the inside of his mouth. Vledder, who knew what to expect, followed suit. He smiled in delight.

  As the others sipped, their expressions changed. They stared intently at their glasses.

  “Wow,” said Fred Prins, “that’s some drink.”

  Buis nodded and took another sip before he spoke.

  “And you use this heavenly drink to toast emotion,” he said. “Were it not for an ability to twist emotions, you wouldn’t be able to make people tell you their deepest secrets.” It sounded like an accusation.

  DeKok looked at him, a pained expression on his face.

  “There is such a thing as being caught in a vicious cycle. We humans are not so much ruled by emotion as we are by conviction. Once we commit to a point of view, our thoughts and actions are predictable, if not predetermined. Sometimes a misguided conviction leads to choices that are wrong and diametrically opposed to commonly accepted norms. Without intervention it may be impossible to break out of such a cycle. Henri Tombs was relieved to confess. His guilt weighed on him heavily. I told him DeBeau was dead and admitted to using Harold as a decoy. Harold’s uncanny resemblance to his victim shocked and overwhelmed Tombs. Believe it or not, he was grateful.”

  Mrs. DeKok looked at her husband.

  “Is he going to jail?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “That’s the decision of the judge-advocate. I think he’ll be in psychiatric treatment first.”

  Vledder leaned forward.

  “When did you know it was him?”

  “The moment I looked out the windows of Robert’s room at 1217. I noticed 1316 Emperor’s Canal was almost exactly opposite Therese’s house. Henri Tombs could see exactly what happened in her house. And that is what he did. He used a telescope and some instrument I don’t understand. But he could also hear almost everything that was said in the house across the canal.”

  Mrs. DeKok shook her head in amazement.

  “What possessed the man?”

  The old inspector sat down in an easy chair and took another sip of his cognac. He placed the glass on a side table and spread his hands.

  “The senior Tombs was obsessed by conviction. He had it in his head that Therese de la Fontaine had been created for his son. Not only did he believe the marriage was predestined, he believed God had already married the couple. He considered the will of God inviolate. When his son died in a car accident, he simply could not bear the thought of Therese belonging to another man.”

  “That’s why he eliminated all potential suitors,” said Vledder after draining his glass.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Yes. He was also eliminating those who could shatter his delusion. He was ruled by conviction.” He sighed deeply. “This case has caused me some headaches. I was shocked and angered by Manfred Nettelhorst’s so-called contract with Matthias Heusden. Even before I learned of it, I witnessed the ugly scene with the old lady at Arti et Amicitiae. Nettelhorst’s rage and loss of control caused me to peg him as a potential perpetrator.”

  “So what made you decide to let go of that idea?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I never really did let go of it, but the killer had to satisfy one important condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “He had to know where Robert Achterberg was staying…it was the pertinent part of the puzzle.”

  “In what way?”

  DeKok raised a forefinger in the air.

  “The meeting between Robert Achterberg and Antoinette was entirely accidental. Nobody could have foreseen they would meet. It was equally unlikely anyone would have foreseen Antoinette’s precipitous decision to take him home. Nevertheless, her Beuning Street apartment is where Robert was murdered.”

  “Is that the guy who was chained to the radiator?” asked Buis, who had only the sketchiest details of what happened before he became involved.

  “Yes,” said Vledder impatiently. Then, pointing at DeKok, he said, “Go on.”

  DeKok resumed. “One question that kept bothering me from the beginning: How did the killer know where to find Robert? Keep in mind Antoinette guarded Robert so closely he had no chance to tell anybody where he was. It is likely Robert wasn’t too sure himself where, exactly, he was.”

  DeKok picked up his glass and savored another long sip. He took a look at the level of liquid in the snifter and decided there was at least one long swallow left. He held the glass in his hand as he continued.

  “The only one who knew Robert’s whereabouts was Antoinette. She convinced me of her innocence. She was, and is, an innocent, caring person. She grew to love Robert. The troubled young man awakened her motherly instincts.”

  He paused and took the last swallow from his glass. He looked ruefully at the empty snifter and then placed it on the side table.

