DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 10

  “Get back to the golf club,” he said caustically.

  Kraay rubbed his dry lips with the back of his hand.

  “I knew,” he said, despair in his voice, “Abbenes was a fanatic golfer. He told me so himself. If you wanted to talk to him in his office, he was never there. Then Dungen, that dried-out clerk, would call the Amstel Land clubhouse. He always hung out there.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “His obsession with golf gave you the idea to use a golf club as a weapon?”

  Kraay lowered his head again.

  “I once saw a sports program…two men were trying to hit each other with golf clubs. I thought—”

  DeKok interrupted again.

  “So, one evening, rather late, you called him on the phone and said you had to see him urgently. You waited for him near his office and when he—”

  Franciscus Kraay jumped up. His face was red and his eyes protruded from their sockets.

  “No!” he screamed. “No!”

  The phone on DeKok’s desk started to ring. The interruption was so sudden and overwhelming that Kraay and DeKok froze, staring silently at the instrument.

  Vledder picked up on his extension and listened. His face suddenly became ashen. After a short time, he replaced the receiver.

  DeKok turned toward him.

  “Who was that?”

  “The commissaris.”

  “And?”

  “That woman called again.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes.

  “What did she say this time?”

  “She said ‘Darthouse is dead, not because of your righteousness, but because of mine.’”

  13

  The message shocked DeKok deeply. It took awhile before he could think clearly. He realized, at once, he could not discuss the matter with Kraay present. In a soothing gesture he placed a hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “I’m sorry, Frankie, but I can’t let you go yet. I still don’t know enough.” His face became serious. “But I give you my word we won’t keep you a minute longer than necessary.”

  Kraay swallowed. Tears welled in his eyes.

  “I didn’t do it,” he said hoarsely.

  DeKok tightened his grip on the man’s shoulder.

  “Frankie, you made a mess of things; you made them worse as you went along. Now you’re faced with the consequences.”

  Kraay nodded timidly.

  “You know what my problem is, DeKok? I have a big mouth.”

  The gray sleuth removed his hand.

  “Be strong, Frankie.” He beckoned to Vledder. “Take him downstairs and book him. Then come back here.”

  With his head almost lowered to his chest, Kraay walked to the exit of the detective room. Vledder followed him closely.

  DeKok watched the duo disappear. He looked at the clock.

  It was almost two o’clock in the morning. He reflected on the time—it coincided with Abbenes’ murder. He picked up a phone book. He was still searching when Vledder returned. The young man looked depressed.

  “I had him booked on suspicion of murder,” he said dully. “Although I doubt his guilt more and more.”

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “And you were so convinced.”

  Vledder sighed.

  “I thought him to be the ideal suspect.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Not me. I never believed in his guilt.”

  “But you arrested him…you interrogated him.”

  DeKok nodded sagely.

  “I’ve grown careful over the years. Feelings and facts don’t always mix. Besides, an arrest was the only way to convince you.”

  Vledder looked contrite.

  “I’m often too eager, too impulsive. I realized that again when I climbed the stairs after booking Frankie.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “To improve the world, start with yourself.”

  “Something your old mother used to say?”

  “No, I don’t remember where I picked that up. I think it was written on the wall of some squatters building, awhile back. The wall was covered with admonitions such as ‘Tomorrow is the first day of the rest of your life’ and ‘Make love, not war.’ It was when we found Colette, you remember?”

  “Colette? I don’t recall.”

  “Colette was the woman killed by an overdose. We found her child.”

  “Oh, yes. Now I remember. It was the first and only time you used your computer.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, you had the baby on your desk and moved the screen to shield it from the harsh light of the ceiling.”

  They reminisced silently for a moment.

  DeKok broke the short silence.

  “Is the commissaris coming here?”

  Vledder made a vague gesture.

  “I think so, but he didn’t say in so many words. Buitendam seemed a bit upset…shocked. He just said the woman had called again and repeated what she had said before.”

  “Darthouse is dead,” repeated DeKok, “not because of your righteousness, but because of mine.”

  “Yes.”

  “That was it?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “The commissaris did not tell me anything else. I don’t think he knows anything else.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “But there is an important difference between now and last time,” he said thoughtfully. “Last time we had a dead Abbenes on his own doorstep, after which we got the message.”

  Vledder frowned.

  “You’re right. Now it’s the other way around. We will have to look for the corpse. If the information from that woman is correct, there’s a dead Darthouse, somewhere.”

  “Yes,” nodded DeKok, “but where?”

  Vledder put the key in the ignition.

  “Where do you want to go?”

  “Amstelveen. Emperor Charles Way 1721.”

  The young detective started the car and drove off.

  “Who lives there?”

  “While alive, Mr. Darthouse. I could not find his name in the Amsterdam phone book. Thankfully his residence was listed under Ijsselstein Bank.”

  Vledder turned the car around the corner.

  “Wouldn’t it have been easier to call Amstelveen? It would have saved time.”

