DeKok and the Geese of Death Read online

  “But even so, it should never have happened!” He was still angry. “It’s getting to be a habit. Everyday one, two, three, or more just take off.”

  With an angry look Vledder looked at his partner, mentor and friend. At one time he had been assigned to DeKok as an assistant, but now Vledder was a full-fledged inspector in his own right. His rank was substantially the same as DeKok’s. But although DeKok would never rise above his present rank, Vledder was slated to rise in the ranks. DeKok never doubted Vledder would one day make Commissaris, maybe even Chief Constable. But in their day-to-day dealings DeKok always, subtly, remained the senior partner and Vledder the junior partner. Neither man was conscious of it. Neither really cared. They were a highly effective team, each partner trusting the other implicitly. DeKok empathized with Vledder’s current protestations of “wasted” work. As a junior, he had performed under what seemed to be vows of obedience, poverty, and, yes, chastity. Junior officers of any rank had meager lives outside of work.

  “And now what?” queried Vledder. “We have to start the hunt all over again?” He growled some barely audible curses. He knew all about DeKok’s aversion to strong language. “And who knows where to find him?” he continued. “Do we know his plans? We can hardly provide protection for all the rich old folks on his list. Besides, he’ll probably start a whole new list.” Again he slammed his fist on the desk.

  DeKok pursed his lips, then pulled out his lower lip, and let it plop back. It was one of his more annoying habits. After almost a minute of this, he looked at Vledder.

  “It never entered my mind to warn the people on the list. I’m afraid it would cause them to panic. We will ask Meindert Post to keep a surreptitious eye on the addresses.”

  “Well, at least it’s something,” admitted Vledder. “What else do you have in mind?”

  “How methodical was Igor?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, do we know if he followed his list in a particular order … from beginning to end, or whatever.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “No, Mrs. Linshot was third in line and Samuel Lion was almost at the bottom of the list. There’s no hope there.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “How many people on the list altogether?”

  Vledder touched a few keys on his keyboard.

  “Twelve,” he said.

  “So there are ten left.”

  “Eleven, actually. Mrs. Bildijk wasn’t part of the list, but her name and address are in the agenda.”

  DeKok did not react. He remained seated for a while, staring into the distance. Then he slowly rose out of his chair and waddled over to the peg where he kept his coat. He struggled into the wet garment. Vledder made as if to follow him.

  “Where are you going?”

  DeKok grinned.

  “I’m going to see Lowee. I’m thirsty.”

  Lowee, usually referred to as Little Lowee because of his small stature, rubbed his small hands on his greasy vest. A happy grin lit up his narrow, ferret-like face.

  “Well, well,” he chirped jovially. “Da Great Cop done found the way again. Itsa bin days and days.”

  DeKok hoisted himself onto a barstool.

  “I know, I know,” he sighed. “It’s been too long. But what do you want? Duty before pleasure, you know.”

  Vledder seated himself next to his partner. He was getting used to this dark, intimate bar where prostitutes gathered between clients and tried to forget the more sordid aspects of the world’s oldest profession. Lowee himself was known to be a small-time fence, but had only been caught once, by DeKok. These days he was either more circumspect, or DeKok paid less attention to his nefarious activities. Over the years a real friendship had developed between the small, mousy barkeeper and the rugged old cop. DeKok was the only person in Amsterdam Lowee trusted. And with his intimate knowledge of the underworld he was always a reliable source of information.

  Lowee turned philosophical, or maybe he was just being a good bartender. “All duty and no play gonna shorten you life for nuttin.” He then produced a venerable bottle of cognac and showed the label.

  “Same recipe?” he asked.

  DeKok nodded, but did not speak. The question was merely an introduction to a by now almost hallowed tradition. Vledder and DeKok watched in silence as Lowee produced three large snifters and started to pour.

