DeKok and Murder by Melody Read online

  Praise for the Inspector DeKok Series by Baantjer

  “Along with such peers as Ed McBain and Georges Simenon, [Baantjer] has created a long-running and uniformly engaging police series. They are smart, suspenseful, and better-crafted than most in the field.”

  —Mystery Scene

  “Baantjer’s laconic, rapid-fire storytelling has spun out a surprisingly complex web of mysteries.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “DeKok is a careful, compassionate policeman in the tradition of Maigret; crime fans will enjoy this book.”

  —Library Journal

  “DeKok’s maverick personality certainly makes him a compassionate judge of other outsiders and an astute analyst of antisocial behavior.”

  —The New York Times Book Review

  “It’s easy to understand the appeal of Amsterdam police detective DeKok; he hides his intelligence behind a phlegmatic demeanor, like an old dog that lazes by the fireplace and only shows his teeth when the house is threatened.”

  —The Los Angeles Times

  “A major new voice in crime fiction for America.”

  —Clues: A Journal of Detection

  “Baantjer seduces mystery lovers. Inspector DeKok is part Columbo, part Clouseau, part genius, and part imp.”

  —West Coast Review of Books

  “... supports the mystery writer’s reputation in his native Holland as a Dutch Conan Doyle. His knowledge of esoterica rivals that of Holmes, but Baantjer wisely uses such trivia infrequently, his main interests clearly being detective work, characterization and moral complexity”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “There’s no better way to spend a hot or a cold day than with this man who radiates pleasure, adventure and overall enjoyment. A five star rating for this author …”

  —Clues: A Journal of Detection

  “DeKok’s American audiences can delight in his work. Descriptive passages decorate the narrative like glittering red Christmas baubles.”

  —Rapport

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  Other Inspector DeKok Mysteries

  Now Available or Coming Soon

  DeKok and the Geese of Death

  DeKok and the Death of a Clown

  Murder In Amsterdam

  DeKok and

  Murder by Melody

  by

  A. C. Baantjer

  Translated by H. G. Smittenaar

  denver

  Copyright © 2005 A. C. Baantjer

  Published by: speck press, speckpress.com

  Book layout and design by: CPG, corvuspublishinggroup.com

  Printed and bound in the United States of America

  ISBN: 0-9725776-9-6, ISBN13: 978-0-9725776-9-4

  English translation by H. G. Smittenaar copyright © 2005 Speck Press. Translated from DeCock en de moord op melodie, by Baantjer (Albert Cornelis Baantjer), copyright © 1983 by Uitgeverij De Fontein bv, Baarn, Netherlands.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review—without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Baantjer, A. C.

  [De Cock en de moord op melodie. English]

  DeKok and murder by melody / by A. C. Baantjer ; translated from the Dutch by H.G. Smittenaar.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 0-9725776-9-6

  1. DeKok, Inspector (Fictitious character)--Fiction. I. Smittenaar, H. G. II. Title.

  PT5881.12.A2D56513 2005

  839.31’364--dc22

  2005008302

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Translator’s Note

  Truth being stranger than fiction, most of Baantjer’s stories are based on his own experiences as an officer of the Amsterdam Metropolitan Police (thirty-eight years, twenty-five years in homicide). But this particular story is based on actual events from before World War II and adapted for more recent times. Baantjer joined the police force in June 1945, one month after the war ended.

  Amsterdam

  1

  Jean-Paul Stappert waited at the curb in front of the clearly marked pedestrian crossing. He locked his eyes on the oddly stylized, red figure in the pedestrian light across the street. To his left and right people passed, ignoring the crossing light. He reflected it was actually a bit strange the little scarlet man in the light diverted his attention, causing him to freeze to the curb. Less than a year ago he would have crossed without thinking, just like the other pedestrians. He would probably not even have lifted his head to look at the light, would have ignored the traffic as well.

  Once he had a close shave with a truck. He crossed at the last possible moment; the truck clipped him on the shoulder. He was not so much hurt as startled and knew it was his own fault. The driver didn’t even notice. But Jean-Paul stood on the sidewalk for several minutes, stamping his feet and cursing in rage.

  He could hardly imagine behaving as he did. He had definitely changed. He was certainly mellower. Life was better going with the flow. He found people more tolerable—some were almost likeable.

  He felt himself begin to change one day when he suddenly heard, deep in his subconscious, the sound of an oboe playing a lovely melody. It was an early, crisp winter morning. He was busy trying to break the lock of a parked car. The memory of this event lingered in his memory. He could evoke the events in perfect detail. He had been lured by the expensive camera on the back seat of the car, seemingly abandoned by a careless motorist.