  DeKok stared into the darkness.

  “I like to see peoples’ eyes while speaking to them.” He turned toward Vledder. “Anyway what would I say over the phone? Something like, ‘We heard your husband was murdered. Can you tell us the whereabouts of the body?’”

  “Well, you’ll have the same trouble when we get there.”

  DeKok made a helpless gesture.

  “I don’t have the professional touch like a priest, or a minister. I have to rely on intuition.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “What if it is a joke?” he asked suddenly.

  “What?”

  “The announcement of the murder.”

  DeKok shook his head and sank down in the seat.

  “No, it’s no joke,” he said somberly. “It was no joke when Abbenes was killed and it’s no joke now. The text is so specific and direct. At this point my questions have to do with the caller’s motives, her values. What ‘righteousness’ is she talking about?”

  “Her own justice,” Vledder sharply answered. “That’s exactly what she says…means. Apparently the woman is not satisfied with our brand of justice.”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck.

  “Who is?” he asked rhetorically.

  For awhile they drove on in silence. There was not much traffic on the road. Just a few taxis crossed their path from time to time. They passed the Olympic stadium on the left, soon reaching the suburb of Amstelveen and the wide, imposing Emperor Charles Way.

  A few houses before 1721, Vledder found a parking space. As he pulled the key from the ignition, he looked up.

  “That phone call from the commissaris has put us in an awkward position.”

&
nbsp; “How so?”

  Vledder opened the driver’s door.

  “We know a murder has been committed, we know the name of the victim, but we have no evidence. We can’t prove a thing. How long before Darthouse’s corpse will surface?”

  “Do you mean that figuratively, or do you think he’s actually been pushed into a canal?”

  “She could also have buried him.”

  “Why do you think it’s a she?”

  “Well,” said Vledder, as they walked up to the house, “it was a woman who called.”

  Mrs. Darthouse looked with incredulity at the two men on her doorstep. She rearranged her pink dressing gown.

  “Police inspectors from Amsterdam—is this not a strange hour for a visit?”

  DeKok gave her a friendly smile.

  “I understand your dismay.”

  Mrs. Darthouse ignored the remark and invited them in.

  “Please have a seat,” she said pleasantly, motioning to a couple of dark brown, leather chairs. “How may I help you gentlemen?”

  DeKok placed his hat on the floor next to his chair.

  “My colleague and I,” he began, feeling his way, “are in charge of investigating the Abbenes’ murder. Although we have been at it for several days, we’re still groping in the dark. We understand your husband was a friend of the deceased. A conversation with him could give us further insight…might prove helpful.”

  Mrs. Darthouse leaned against oaken wainscoating beside the brick fireplace. Her light green eyes gave the inspector a long, questioning look.

  “You want to speak with my husband?”

  “Indeed.”

  Her eyes narrowed and she looked at DeKok with suspicion.

  “But didn’t you discuss the subject with my husband at the bank?”

  “Your husband told you that?”

  “Certainly.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “That conversation,” he offered carefully, “was a bit disappointing. We were left with the impression your husband was holding something, eh, was not completely forthcoming.”

  She made a nonchalant gesture with her arm and readjusted her dressing gown.

  “He must have had his reasons.”

  DeKok nodded and grinned crookedly.

  “And we would like to know those reasons.”

  Mrs. Darthouse appeared to think about her answer. She walked to an easy chair from her place next to the fireplace.

  DeKok watched the long, supple movement of her body as she seated herself elegantly. In the barely closed, pink dressing gown her exciting contours showed her figure to an advantage. She was a handsome woman, DeKok thought to himself, with an almost animal magnetism and grace. No doubt she was several years younger than her husband.

  She crossed her slender legs.

  “I have the feeling,” she said pensively, “you are also holding something back.”

  “In what respect?”

  Mrs. Darthouse leaned forward. DeKok felt captivated by her stare.

  “Inspector DeKok, where is my husband?”

  The old sleuth made an apologetic gesture.

  “We…eh, we,” he stumbled over the words. “We had hoped to find him here.”

  The soft expression on her face hardened. She raised her chin.

  “You know very well he isn’t here.”

  DeKok slowly raised an arm in her direction.

  “Mrs. Darthouse, you don’t know where he is?”

  The young woman lowered her head. She suddenly looked defeated.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Really, I don’t know. I’m just afraid.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m afraid something has happened to him.”

  DeKok studied her.

  “Is there a reason for your fear?”

  She looked up at him.

  “About an hour ago, my husband received a phone call. I was already in bed. He came into the bedroom and told me he had to leave for awhile.”

  “He did not say where he was going?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, he just told me not to wait up for him. He wasn’t sure how long it would take.”

  DeKok rubbed his face with a flat hand. He felt the conversation had reached a critical point. Further evasion was useless.

  “I’m afraid,” he said softly, compassion in his voice, “it may be a long time until he is back.”