  Vledder raised his glass and sniffed appreciatively. Under DeKok’s guidance he was rapidly becoming a connoisseur of good cognac. DeKok held his glass up against the light and waited until Lowee, too, had picked up his glass. With silent enjoyment they took the first sip. DeKok closed his eyes and followed the golden liquid as it found its way to his stomach. It was a serious, private meditation.

  The slight barkeeper was the first to break the silence.

  “Youse look sorta down,” he stated.

  Lowee spoke a type of Dutch even native Dutchmen found hard to understand. His language was the language of the underworld and the gutter. A mixture of several languages with meanings far removed from their original intent and almost all mispronounced. The closest thing to Bargoens, as it is called, would probably be a mixture of Cockney, Yiddish, ungrammatical Dutch, and Papiamento, (a mixture of Dutch, Portuguese, and African dialects).

  DeKok was the only cop in the Netherlands who both understood and spoke Bargoens, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak it.

  DeKok nodded.

  “That’s an acute observation.”

  The barkeeper laughed.

  “C’mon, DeKok, how badsa gonna be?” He did not wait for an answer. His face became serious. “I done read about it inna fishwrap … the killer ofda old geezers done fled an’ you gottit bad, ain’cha?”

  Lowee’s actual words were almost incomprehensible, but DeKok understood him. Vledder, too, was getting more and more adept at interpreting Lowee. “Fish wrap” referred to a newspaper. The Dutch eat a lot of fish and the remains are invariably wrapped in an old newspaper before disposal. It was also a reference to the way the British traditionally serve fish and chips, in a newspaper.

  DeKok nodded and rubbed the back of his neck.

  “Yes, Lowee,” he admitted. “I’m worried about it. He’s a strange man, irresponsible, unpredictable, and vicious. He’s capable of anything.”

  Little Lowee shook his head in disapproval. “The hoosegow these days is justa movie house widda conti … contin … widda ongoing pergamme. They’s goin’ in an out asday like. I got some come in here and I knows they’s suppose to be in jail.”

  “But you serve them?”

  Lowee looked flabbergasted.

  “Yessir,” he said, irritation in his voice. “Wadda ya want? Itsa ma biznez youse unnerstand.”

  DeKok could not help but smile at the reaction. He pointed at the empty glasses.

  “Pour one more for the road,” he suggested.

  The small barkeeper obeyed with the alacrity of the good publican.

  For a long time they remained silent, enjoying the cognac. At the end of the bar a woman in a hoarse voice wailed the blues. Some of the other people at the various tables sang along. When the last word finally died away, everybody applauded vigorously. A few people stood up and placed some money in a jar for the singer. No one gave coins, just paper money.

  Little Lowee looked on from behind the bar.

  “Ol’ Kate,” he said almost tenderly. “She can’t make it onner back nomore.”

  Young Vledder looked at his watch and yawned. His day had started early and the cognac made him sleepy. He put his glass down.

  “If you hear something, Lowee, let us know.”

  Lowee looked scandalized. Maybe Vledder was tired. But as sleepy as he might be, he certainly was not in a position to make any requests. He was here with DeKok and there was a protocol, even among trusted friends.

  DeKok looked up from his glass.

  “Yes, Lowee, let me know what you hear.”

  The scandalized look disappea
red from Lowee’s face and was replaced by a look of understanding.

  “For sure, DeKok, iffen I hears somewhat of Igor, I’ll give youse da high sign.”

  DeKok seemed to freeze in position. Suddenly he looked sharply at the small barkeeper. “You said Igor. As far as I know that was not in the papers, Lowee. And we haven’t mentioned his name to you.”

  Lowee grinned sheepishly.

  “Among da penoze (underworld), Igor Stablinsky ain’t exactum no stranger, youse know.”

  “You know him?”

  “He’s done bin here one time, or so. Had somewhat goin’ wid onofda gals … young chicky. She usta work da Leiden Street. I think she got Big H now.” He paused, looked at Vledder and explained: “She’s a heroine addict,” he added precisely.

  DeKok leaned forward.

  “Any idea how I can find the girl?”

