DeKok and the Somber Nude Page 3

  Vledder rose from behind his desk and walked toward DeKok. Despite everything, he genuinely liked his old mentor. It was a deep affection that had its origins in loyalty and admiration.

  “Wow-wow-wow,” he laughed.

  Annoyed, DeKok looked up.

  “Wow-wow-wow,” repeated Vledder.

  DeKok grinned disdainfully.

  “It’s a constant marvel to me,” he said, “that the clear sounds of our beautiful language are constantly being improved.” He snorted. “Heaven knows what the exact meaning of that primitive utterance may be.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “Well you see, when a stallion spots a good-looking filly it starts to neigh—”

  “I understand,” answered DeKok. His tone was disapproving. “And when a civilized young man spots a beautiful girl he too reveals his feelings by uttering animal sounds.”

  “That’s it!” Vledder remained silent for a while then continued. “But even without the strange ‘wow-wow-wow,’ I was amused immensely by the man. Wielen was as slippery as an eel. He knew what you were getting at with your commentary on wildflowers. He also knew that you had not one iota of proof.”

  Nonchalantly DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “But our friend is lying all the same. Of course there’s no legal evidence, I mean nothing you could take to court, but it was an indication to me that Wielen had seen Nanette at Ye Three Roses more recently than two weeks ago.”

  “How long do you think?”

  “That arrangement couldn’t have been put together long, maybe a day or so ago.”

  Vledder nodded then said, “But perhaps he’s been in the shop but didn’t see Nanette?”

  “Of course that’s possible. But I have the feeling Wielen is hiding something. He knows more than he’s telling us.”

  Vledder grabbed a chair and sat down on it backwards, his arms folded on the backrest.

  “What do you think? Should we have him followed?”

  “Waste of time.” DeKok shook his head. “That’s hardly necessary with a reporter.”

  A look of consternation moved briefly across Vledder’s face. “Not necessary? But if he—”

  “Take it from me,” interrupted DeKok, “the press boys are never very clever or cunning. They’re merely bold and ill-advised.”

  He grimaced.

  “Our old commissaris always used to say, ‘Give a reporter enough rope and sooner or later he’ll hang himself.’” There was nostalgia in DeKok’s voice. “After all,” he continued, “it’s in the very character of a reporter. They can’t fight it. Give them time and before long they’ll publicize anything.”

  “Even their confession?”

  “Perhaps,” said DeKok, grinning. “It all depends on the size of the headline they think they’ll get.”

  Vledder laughed.

  “What about our boy’s story about the District? Do you really believe he saw Nanette coming from there?”

  DeKok scratched the back of his neck.

  “I don’t know,” he hesitated. “He was rather glib with that story. He didn’t need any prompting. That surprised me a bit, you know? I wonder if it could be a trap.”

  “Why do you say a trap?”

  “Perhaps Wielen wants us to look for the cause of Nanette’s disappearance in the District while—”

  “The District has nothing to do with her disappearance,” completed Vledder. Then he grinned and added, “The pimps and whores are as innocent as cherubs.”

  DeKok nodded approval while managing to show disapproval for Vledder’s choice of words.

  “But then,” continued Vledder, “Wielen may be more cunning than you’re trying to make me believe.”

  DeKok smiled faintly. He placed both hands on the desk and pressed his heavy upper body into a standing position.

  “I’ve a little job for you,” he said.

  Vledder’s eyes sparkled.

  “You want me to track the reporter after all?”

  “Just leave Wielen be. He can wait. I want you to go to Aalsmeer. Just ask around at the post there and have a little chat with Nanette’s parents.”

  “You want me to tell them she’s…”

  “No, not yet. Just try to find out if the relationship between the two cousins is really as idyllic as Kristel led us to believe. Perhaps they know more about it in Aalsmeer.”

  Vledder nodded. His face was serious.

  “And what are you going to do?” he asked.

