DeKok and the Death of a Clown Page 4

  DeKok pointed at the closed door of the morgue building.

  “But it wasn’t Pierrot,” he said. His manner was laconic. “We have established a time of death. This Pierrot was dead for more then six hours before we found him. Therefore the question remains, which Pierrot performed in Groningen?”

  Peter Dongen shook his head vehemently.

  “This is surreal.”

  DeKok smiled gently.

  “But it happened. You checked it yourself.”

  The impresario shook himself, as if trying to shake off the truth.

  “No, I tell you. Pierre’s act was unique. He was a grand performer, a veteran of many years. He continually polished his act, never taking his success for granted. Pierre was a perfectionist, always in rehearsal. His profession was his life; there was nothing else for him.”

  “Are you familiar with his act?”

  Peter Dongen nodded with emphasis.

  “I can recall every movement, every tone of his instruments. I must have seen his performance at least thirty times over the years. He continued to astonish audiences, who found every performance spellbinding. He had true comedic range, from slapstick to sentimental to melancholy. Only he could perform that way.”

  “Inimitable?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Vledder wished the old watchman goodnight, and returned to them. DeKok had a puzzled look.

  “You took your time.”

  “I took another look at the knife.”

  “And?”

  “You’re right … it’s a knife designed for throwing.”

  Peter Dongen reacted frightened.

  “Why do you say it was designed for throwing,” he cried out with apprehension. “What made you think that?”

  Vledder looked from the impresario to DeKok and back again.

  After a moment’s hesitation, he said, “It was a knife such as a carnie knife thrower uses.”

  Dongen swallowed.

  “And that’s what … killed Pierre?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “We’re certain. Of course the autopsy will confirm the cause of death. The knife is still in his back.”

  Peter Dongen closed his eyes.

  “Fantinelli.”

  DeKok frowned.

  “Who or what is Fantinelli?”

  “He has a knife-throwing act.” The impresario covered his eyes with both hands. “He threatened several times to go after Pierre with a knife.”

  DeKok hopped off the streetcar he was riding. He ambled along the wide sidewalk of the Damrak, hands thrust deep into the pockets of his raincoat. There was a relaxed grin on his face. The sunshine and fresh air were so enticing, he’d diverted from his usual route via New Bridge Alley. Now he was following the stream of pedestrians along the Damrak. Amsterdam was not a city built for cars. It was a haven for pedestrians and cyclists. DeKok recalled how, years before, an enterprising tourist bureau had organized a walking tour of Amsterdam. The entire tour took less than a morning. In addition to the old police station at Warmoes Street, there were fifty-some tourist attractions. Where else in the world could one pass Anne Frank’s house, Rembrandt’s house, picturesque bridges, a restaurant as wide as a VW, and The Criers’ Tower? All were within easy walking distance from each other. The same tour by car, DeKok reflected, would probably take all day, maybe longer.

  He pushed his hat farther back on his head and looked up. The flags on the docks of the sightseeing boats waved gaily in the slight breeze under a cloudless sky. On the other side of the water he saw Warmoes Street in shadows. In the office of the commissaris he could just discern the silhouette of the tall Commissaris Buitendam, his chief and nemesis. DeKok suppressed the urge to jump up and down and wave to attract his attention. It was hard to resist. He continued walking, a naughty grin on his face. The uptight commissaris would deplore a public display.

  On the corner of Old Bridge Alley a barrel organ played “La Vie en Rose.” What an appropriate tune for a day like today, thought DeKok. Certainly this was a day to see through rose-colored glasses. He searched his pockets. Among the toffees, peppermints, and other assorted candy, he found a coin. He threw it in the direction of the man who accompanied the organ. With a practiced gesture the man caught the coin in his cap. He nodded at DeKok and DeKok smiled back.

  He crossed the Damrak and looked with pleasure at the old Stock Exchange building. A recent cleaning left the facade looking brand new. He started to hum a Christmas carol and nodded to a working girl he had known for years. Despite her provocative clothing, she was obviously not working. Like DeKok, she was simply enjoying the glorious day.

  DeKok was happy. Yes, there was yet another nasty, complicated murder. He chose this life when he chose his strange profession. His old mother chided him for not learning a trade. She always insisted he needed something to “fall back on.” She never really approved of her son’s choice of work. She did not want any child of hers exposed to the criminal element, to say nothing of the danger.

  He greeted the watch commander enthusiastically as he entered the lobby of the station house. On the worn stairs he encountered Vledder, who was leaving.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “To the autopsy,” explained Vledder. “I’m already late. I should have been there at ten.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “Give Dr. Rusteloos my regards. When you get back we’ll discuss this Fantinelli. And please bring the knife back from the morgue.”

  Vledder took the rest of the stairs in a rush, but at the bottom he turned around.

  “Commissaris Buitendam has asked for you,” he called back up the stairs.

  “Was our preliminary report too preliminary?” asked DeKok with a grin.

  “I don’t know. He said nothing about the report. He just told me to send you to his room when you came in.”

