DeKok fell silent. They were approaching Utrecht, the city of the same name in the center of the province of Utrecht, the province in the center of Holland. Vledder glanced aside. Suddenly he had a baffled look on his face.
“Now I still don’t know,” he exclaimed, “how you decided on Jaap Santen.”
DeKok pushed his hat farther back on his head.
“After those two guys visited the rooming house, I asked Kruger to check the rooms out again.”
“Aha,” exclaimed Vledder. “And that’s when he found the new prints.”
“As simple as that,” smiled DeKok.
Jan Dijk Street in Utrecht turned out to be a street that ran parallel to a rail dike. Every once in a while a train would come flying past with a deafening noise.
Vledder parked the Beetle a few houses past number 379 and got out. DeKok followed him laboriously. The space in the passenger seat was really not large enough for his tall, 200-pound frame. With longing he recalled the time of the canal boats. In those days he could have made the trip comfortably ensconced in a snug cabin. He would have arrived fresh and vitalized by a long nap. When he finally unfolded himself from the car and stretched a little, Vledder locked the doors.
The weather broke. It stopped raining and, every once in a while, the sun peeked through the clouds. It gave the somber palette of the street a little color.
The front door of 379 was ajar. DeKok pushed it open and climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor. The railing was greasy and the treads creaked under his weight.
Vledder followed.
It was pitch dark in the second floor corridor. A faint streak of light crept from under a door on the landing. DeKok paused to accustom his eyes to the darkness. Slowly the surroundings showed some contours.
The top panel and bottom panels of the apartment entrance carried fresh scars. The cracks and dents were left by someone trying to enter forcibly.
DeKok smiled grimly. Carefully he tried the doorknob and pushed. The door did not budge.
With a shrug, DeKok put a hand in a pocket and produced a small brass cylinder. He made some adjustments to the cylinder and gave silent thanks to Handy Henkie, an ex-burglar who had gifted him with the useful tool.
In a gesture of horror, Vledder covered his eyes with both hands.
DeKok looked at him in surprise.
“What’s the matter with you?” he whispered.
“Vledder shook his head.
“I don’t want to be a witness.”
“Now what?”
“I don’t want to be a witness to breaking and entering.”
DeKok smiled. Vledder’s scruples sometimes amused him. DeKok felt no pangs of conscience as he sorted out the right combination. He leaned towards Vledder.
“With just the law in your hand, you don’t open many doors,” he said softly. He raised the little instrument in the air. “But with this I am Ali Baba.”
He applied the instrument to the lock in the door.
“Open Sesame,” he whispered after a few seconds. With a nonchalant gesture he replaced the instrument in his pocket and pushed against the now unlocked door. He took a step back and with a polite bow invited Vledder to enter.
The front door let right into the kitchen. From there they reached a sparsely furnished living room. An old sofa and an easy chair were grouped behind a round coffee table. The material on the sofa and chairs was worn. An ashtray on the table was filled with cigarette butts. Some had brown plastic mouthpieces with red lipstick.
On a dresser without doors they saw a large color television set. Next to the TV were the telephone and a telephone directory. It was one of those old-fashioned metal contraptions that would open at the required letter by moving an arrow up or down the side.
The bedroom was a mess. There was no bed. Large tufts of kapok leaked out of the mattress that was placed on the floor. There were no sheets, no pillowcases, just a few dirty blankets. Pieces of clothing were spread along the floor.
Vledder sighed.
“Nobody home,” he said. He followed DeKok back to the living room. “Do you want to wait here for Santen?” he asked.
DeKok shook his head.
“No, I don’t think so. We better lock up and leave everything as we found it. We can wait for him in the car. Santen is remarkably tall and thin—has a gaunt look. He’s easy to spot.”
“Do you have a description of Jan Rouwen, his partner?”
DeKok nodded.
“Rouwen is a little blond guy with an average face. To give himself some personality he is trying to grow some hair on his upper lip.”
Vledder laughed.
“So, he has a moustache?”
“That’s a stretch. It may some day be a moustache, but I doubt it.”
“You want to first take a look at High Catherine. Perhaps we can find him there and pick him up. If not, we can always get back here.”
DeKok did not answer. He pulled his lower lip out and let it plop back. Vledder thought it disgusting, his least endearing mannerism. He had hoped to surprise Santen in his house. A trek through a large shopping mall seemed unappealing.
He turned abruptly and walked back to the room with the telephone. He picked up the phone index, moved the pointer to “H” and pushed the button at the bottom. The top of the device popped open. With a satisfied smile he turned to show the page to Vledder. At the bottom a name was written in with a pencil.
“Haarveld,” read Vledder, “Willy Haarveld.”
11
Detective-Inspector DeKok of the Amsterdam Municipal Police did not like stake-outs. It was part of the profession, but he could seldom muster the required patience. It was a slow death by boredom. The mere thought of sitting for hours near a certain house, store, or meeting place made him shiver with revulsion. He was known to shamelessly use his seniority only to delegate this chore.