  Little Lowee glanced quickly around the bar to assure himself no one could listen in on the conversation. He was not known as a “snitch” and was not about to loose that reputation. It would be bad for business, not to mention his health. He talked to DeKok freely, because he trusted the old sleuth. As far as he knew only DeKok, Vledder, and Lowee himself knew he sometimes fed information to DeKok. So far as Lowee was concerned, that was already three people too many. Friendship has its obligations, so he helped DeKok whenever he could. Still he hesitated. Igor was not someone to underestimate.

  “Why don’t you,” he said, suddenly in very precise Dutch, “visit number two seventeen, Long Leiden Side Street, third floor in the back.”

  “Who lives there?”

  “Crazy Chris. He gotta social conscience. One stop for heroine, crack, and condoms—safe sex, youse know,” he cackled.

  “Crazy Chris,” repeated DeKok.

  “Yep,” confirmed Lowee, “he tells you of Igor’s girlfriend, alright.”

  From rear Fort Canal they passed through Old Acquaintance Alley in the direction of Old Church Square. Now they were on home turf. It was busy in the Quarter, as usual. It was already dark outside. Soon the Red Light District would be in full swing and the pace of the police station would heat up, as well. The old, renowned, Warmoes Street Police Station was DeKok’s alma mater. Some referred to it as the Dutch “Hill Street.” Among police officers it was known as the busiest police station in Europe. Situated on the edge of Amsterdam’s Red Light District, it was hemmed in by the harbor. The polyglot population encompassed all strata of society, from aristocrats to day laborers, from drug dealers to respectable business people. A hundred or more languages could be heard in the Quarter. Churches were virtual bedfellows with brothels, so to speak. Here, the bars never closed; someone was always willing to pay for the refuge, meager though it might be.

  Vledder and DeKok absorbed the atmosphere while they worked their way through crowds gathering in front of windows backlit in shades of pink and red. The prostitutes were beginning to display themselves for the evening trade.

  “Ask for Igor’s girlfriend,” said Vledder. He looked at DeKok. “Have you heard yet about a so-called girlfriend?”

  DeKok shook his head and made a dismissive gesture.

  “Perhaps she plays only a minor role in his life. We have not been able to uncover a hint of her existence.

  Vledder looked at the tower clock of Old Church.

  “You want to follow up tonight, still?”

  DeKok nodded emphatically.

  “After he fled, Igor didn’t have many choices. Our boy is a classic sociopath, not to say a psychopath. He has almost no friends, but he’s smart enough to expect us to watch his known associates. His own house is impossible as a hiding place. That’s a given. If he remained in town, it’s just possible he’s with the girlfriend.”

  Vledder yawned again. Fighting the need to sleep was making him irritable.

  “Young heroin whores almost never have regular addresses,” he objected. “More than likely, this one is holed up in some abandoned building or she’s renting a crib by the hour in some flea bag hotel. He sighed. “We could have more fun searching through haystacks (or free clinics) for needles.”

  DeKok looked at his partner and friend, gauging his condition with a practiced eye.

  “Come we’ll keep walking,” he said. “It will clear out the cobwebs.”

  Vledder followed reluctantly.

  Long Leiden Side Street was narrow and dark. Near the end, on the side of Mirror Canal, the lights had all but vanished. Only a few of the remaining lights were still operating. Dark shapes flitted by as they looked up at number two hundred and seventeen. It was a sad section of street. It was too narrow for a trash truck and the inhabitants had apparently never bothered to take their refuse to the end of the street for collection.

  The door to number two hundred and seventeen was damaged. The paint was peeling and there was a crack in the upper panel. Around the lock were signs of forced entry. A greasy piece of rope protruded from the letter slot in the door. Vledder and DeKok both knew the arrangement. Anyone wanting to open the door pulled on the rope, which was connected to a latch. Once the latch popped, the door easily opened. It was the usual way to access Dutch homes in multi-story buildings. It was common for one family to occupy a single floor. The families shared a common staircase and corridor. The rooms on each floor came out on the corridor, since each house was originally meant as a single-family dwelling. The latch arrangement was invented to allow children of working parents to enter when they came home from school.

