Dekok and the Dead Harlequin (Inspector Dekok) (Inspector DeKok Investigates) Read online

  DeKok looked at him, a challenge in his eyes.

  "What do you mean, `somewhat belated'?" he asked.

  Brassel stroked his temples with the flat of his hands.

  "You will find out," he said slowly. "Believe me, you will see. There is no reason to get ahead of ourselves."

  A new silence fell upon the room.

  Vledder, who leaned against a wall diagonally behind Brassel, pointed at his head with a meaningful look. The gesture did not escape DeKok. He released a deep sigh, again focusing his attention on Brassel.

  "You are," he asked wearily, "actually planning to commit murder?"

  "Yes, I am. Even if you do not help me, even without the help of a foolproof recipe. I wrote it clearly enough. I've already decided upon the time and place. Nothing can change my mind."

  DeKok leaned forward and studied Brassel's face with care.

  "Seriously," he said finally, "you really didn't expect for a moment I would help you commit murder, now did you?"

  Pierre Brassel looked up and shook his head. A sad smile marred his handsome face.

  "No," he answered cheerlessly, "I did not believe that for an instant."

  DeKok's eyebrows rippled slightly. People who knew the senior inspector swore his eyebrows lived a life of their own. It was certain those eyebrows could do gymnastics outside the capabilities of ordinary eyebrows. Vledder watched with fascination. He thought he could sometimes predict DeKok's actions or words from the way the eyebrows moved. He was always wrong.

  "Let's get to why you wrote the letter," said DeKok.

  Brassel did not answer. He stretched his left arm slightly forward, pushed the sleeve of his coat back, and looked intently at his watch.

  "Why," repeated DeKok, irritated, "did you write me the letter?"

  Brassel completely ignored the question. He kept staring at his watch without raising his eyes. After a few seconds he stood up and looked first at DeKok, then at Vledder, then back again. His demeanor changed. He took the spotlight, like a toastmaster ready to begin the longwinded, well-rehearsed introduction of the next speaker.

  "Gentlemen," he announced dramatically, "in room twenty-one of the Greenland Arms Hotel, about three hundred yards from here as the crow flies, you will find the corpse of Jan Brets."

  "What?"

  Pierre Brassel grinned.

  "Jan Brets," he continued cheerfully. "His skull is crushed."

  He gestured toward the telephone on DeKok's desk.

  "Please call them," he encouraged, "the Greenland Arms Hotel, or send one of your alert constables to verify."

  DeKok's eyes narrowed dangerously.

  "What kind of a joke is this?!" DeKok roared in anger.

  Brassel gave him a sad look.

  "It seems," he said, shaking his head, "you find it difficult to take me seriously. Am I right?"

  DeKok bit his lower lip and stared at the eccentric before him. He could not penetrate the thoughts of his adversary. Neither could he tread the tightrope between joviality and seriousness on which Brassel seemed continually to balance. For a moment he was buffaloed, his equilibrium disturbed. DeKok never hesitated long, however.

  "Dick," he commanded, "call the Greenland Arms."

  The three men stood grouped around the phone. Vledder dialed the number. The only sound in the room was the beeping of the touch-tone phone. DeKok's face was serious. Around Brassel's lips played a faint smile, a glow of triumph lit up his light gray eyes.

  DeKok listened on an extension.

  "Greenland Arms," said a voice, "concierge speaking."

  "Police," answered Vledder. "Vledder, Warmoes Street Station. Can you tell me the name of the guest in room twenty-one?"

  "One moment, please. Yes, that's Mr. Brets."

  "Is he still alive?"

  "What did you say?"

  "Is Brets still alive?"

  A soft chuckle came over the line.

  "I handed him his key at eight o'clock."

  "That was at eight o'clock. But is he alive now?"

  "I believe so."

  Vledder sighed.

  "If it's not too much to ask, would you please take a look in his room?"

  "All right. Police, you said? As you wish. Please hold the line."

  Meanwhile, DeKok looked at the clock in the detective room. It was a quarter to nine.

  It took exactly four minutes until the concierge of the Greenland Arms manifested himself again on the other side of the line.