  When he heard the sounds in his head, he replaced the jimmy in his pocket and leaned against the car to listen to the ethereal sound of the oboe. The warm, clear tones moved and affected him in a way he had never before experienced. When he closed his eyes, he heard a playful clarinet take over the theme of the oboe. It was soon joined by the majestic tone of a bassoon. As if from a distance, he heard the tones swell, mingle, and then harmonize into an enchanting melody. He listened, enraptured.

  He moved away from the car and leaned against an elm on the side of the canal, where he stared up at the gray sky through the bare branches. The flow of the music mimicked the branches of the tree. Phrases ran parallel, criss-crossing, but always striving toward the light. The music ended in a dazzling crescendo. Dazed, he shook his head.

  That’s how it began. He glanced a second time at the expensive camera, but he was no longer interested. He walked away from the tree, down to the end of the canal. Every once in a while he stopped. He placed his thumbs against the sides of his head and entwined his fingers before his eyes. The music would reappear, stronger than before. In a strange, almost hypnotic state he eventually found his way home.

  Back on the street the traffic light changed; the static, little red man was replaced by the green silhouette of a walking man.

  Jean-Paul stepped off the curb and crossed the road. On the other side of the Damrak, near the terrace of the Victoria Ho
tel, he turned left onto the wide sidewalk. It was bustling with the usual strolling tourists and passengers striving toward the Central Station. Sometimes they bumped him. He merely murmured a soft “sorry,” and continued on toward the shop windows.

  There weren’t as many people walking near the buildings. He stopped to look at his watch. With a start he realized it was just ten minutes shy of ten o’clock, later then he had realized. He increased his pace. He did not want to be late, not this time.

  Almost at the end of the Damrak, he turned right into Salt Alley, crossed New Dike, and entered Count Street. With a short sprint he crossed just in front of a streetcar on Rear Fort Canal headed toward Mole Alley and reached Lily Canal via Tower Locks.

  The sprint winded him a bit. He took a few deep breaths and started to breathe easier. Then he turned toward Emperor’s Canal.

  Suddenly he stopped. An inner voice told him to stop right then and there. The voice was inexplicable, but irresistible. He became agitated. He looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He was on time.

  Suddenly his hands shook and he felt his heart race. He was overcome by an irrational fear. Sweat beaded on his forehead and trickled down his back. From deep in his subconscious shreds of youthful night terrors surfaced.

  He narrowed his eyes and peered into the falling darkness. A bit further down the canal, near the trees on the edge, he could just discern some vague shapes. They seemed to float nearer. For just a moment he hesitated. Then he walked on … toward his death.

  Inspector DeKok of the old, renowned police station at Warmoes Street, felt restless. He was editing an extensive report for the judge-advocate, but was unable to concentrate. Vledder, his young colleague and friend, had done most of the actual typing, based on DeKok’s suggestions. Vledder, himself, had gathered a wealth of data, storing it in his computer. Now DeKok was supposed to scan it a last time, before he submitted the final report.

  With a tired gesture he pushed the pile of papers aside. He stood up and with slow, sluggish steps, began to pace up and down the crowded detective room. Without conscious effort he avoided the obstacles in his path. The other occupants of the room hardly looked up as DeKok paced back and forth in his typical shuffle. DeKok tried to rid himself of a restless uncertainty. Something was bothering him, but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Slowly he realized it would be impossible to get rid of the feeling by walking.

  He went over to the window and looked out, rocking up and down on the balls of his feet. Diagonally across the street, on the corner of the alley, a drunk carefully navigated his way in the direction of Rear Fort Canal. DeKok smiled. It was fascinating, if slightly pathetic, to watch the man’s desperate attempt to proceed in a straight line. He managed it by stopping every time he was about to veer off course. With great effort he would take another two or three steps in a straight line and then stop again, as if recalculating his bearings. His progress was painfully slow.

  When the man had finally disappeared from his field of vision, the understanding smile disappeared from DeKok’s face. The deep lines around his mouth froze. The restless feeling returned, this time, more intense. It was as if some strange, outside influence was attempting to drive his thoughts into a particular direction. It hovered at the edge of his awareness. He tried to isolate and dissect the feeling, but the key to the code was missing. He was at a loss. His sensitivity, his perception, and understanding of the feelings, was inadequate. An irritating feeling of discomfort gradually engulfed him. He turned around and looked at the clock.

  It was two minutes past ten o’clock.

  Erik Bavel leaned forward. He turned the key and pulled open the small door of an old sideboard. From behind a large stack of books he produced an electric percolator and placed it on the table. From a gray, earthenware jug, he poured water into the reservoir, and then pushed the plug into the outlet. He extracted a bag of coffee and a paper filter from his leather briefcase. Carefully he measured the amount of coffee.

  A mischievous grin flashed across his smooth, young face. “Aunt” Mina Lyons, his avaricious boardinghouse keeper, forbade her tenants to cook in their rooms. They were not even to make coffee—it drove up the electric bill. That is why Erik carefully hid his supplies and coffee pot. Only after ten o’clock at night, when he knew Mina had gone to bed, did he dare to make coffee. Perhaps because it was forbidden, the coffee brewing brought some of the happiest moments of his young life.

