DeKok and Murder by Installment Read online

  DeKok blushed under the extravagant reception. He had known the famed Amsterdam historian and theologian since middle school, when they had organized clubs and tried to discover the mysteries of female pulchritude.

  After mutual hugs, Jaap Groen led the way to a comfortably furnished living room and pointed at an easy chair.

  “Sit down, sit you down,” he said busily. “Tell me what I can do for you.”

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

  “I want to call on your knowledge of the Bible.”

  Groen clasped his hand in front of him.

  “It will be an honor and a blessing,” he exclaimed joyously, “to explain God’s word to you.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “I am in charge,” he said, all businesslike, “of investigating a series of gruesome murders. There have been three installments so far. Dead, in order, are a lawyer, a bank director, and a surgeon from St. Matthew’s Hospital.

  All three died due to severe blows to the head with a seven iron, a golf club. There are such remarkable coincidences surrounding these murders, I’m convinced the same person committed all three. The modus operandi leaves no other conclusion.”

  Jaap Groen raised his arms in a theatrical gesture.

  “And outside,” he declared enthusiastically, “are the dogs, the whore mongers, and the slayers, the priests of false gods and all who worship the lie and act accordingly.” With a deep sigh he lowered his arms. “And you, my dear friend, walk in a dark cloud of sin and seek the light.”

  The gray sleuth resisted the urge to applaud and cry “Bravo!” Respect for his friend restrained him. He knew from experience that Jaap Groen usually meant every word he said.

  “After the murder of the lawyer,” continued DeKok, “our commissaris received a phone call. It was a terse sentence: ‘Abbenes,’ that was the name of the lawyer, ‘Abbenes is dead, not because of your righteousness, but because of mine.’ After the other murders he received similar calls, with the exception of the name. The name changed with the victim.

  “Extraordinary.”

  DeKok nodded agreement and continued his story.

  “That text intrigues me greatly. I have the feeling those words, apart from their literal meaning, contain a message, a pointer. That is why it may be a Bible text, one of those texts that requires a special explanation.”

  “An exegesis,” said Groen with a calm, serious face.

  “Exactly.”

  The theologian sank deep in thought.

  “In Deuteronomy,” he declared, after a long pause, “Chapter Nine, Verse Six, God states, through Moses, that he will keep his promise to the people of Israel. But he cautions, ‘…not because of your righteousness.’ God then expresses wrath over their obstinate persistence in sin. The Israelites had built a golden calf, had danced around this golden calf and had worshipped it.”

  DeKok looked up.

  “A golden calf,” he repeated tonelessly.

  “The golden calf,” explained Groen, “was in fact a young bull. In a number of cultures and eras it was a symbol of life, power, and, above all, a symbol of sex.”

  DeKok looked at his friend with admiration.

  “Sex,” he repeated pensively. “Sex, of course, that’s it!” He thought for awhile before he asked his next question.

  “Who, eh, who would you expect to know the connection between the text, ‘not because of your righteousness,’ and a young bull symbolizing sex?”

  Jaap Groen reflected.

  “There are,” he said slowly, “simple believers who enjoy the privilege of understanding God’s word without explanation. They do not need an exegesis.” He hesitated a moment. “But, yet, in this context, I would be inclined to think first of a Bible scholar, or a cleric…a priest, a minister, a rabbi.”

  DeKok understood. He stood up, grabbing his hat from the floor as he did so. He shook hands with the scholar.

  “You’ve been a tremendous help,” he said gratefully. “It gives me a direction to take.” He moved toward the door, then turned around.

  “What happened to the golden calf?”

  Groen raised both arms as if in supplication.

  “Moses spoke to the people of Israel, saying, ‘And I took your sin, the calf which ye had made, and burned it with fire, and stamped it, and ground it very small, even until it was as small as dust; and I cast the dust thereof into the brook that descended out of the mount.’”

  DeKok nodded to himself.

  “He performed a rather radical destruction.”

  Jaap Groen smiled and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder.

  “Moses was an impulsive man.”

  Contentedly DeKok peddled his bicycle through the city. He observed all traffic regulations and missed not a single stop sign. Yet he had time to reflect on what he had learned. Like most Dutch people, DeKok was completely at home on a bicycle. Even today, with the proliferation of motorized transport, there are still about 10 million bicycles in The Netherlands, serving a population of around 15 million. Bike traffic is as strictly regulated as all other traffic. It is even possible to get a speeding ticket on a bicycle. Dutch bicyclists wouldn’t dream of riding their bikes the wrong way on a one-way street, nor would they run a red light.

  In a car, DeKok had endless problems with the car itself, the traffic, and the traffic regulations. On a bicycle, he sailed majestically through traffic, without giving it a second thought.

  The revelation of the golden calf as a young bull had sped up his thought processes. Had the widow of Abbenes tried to steer (he smiled at the unintended pun) his investigation in the right direction with her postscript at the bottom of her inexplicable note? What direction? Did she know the connection between the murderer and the golden calf around her husband’s neck?