He looked at his watch. It was almost three thirty in the afternoon. They’d been crammed into the VW for more than an hour and a half. Although there were two of them, both kept looking at the house almost the whole time, to no avail.
With a sigh he turned toward Vledder, who seemed calmer than usual.
“I’m getting a concrete backside with all this sitting. Who knows how late Santen will be back. It could be very late.”
Vledder shrugged.
“What sort of business do you suppose he has with Willy Haarveld?” He paused. “02153 is the area code for Laren, right?”
DeKok nodded absent-mindedly. He really had no inkling. Direct dialing was another of his prejudices. He preferred to chat with a local operator, then a long-distance operator, eventually reaching his party—so much more civilized.
Vledder was well aware of DeKok’s prejudices.
“Good thing I looked it up in the phone book I found in the dresser,” he remarked slyly.
DeKok ignored the remark. He moved uneasily in the seat. Vledder slapped the steering wheel.
“This is all too much coincidence,” exclaimed Vledder suddenly.
“What?”
Vledder took his eyes off the building they were watching and turned in his seat.
“Let’s review the facts, as we know them,” began Vledder. “Jean-Paul gets to know Willy Haarveld through Little Lowee. Let’s keep aside for the moment that Haarveld, to say the least, is ethically challenged. Jean-Paul offers Haarveld music … melodies that could net him a small fortune. It takes no time at all for Jean-Paul to end up strangled to death. Right after the murder, Long Jack and his partner trash Jean-Paul’s room and the room that belonged to Erik Bavel.”
“They did more than trash it, they vandalized it.”
“Vandalized it,” agreed Vledder impatiently. He raised a finger in the air. “By the time rigor mortis sets in, Willy Haarveld wanders into Warmoes Street in order to protest his innocence.” Vledder grinned evilly. “When we search Long Jack’s phone contacts, what do we find? I tell you what we find—we find Mr. Willy Haarveld’s phone num
ber.”
DeKok smiled tolerantly.
“So what?”
For a moment Vledder seemed stunned.
“So what? So what?” he asked. “So there is a connection between Jaap Santen, Long Jack, or whoever, and Willy Haarveld.” He hesitated for a moment, then, plunged ahead: “And it may mean that Willy Haarveld ordered the vandalizing of the rooms. That’s so what,” he concluded triumphantly.
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“Very good, Dick. But it begs the question: What did Haarveld expect to find in the rooms, or, to be precise, what did he expect the vandals to find?”
Vledder’s mouth fell open as he stared at his older partner.
“For one thing, a fortune in melodies,” he said finally.
There was a sad expression on DeKok’s face as he shook his head.
“No, that does not follow at all. Erik Bavel’s room was trashed for no particular reason—he didn’t have compositions to steal. Also we know the treasure trove of music was locked up in Jean-Paul’s head … a living Jean-Paul. What use would he be dead? Jean-Paul was of no—” Suddenly he stopped and pointed out the window.
“Jan … Jan Rouwen.”
Vledder stood in the middle of the room. His legs were spread and he rocked slightly back and forth on the balls of his feet. It was the way DeKok often stood in front of the window in the station house. Vledder had appropriated the mannerism from his mentor. He looked down at the young man on the sofa. DeKok was right, he thought. Aside from his short stature, Jan Rouwen was your average guy. He leaned over the suspect.
“Where is Jaap Santen?”
Rouwen shrugged his shoulders.
“He was going away for a few days, he said. Headed across the border. He gave me the key to his apartment. I don’t have a place of my own and I don’t always want to stay at my mother’s. The woman never shuts up … nags me about work and things.”
Vledder nodded.
“When is Jack coming back?”
Jan Rouwen raised his hands in an apologetic gesture.
“I don’t know. Really. Jaap plays it close to the vest. He never tells you much. I’ll know it when he gets back.”
“Do you know Willy Haarveld?”
Rouwen looked dumb.
“Never heard of him,” He looked at Vledder. “Should I know him?”
“How did you know it was a man? Willy is usually a girl’s name, short for Wilhelmina.”
“Come on—it’s short for William—funny you don’t know any Williams.”
Vledder kept his temper admirably, much to DeKok’s surprise.
“You’re positive. You don’t know this particular Willy?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Why wouldn’t you believe me?”
“I can’t imagine.”
Rouwen grimaced.
“You have a picture?”
“What for?”
“A picture of the Wilhelmina or William I’m supposed to know.”
DeKok intervened.
“What did Jaap pay you for the job in Amsterdam?”
“What job?”
“The search of those two rooms in a boardinghouse at Prince Henry Quay.”
“Never been there.”
DeKok grinned.
“Is that so? Why did you think the two of us came all the way to Utrecht, just like that? You think this is a game?” He shook his head. “Here’s how it is. We came here because we found fingerprints at a crime scene. Beautiful, clear fingerprints, belonging to you and your pal. They were all over the place. Oh, and the owner can identify both of you.”
