DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 11

  “Do you think our murderer is a man?”

  DeKok held an index finger up in the air.

  “I’m certainly considering it,” he spoke. “However, I also believe a woman would be just as capable of swinging a golf club. It would be a mistake to exclude the possibility that a man did the job. With or without help, a woman does enter the picture with the intriguing messages.”

  Vledder remained silent. He needed his full attention for the road, which was broken up and barricaded for a construction project.

  “But that could mean that there are at least two people involved,” he said when the road had cleared again.

  “Exactly. At least two people are doing the Lord’s will.”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “The Lord’s will?” he asked. “What are you saying?”

  DeKok pressed himself up in the seat.

  “Think about the message scripts. They always imply the murders were committed for the sake of righteousness, or a sort of justice.”

  Vledder glanced quickly aside.

  “Are you talking executions?”

  DeKok sighed deeply.

  “Something like that.”

  “Heard anything?”

  Jan Kuster, the watch commander, shook his head.

  “Headquarters will let us know as soon as they get a report. I told the boys in our precinct to patrol all the canals slowly. We’ll get a boat from the water police in the morning.”

  “Why the canals?”

  “Wasn’t the other guy found in the canal?”

  “Yes, on Emperors Canal, but not in the water.”

  “Ah, well, it won’t hurt to be extra alert.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding. The confusion was understandable, although Kuster should have known better. In Amsterdam, the quays on either side of the canals are named after the canal.

  “Did the commissaris ever show up?”

  Kuster grimaced.

  “He was very ticked off because you didn’t wait for him. According to him, he had left clear instructions.”

  “Where is he now?”

  The watch commander pointed at the ceiling.

  “Upstairs, in his office—he’s with the judge advocate.”

  “Schaap?”

  Kuster nodded unhappily.

  “That one came about half an hour ago.”

  DeKok was surprised.

  “Whatever can that man want in the middle of the night?”

  Kuster looked grave.

  “They’re both interrogating Frankie The Crow.”

  “What!?”

  Kuster snorted.

  “They seem to think Frankie knows where he stashed Darthouse.”

  DeKok’s face became expressionless. He pressed his lips together. Usually the gray sleuth was the epitome of amiability, but, when his superiors mixed in his investigations, anger rushed through his veins. It was one of the things that could unleash the berserker rage, the seldom seen explosive side of the placid Dutch.

  He turned away from the counter and stepped toward the stairs in long strides. He took the stairs two treads at a time. Vledder urgently wanted to prevent his friend from getting into trouble. Halfway up the stairs he overtook the old man and grabbed his raincoat.

  DeKok turned around. His broad face was a steel mask. Slowly he shook his head.

  “Can’t you climb the stairs by yourself? Do I have to order you a cane?”

  Vledder looked at him and laughed, relieved.

  “I, eh, thought you were angry, recklessly angry.”

  In silence they climbed the rest of the stairs. On the second floor, DeKok walked toward the door of Buitendam’s office. Without knocking he entered. When he stepped into the room he was again completely in control of himself. Amused, he beheld the three men around the low coffee table in the corner.

  Commissaris Buitendam stood up, annoyed.

  “I did not hear you knock,” he said severely.

  DeKok grinned.

  “Could be I didn’t knock.”

  The judge advocate pushed back his chair slightly and pointed at Franciscus Kraay.

  “We decided to get the investigation moving, DeKok. Everything will be far easier,” he announced primly, “if this man would just tell us where we can find the earthly remains of Mr. Darthouse. We don’t want to have to search the entire city.”

  DeKok’s eyes widened, feigning amazement.

  “And this man knows where the body is?”

  Mr. Schaap nodded with conviction.

  “Of course he knows. A murderer always remembers where he leaves his victim.” It sounded smug.

  DeKok walked over to Frankie Kraay and motioned for him to stand up.

  “Do you know the Ijsselstein Bank?”

  Kraay stood up.

  “I know of Ijsselstein Bank,” he said evasively. “I don’t have an account there, if that’s what you mean.”

  DeKok ignored that.

  “You’ve never been inside the bank?”

  “No.”

  “What does the name Darthouse mean to you?”

  Frankie shook his head and shrugged his shoulders.

  “At first I thought it referred to a house where they play darts,” he smiled. “But I have since learned it is the name of a dead man.” He pointed at the commissaris and the judge advocate. “Them two say some Darthouse was murdered.”

  “And is that right?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Don’t you know Darthouse?”

  “No, never heard of him.”

  “So you did not kill a man by that name?”

  Kraay placed a hand on his chest.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you.”

  Kraay laughed unhappily. He sounded deeply embarrassed.

  “Why would I kill a man I never even met? That’s just crazy.”

  “And you’re not crazy?”

  “What do you think?”

  DeKok seemed to look for inspiration from the ceiling. Then his eyes returned to Frankie.

  “Then why,” he asked with astonishment in his voice, “are these gentlemen bothering you?”

  It was too much for Buitendam. He swallowed hard and his face became a familiar, furious shade of red. Before Kraay could answer DeKok’s question, Buitendam pointed at the door.