  The biblical calf had been thoroughly destroyed by Moses. Did that mean a biblical condemnation of sex? Was the message that even the symbol of sex had to be ground into dust? Who thought that way? And who would be prepared to commit a series of murders because of that conviction?

  In front of the church, he leaned the bike against the wall and secured it. Then he approached the door of the vicarage and rang the doorbell.

  The wide, dark green door was opened by a dignified man in a black suit. He looked to be about fifty years old. The man had a long face, white as wax, and wavy, gray hair. His pale blue eyes were enlarged by a pair of thick glasses in dark brown frames.

  “Yes?” he asked haughtily.

  DeKok lifted his decrepit little hat and held it in front of his chest.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said amicably, “with a kay-oh-kay. I’m a police inspector attached to Warmoes Street Station. I would like to talk with you.” He held his head to one side and smiled. “You are, I take it, Mr. Leem?”

  The man nodded.

  “I am, yes.” He adjusted his glasses. “About what did you want to talk?”

  DeKok studied his waxen pallor and arrogant expression.

  “The golden calf.”

  A sudden tic developed on Leem’s left cheek.

  “Come again?” he asked, suspicion in his tone.

  DeKok nodded.

  “It seems an interesting subject.”

  Mr. Leem opened wider the green door and indicated DeKok could come in. Leem led the way across a red-tiled floor to a small, oak-paneled room. Under a tall window stood a rough-hewn table, flanked by two leather chairs.

  After they entered, Leem closed the door and locked it. He put the key in his pocket of his jacket.

  DeKok held up his outstretched hand, palm up.

  “You may as well give me the key.”

  Leem smiled.

  “I just want to make sure we’re not disturbed.”

  DeKok kept his hand extended.

  “The key,” he insisted. “I’d like to have a path of retreat, in case you have a golf club around somewhere.”

  The minister looked scared from behind his thick glass
es. Slowly he felt in his pocket and placed the key carefully in DeKok’s open palm.

  “If it makes you happy,” he said, with a slight quaver in his voice.

  DeKok’s face remained a steel mask.

  “And now give me the golf club.”

  Leem shrugged his shoulders.

  “What golf club?”

  “The seven iron.”

  “What seven iron?”

  DeKok looked at him evenly.

  “I refer to the golf club used to kill Attorney Abbenes, Bank Director Darthouse, and Doctor Hardinxveld.”

  Leem was visibly nervous.

  “What do those murders have to do with me?”

  DeKok brought his face closer to that of the minister.

  “Don’t you belong to the ‘Four-Leaf Clover,’ also called the ‘Clover Quartet’ or, in whispers, the ‘Sex Quartet?’”

  Leem swallowed.

  “I am, as are—were—the men you mentioned, a member of the golf club, Amstel Land. I have nothing else in common with them.”

  With lightning movement, DeKok placed his flat hand on the chest of the man in front of him. Under his shirt he felt a small chain with the pendant of a small animal. He knew exactly what kind of animal that was.

  With a malicious grin, he pointed at the rough-hewn table and the two flanking chairs.

  “Well, Shepherd of Souls, it is confession time.”

  19

  DeKok gave his young colleague a friendly smile.

  “How are you feeling?” he asked, concern in his eyes.

  “Not too bad, considering. I just couldn’t stay home any longer.” He grinned. “For awhile I was in bad shape—a bug, maybe. My head felt like it was full of holes. I must have slept about twenty hours in one stretch.”

  “Well, in that case, you’re through sleeping, aren’t you? I mean you had enough.”

  “Yes. But that doesn’t mean I want to work through the night again…at least not for awhile.”

  “Anyway, while you were gone, I made some discoveries that made me pretty hopeful. For one thing, I visited my old friend Jaap Groen and—”

  He did not complete the sentence, but stared away into the distance. Suddenly he took his feet off the desk, stood up, and walked over to Vledder’s desk. He placed a hand on the shoulder of the young man.

  “Dick,” he said, his voice tinged with sentiment, “you have always been a good partner and a fine colleague, a friend. Even when you did not agree with me, you always stood by me. You’ve done the same in this case. I’m very grateful.”

  Vledder grimaced.

  “Don’t be so melodramatic.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I mean it, Dick. That’s why I hope to be able to count on you again.”

  “Of course you can count on me,” Vledder said with conviction.

  DeKok walked back to his own desk and leaned on a corner.

  “Fine, then that is settled.”

  Vledder looked at his mentor with growing suspicion.

  “Are you planning something?”

  DeKok nodded slowly.

  “I’m going to disappear for a day, maybe two days, but definitely not longer. If the commissaris or the judge advocate ask for me, make up something.” A smile played around his lips. “Please don’t worry about a thing. I will contact you before the finale.”

  “What do you mean, ‘finale?’”

  DeKok chewed on his lower lip.

  “I think I’m close.”

  The young inspector looked apprehensive.

  “What are you going to do?”

  DeKok ignored the tone of anxiety in his colleague’s voice.

  “Something for which I can’t have any witnesses.

  “And what is that?”

  “I’m going to arrange a murder.”

  Exactly fifteen hours later, at a quarter to one in the morning, DeKok returned to the detective room. He seemed strained and under tension. Quickly he walked over to Vledder.