  "Police, police!"

  His voice was shaky, anguished.

  "Yes?"

  "Please send someone here. Mr. Brets...Brets is dead!"

  3

  Pierre Brassel stepped toward the door.

  "I presume," he said with a dismissive gesture, "you gentlemen will have no time for me at the moment. Regrettable. Perhaps another time will be more convenient." He took hold of the doorknob. "In any case, gentlemen, I wish you every possible success with your investigations."

  Vledder suddenly seemed to wake up from a daze. Impulsively he leaped at Brassel, grabbing his arm.

  "You're not leaving," he said shaking his head. "No, you're not free to walk away, just like that. No, sir! First you'll have to answer a few questions about this killing. Apparently you know a bit too much about it."

  The tall, distinguished Brassel, so abruptly prevented from leaving, raised a cautioning finger.

  "You do not have the right to manhandle me." There was a barely concealed threat in his tone of voice. "Nor do you have the right to keep me here. The concierge and, perhaps, additional staff of the Greenland Arms will tell you Jan Brets entered the hotel healthy, with his cranium intact. Furthermore, you will hear from the clerk who handed Brets his key shortly thereafter. He will tell you he saw Jan Brets cheerfully depart for his room."

  He smiled broadly, a false grin.

  "Oh, and I beg to remind you, gentlemen, I have been with the two of you, under your close surveillance, since exactly eight o'clock." He grinned again, mocking and challenging them. He had a twinkle of pure venomous pleasure in his eyes. "What more could you ask? Nobody could wish for a better alibi for a murder case."

  Vledder let go of Brassel's arm, but placed himself in front of the door. He stood there like an implacable Cerberus. His boyish face showed a grim, uncompromising expression. It did not seem Pierre Brassel was going to leave without a struggle.

  "How did you know," he barked, "that Jan Brets would die in the Greenland Arms tonight? Who, exactly, told you?"

  Mr. Brassel gave a bored sigh in response.

  "You are wasting your time," he said slowly. "I have already proven abundantly I am not the murderer. What more can I tell you?" He grinned maliciously. "Or perhaps you would like me to tell you who killed Jan Brets?"

  Vledder nodded, lips pressed together.

  "Yes," he hissed from between his teeth, "exactly. That's what I want to know."

  Brassel slowly shook his head. His handsome face showed utter contempt.

  "But gentlemen," he exclaimed derisively, "where is your professional pride? I should be very disappointed if you did not insist on finding Jan Brets's murderer yourselves." His voice was sarcastic, the expression on his face ugly. "Surely the famous Inspector DeKok knows exactly how to proceed. Elementary, you agree? Find the mistakes that have been made."

  He paused and looked demonstratively at his watch.

  "I am terribly sorry. My time is limited. I have to leave."

  He uttered a few more apologies and finally turned toward Vledder.

  "If you would be so kind as to step aside so I can pass."

  Vledder's face became red. He maintained his stance in front of the door and seemed disinclined to move. Sighing, DeKok rose from his chair. He came from behind his desk and walked over to Vledder.

  "Come on, Dick," he commanded gently, "let the gentleman pass. You heard him. The gentleman's time is limited, he has to leave. We should not force our hospitality upon him." He smiled pleasantly, th
en added, "We won't detain him, not yet. Perhaps another time."

  Grudgingly, Vledder stepped aside, a look of hatred in his eyes.

  With a courtly bow, Brassel left the room. With an equally courtly bow, DeKok held the door for him.

  Jan Brets was supine, arms and legs stretched out wide. It was as if he had wanted to cover as much of the floor space as possible. That's how they found him. The position of the corpse made the man resemble a wooden harlequin, a marionette whose every string had been pulled tight. The illusion of a life-sized harlequin struck DeKok. It would not have surprised him in the least if the arms and legs had suddenly started to move rhythmically, guided by the hands of an unseen puppeteer. Adding to the pervasive imagery of a clown was Jan Brets's face. It was waxen and as pale as white greasepaint. It had frozen in an astonished grimace. It seemed Jan Brets, even in death, tried to grasp the joke of his own sudden demise. If it was a joke, he'd just missed the punch line.