Jan Rouwen lowered his head.
“Fifty bucks,” he said.
DeKok sat down next to him on the sofa.
“That’s all?”
“It was a nothing job.”
DeKok snorted.
“Long Jack will have gotten a lot more.”
Rouwen shrugged again.
“I don’t care. That’s his business—he pays me to run some errands and I keep my mouth shut.”
DeKok shook his head.
“You’ve been bought and sold my boy,” he said in a friendly tone of voice. “Fifty bucks to search the room of a murder victim. Don’t you think Jaap is having a nice long vacation in Spain somewhere from his share of whatever you found? How far can you get with your fifty?”
The young man was getting restless.
“It was a nothing job,” he repeated loudly. “I told you. Jaap could have done it alone if he’d wanted. He just asked me to come along to Amsterdam for the company. The pay was just a bonus,” he glanced at DeKok. “Pretty low risk for me—I just stood around while Jaap searched.”
“What was he looking for?”
Rouwen lowered his head again and remained silent.
“What was Long Jack after?”
Rouwen swallowed.
“How would I know? We didn’t talk about it.”
There was a stubborn look on DeKok’s face as he repeated the question.
“What was he looking for?”
Jan Rouwen shook his head vehemently.
“I don’t know,” he screamed. “I don’t know.”
With his head still lowered he suddenly jumped up and forward, hitting Vledder hard in the stomach. It was a perfect football tackle. Vledder went backward, smack onto the glass plate of the coffee table. The thick glass gave way with the sound of a pistol shot.
Before DeKok could react, Jan Rouwen ran into the kitchen.
DeKok bolted at full speed, but by the time he had reached the kitchen, the door to the street slammed shut. He turned and ran back into the room.
Vledder picked himself up from among two large pieces of glass. He was unsteady and the color had drained from his face.
Both inspectors stared straight ahead. Their mission to Utrecht had not been very successful. Neither was inclined to talk. The sun and the cheerful cumulus clouds had disappeared. It was raining again. The weather reflected the mood.
DeKok forced himself into a more upright position in the seat. He struggled to keep from nodding off. He looked at Vledder with concern.
“How is it going?”
Vledder growled something unintelligible. His face was still pale.
“If I can’t keep it up, I’ll park and you can drive the rest of the way.”
“Does it hurt?”
Vledder closed his eyes for a split second and groaned.
“Only in the pit of my stomach—now and then I’m nauseous. That guy had a hard head.” He shook his head. “My fault, I should have anticipated him. He was getting much too agitated.”
DeKok nodded agreement.
“Lucky you fell on your backside, rather than directly on your back. The glass was pretty heavy—good thing it broke into two pieces. Had it shattered we’d be in the hospital now.
Vledder sighed.
“I just got a tear in my jacket.”
DeKok grinned.
“With an exhaustive report in triplicate, maybe you’ll get reimbursed.”
Vledder regained a bit of color.
“I want a new jacket.”
“You better forget that. They’re not that generous with police funds. Just be glad if they pay for the repair.”
Vledder looked stubborn
“I want a new jacket,” he repeated petulantly. “No fixing up.”
DeKok laughed, relieved. Vledder was getting back to normal.
“You’d be better off suing Jan Rouwen. Just remember, you can’t get feathers off a frog.”
Even though the analogy was better than the one about bleeding turnips, Vledder was lost in his own thoughts. For a long time he drove on, with clenched teeth and total attention to the road.
After several miles he started the conversation again.
“What do you think?” he asked. “Do you buy Rouwen’s story about not knowing what Long Jack wanted to recover from the boardinghouse?”
DeKok grinned.
“Of course he knew. He was bluf
fing. He knew exactly what Jaap wanted. He wasn’t standing around either—he was searching. His prints were on every cupboard and drawer.”
“You want to send out an APB for arrest and questioning of those two?”
DeKok shook his head.
“We don’t know whether they took anything, or what it might have been. We don’t know anything was missing. Can’t prove what they were trying to accomplish. All that’s left is vandalism, the tearing apart of pillows and mattresses. We can’t arrest them for that, especially outside our jurisdiction.” He looked out the side window of the car, “At best we can request the location of their domicile. But that’s also about all we can do,” he added morosely.
Vledder carefully felt his stomach.
“What about assault?”
“Not even that will stick. He did not hit you with intent to maim. He’d had it with us and suddenly wanted to leave. You happened to be in the way.”
Vledder swallowed away the nausea.
“You should have been a lawyer,” he grunted.
DeKok smiled sadly.
“Maybe I’m a realist. We have a system of law that purports to protect the innocent. But it is the crooks and their lawyers who know how to work the system.”
They had reached Amsterdam and moved toward the inner city. By this time the commuters had all left. The rain had driven most of the tourists indoors. The city was quiet. The usual hustle and bustle of Damrak wasn’t apparent. Only a handful of pedestrians were to be seen, most of them sprinting for shelter.
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 9