  “I’m going to see Lowee.”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  Lowee was better known in the Red Light District as “Little Lowee,” for obvious reasons. He had a small body, a narrow chest, and a mouse-like face. Lowee and DeKok had known each other for years and had developed a mutual respect. Still, a barrier remained intact between them, a nebulous veil of wariness due to the fact that DeKok was a man of the law and Lowee a man of the underworld.

  Lowee’s intimate bar was near Warmoes Street, on the edge of the District by the corner of Barn Alley. The bar, with its shadowy interior, was the meeting place for the girls of the Quarter. This is where they rested, the likes of Black Tracy and Blonde Greta, sipping their sweet concoctions and chatting openly about the business.

  DeKok shuffled to the end of the bar and hoisted himself onto a barstool. It was his regular place. From this vantage point he could look over the entire room.

  Little Lowee came over to DeKok’s spot at the bar and placed a glass in front of the detective. His other hand felt under the bar for the bottle of Napoleon cognac, which he never wasted on his regular customers. As a gesture of respect he reserved this delightful elixir exclusively for DeKok.

  “How’s crime?” asked Lowee pleasantly while he poured generously.

  “Everybody has a cross to bear,” grimaced DeKok. “My cross is the sins of others.”

  Lowee smiled with a crooked mouth.

  “If I dint know youse better,” he jeered, “I’d be weepin’ in da drinks.” He poured a generous measure for himself from the same bottle, raising his glass to DeKok.

  “Proost to all dem kids of thirsty daddies.”

  DeKok grinned. “Proost!” he answered.

  He rocked the glass slightly in his hand and inhaled the tantalizing aroma of the cognac. DeKok was a connoisseur. He took another small sip and enjoyed the sensation of inner warmth the liquor spread through his body. It banished the wet chill of the rain. Carefully he replaced the snifter on the bar.

  “I’m looking for a girl.”

  Half surprised, Lowee looked at him.

  “Youse…I’d have thunk youse done be far past it by now,” he smirked.

  DeKok ignored the remark. He took Nanette’s picture from an inside pocket and placed it in front of the bar owner.

  “This is the one.”

  Lowee wiped his hands on the front of his shirt and picked up the photo. He looked at it with care.

  “Good-lookin’ broad,” he said finally, admiration in his voice. He pressed his lower lip forward, nodded his head emphatically, and repeated, “Yessah, very good-lookin’ broad.”

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “Do you know her?” he asked.

  He did not answer at once. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth.

  “She inda business then?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “To be honest, I don’t know. She seems like a nice girl. Someone has asserted that she visits the neighborhood from time to time. But if you ask me, she doesn’t belong.”

  “There’s lotsa broads don’t belong ’ere,” snorted Lowee.

  DeKok was aware of the correction. Little Lowee was rather touchy on that subject, as were most of the people who made a living from the underbelly of society. They didn’t like “nice” people. As they often knew so well, nice was just a facade, a camouflage to hide behind. They saw too many so-called nice, respectable people in the District. They were not all tourists.

  “I know what you
mean,” sighed DeKok.

  Lowee sipped his cognac.

  “Wassa she dun?” he asked casually.

  DeKok smiled.

  “No, no, it isn’t that. The girl is gone, just gone. She disappeared without a trace. She’s underage. A family member reported her missing.”

  Lowee’s small, lively face cleared up. The subject of a disappeared underage girl was a safe subject in the neighborhood. It could freely be discussed with the police. The Quarter was not supposed to be a haven for underage runaways; that was the unwritten code of the Red Light District.

  “How oldes we talkin’?”

  “Nineteen.”

  “And youse gotta find ’er?” sniggered Lowee.

  “What do you expect? It’s my job.”

  “So and wadda we call dis flower?”

  “Nanette, Nanette Bogaard.”

  “What youse say?”

  “Nanette Bogaard.”

  The barkeep put his glass down and thought deeply. His face was distorted, as if in pain.

  “Bogaard…Bogaard,” he said thoughtfully, “I thinks I hear da moniker time or two.”

  DeKok sat up straight.

  “Are you sure?” His voice was hopeful.

  Lowee nodded vaguely.