  The scene may not have struck anyone's funny bone, but it wasn't macabre or fearsome. Death presented itself mildly, without horror. A cursory examination did not even show any overt signs of violence. A small trickle of blood from the left ear ended in a coagulated puddle on the floor. That was all.

  "That's exactly how I found him," repeated the concierge in a voice still a bit shrill with excitement. "That was after your, if I may say so, unusual phone call."

  DeKok nodded.

  "You may say so," he answered amiably. "Please tell me you didn't touch anything."

  The concierge shook his head vehemently.

  "No, no, Inspector. I didn't touch a thing. Nothing. Well, of course, except the door. But that was hard to avoid. I had to do that. But I didn't go any farther than the door. First I knocked several times. Only after I didn't get an answer did I open the door."

  "And?"

  "That's when I found him."

  "Dead?"

  The concierge looked at DeKok with wide-open, scared eyes. He pointed at the floor, his hand shaking.

  "Exactly as he is now." His large Adam's apple bobbed up and down and his fingers worried nervously with the buttons of his jacket. "He, eh, he is really dead, isn't he?"

  DeKok pursed his lips and nodded.

  "He's dead now."

  The concierge swallowed quickly.

  "You mean he was still alive earlier?"

  "You didn't touch the corpse, I mean, you didn't check to see whether he was indeed dead? Did you feel his pulse or check his breathing?"

  No.

  DeKok smiled at the subdued face of the concierge. He placed a comforting hand on the man's shoulder.

  "He couldn't have been saved anyway," he said soothingly. "Please don't let it bother you, there was nothing you could have done." He gave the man an encouraging smile. "One more thing. Was the room locked when you got here?"

  "No." The concierge thought about it. "No, the door wasn't locked. I could just push it open."

  "You have a passkey?"

  "Yes."

  "Who else has one?"

  "Almost everybody, except for dining room and kitchen personnel. Maid service, room service, front desk personnel, and myself. Of course, there is also an emergency key for management. Personnel may not use their passkeys except in emergencies. There are very strict rules. We always knock first, for instance. You know what I mean? Nobody wants to barge in on a guest unannounced."

  DeKok nodded.

  "How many passkeys are available?"

  "About twenty."

  "And you know exactly who is entitled to have and use such keys?"

  "But of course."

  "Excellent," murmured DeKok, "very good." Then he continued, a bit louder. "In about half an hour I would like to talk to everyone who has such a key. Get them all together in the reading room." He pushed his hat a bit farther back on his head. "For the time being, you may leave us to do our work. Oh yes, I would also like a list of all the guests, their room numbers, and a floor plan for this floor."

  The concierge bowed.

  "But of course," he said with professional servility. "Of course, I'll take care of it. I'll take care of it at once." Then he asked, "May I be of service in any other way, gentlemen?"

  DeKok grinned at the man and his obvious worry about the hotel's image. The concierge was struck by the way it transformed the inspector's face. A grinning DeKok was irresistible.

  "In a moment," said DeKok, smiling, "two rather formidable gentlemen will arrive, dressed in dark coats and accompanied by large leather suitcases."

  "Yes?"

  "Please welcome them in my name and have them immediately conveyed to this room. Those two gentlemen, you see, are the world's greatest experts in photographing corpses and taking fingerprints."

  "Oh," said the concierge.

  "Yes," agreed DeKok. "And in case," he continued, "you spot any gentlemen of the press, you will be so kind as to deny them access past the porter's lodge. Understood?"

  The concierge bowed obsequiously.

  "Excellent," said DeKok, "thank you very much." He closed the door of room twenty-one in the face of the bewildered concierge.

  Vledder had been roaming the scene of the crime for some time as DeKok finished his conversation with the concierge. He had inspected the bolts on the French doors to the balcony and was now busily engaged in a number of measurements to determine the exact position of the corpse. He compiled it all into a sketch of the crime scene.

