DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 15

  DeKok jumped out of the car, but Vledder was faster. The young inspector ran ahead of DeKok. Fred Prins and Appie Keizer converged from across the square. Johnny Ebersen emerged from the shadow of a buttress. But it was a lithe, athletic female figure who darted in front of all of them.

  The assailant lifted his golf club above his head to administer the fatal blow. Ans Rozier tackled him like a line backer, bringing him down with a thud. Seconds later, when Vledder arrived, she had already turned the man on his stomach and was clasping the handcuffs. With a mischievous grin on her elfin face, she kneeled up and looked at the other police officers.

  “We’ve got him,” she said.

  “You got him,” panted DeKok, who had been outrun by his younger colleagues. “Well, done, my dear.”

  “That’s sergeant to you, inspector,” she said severely, but smiled disarmingly as she said it.

  Meanwhile, Vledder turned the man on his back. He was preparing to assist him to his feet, when he took a good look at the assailant’s face.

  “It’s Father Hoogwoud.”

  DeKok nodded complacently.

  20

  DeKok leaned comfortably back in his easy chair. He felt satisfied and relaxed. He looked at his two visitors.

  “The others could not make it?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “They would have liked to, but the adjutant needed them for a raid on a fence. Apparently this guy has been buying stolen property from addicts for years. Only Ans,” he nodded at his companion, “was able to break away.”

  “And no less welcome,” assured DeKok.

  He leaned over and picked up a bottle of cognac from the table next to him. A tray with snifters was already on the table and he poured out two glasses.

  “Or would you rather have sherry, sergeant?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

  “No, thank you, sir. I prefer cognac. And please, call me Ans.”

  “I will,” said DeKok, filling the third snifter, “but you must call me DeKok. I think I told you once before, some time ago, that I’m not a sir, just DeKok.”

  “Yes, you did,” Ans replied, remembering. “And I’m sorry, it will not happen again, DeKok.”

  “Better.”

  He handed the glasses to his visitors and lifted one for himself.

  “To crime,” he mocked.

  Mrs. DeKok entered and brought a large platter of delicacies. The Dutch seldom drink without eating. And Mrs. DeKok’s selection of cocktail food, Vledder knew, was one of the best in the city. She placed the platter in the center of the coffee table and went over to the sideboard to pour herself a glass of sherry. Then she sat down in an easy chair next to her husband.

  “Did that man confess?” asked Ans.

  “Yes, he did. Father Hoogwoud, or Dad as they called him at the golf club, seemed relieved to have it all behind him. He made a full confession. He admitted killing Abbenes, Darthouse, and Hardinxveld. He declared that, but for our intervention, he would have killed Leem as well.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “Exactly in accordance with our official observations.”

  “Exactly, although I thought for a moment Ans had spoiled it.” Before the woman could protest, he hastily continued. “But all’s well that ends well. If she had not intervened as quickly as she did, Leem might not have been killed, but he would certainly have been hurt. Also,” he continued with a smile at the female officer, “there’s no reason why she cannot be a witness, as well as the arresting officer.”

  “Really?” asked Ans in surprise.

  “Yes, that’s how it is in the record. You made the arrest, assisted by the rest of us, and we’re all witnesses.”

  The young woman blushed with pleasure. It made her even more attractive. Mrs. DeKok noticed Vledder’s sudden interest, but kept silent.

  “But why,” exclaimed Vledder, “did that old man want to kill those three men, one by one?”

  DeKok took a careful sip from his glass and then put it down on the coffee table in front of him. He reached for a cheese croquet, but his wife intervened.

  “Jurriaan,” she said warningly.

  Like a little boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, DeKok pulled back his hand and sat back.

  “To understand it all in full,” he began, “we have to travel back in time. Old man Hoogwoud and his three children lived in the greenskeeper’s house on the terrain of Amstel Land. It is not surprising the children came into contact with the members of the golf club. Marcel, who played a good game of golf, was very much liked. As Marcel grew up and compared the wealth of the members with the sparse conditions at home, he announced to all who wanted to hear that he intended to become rich quickly. He declared he did not care what he had to do to achieve his goal.”