  “Has anyone asked for me?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Just Little Lowee called. I think I understood him. He knows the whereabouts of Frankie.”

  DeKok nodded vaguely. He did not seem interested.

  “Have you enough people?”

  Vledder nodded enthusiastically.

  “I have Ans Rozier. You remember her? She attended the autopsy for us. Hardinxveld, too, had a little bull on a chain.”

  “I knew that.”

  Vledder looked surprised.

  “You knew?”

  DeKok nodded, his mind on other things.

  “The little bull is some sort of symbol regarding a shared interest,” he explained hastily.

  Vledder cocked his head.

  “What shared interest?”

  DeKok ignored him.

  “Who else have we got?”

  “In addition to Ans, we have Appie Keizer, Fred Prins, and Johnny Ebersen…and Buitendam.”

  “Buitendam?”

  “We’re tapping his phone.”

  “Why?”

  Vledder snorted.

  “You remember the woman with the strange phone calls?”

  “She won’t call this time,” said DeKok with certainty.

  Vledder was both curious and irritated by his partner’s behavior, but fearing a rebuff, he did not ask further.

  “Do you think we have enough people?”

  DeKok pursed his lips and nodded.

  “With the six of us, we’ll manage.”

  “What time is it going to be?”

  “The usual time, two o’clock.”

  “Where?”

  “Behind Wester Church again.”

  Vledder could not contain his curiosity.

  “How do you know so much?”

  DeKok waved vaguely, ignoring the question. He stood up and ambled over to get his hat and coat. With his hat on the back of his head, he turned around.

  “Where are the others?”

  “In the kitchen, drinking coffee.”

  “Ask the committee to get ready.”

  “The committee?”

  DeKok grinned. There was a devilish light in his eyes.

  “The Murder Reception Committee.”

  DeKok slid down in the seat. There was no tension now, no anxiety about possible failure. He was convinced those involved would keep their promises, adhere to the plan. There was so much at stake.

  He glanced aside at Vledder. The young man leaned forward, both arms on the steering wheel. DeKok understood the dissatisfied look on Vledder’s face. But he had been deliberately secretive. Why share the responsibility and risk with his colleague? It was he, DeKok, who wanted to shoulder this one. A tired smile played around his lips. How long had he trespassed in the world of crime? How many secrets did he carry in his heart? Truly, his friend Jaap Groen had been right when he said DeKok walked in a dark cloud of sin and sought the light.

  He felt Vledder’s body suddenly tense. He pushed himself upward and peered over the dashboard. To the left, a man stepped out of a parked car. Limping, one leg dragging behind, he walked slowly toward Wester Church and disappeared in the shadow of a buttress.

  Vledder nudged his partner.

  “Did you see him?” he panted.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Did you recognize him?”

  “No.”

  DeKok pointed at the other heavy buttresses of the old church.

  “Are the others close enough?” he asked in a whisper. “They must be able to intervene immediately. I wouldn’t like to see a real murder committed right before my very own eyes.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “You’re the one who wanted to arrange a murder. But don’t worry,” he said, as he pointed at a lithe female figure slinking from one shadow to another, “the guys are in the right place and Ans just re-positioned herself to get closer.”

  DeKok took a deep breath.

  “You’re right,” he sighed. “I wanted to arrang
e a murder, but in full view of reliable witnesses.”

  “What witnesses?”

  DeKok sank back down in the seat.

  “You, me, the others. Everything reported in immaculate prose by a half dozen experienced, trustworthy detectives.”

  Vledder took his arms off the steering wheel.

  “We’d appear before the court as material witnesses?”

  “Yes.”

  “What could we establish?”

  DeKok waved nonchalantly.

  “You will see. We will testify to murder, multiple murders with a golf club, a seven iron to be specific.”

  Vledder swallowed.

  “Where’s our murderer?”

  “He’s there and is cooperating.”

  “He’ll provide evidence against himself?”

  “Right.”

  “Voluntarily?”

  DeKok pursed his lips for a moment.

  “More or less…yes, you could say that.”

  Vledder looked at him with disbelieving eyes.

  “DeKok,” he said, shaking his head, “sometimes you have a bit of the devil in you.”

  DeKok smiled, flattered.

  “The devil, Dick, is a fallen angel.”

  When the heavy bells of Wester Tower sounded two o’clock, DeKok, again, pressed himself to a more upright position. He realized how extremely important the next few minutes would be. If the actors in the arranged drama did not keep exactly to the script, he could kiss his career goodbye forever. No seniority or past achievements could save him. He’d be retired early and, worse, dishonorably. If he was lucky, he silently admonished himself, it wouldn’t be worse.

  From the right, from the direction of Princes Canal, a tall, slender figure appeared, dressed in black. When he passed a light post, the glow lit up his long, gray hair. Slowly, hesitantly, as if aware of a looming danger, he walked on.

  When the man reached the buttress, DeKok noticed his own respiration become more rapid and he felt the blood rush through his arteries.

  Suddenly, the limping man appeared from the shadow. A golf club hung from his right hand. Silently menacing, he approached the tall man. The distance that separated them became smaller.