  When DeKok turned away from the door, Vledder pointed at a hockey stick on the floor next to it. This was an unusual kind of hockey stick. Apart from the usual tape on the handle, the blade, too, was heavily wrapped. The tape around the blade was newer, obviously applied rather recently.

  DeKok took a clean handkerchief from a pocket and lifted the stick between thumb and index finger. It almost slipped from his fingers. The stick was unusually heavy.

  "What on earth?" he exclaimed, surprise in his voice. "This stick has been weighted. Something heavy, perhaps lead, has been attached to the blade. It's hard to see at the moment, but I bet next year's salary the bottom tape has no other purpose than to keep weights in place."

  He looked at it closely.

  "You know, young Vledder," he remarked after a while, "I think this particular murder took some time in the planning. It's the result of a well-conceived, detailed scheme. Look at the hockey stick, for instance. The new tape has been very carefully applied. At first glance I'd say that it's the result of several hours' work."

  He sighed sadly.

  "I'd say it has been altered with care and devotion better applied to more productive labor. The killer, whoever he or she may be, obviously took pride in the preparatory work."

  Vledder did not react to the musings of his mentor. He did not seem interested. He sulked. There was an obstreperous look on his face. It did not escape DeKok. He replaced the stick where he had found it and walked over to Vledder.

  "What's the matter, Dick?" he asked pleasantly. "Aren't you satisfied with the course of events?"

  Vledder stood up, his measuring tape in hand.

  "No," he said, annoyed. "I'm not satisfied with the course of events-not at all. I think you made a serious mistake."

  DeKok made a helpless gesture.

  "I'm really not aware of having made a mistake." It sounded like an apology. "Tell me, what mistake was that?"

  "You shouldn't have let Pierre Brassel just get away!"

  The old inspector sighed deeply.

  "So that's what's eating you," he said. His tone was resigned. "I thought so back at the office." He rubbed his broad face, then raised a cautioning finger. "Just take it from me, Dick, a policeman should always be extremely careful with intelligent people. They can cause a lot more trouble than the not so bright ones. Pierre Brassel is extremely intelligent, much more intelligent than you think. He's fully aware of what he's doing. Even if we don't yet understand his motives, his background, that's our fault. That's a lack of insight on our part for which we
have nobody to blame but ourselves, certainly not our friend Brassel."

  "That's not the issue," exclaimed Vledder sharply. "That's not the point! We should just have kept him and we should have interrogated him until he told us exactly what we wanted to know."

  Eyebrows rippling like woolly caterpillars, DeKok looked thoughtfully at his partner. "You don't believe," said DeKok finally, "that we can force someone to tell us things he doesn't want to tell us. It's an ethical question with limits that every policeman must determine for himself." He paused. "For the sake of argument, however, please state the legal grounds on which we could have kept Brassel in custody."

  "He knew about the murder."

  DeKok nodded calmly.

  "Certainly, on that we agree. What else?"

  Vledder looked at him with amazement.

  "What else? Even had we been unable to charge him as an accomplice, he still had the legal obligation to warn the police a crime was about to be committed. Let's see, how exactly is that phrased? Oh yes, `at a time sufficient to prevent the commission of the crime.' He didn't do that. While he was acting the charlatan in the detective room, mouthing all sorts of nonsense, he calmly allowed the victim to be murdered in this room."

  Vledder became more and more agitated. The blood rushed to his head. Nervous tics developed on his cheeks.

  "Damn it!" he cried, knowing full well DeKok disapproved of strong language. "He knew where and how it was going to happen. Jan Brets was going to have his skull cracked in room twenty-one, the Greenland Arms. He knew it as well as if he had done it himself."

  "And is that possible?" asked DeKok seriously. "Could Pierre Brassel have killed Jan Brets?"

  Vledder sighed.

  "No," he admitted reluctantly. "Not if the concierge spoke the truth about seeing Jan Brets alive at precisely eight o'clock."

  DeKok nodded.

  "Exactly," he said. "If we take that as our starting point, possibly we'll find additional witnesses who can corroborate. If Jan Brets was still alive at eight o'clock, then no matter how much you regret it, Pierre Brassel could not possibly have committed the murder."