  “I woulda been very wrong if I’da sez otherwise.” His lower lip curled itself upward. “Bogaard, youse see, itsa…a strange name around ’ere, youse remembers that.”

  With difficulty DeKok controlled his impatience.

  “Where did you hear the name?”

  “Musta bin right here, inna bar.”

  “A working girl?”

  Lowee shook his head.

  “Nope, notta broad, a guy.”

  “A guy, what sort of guy?”

  Little Lowee pulled a face, as if in disgust.

  “Ach, youse know, one of dem dirty stargazers…capable of anythin’. He come around a bit.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “Dat’s possible, ’e ain’t been around long.” He looked at DeKok and grinned. “But I don’t think he’d be dyin’ to meets youse.”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders and drained his glass.

  “Still, I would like to talk to him.”

  Lowee poured again.

  “About da broad?”

  “Yes, I find the similarity of names a bit too coincidental. Perhaps he knows something.”

  The barkeeper nodded.

  “It ain’t gonna be easy to catch up wid ’im. He’s a shy sorta guy, I bin told.”

  DeKok bestowed his sunniest smile upon the small man.

  “Perhaps, maybe, if you gave him a little encouragement—”

  “Encouragement?”

  “Yes, you know, a friendly invitation for…” DeKok looked at his watch, “…let’s say tonight at eight. Tell him to go to 48 Warmoes Street, room nine.”

  “Da barn?”

  “Yes.”

  A petite black girl, rather provocatively dressed, emerged from between the leather curtains that separated the bar from the minuscule lobby. A young man with dark glasses and dirty blonde hair followed close behind. Little Lowee looked over his shoulder. Through the large mirror behind the bar he followed the couple with his eyes. They sat down at a small table in the back. When Lowee turned back to DeKok, a tic had developed near his left eye.

  “I, eh, I’se rather not,” he said hesitantly.

  DeKok rubbed his face with his hand.

  “And I thought we were friends.” It sounded reproachful. “I mean, such a small service isn’t too much to ask now, is it?”

  Lowee heard the disappointment and squirmed. His face assumed the usual painful expression. Obviously he was on the horns of a dilemma. A drop of sweat emerged from under his sparse hair and rolled down his forehead. DeKok’s stare was steadfast.

  “Well, what’s your answer?” he pressed. “Will you do it?”

  Little Lowee leaned close to DeKok in a confidential gesture.

  “Why,” he whispered, “don’ youse ask ’im yourself?”

  DeKok’s eyebrows raised.

  “Myself?”

  Almost imperceptibly Lowee nodded.

  “He just got ’ere.”

  4

  Cognac glass in hand, DeKok slid off the barstool. With his decrepit little hat shoved onto the back of his head, the old detective waddled through the pinkish twilight of Little Lowee’s bar. He looked like a drunk in his fifties, imbued with the belief that the sole purpose of mankind was to be drunk, jolly, and cozy at all times. In the far corner he halted. The conversation between the couple stopped immediately. DeKok smiled his best smile and, without invitation, allowed himself to sit down on the vacant chair next to the girl. She moved away stiffly, as though he were infected.

  DeKok placed his cognac glass in front of him. After carefully placing both elbows on the edge of the small table, he rested his head on the entwined fingers of his hands and stared at the young man in front of him. He took in his face with a sharp gaze. The dark glasses hid some of his features, but a slight vibration around the corners of his mouth betrayed the young man’s displeasure with the scrutiny.

  “Go away,” he hissed between his teeth. “Nobody called you over here.”

  DeKok took a careful sip of his cognac and played with the glass in his hand.

  “I often come without being called,” he said in a sepulchral tone of voice. “I’m like death. There’s an element of surprise.”

  The young man hesitated. The tone of voice was not that of a drunk. It confused him.

  “Well, we don’t wish to be disturbed,” he explained. “You understand?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “I understand,” he said with a friendly note in his voice. “Therefore I won’t keep you long. But in case you’re interested, my name is DeKok. DeKok with, eh, a kay-oh-kay. I’m an inspector assigned to Warmoes Street station, homicide.” He paused then continued. “As part of my duties I’m involved in an investigation regarding the mysterious disappearance of Nanette Bogaard.”

