DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 12

“With the woman who called?”

  “Undoubtedly.”

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

  “Did Abbenes have any clue about the identity of the caller?”

  The doctor pulled up his shoulder in an uncharacteristic, baffled gesture.

  “Perhaps he did. I do not know. He just said a woman had arranged a meeting at that late hour. He did not reveal the name of the female to me.” He gestured apologetically. “And I am a gentleman, after all. I did not inquire.”

  DeKok merely nodded.

  “And if, eh, Mr. Abbenes had told you the name of the woman, would you have been forthcoming enough to tell me?”

  Hardinxveld grinned suddenly.

  “That, my dear inspector, is a hypothetical question. He did not reveal the name to me. If Abbenes knew her, it will forever be his, and her, secret.”

  DeKok rubbed his face with a flat hand. It was to gain some time. He was looking for a way to steer the interrogation in a new direction.

  “It must have shocked you deeply when you heard about the murder of Abbenes, the next day.”

  “Indeed.”

  DeKok feigned admiration.

  “It was very wise of you not to respond to the same enticement.”

  The doctor smiled thinly.

  “The brutal death of Abbenes seemed an abundant warning.”

  “Why did you not warn Mr. Darthouse? An assault on him would also have been, how did you say it, more or less in the realm of expectations?”

  For the first time it looked like Dr. Hardinxveld was not so self-assured. He nervously fidgeted with his necktie.

  “Eh, I did not judge that to be a prudent course of action,” he said hesitantly.

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “I don’t understand.”

  Hardinxveld stroked his neck with the tops of his fingers, as if tempted to loosen his collar.

  “The phone call I received…I recognized the sexy voice.”

  “What?”

  Dr. Hardinxveld nodded slowly, reluctantly.

  “It was Sybille, Darthouse’s wife.”

  16

  DeKok drove away from the curb. He was irritated, struggling with his discomfort. The car was in the wrong gear and jumped like a wild bronco. DeKok slammed backward, then forward, until the movement slowed. He hadn’t shifted to the right gear; the speed of the vehicle finally matched the gear position. The engine didn’t conk out, as it often did when DeKok drove. By his own admission he was probably the worst driver in The Netherlands, possibly all of Europe. It took more than twenty tries to get his driver’s license, and the lack of practice had not improved his skills.

  He had a deep need to flee the city. He longed to race through Amsterdam and go to Seaside, or some other city on the coast. What he needed was to walk along the beach and let the sea breeze blow the cobwebs off of his brain.

  He tried to review the conversation with the supposedly affable Dr. Hardinxveld, promptly running a red light. Surprised by the number of angry horns blowing at him, he parked the VW at the far side of the crossing. The car was half on the sidewalk and crooked. He shut down the engine.

  To say that DeKok did not enjoy driving was an understatement. He had been born too late. He would have felt completely at home in the time of horse-drawn stagecoaches, carriages, and canal boats. He believed in walking at a leisurely pace to most destinations.

  DeKok soon realized he could not leave the VW with both front wheels on the sidewalk. After several tries he found reverse, almost causing a collision, and reached a parking space. Finally he felt he was completely safe. He switched off the engine again.

  It was time to analyze the conversation with the good doctor. What did Hardinxveld really tell him? And what could he concluded from any of it? At least the story was a reasonable explanation for the presence of the doctor’s car, engine still warm, at Abbenes’ murder scene. It would be easy to confirm Abbenes’ car problem, the clogged fuel line that prompted the vehicle exchange.

  DeKok leaned back. He felt in his heart Hardinxveld’s story would hold up under scrutiny. Hardinxveld wanted him to believe it was no more than a romantic adventure. It didn’t ring true.

  He wondered whether Abbenes’ visit to Hardinxveld served more than one purpose? Was it prompted by a defective fuel line or did Abbenes want to consult with his friend? Did he want to discuss agreements…proposals…goals? If so, Hardinxveld was very much aware of the identity of Abbenes’ alleged tryst.

  DeKok rubbed his chin. He had been genuinely shocked when Hardinxveld revealed that he, too, had received a late-night invitation to meet on the very spot where Darthouse’s murder had taken place. Hardinxveld must know something, DeKok had been careful not to identify the exact location. Had there really been an attempt to entice the doctor to that fatal spot? Or did Hardinxveld know about it because he was the murderer?

  DeKok sighed deeply. He had seldom dealt with such a miserable case. The stress of it kept intruding on his mind.

  Hardinxveld was very intelligent. There was no doubt about it. DeKok was certain the doctor had misled him in suggesting Sybille Darthouse was his anonymous caller. He could imagine the attractive woman enticing the lawyer to the murder scene. It was also possible she would try to get Hardinxveld to Wester Church. But the absurdity of the story was the notion Darthouse would have dashed, panting, to an assignation involving his own wife.

  Obviously there was no doubt Darthouse had gone to Wester Church and found his death on Wester Market, just behind the church. So, why did Darthouse go out in the middle of the night? What could have been the motive for leaving his comfortable house in Amstelveen? Did the same motive drive Abbenes to his death?