  When DeKok returned to the detective room, Vledder looked at him, shaking his head.

  “Thrown out again?”

  DeKok nodded sadly.

  “He just can’t control himself,” he said somberly.

  Vledder laughed.

  “You’re turning things around, as usual. The commissaris has never chased me from his room. It’s your own fault. You always incite him. What was it this time?”

  DeKok sat down in the chair behind his desk.

  “The judge advocate made some scathing remarks regarding the conduct of the investigation and finding the corpse. So I took over interrogating Frankie. The way in which I did that did not please Buitendam. So, he sent me away. I certainly did not intend to offend him.”

  Vledder pulled his chair closer to the DeKok’s desk.

  “The commissaris and the judge advocate both believe Frankie is guilty?”

  “That was my impression.”

  “Both murders?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that possible?”

  DeKok shrugged carelessly.

  “It would be wonderful for Frankie if we could determine Darthouse was murdered while we were arresting him at his mother’s house. That would give him an unbreakable alibi for the second murder. It would also cast doubt on his participation in Abbenes’ murder.”

  “Why so?”

  DeKok sat up straighter and played with a pencil on his desk.

  “You must agree there is a clear connection between these two murders. Abbenes and Darthouse knew each other, undoubtedly shared interests and business connections. Both murders happened at night. The killer enticed each victim to leave home because o
f a telephone call. In each case our commissaris received a cryptic message from an unknown female caller.”

  Vledder nodded his agreement.

  “The same perpetrator had to commit both murders. If Frankie didn’t commit the second murder, he did not commit the first.”

  “Precisely.”

  “On the other hand if he did…”

  “In that case Frankie remains, technically, our prime suspect in both crimes.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “Do you think Martha is the mystery woman with her own idea of justice?”

  DeKok nodded and suddenly snapped the pencil in two.

  “I find it highly unlikely that is the case. But it is possible…and we inspectors must, therefore, consider it.”

  Vledder looked at the large clock on the wall.

  “Shall we go home? It’s almost four thirty.”

  With a soft groan, DeKok rose from his chair. At that moment Jan Kuster stormed into the room.

  “They found the corpse of a man,” he yelled from the door.

  “Where?”

  “Behind Wester Church. Someone bashed his skull in.”

  15

  At eleven o’clock the next morning, a remarkably fresh, cheerful DeKok entered the station house at Warmoes Street. He was going on the strength of a few hours of sleep, a restorative hot-to-cold shower, and a good breakfast. Several cups of coffee had cured the last of the lethargy. He waved jovially at Meindert Post, the watch commander. Meindert had also been born on DeKok’s island of Urk. He was too busy to notice DeKok.

  DeKok found Vledder behind his computer in the large, crowded detective room. The young inspector looked hung-over. He was green around the gills, with dark rings under his eyes. When he saw DeKok, he produced a wan smile.

  “A few more nights and days like this and I’ll be ready for the glue factory. Then you’ll have to work alone.”

  DeKok looked worried.

  “Why are you here so early? Go back to bed.”

  “I can’t,” he sighed. “I made an appointment with Dr. Rusteloos, but first I have to finish this paperwork.”

  DeKok said nothing about the paperwork. Vledder had built a number of templates into the memory of his computer and could spit out any kind of report at a moment’s notice. Vledder undoubtedly had everything lined up, and would be able to supply the ever-hungry bureaucracy with up-to-date information on the case. DeKok wondered how he had managed before Vledder took on all the paperwork. Despite DeKok’s sense of relief, sometimes (like now) he could not help feeling guilty.

  “What time is your appointment?”

  “I should leave here in about half an hour.” He looked up at DeKok.

  “Now for the bad news: Frankie has escaped.”

  DeKok sat down, completely overwhelmed by the news.

  “What?”

  “Yes,” nodded Vledder. “It happened last night, shortly after we left for Wester Church.”

  “But how?”

  The young man shut down his computer and pushed the keyboard away.

  “Kuster told me. When the commissaris and the judge advocate finished interrogating Frankie, they called the watch commander and asked him to come fetch him. Apparently the gentlemen felt it was taking too long and they decided to return Frankie to his cell by themselves.” Vledder smirked. “No gloating—when they reached the upstairs corridor, Frankie hit the judge advocate a glancing blow, pushed the commissaris out of the way, and bolted for the stairs. Before either of them had recovered from the shock, the bird had flown.”

  “And what was the result of the interrogation?”

  “Nothing. I haven’t seen anything in writing. Haven’t heard anything about it, either.”

  DeKok shook his head with disapproval.

  “They probably drove Frankie crazy with their questions and he saw no way out but to flee.”

  “So, what now?”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck while he thought. The flight of Frankie was a development he had not foreseen.

  “Too bad the coroner last night couldn’t tell us more about the time of Darthouse’s death.” He spread his arms in a helpless gesture. “Dr. Koning is right. He never likes to make specific statements at the scene of the crime. It was rather chilly last night; body temperature alone would not have been enough. Worse still, the autopsy probably came too late to establish anything with certainty.”