  “Even crime,” said Vledder.

  DeKok smiled.

  “He probably did not spell it out, but it must have been clear to everyone he was not rejecting crime as a possibility. Sure enough Abbenes, the lawyer, approached him one day. After a friendly little chat about, eh, sexual pleasures, the lawyer told Marcel he and his friends were charmed by very young girls, preferably exotic girls. He let Marcel know they were prepared to bear whatever costs to indulge in their preferences.”

  Ans looked disgusted.

  “Child prostitution,” she said, wrinkling her nose.

  “I know how you feel, my dear,” said Mrs. DeKok. “I had to swallow hard when I first heard it.”

  “That is what it was, alright,” agreed DeKok.

  “Marcel was willing to help?” asked Vledder.

  DeKok nodded and took another sip of cognac.

  “With money provided by Abbenes, Marcel took a couple of trips to Sri Lanka and Thailand. Within a few months he organized an efficient people-smuggling organization. It worked perfectly. The girls were between twelve and fourteen years old. For a short time, each child was cherished by the members of the Sex Quartet. As they grew older, they disappeared into brothels all over Europe.”

  Vledder breathed deeply, his drink forgotten.

  “Bah,” said Ans and drained her glass with one swallow.

  “So, that’s how Marcel made his money,” said Vledder, who was prone to state the obvious.

  “The gentlemen,” DeKok went on, “wore miniature golden calves around their necks as a sign of their virility.”

  “Damned bastards,” muttered Ans, who was not aware of DeKok’s aversion to strong language. But it sounded heartfelt.

  DeKok glanced at her for a moment, but said nothing. He knew exactly how the young woman felt.

  “Anyway,” resumed DeKok, “Marcel arranged the logistics, so gentlemen could have their sex parties. During one of those orgies, Marcel photographed the men in extremely compromising situations.”

  Vledder looked surprised.

  “He was a blackmailer, too?”

  DeKok grinned crookedly.

  “He didn’t blackmail them at once. Marcel opened an account with the Ijsselstein Bank, a private account, and had the gentlemen deposit the expenses for his living merchandise directly into the account.”

  “Then what?” prompted Ans.

  DeKok refilled the glasses and chose a croquet. This time his wife did not object. She encouraged the others to partake as well, while she refilled her glass with sherry. Vledder’s eyes widened slightly. He had never seen DeKok’s wife drink more than a single glass of sherry.

  For awhile they ate and drank in silence. Then DeKok wiped his mouth with a napkin and continued without being urged.

  “After Marcel set up the automatic deposits, everything progressed smoothly for a time. It was only a matter of time until scandals involving human trafficking were exposed in other countries. The resulting international scrutiny blocked Marcel’s pipeline. When Marcel could no longer declare expenses, he began his systematic blackmailing. He also used his account at the bank for the proceeds of the blackmail. The gentlemen simply continued depositing. This time, of course, Ma
rcel kept all the money for himself.”

  “That’s why Darthouse denied the existence of the account,” said Vledder, again stating the obvious.

  “Exactly,” answered DeKok blandly.

  Vledder suddenly sat up straight.

  “That’s all very well, but it does not explain the murders, or why Father Hoogwoud was involved.”

  DeKok sighed and replaced his empty glass on the table.

  “Father Hoogwoud,” he began slowly, “is a strange man in many ways. To his family he was indeed a despotic patriarch, as Casper labeled him. But through his job as greenskeeper he showed an almost slavish subservience. It may be members of the club humiliated him, from time

  to time. In any case, the old man developed a strong hatred for the rich members of the club. When Marcel could no longer hide his wealth, Father Hoogwoud called him to account. Marcel told his father everything, frankly and without shame. In the beginning old Hoogwoud was angry, but later he relented. He chose to believe that the rich members of the club had enticed his son into a life of crime. He silently rejoiced when his son turned the tables on the quartet; he held these self-important rich people in the palm of his hand.”