  “I—I don’t understand.”

  DeKok closed his eyes briefly.

  “We have good reason to believe your husband has been the victim of an assault.” He sighed. “He may have been murdered.”

  Her eyes became large and afraid.

  “Murder?” she gasped.

  DeKok nodded in confirmation.

  “Someone, someone unknown, called our commissaris on the phone to say your husband was dead. We take the information seriously, extremely seriously. We received a similar message after the death of Mr. Abbenes.”

  Mrs. Darthouse swallowed.

  “You, you think there is a connection?”

  “We cannot exclude the possibility.”

  She rose from her chair. She paced the floor with her head bowed, wringing her hands.

  “A connection,” she repeated with despair in her voice, “a connection, but what kind of connection?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “Perhaps they both were involved in something.”

  Suddenly she stopped. Her mouth fell open. She looked at DeKok with a frightened expression on her face.

  “That boy!” she cried.

  “What boy?”

  “The one who defrauded my husband’s bank.”

  DeKok gave her a puzzled look.

  “You mean Casper Hoogwoud?”

  Mrs. Darthouse nodded fervently.

  “Hoogwoud, yes, Casper Hoogwoud. Yes, my husband was afraid he would try to defraud the bank again. It was why he contacted Abbenes.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding. He picked up his hat from the floor and stood up.

  “Thank you. Of course, we’ll keep you informed,” he said feelingly. “As soon as we know something more, we’ll contact you.”

  Both inspectors walked toward the door. Just before he was to step out into the hall, DeKok turned around.

  “Mrs. Darthouse, do you play golf?”

  14

  DeKok gave a last, long look at the stately Darthouse mansion. Then, in his typical, shuffling gate, he sped after Vledder. The young inspector looked around. He laughed. DeKok at speed was a comical sight.

  When his thundering footsteps faded into the night, it was again intensely quiet on Emperor Charles Way. There was just the distant sound of an airplane, high in the sky.

  Vledder pointed over his shoulder.

  “Can we just leave her like that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You never know what will happen. The poor woman just learned her husband may have been the victim of a murderous attack.”

  DeKok gave him an unreadable look.

  “What do you want to do? Go back and hold her hand?”

  “Not a bad idea,” Vledder offered. “I don’t know how you see her, but in my eyes Mrs. Darthouse is a very attractive woman.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “She’s attractive and young.”

  Vledder opened the door for his mentor. There was a smile on his face.

  “So attractive and young it seems a shame she would be chained to an older man the rest of her life.”

  “Exactly.”

  “That’s why you asked if she played golf.”

  DeKok entered the car.

  “Sometimes, Dick, you show signs of understanding life…a little.”

  Vledder slammed the door.

  “Jump in the canal,” he said with conviction.

  They drove away from Amstelveen.

  Vledder looked at his watch.

  “It’s almost three thirty. You still want to go back to the st
ation?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Perhaps some information has come in.”

  “You want me to radio in?”

  “No. There’s a good reason I don’t want to radio in. I’ve told you before. Once they determine we sometimes use it, they’ll be calling us constantly.”

  “Yes, well, that’s why we have the radio.”

  “Bah, in the old days we never had radios. We still managed to get our messages across.” He paused. “Of course, we did have call boxes, but they were only used for calling in. They couldn’t reach you on those.”

  “Yes, yes,” laughed Vledder, “you patrolled on foot and, if you did need a car, you hired a taxi. I’ve heard it all before. Were you not the one who walked five miles to school, every day, barefoot in the snow, uphill, both ways?”

  DeKok laughed heartily.

  “It wasn’t all that bad. The island where I grew up was no more than two miles in length and barely a quarter-mile wide.”

  “It’s still pretty thick in here. What sort of information do you expect the office to have? You think they know where to find the corpse?”

  DeKok became serious.

  “I think,” he said slowly, “Darthouse’s corpse is not hidden at all. You see, I don’t think the killer wants to keep his acts a secret. On the contrary he wants the world to know. That’s why the weird phone calls.”

  A large truck suddenly emerged from a side road. Vledder braked suddenly to yield the right of way.

  “Don’t you find it strange,” he asked as he shifted up again, “how we keep hearing references to Casper Hoogwoud every time we round a curve in this investigation? Even Mrs. Darthouse mentioned him.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “Don’t forget Darthouse emphatically denied knowing Hoogwoud and he denied the fraud with equal vehemence.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “It’s hard to believe. Do you think Casper’s story about the origin of that money could possibly be true?”

  “You mean that somebody, some benefactor suddenly deposited the money in his account?”

  He nodded.

  “I was convinced he lied about it.”

  DeKok slowly rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger.

  “Whatever the truth of the matter, the money stinks. Nothing will change my mind about it.” He spread both hands. “In balance I find it difficult to see the money as motive for murder, double murder. The motive is not financial gain. Whatever drives this murderer, the motive is deeper, hidden.”