  Commissaris Buitendam indicated the chair in front of his desk with a narrow, elegant hand.

  “Please, sit down, DeKok,” he said in his pompous voice. “I wish to be further informed.”

  The old sleuth had a truculent look as he took the seat. He would have preferred to stand. He felt more in command of the situation that way. A summons to meetings with the commissaris always raised his suspicions. He instinctively protected the autonomy of his office. This led to self-assertion.

  The happiness he had felt at the beginning of the glorious day was waning. It flowed from him like water draining out of a bathtub. His exuberance was being replaced by irked annoyance.

  “Was our report not clear enough?” he asked.

  Buitendam looked a bit sheepish.

  “What report?”

  “We reported the murder of a clown.”

  The commissaris coughed discreetly.

  “Yes, yes, it is such a strange case. We’ll have to dispose of it somehow.”

  DeKok swallowed.

  “Do something about it,” he corrected him. “It’s murder, a foul, well-planned, murder.”

  Buitendam raised his left hand, stretched his chin, and rubbed his neck with the tops of his thumb and fingers. It was a familiar gesture, meant to gain time. DeKok cocked his head and stared at the commissaris.

  “About what,” he asked, “do you want to be informed?”

  The commissaris coughed again.

  “Last night a certain Julius Vlaanderen came to see you in reference to the theft of a considerable amount of antique jewelry from his safe.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Indeed. I read the rather strange story. But I fear I will have little time to spend on it. The murder of the clown has certain aspects—”

  Buitendam waved him into silence.

  “The theft from Vlaanderen is not an isolated case. There have been more of these rather puzzling thefts involving mysterious disappearances of jewelry and money.”

  DeKok shrugged.

  “I had not heard about that,” he said carelessly.

  Buitendam nodded.

 
; “The other cases happened in The Hague. The victims were important people. Their attorneys went directly to the attorney general. In the interests of the victims, the attorney general’s office felt the reports should not be made public.”

  DeKok was stunned.

  “Why not?”

  “It is simply a matter of policy.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “My policy is to find the thief and return the stolen property,” he mocked. “An APB went out.”

  Buitendam nodded again.

  “Exactly. Your APB disturbed a hornet’s nest in The Hague.”

  Now DeKok looked down.

  “But why? It was just a routine report.”

  “From your report, investigators in The Hague have connected the Vlaanderen case with theirs.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  The commissaris tapped his finger on the report on his desk.

  “Little butterfly … the only thing the victims in The Hague remember about the thefts is that. Your APB mentioned that the word or name “butterfly” was the only clue to a possible perpetrator.”

  DeKok smirked, remembering Vledder’s reaction. Apparently he had changed his opinion by the end of the report. DeKok seldom read the reports.

  “And that,” said DeKok, “caused the attorney general in his upscale Hague office such an upset. He couldn’t bring himself to entrust the information to a telex.”

  Although Amsterdam is the capitol of the Netherlands, the government resides in The Hague. This strikes a sour note with true Amsterdammers, who consider the remainder of the Netherlands the Hinterlands.”

  A red spot roughly the size of a ping-pong ball appeared on each commissarial cheek.

  “He was acting on the purest of motives. The attorney general did not want the integrity of the victims open to question.”

  This time DeKok laughed heartily.

  “Their integrity won’t bear the weight of a little butterfly?” He stood up. “How about this—we’ll send all the details of the Vlaanderen case to The Hague. To avoid further embarrassment to a few socialites, they can handle all the cases. What’s the name of the judge advocate in The Hague? Or do I send it directly to the attorney general?” With a grin he rubbed the back of his neck. “Then their secret will be safe and the little butterfly no longer a pest.”

  Buitendam’s face fell. He licked his dry lips and swallowed before he spoke again.

  “Early this morning …” he began slowly, “early this morning The Hague contacted our judge advocate, Mr. Schaap. He wishes you to assume responsibility for The Hague’s cases.”

  DeKok looked as if he had been hit with a hammer.

  “What!?” he roared. “The stuffed shirts in The Hague are so busy schmoozing and kissing up they can’t get hold of the case? So they’d like us to get our hands dirty?” He shook his head resolutely. “I don’t think so. I have a murder on my hands.”

  Buitendam also came out of his chair.

  “Mr. Schaap wants—”

  DeKok interrupted him.

  “You tell Mr. Schaap a man’s life is more important than jewelry collectors with their pants down. Tell him, in this case, I set my own priorities.”

  The commissaris was literally seething with anger. His face turned red and his hands balled into fists. Then he stretched an arm out to the door.

  “OUT!!”

  DeKok left.

  When Vledder returned from the autopsy, he found his old colleague sitting at his desk. Vledder smiled when he saw the look on DeKok’s face.

  “Meeting go well, as usual?”

  DeKok nodded. He was still heavily offended and it showed.

  “It’s too crazy for words,” he said. “Buitendam has a judge-advocate complex. Is it fear or is he just a career bootlicker, take your pick. Maybe it really is the way to the top.

  Schaap calls him about Vlaanderen and the jewels, all of a sudden everything else is out the window. He was dismissive when it came to the savage murder of a clown.”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “Come on. You’re holding out, what else happened?”