  “Of course,” he went on, “Therese could have followed Antoinette after the latter visited Emperor’s Canal. I kept that in mind. Therefore, I kept Matthias Heusden in mind as a possible perpetrator. There was a third possibility…”

  He paused, stood up, and picked up the bottle from the sideboard. He offered the bottle to his guests, and Vledder had his glass refilled. Buis and Fred Prins declined.

  “It’s very good,” said Prins, “but I have to go on duty tonight. I better take it easy.”

  Buis raised his still half-full snifter with a shake of the head.

  DeKok poured himself a generous measure and, leaving the bottle on the table between them, sat down again in his own chair.

  “Where was I?” he asked as he leaned back in

  his chair.

  “You mentioned a third possibility,” prompted Buis.

  “Oh, yes. Robert’s murderer could also have followed him from the moment he fled from Therese’s house. The possibility it was Matthias seemed remote to me. Heusden didn’t have to agree to let Robert stay in the house. It would have taken only one mistake, an inadvertent word for Robert to realize who was persecuting him. Robert never once mentioned Matthias Heusden in any conversations with Antoinette. Besides, the story Heusden told me about the night Robert fled seemed believable.”

  “But that is a third possibility that you have just eliminated,” protested Vledder.

  “Indeed,” admitted DeKok. “The central question is why did Robert panic? It leads to another question: How did the murderer know Robert fled? In other words, how could the murderer know when Robert would leave? I concluded the murderer caused Robert to panic. Someone put him under that much pressure.”

  “That’s why you wanted to know if Robert had a telephone in his room,” said Vledder smugly.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Not just that, I wanted to see the room. I wanted to know if there were signs of a struggle. The sheets and the covers of the bed were thrown back in a normal way, nothing spectacular. It strengthened the idea that the panic attack had been caused by an outside source. The telephone could have been the means. That’s why I wanted to know whether Robert could be reached on a direct line. It didn’t seem the killer would want to talk to anyone else in the house.”

  Vledder sighed.

  “Robert’s room had its own phone number.”

  “In any case I had theories but couldn’t follow my instincts. Henri Tombs confirmed a lot of what I could neither explain nor pursue.”

  “Such as?” asked Prins.

  “The night of Robert’s murder, Henri Tombs kept an eye on Robert’s room with his telescope. While he watched, he called Robert on the direct line. He pretended to be a good friend of Therese. He advised Robert to leave the house at once or he would be killed.”

/>   “How cruel,” Mrs. DeKok observed.

  “Yes. His phone call had the desired result. Robert left soon after the conversation ended. Tombs picked up his revolver and followed Robert. He shot at the boy almost immediately, but missed. He kept following Robert and tried a few more shots. Henri Tombs would almost certainly have killed him that night on Nassau Quay had Antoinette not happened by. He wanted no witnesses, but was not prepared to silence an innocent bystander. He followed the couple, so he knew where Antoinette took her foundling. He kept the house under observation until he knew when Antoinette was not at home.”

  Harold Buis shook his head.

  “A maniac,” he said. A hint of admiration came into his voice as he continued. “Still, it was rather clever of you to figure it out. I hope you will forget my remark about playing with other people’s emotions. I understand the man had to be apprehended. Who knows how many more murders he would have committed.”

  DeKok raised his glass.

  “To dead lovers,” he toasted. It sounded macabre.

  Mrs. DeKok looked at her husband with disapproval.

  “We salute life,” she chastised, “not death.”

  She stood up and went to the kitchen. After a few minutes she returned with a platter of delicacies. She placed it on the table. Vledder jumped up and followed her to the kitchen. He knew there was more food to come. There was a chafing dish and a dish to warm on a hot plate. Vledder, assisted by Fred Prins, arranged the additional platters on the sideboard.

  The guests crowded around the platters and filled their plates with choice morsels. Mrs. DeKok selected a few favorites to hand to her husband. As she did so, she asked a question.

  “What will happen to Therese? Is she going to stay with her mother from now on?”

  DeKok gave a weak smile.

  “I don’t think it would be smart,” he said sadly. “But it looks like she will. Therese refuses to go back to the house on Emperor’s Canal. Once Nettelhorst finds out about her affair with DeBeau, he will probably no longer consider her to be unblemished.”

  “But I understand the house is hers?” protested Vledder. “Why doesn’t she insist her stepfather leave?”