  DeKok pulled out his lower lip and let it plop back. There was no one around to censure the disgusting habit, so he plopped away for several minutes, ordering his thoughts. Why did Hardinxveld lie to him? Did the surgeon have a part in the macabre happenings? Was he an accomplice rather than a potential victim? What about the seven iron missing from his golf bag?

  DeKok remained seated for awhile. Then he resolutely stepped out of the car and locked it. He hailed a passing cab and took it to Warmoes Street. Somebody else could pick up the car. He was not driving again, not today.

  Vledder was the first thing DeKok noticed when he entered the detective room. He was, as usual, behind

  his computer. DeKok crossed the room to Vledder’s desk in a few long strides.

  “You were supposed to go to bed,” growled DeKok. “We had agreed on that.”

  The young inspector shook his head.

  “I couldn’t,” he protested. “I was on my way home, but I couldn’t shake the thought of all the things we still have to do.” He took a deep breath. “So I came back.”

  DeKok smiled. It was not just lack of practice, the department wasn’t dragging him by the hair into the so-called age of telecommunications. He never even switched on his computer; as far as he was concerned it could gather dust on the corner of his desk until he retired.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Not too bad. I think I’m getting my second wind. Perhaps we’ll be able to go home early tonight.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “Count on it. We’ll just let the corpses we discover pile up until tomorrow.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “We could do that. For sure they aren’t in a hurry.”

  DeKok hung up his coat and hat, walked back, and sank down in a chair in front of Vledder’s desk.

  “I saw Dr. Hardinxveld this morning…at noon, actually.”

  Vledder nodded. DeKok restrained him from pulling his keyboard closer.

  “Let that thing wait for awhile.”

  “All right—did you get any useful information from the doctor?”

  DeKok pushed out his lower lip.

  “Among other things he said he had received a phone call asking him to go to Wester Church.”

  Vledder’s eyes widened.


  “Where we found the corpse of Darthouse?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Who called him?”

  “A woman who didn’t identify herself. The doctor thought he recognized her voice.”

  “Really? That’s great!” exclaimed Vledder.

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “Sybille, Darthouse’s wife.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Why not?”

  “I can imagine a young, vivacious woman wanting to get rid of her much older husband. But why would she want to kill Abbenes and Hardinxveld?”

  DeKok nodded his agreement.

  “Fine, she may or may not have had motive to kill her husband. What I cannot imagine is Darthouse excitedly trekking to Wester Church in response to a phone call from his own wife.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Not only far-fetched, but it would have been impossible. She was there, in bed, when Darthouse got his call.”

  DeKok raised an index finger in the air and studied it.

  “Careful there,” he said after a long pause. “She said she was home and in bed. Outside of her statement, we have no proof.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve been thinking about it for a long time. By the way, I left the car parked on a street. Couldn’t drive it anymore, something wrong with it—”

  “Where did you leave it?” interrupted Vledder.

  DeKok told him where and Vledder made a note.

  “I’ll have the garage tow it in.”

  “No, don’t do that. It will probably start up again. Here are the keys.”

  He tossed the keys on the desk. Vledder looked at him, then smiled to himself. Vledder said nothing; he knew there was nothing wrong with the car, just the driver.

  “Well, what did you conclude from the doctor’s remarks?” asked Vledder, changing the subject.

  “As I said, he gave me food for thought. Do you think it’s possible Sybille called her husband from a different location, to ask him to meet at Wester Church? Then, after killing her husband, could have raced back to Amstelveen to be ready for us?”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “That’s rather convoluted, don’t you think?” Then his eyes lit up. “It would be different if we could discover a motive for her to kill Abbenes.”

  “Very good, Dick,” said DeKok. “You’re shining so brightly why would you need a night’s sleep?”

  “Spare me,” begged Vledder. “I want to keep a clear mind.”

  DeKok smiled and abruptly changed the subject.

  “You were at the autopsy?”

  “Yes, you know that.”

  “Of course. Did Dr. Rusteloos find anything interesting, out of the ordinary?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “He worked at his usual speed and drew to a quick conclusion. He called Darthouse a copy of Abbenes.”

  “The murder weapon was a seven iron?”

  “Yes. The shape and measurements of the wound were identical to those of Abbenes. Even the spot on the back of the head was almost identical.”

  “A modus operandi,” murmured DeKok. “We have one perpetrator.”

  “I’m convinced of it. Dr. Rusteloos agreed.”

  “Did he offer anything about time of death?”

  “Nothing definite. Death occurred several hours after he had last eaten, was all Rusteloos was willing to state.”

  “Well, Frankie still has no alibi.”

  “No,” said Vledder, pulling something out of his pocket. It was wrapped in tissue paper. He handed the packet to DeKok. “This was found around his neck.”

  DeKok unwrapped the item.

  “Another bull…a Taurus.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “And it’s wrong again.”

  “How’s that?”

  Darthouse was born on April 3. He’s no Taurus, he’s a Ram, an Aries.

  “Well, well. According to Mrs. Abbenes, it is a calf. I don’t know what to make of it.”

  “Me, either,” said Vledder.

  DeKok took the receiver from Vledder.