  “Nanette?” The young man was visibly shocked.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Nanette Bogaard,” he emphasized.

  The young man swallowed; his Adam’s apple moved up and down.

  “Disappeared?” he asked.

  “Yes, are you interested?” DeKok looked at him sharply.

  The young man threw a hunted look in the direction of his black companion.

  “Well yes, no…not interested, not really, actually,” he stammered. He motioned vaguely and nervously and tried to force a smile without succeeding. “Actually it’s not all that peculiar. I’m sure that girls disappear all the time.”

  Slowly DeKok rose.

  “Yes,” he answered somberly, “sometimes they disappear forever.”

  He pushed his chair back, preparatory to leaving. It was an awkward movement, and his legs suddenly weren’t quite so steady. In that instant DeKok lost his balance. He fell diagonally across the table. The empty cognac glass was knocked over. A murmur traveled through the room. DeKok stayed where he was. When he finally moved again, his hand touched the man’s dark glasses as if by accident. Momentarily DeKok could see the eyes hidden behind the opaque lenses. It was just a moment, but enough for DeKok to get a flash of insight. He laughed, a bit embarrassed, murmured an apology, and waddled outside.

  The couple looked after him with mixed emotions.

  Little Lowee grinned from behind the bar.

  As soon as the brown leather-reinforced curtains of Lowee’s bar closed behind him, DeKok cinched tight the belt of his raincoat, pulled up his coat collar, and shoved his hat a bit farther over his eyes. Slowly he walked away from the bar. It was still raining. Lost tourists draped in wrinkled plastic paraded along the windows of the District. It was a sad amusement. DeKok looked at the wet, curious faces. This was Amsterdam in July. Sightseeing boats, their windows fogged over, moved through the canals.

  At the end of the canal he stopped, undec
ided. He thought about returning to the station to request a nationwide search for the missing girl. So far he had resisted the urge. He felt it would be a bit premature. But he was more and more convinced something serious had happened. He had felt it all along—almost from the moment Kristel had uttered the name of her cousin. He couldn’t shake a strange feeling of disaster, death, mystery. He’d had uncanny premonitions many times in the past, usually accurate premonitions. There were a number of logical explanations for Nanette’s disappearance, but going over them did nothing to alleviate his fears. They remained in his subconscious, irresistible, like malevolent phantoms.

  A cold drop of rain slid down the bridge of his nose. It reminded him how unproductive it was to stand on the corner of a street, especially in the rain. He cursed himself. Before long the wet would creep into his bones and he would have another cold. He was much too susceptible to live in the Dutch climate. His indecision was in the process of killing all initiative. He had to do something.

  Upon further deliberation, he decided to wait a little longer with an APB. There was still time for that. Perhaps young Vledder had discovered something in Aalsmeer, and this entire matter would take a totally different direction. One never knew. An investigation involving a lively young girl had built-in surprises. Lively? Suddenly an idea crossed his mind. How lively was Nanette Bogaard? Was it possible the lack of liveliness was the cause of her disappearance? Melancholy, sorrow…could she have committed suicide? DeKok pressed his wet hat a little deeper into his forehead and walked in the direction of Duke Street. Kristel van Daalen, he thought, had to know something more.

  Ye Three Roses stood as an exclusive flower shop with an artistic interior, exotic flowers, and fantastic prices. DeKok’s careful bureaucratic soul would never allow him to send flowers to his wife from this particular shop. It wasn’t because he did not wish his wife to have the best of everything, but for a man like DeKok there are, after all, limits.

  The ding-dong of the store bell had long since faded to silence before Kristel van Daalen appeared behind the flagstone counter. Her appearance coincided with the soft whispering of bamboo curtains. Giving her a thorough look, DeKok again felt the allure of her extraordinary beauty. She looked fetching in a light blue duster.