  “He rejoiced?” repeated Vledder.

  “Certainly. I’m convinced that he secretly admired his son for that.”

  “But there’s still no motive,” protested Vledder.

  DeKok picked up a brochure.

  “Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome,” he read out loud.

  “What role did AIDS play?” asked Ans, who had mostly been listening with bated breath.

  DeKok spread his arms wide.

  “The lead role,” he answered. “AIDS and a growing hatred formed the motive for Father Hoogwoud.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Vledder.

  DeKok lowered his head.

  “It took a long time before I understood it myself. Only after I, literally, backed Leem far into a corner and he had told me everything did it become clear. Leem spilled about Marcel—the child smuggling, the parties. Look, the members of the quartet knew they were hostages to their blackmailer until the end of their days. It’s rather obvious they discussed plans to rid themselves of Marcel. In spite of some discussion, for strictly practical reasons, they did not execute their plans. No doubt the gentlemen would still be conspiring, had fortunes not reversed. About a year ago, Marcel developed acute appendicitis. He immediately checked in at St. Matthew’s Hospital.”

  “Dr. Hardinxveld,” exclaimed Vledder.

  “Yes,” nodded DeKok. “Hardinxveld realized he had to quickly capitalize on the unique chance. There was a patient under his care, a young man who was infected with AIDS. It did not take long for the AIDS patient to die. Before he died, Dr. Hardinxveld took a sample of his AIDS-infected blood and injected it into Marcel.”

  “Murder.”

  “Yes, indeed, murder of a ghoulish kind. The surgeon knew Marcel would die…but not all at once. AIDS viruses divide and multiply slowly. It would take some time for Marcel to die. It was not a one-time act, but rather murder by installments.”

  “Reprehensible,” said Mrs. DeKok. “And that from a doctor.”

  DeKok smiled gently.

  “Hippocrates could never have known how many of his practitioners fill pages in the annals of crime.”

  He rubbed his chin.

  “I think Marcel knew he’d contracted AIDS in the hospital. When he became really ill, later, he refused to go to a hospital. He did not trust the murderers in white coats, according to Casper.”

  “But how did Father Hoogwoud find out that Marcel had been infected with AIDS on purpose?”

  “Pure coincidence and perfectly timed events are two necessary ingredients in our lives. Also, keep in mind that Hoogwoud kept a suspicious eye on the members of

  the quartet. One day they were together in the club house, enjoying their drinks. When Marcel and his blackmail became a subject of the conversation, Hardinxveld said it was just a matter of a few months. He was almost certain the AIDS virus would have done its work by then. He told them all about the injection. It was nice weather and the windows were wide open. Hoogwoud, who was working nearby, overheard bits of the conversation. When he got home that night, he asked his daughter to tell him about AIDS. That’s when he learned that AIDS would, in most cases, result in death. He promised himself if Marcel died, he would have vengeance.”

  “That’s why the killings started after Marcel died.”

  “Right.”

  “And who made the phone calls?”

  “Marianne, the daughter. She acted upon instructions from her religious father, who chose the text.”

  “How did they incite their victims to go to those places in the middle of the night?”

  “That was not very difficult. Hoogwoud said he had found the compromising photographs among Marcel’s possessions. He said he did not want to keep such filth in his possession, and offered to return them with no strings attached.”

  “And they jumped at that?

  DeKok nodded.

  “And met their deaths,” said Ans.

  They remained silent for awhile, until Mrs. DeKok announced she was going to make coffee. She disappeared to the kitchen and DeKok poured out another measure of cognac for Vledder, Ans, and himself.

  Then Mrs. DeKok came back with the coffee. They drank their coffee while they talked about other subjects. Slowly the gruesome details of DeKok’s narrative disappeared into the background.