  “Why do I have to come downstairs?” he asked, irked.

  “She came in,” answered Meindert Post at the other end of the line. “She told me she wanted to speak to you. But she refused to go upstairs.”

  “Who?”

  “The woman…she’s ashamed.”

  DeKok snorted. The slow progress of the investigation had not improved his disposition.

  “She’s too ashamed to climb some stairs?”

  Meindert’s voice came over the line at a fraction of his usual volume.

  “Is that so unusual?” he demanded. “Maybe it embarrasses her to be here.”

  DeKok groaned.

  “It could happen.”

  “Don’t be so cynical, DeKok,” chided Post over the phone. “The woman doesn’t want to be seen in the detective room with all the cops and perps. Show some understanding. She does seem to have something to say of a confidential nature. I have an empty cell for you. Put in a table and two chairs—it will be just like a regular interrogation room.”

  DeKok looked at the doors of the interrogation rooms. In some cases you had to almost crawl over someone’s desk to get in. There was no such thing as discretion. He smiled.

  “That’s the best you can do?”

  “Just come down here,” said Meindert Post, “or I’ll come and get you.” He broke the connection.

  DeKok went downstairs. He walked up behind Post and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Where is she?” he asked gently.

  The watch commander went to the door that led to the cells, opened it, and led the inspector down the stairs. There were twelve cells down here, six on each side of a dimly lit corridor. Only two doors were closed and locked. The other doors stood open.

  “Just a couple of drunks who haven’t been picked up yet,” said Meindert, indicating the locked doors.

  He stopped in front of the open door of the last cell in the row. He gestured toward the table.

  “Call me when you’re through.”

  DeKok nodded and entered the cell.

  Behind a table was a young woman of about twenty-seven, maybe twenty-eight years. She had beautiful, long, blonde hair and a magnificent, barely concealed, bosom. She rose and hesitantly stretched out her hand.

  “I’m Sophie, Sophie Peters.”

  DeKok took the offered hand.

  “Frankie Kraay’s ex-wife?” he asked suspiciously.

  She sat down.

  “You can forget the ‘ex’ pretty soon.”

  “Why, you’re officially divorced, aren’t you?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “Believe me, it still hurts inside. I love the guy.”

  DeKok was speechless.

  “He said you were unfaithful to him. Did he not find you in bed with someone else?”

  She shook her head sadly.

  “It wasn’t unfaithfulness. I did not cheat.”

  DeKok grinned, still puzzled.

  “What would you call it?”

  Sophie looked at him with big, sad eyes.

  “They say you’re a man with a lot of life experience, someone with understanding. That is why I came.”

  DeKok raised his arms in surrender.

  “All right, Sophie. I’ll listen.”

  She lowered her head, avoiding his eyes.

  “Before I met Frankie I was in the life.”

  “Did Frankie know that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Men are often just children. Some thoughts they can’t stand.”

  “And Frankie is one of them?”

  A tender smile made her face radiant.

  “Frankie is a big man,” she said with a thrill in her voice. “He’s a wonderful, loving, strong, foolish man-child. The moment I saw him, I knew I was lost.”

  “So you got married?”

  Her face fell.

  “After t
he honeymoon the trouble started. Frankie worked sunup to sundown every day. If everything went smoothly, he brought in a few hundred a week. He had so many worries. There were unpaid bills, demanding suppliers, customers who paid late or not at all.” She paused and chewed on a cuticle. “Believe this, whores earn a lot of money. I had some annoying clients, but on the whole, it was easy money. When I saw Frankie fight and struggle for every penny, I hurt for him.” She pressed a hand to her ample chest, “Here.”

  DeKok understood.

  “And you decided to help Frankie your way?”

  Tears came into her eyes.

  “When he caught me, there was no time to explain. He wouldn’t listen. He chased me out of the house and a few days later his lawyer, Abbenes, was after me.”

  DeKok rubbed his nose with his little finger.

  “But, eh, Abbenes came up with some extremely favorable conditions for you in the divorce settlement. Rumor has it your, as one says, personal charms had something to do with that.”

  She raked her fingers though her hair.

  “Abbenes wasn’t the kind of man to fall for a woman of my type.”

  DeKok looked puzzled.

  “Not your type?” he reacted spontaneously. “I think you’re a positively delectable woman. I wouldn’t be the only one to feel that way, I think.”

  Sophie gave him a sweet smile.

  “You are not Abbenes. He was absolutely not charmed by young, self-confident women.”

  “No?”

  She shook her head resolutely.

  “He preferred children.”

  “Children?” DeKok was disgusted.

  She nervously picked at an invisible thread on her sleeve.

  “He went for little girls, the younger the better, preferably without experience.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes.

  “He told you that?”

  Sophie Peters shook her head.

  “He didn’t have to,” she said with a grimace. “Once I’m alone with a man for a few minutes, I know all I need to know.”

  DeKok loosened his collar. “An enviable gift,” he said hoarsely. “But where it concerns women, I lack the gift. I still don’t understand why you wanted to see me.”

  She looked at him. Her face was expressionless.

  “Frankie is with me.”