  When the percolator made its final gurgle, he poured his first cup. A calm sense of satisfaction washed over him. His eagerness and ambition had returned. He was healthy again, cheerful, almost elated. The attacks of depression that plagued him had abated. His studies had progressed satisfactorily during the last few months. If he could maintain his pace, he would graduate in about two years. He owed it all to Jean-Paul, who had guided him and helped him shake off his depression.

  With the mug close by he settled himself comfortably in an old easy chair with a tall, wide backrest. He picked up a library book; rather than a textbook, this was an adventure story. He needed this diversion; the latest round of exams had been grueling. He slid farther back into the chair.

  The book was well crafted and had a lively plot. Right from the first page Erik was absorbed in the story. He finished his coffee, but did not pour himself a second mug. He was so engaged he did not hear the door open, nor did he notice the figure creeping up behind him.

  Young Bavel only became aware of the apparition as the hands closed around his throat. The hands could have been made of steel. Erik struggled to pry them loose, but the pressure was relentless … merciless and immovable. The book slid onto the floor.

  It had taken Erik several moments to realize the intruder was killing him. He started to struggle more determinedly. He tried to push himself up in the chair, away from the distorted, grinning face above him, away from the throttling grip.

  But his efforts were in vain. He simply lacked the strength. Slowly, inexorably, his resistance faltered, as his life ebbed away. A leaden resignation crept from behind his neck to his brain, dulling at once his pain and his fear of death.

  After a long time, the grip relaxed. Erik’s body slumped back into the chair. His retina held a vision of endless green fields, filled with yellow dandelions and exuberant daisies. Above the field it was blue, a compelling azure.

  Inspector Vledder turned away from his computer screen and looked up at DeKok.

  “What’s bothering you?” he asked. “You’re either pacing up and down like a caged tiger, or you have a thousand-yard stare.”

  DeKok, still in front of the window, shrugged his shoulders.

  “It’s nothing.”

  It did not sound convincing. Vledder grimaced.

  “Come on, tell me another one, DeKok. I know you better than your wife does. I think you’re angry, upset. If you don’t want to talk, it’s okay.”

  The gray sleuth shook his head.

  “I just have a gut feeling something terrible has happened … something that concerns us.”

  Vledder grinned broadly.

  “There’s always something happening, or about to happen, at Warmoes Street. Usually something that involves us. It’s inescapable.” He pointed to the pile of papers on DeKok’s desk. “Kind of like that report—have you finished it?”

  “No.”

  “Tomorrow is the drop deadline.”

  DeKok moved away from the window and sat down behind his desk. He had not even heard his partner’s last remark. He placed his elbows on the desk and sank his chin into his hands. He stared across the room without seeing anything.

  “Do you ever have that?” DeKok asked after a long silence.

  “Have what?”

  “An instinct somebody is trying to contact you … along eh, along … unusual paths of communication.”

  “Telepathy? Nonsense!”

  DeKok looked at his friend, a serious look on his face.

  “Somebody,” said the older man softly, almost whispering, “some
body needed me during the last hour.”

  DeKok’s remarks made him anxious. Vledder felt a chill up his back. He shied away from intuition, relegating it to the same murky realm as superstition and psychic phenomena. He glanced at the clock to break the tension.

  “It’s just about eleven. The shift is behind us.” He pointed at the pile of papers on DeKok’s desk. “Tomorrow we’re in it up to our necks. The judge-advocate has already given you several extensions. He won’t wait any longer.”

  DeKok growled. He was used to differences of opinion with his superiors. It hardly touched him. With an impatient gesture he pointed at Vledder’s telephone.

  “Before we go, call the watch commander and ask if he’s had any new reports.”

  Vledder shook his head, sighing deeply.

  “If they need us, they know where to find us.” He sounded irked. “Besides,” he continued, “I want to go home. This time of night the only thing I want to take on is some supper and the couch.”

  Suddenly the telephone rang.

  Vledder picked up the receiver and listened. He soon replaced the receiver, slowly. His face drained of color.

  “What is it,” asked DeKok tensely.

  “It’s a corpse.”

  “Where?”

  “It was found in a boardinghouse at Prince Henry Quay.”

  “Murder?” asked DeKok evenly.

  Vledder stood up and nodded.

  “The victim was strangled.”

  2

  DeKok looked at the slumped figure in the easy chair and took off his hat. He believed death was entitled to a certain dignity. This was especially true when death came in such a violent form. He would never get used to it. Every time was jarring. The phenomenon of sudden death had intrigued him since he was first professionally confronted with a corpse. Since that time he had solved many mysteries, bringing many murky, inexplicable cases to resolution with logic and clarity.