  Around eleven o’clock, Vledder and Ans said goodbye. Vledder asked Ans if he could drop her off, but she thanked him and declined gracefully.

  “My boyfriend is picking me up,” she said.

  Mrs. DeKok saw the disappointment on his face. She intervened gently.

  “You should have brought him along, my dear. When Dick’s fiancé is in town, he always brings her to these little gatherings.”

  “Thank you, I will…if there is a next time,” said Ans.

  Vledder had the grace to blush.

  “Do you mind going by the office on your way home?” asked DeKok.

  “No, why?”

  “Have them officially rescind the APB on Frankie and give him a call that he’s a free man. Here is the number.”

  Vledder looked at the note DeKok gave him.

  “Is that where he is?”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew all along.”

  Laughing, DeKok shook his hand.

  “We’ll fight over that, tomorrow,” he promised.

  After his guests left, DeKok walked back to the living room. With a sigh of contentment he sank into his easy chair. He wanted to put his feet on the hassock before him, but his wife demonstratively sat down on it and looked him the eyes.

  “Jurriaan DeKok,” she said severely, “you’re a liar.”

  DeKok gave her a measuring look.

  “Why do you say that?”

  She shook her head.

  “Hoogwoud is not responsible for all three murders. At least one of the victims was killed by another.”

  DeKok looked puzzled, but did not fool his wife.

  “Which one?” he asked innocently.

  “Dr. Hardinxveld. Father Hoogwoud could never have committed the murder. He would have had to climb that steep stairway. He was physically incapable of that.”

  A smile played around DeKok’s lips as he looked at his wife tenderly.

  “They should hire you as a detective,” he said with admiration.

  His hand went to the pocket of his jacket, which hung on the back of his chair. The smile on his lips disappeared. Slowly he opened his hand and a revealed an exquisite brooch with a wide, glistening border, artfully filled with a finely worked filigree of silver.

  “What is that?” she asked.

  “Marianne’s brooch. I found it under the corpse of Hardinxveld.”

  “She committed that murder.”

  DeKok nodded with a somber face.

  “Marianne could
not resist pressure from her father. By proposing a tryst, she enticed the doctor to meet her in the seldom used space below the heliport, where she bashed in his head.”

  Mrs. DeKok gave him a pitying look.

  “And you let her go?”

  The gray sleuth scratched the back of his head.

  “I took the brooch to Father Hoogwoud. I placed it on the table in front of him. Then I made him a proposition.”

  Mrs. DeKok nodded slowly, her eyes filling with tears.

  “I understand,” she said softly. “The father would assume all the guilt and you…you let Marianne go.”

  DeKok closed his hand.

  “That’s right.”

  “And where is Marianne at this time?”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “Far away. I think Africa, or maybe South America. In any case, she’s in a place where a good nurse will be needed and appreciated.”

  “And that place was not, according to you, in jail.”

  DeKok gave his wife a loving look.

  “You know me too well.”

  About the Author

  A. C. Baantjer is the most widely read author in the Netherlands. A former detective inspector of the Amsterdam police, his fictional characters reflect the depth and personality of individuals encountered during his near forty-year career in law enforcement.

  Baantjer was honored with the first-ever Master Prize of the Society of Dutch-language Crime Writers. He was also recently knighted by the Dutch monarchy for his lifetime achievements.

  The sixty crime novels featuring Inspector Detective DeKok written by Baantjer have achieved a large following among readers in the Netherlands. A television series, based on these novels, reaches an even wider Dutch audience. Launched nearly a decade ago, the 100th episode of the “Baantjer” series recently aired on Dutch channel RTL4.

  In large part due to the popularity of the televised “Baantjer” series, sales of Baantjer’s novels have increased significantly over the past several years. In 2001, the five millionth copy of his books was sold—a number never before reached by a Dutch author.

  Known as the “Dutch Conan Doyle,” Baantjer’s following continues to grow and conquer new territory.