  Vledder looked somber.

  “We’re not getting any breaks.”

  DeKok snorted.

  “What can you expect? That the perpetrator will present himself stuffed, trussed, and garnished? I’ll have mine with the usual, motive and evidence.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Not going to happen, but sometimes it…” That was as far as he got. DeKok smiled. He took another good look at Vledder’s pale face and the rings under his eyes. He stretched a finger in Vledder’s direction.

  “After the autopsy, you go straight home and to bed. I’ll hear the report from Dr. Rusteloos tomorrow sometime.”

  Vledder protested.

  “What if something important surfaces?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Tomorrow,” he said with emphasis and walked over to get his coat and hat. Vledder was ready to leave, as well.

  “Where are you going?”

  DeKok turned around. His face was hard.

  “I’ve promised myself,” he said grimly, “a little talk with Dr. Hardinxveld.”

  A distinguished, gray-haired lady in a plain black dress shuffled on flat shoes ahead of DeKok. Her steps led down a corridor. She opened the door of a room, held the brass knob in her hand, and bowed him in.

  “Sir will be with you shortly,” she announced as if speaking of royalty.

  Then she closed the door behind him and disappeared.

  DeKok looked around. The room breathed nineteenth century respectability. There were exquisite tapestries, dark landscapes in gilt frames, an impressive wall of books. Baroque cherubs looked down from the ceiling. In the space between the two tall windows were some yellowed silhouettes in oval frames.

  After a few minutes, a tall, slender man entered the room. DeKok estimated him to be in his early fifties. He wore a gray flannel suit and a red necktie on a pale blue shirt. With outstretched hand he approached DeKok.

  “Hardinxveld,” he said amiably. “I’m sorry to have kept you waiting. I was still at breakfast.” He smiled pleasantly. “I am a night person, late to bed and late to breakfast.” With a grandiose gesture he pointed at a set of Biedermeier easy chairs. “Let’s sit down.” He seated himself and crossed his long legs.

  “Inspector DeKok,” he said, as if savoring the sound. “Your name is well known. I understand you have a reputation for solving the most complex crimes.”

  DeKok nodded, not fooled by either the breezy attitude or the flattery.

  “Your reputation creates obligations.”

  “I realize that.”

  DeKok studied the man in front of him. It was the hard, intrusive scrutiny of a police officer. Dr. Hardinxveld had a high forehead, sharply delineated face. His narrow nose ended in wide nostrils above a set of full lips.

  “Last night,” began DeKok, “we discovered a corpse on a quiet spot in the city. It was the corpse of a man who, a little while earlier, had introduced himself to me as the managing director of the Ijsselstein Bank.”

  Dr. Hardinxveld made a startled gesture.

  “Goodness, now it’s Darthouse?”

  It sounded laconic, almost comical.

  DeKok continued his scrutiny of the man’s face.

  “Are you not surprised?”

  The doctor crossed his arms in front of his chest.

  “Ach, no…not entirely. After what happened to Abbenes, the murder of Darthouse was more or less in the realm of expectation.”

  “I don’t understand that.”

  Dr. Hardinxveld gestured vaguely around.

  “Look, my dear
man,” he said with a sigh, “I don’t fully understand it myself; however, it seems incontrovertible that some maniac is trying to wipe out all the members of the Amstel Land Golf Club…preposterous, not to say most annoying.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes. Hardinxveld’s reactions and speech patterns puzzled him. He had difficulty measuring the man.

  “But you, yourself, are a member of Amstel Land. Aren’t you afraid you may be a victim at some future time?”

  Hardinxveld nodded agreeably.

  “Oh, yes, to be sure. It’s entirely possible I would have joined my forefathers, had I been so unwise as to follow the instructions of a certain strange telephone call.”

  “Tell me more about the call.”

  “It was a woman, a stranger with a sexy voice. She asked me to meet her on Wester Market, behind Wester Church.”

  DeKok swallowed hard, trying to get his head around the fact Darthouse’s body was found there. He leaned closer.

  “The caller expected you to simply go?” he asked, skepticism in his voice.

  “Yes, the day before yesterday.”

  “Why didn’t you go?”

  A smile danced around the full lips of the doctor.

  “I knew what had happened to Abbenes, of course. He, too, had received such a phone call.”

  DeKok’s face was expressionless.

  “How do you know that?”

  Hardinxveld spread his arms.

  “Abbenes told me so.”

  “When?”

  “The very evening.”

  “He was with you?”

  Dr. Hardinxveld nodded in agreement.

  “As I told you, I am a night person. It’s my habit to go to bed late most nights. My friends know my habits. That evening, or I should say the small hours of the morning, close to two o’clock, Abbenes rang my doorbell. He said there was something wrong with his car. He thought it was the fuel line. He asked if he could borrow my Mercedes to get to a late appointment.”

  “It proved an appointment with death.”

  Hardinxveld waved that away.

  “I can assure you, my good man, Abbenes did not know it at the time. On the contrary, he was looking forward to a romantic intermezzo.”