  DeKok pulled on the rope and pushed against the door. As he had expected, the door opened easily. Followed by Vledder he hoisted his two hundred pounds up the narrow, creaking staircase. Vledder provided illumination from a flashlight. On the third floor they saw light streaming from under a door in the back. DeKok approached the door and opened it slowly.

  A man was seated on a small sofa in the dingy room. A black sweater and black jeans clung to his fat like the casing on a sausage. The effect was not minimizing. He rose and walked toward his visitors.

  “What do you want?” he asked, unsmiling.

  DeKok smiled.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said with a winning smile. “DeKok with kay-oh-kay.” He pointed a thumb at Vledder. “And this …”

  He was interrupted by the man’s attempt to turn around and go back into the room. DeKok reached out and seemingly without effort pulled the man closer.

  “Don’t worry about your nasty business. That’s not why we’re here.”

  He pushed and forced the man to sit back on the sofa.

  “We just want some information,” he added.

  “Information?”

  “You’re Chris, aren’t you. Better known as Crazy Chris?”

  The man grunted.

  “I don’t like surprises. People don’t just come here unannounced. What in hell do you want from me?”

  DeKok did not answer at once, but held the man’s eyes with his own.

  “I take it you’ve figured out who we are?”

  The man snorted.

  “If I hadn’t known your names, I would have figured it out from your bad suits … you’re cops.”

  “That’s right,” said DeKok cheerfully. “We’re inspectors from Warmoes Street Station.” His tone became more serious. “We’re here to ask about Igor Stablinsky’s girlfriend.”

  Crazy Chris suddenly looked scared.

  “Igor’s old lady?”

  “Yes.”

  “German Inge, did you find her?”

  Vledder and DeKok glanced at each other. Then DeKok studied Crazy Chris for a moment.

  “What did you mean did we find her?”

  The heavy man waved his arms around.

  “News doesn’t travel so fast, after all. German Inge has been missing for at least two weeks.”

  “Missing?”

  Crazy Chris nodded with emphasis.

  “Murdered, most likely.”

  They were dejected as they made their way back to the station house. The rai
n kept coming down harder. DeKok pulled up the collar of his coat and pulled his hat deeper over his eyes. He glanced at Vledder.

  “Had you heard anything about a missing girl?”

  “Yes,” nodded Vledder. “There was a report about a missing Ingeborg Seidel from Hanover. Nineteen years old. She was last seen getting into a car on Leiden Square.”

  “Tag number?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “None, and no description. We got zip, not even model and make of the car. There was some vague information about a cream colored car.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But in the dark it could have been anything from beige to canary yellow.”

  DeKok groaned. But he did not question the information. Vledder read all reports and remembered most of them.

  “The poor girl, who knows what happened to her. Not to mention it doesn’t bode well for our efforts to track down Igor Stablinsky before the day is done.”

  They proceeded in silence. The rain was now coming down in sheets and DeKok licked the drops that came down his nose and looked at the neon lights mirrored in the wet pavement.

  Vledder finally broke the silence.

  “You think that Igor has something to do with Inge’s disappearance?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “It’s hard to say. I suspect that if German Inge is indeed dead, it may have been an occupational hazard.”

  “You don’t really believe one of her customers killed her?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid it’s quite likely. The life makes these women especially vulnerable. Few, if any, carry weapons. When one of them steps into a stranger’s car, she’s no better off than a child, regardless of her age or experience. A prostitute relies on instinct and the word on the street to avoid predatory monsters. In fact, she is the lowest link in a complex food chain.”

  Vledder nodded agreement.

  They had now reached Damrak, the wide shopping street that lead to the dam and ran almost parallel to Warmoes Street, generally believed to be the oldest street in Amsterdam. There was no question about the fact that Warmoes Street Station was the oldest police station in the city.