  DeKok told the rest. Vledder listened calmly, but when DeKok mentioned the butterfly, he sat up.

  “Well, it seems clear,” he said finally, “it’s our own fault. We should never have said anything about that. It’s why we have all this trouble.”

  DeKok slammed his fist on the desk.

  “But it means something,” he said angrily. “That’s now obvious.”

  “But what?”

  DeKok did not answer right away. His anger was ebbing. The next time he spoke, his expression and tone were milder.

  “Let The Hague figure it out. Isn’t that why they have super powers?” He shook his head as if to clear it. “How was the autopsy?” he asked. “Was there internal bleeding?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Dr. Rusteloos was unable to tell whether the knife had been pushed or thrown. According to him, the effect on the body would be roughly the same. But it must have entered into the body with some force. The knife grazed a rib and severed an artery.”

  “He died of internal hemorrhage?”

  “Right.”

  “Did you bring the weapon?”

  Vledder removed the wrapping from the package on his desk. He then lifted the heavy knife in his hand.

  “I spoke again with the fingerprint experts. They still have no usable prints, which leaves only dried blood samples they took for analysis. They’ll get back to us.”

  The phone on DeKok’s desk rang. Vledder leaned over and lifted it from the cradle. He listened for a moment and then turned to DeKok.

  “Fantinelli is downstairs. They’re asking what to do with him?”

  5

  DeKok rubbed his face with both hands. Then he looked at Vledder through his spread fingers.

  “He can go to the waiting room, for the time being. Just tell them we’ll collect him in a few minutes.” He raised a finger in the air. “By all means he is not to leave.”

  Vledder relayed the instructions and replaced the receiver.

  “Why do you think he’s here?”

  DeKok stretched out a hand toward the knife.

  “Just give me that.”

  Vledder handed him the knife.

  “Do you think he knows?” asked Vledder.

  “What?”

  “That the clown was killed with a throwing knife?”

  DeKok closed his eyes for a moment.

  “What did it say in the papers?”

  “There was nothing about the murder weapon. I looked through two morning papers. Both reported it in a short notice, somewhere inside the paper. Just the bare facts, ‘Dead clown found near The Criers’ Tower.’ That was it. No name and no further particulars.”

  “It’s been a while since a murder was front-page news.”

  It sounded bitter and cynical. Then he realized the evening papers were ready in distribution before the ghastly discovery. The morning papers were probably in their first press run. Removal of the remains had gone relatively quickly and quietly.

  He rubbed the bridge of his nose with his little finger. It took a while before he spoke again.

  “If,” he said slowly, “if Fantinelli knows about the knife, there are two possibilities. Either Peter Dongen told him, or he is the killer. Let us hear his story.”

  Vledder went downstairs to the waiting room and led the man upstairs to the detective room. He motioned to a chair next to DeKok’s desk and unobtrusively retired to his own desk. He turned on his computer to make notes. DeKok noticed with approval that he also placed his notebook on the desk. Vledder knew DeKok trusted handwritten notes more than anything entered directly on a computer.

  The gray sleuth turned to the visitor and smiled amicably.

  “My name is DeKok … with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at Vledder. “And this is my colleague, Detective Vledder, whom you already met.”

  The man nodded. He glanced at Vledde
r and then turned back toward DeKok.

  “I read in the paper you found a dead clown at the foot of Criers’ Tower.”

  “That is correct.”

  “I want to see him.”

  DeKok feigned surprise.

  “Why?”

  The man moved in his chair and then leaned aggressively forward.

  “I want to know who it is,” he said curtly, with a sharp overtone. “It could be anybody.” He gesticulated. “What is a clown? A clown is nothing … absolutely nothing … a crazy costume, big shoes, and a snoot full of paint.”

  DeKok listened carefully to both the tone and the content of the words. The undertone gave DeKok a sense of more than professional jealousy or contempt. This grudge was personal. He leaned back in his chair and gave the visitor his policeman’s stare. He saw a round face and a black, slightly receding hairline. Brown eyes gleamed malevolently under heavy, bristling eyebrows.

  DeKok leaned forward again.

  “I don’t seem to remember,” he said evenly, “you introducing yourself.”

  The man pointed at the floor.

  “Downstairs at the counter, I told them I am Fantinelli.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “Fantinelli,” he repeated slowly. “It sounds Italian. Is it your family name?”

  The man shook his head.

  “It’s my stage name. My real name is Kees Kappelhof,” he smiled sadly. “You understand … not exactly the name for a poster.”

  DeKok smiled politely.

  “You’re a performing artist?” he asked superfluously.

  “Yes … variety … knife thrower.”

  DeKok gave his visitor a look full of admiration.

  “I’ve been a fan of theater since my early childhood,” he lied with conviction. “It’s a love I inherited from my father. I am particularly taken by knife-throwing acts. They, you, have it all—courage, power, precision. I am an aficionado.” He cocked his head. “And you work with a beautiful woman on the turning wheel?”