DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 6

  “All right,” said Vledder, more to stop DeKok from doing what he was doing than to elicit an answer. “Where’s the thread?”

  “For one thing Mrs. Abbenes must have known about hundreds of cases her husband handled. Why would she specifically remember the Casper Hoogwoud incident? And why would Darthouse say with such conviction he had never heard of Hoogwoud? Why deny there was any such case?”

  Vledder did not answer. He shrugged and looked at his partner’s sad face.

  “Do you have tired feet?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

  DeKok laughed heartily. He understood Vledder’s question. Usually when a case appeared hopeless, when he saw no immediate solution, his legs would act up. He had been assured more than once it was purely psychosomatic, but the pain was almost unbearable even so. He always referred to it as “tired feet.” Still laughing, he shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said with a chuckle. “No protest from my little devils with red-hot pitchforks. But if something doesn’t change quickly—” He did not get the opportunity to complete his sentence. Vledder spotted a small opening in the traffic. With one movement he started the car and slammed it into reverse. He made a hair-raising, sliding turn and shot into a narrow alley.

  “I have a wonderful idea,” exclaimed Vledder as they raced down the alley.

  “Well?”

  “You’re going to Little Lowee. I am certain that the taste of a good cognac will lift you out of your misery. I’ll drop you off.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “Dick,” he said, “you should have been a prophet.”

  With the smile still on his face he slid down in the seat. His despair was rapidly driven away by hopeful thoughts.

  The dimly lit, intimate bar was near the corner of Barn Alley. Little Lowee, the proprietor, peered from behind the bar as DeKok hoisted himself onto a bar stool and looked around. It was his usual spot at the end of the bar, his back to the wall with a clear view of the rest of the establishment. Lowee’s was not busy—too early for the usual crowd of prostitutes and other underworld figures. He waved

  casually at two aging prostitutes who were drinking coffee.

  He placed his old hat on his knee and relaxed against the wall. It was one of his favorite watering holes. Whenever he and Vledder could spare the time, they would stop by and be greeted by the diminutive barkeep.

  Little Lowee had watched him get settled and now spoke for the first time. His mousey face beamed with good will.

  “Good to see ya, DeKok,” he said in his almost incomprehensible thieves language. “Bin too long, awready.” He looked past DeKok. “So, where’s your side kick, ennyway?”

  “Yes, it has,” answered DeKok, “it must have been almost a week since I last enjoyed your special cognac.” He added, “Vledder wanted to finish some paperwork at the office, he didn’t feel like a drink.”

  “Is dadda hint?” asked Lowee, diving under the bar and emerging with a venerable, dusty bottle. “I’m gonna take care o’ that.”

  He produced two large snifters and, with infinite care, uncorked the bottle. With a practiced movement he filled the glasses, then replaced the bottle on the bar. He pushed one glass in DeKok’s direction and lifted the other one.

  DeKok picked up the glass and leisurely absorbed the aroma of the golden liquid while he warmed the glass in his hand. After a few minutes he took his first, savoring sip. He rolled the liquid around in his mouth and, with an indescribable sense of wellbeing, felt it trickle down his gullet.

  Lowee had copied his movements and for awhile the two men remained silent in admiration and appreciation of the remarkable drink. Then Lowee replaced his glass on the bar.

  “Yo bin busy, then? Like I says, ain’t seen youse for awhile.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “Somewhat,” he said, taking a larger sip. “You know, Lowee, I almost forgot the taste. Where do you get these bottles?”

  “I got me sources,” said Lowee secretively.

  DeKok nodded.

  “Well, whatever your sources, I hope they’ll be able to supply you for a longtime.”

  “Don’t worry, they ain’t gonna let me run dry.”

  “Good,” said DeKok and drained his glass.

  As Lowee came closer to refill it, DeKok leaned toward him.

  “Hear anything about The Crow lately?”

  Lowee’s face fell and became sad.

  “You want ‘im or what?”

  DeKok smiled soothingly.

  “Worried, Lowee?”

  The small barkeep shrugged his narrow shoulders.

  “Well, I gotta a soft spot for da Crow.”

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “Me, too.”

  “But you wanna grabbem, anyhow?”

  DeKok made an apologetic gesture.

  “What do you want?” he said resignedly. “I can’t have him bashing in the heads of lawyers.”

  “Ah, Abbenes, right? He done that?”

  DeKok rubbed his chin.

  “What do you think, Lowee?”

  He stared for a long time into the distance without saying anything. His face was serious.

  “Ya knows, DeKok,” he said finally, “when I read it in da swindle sheets, I thinks da Crow done it awright.” He tapped his chest. “But deep inside I think it ain’t possible, just can’t believe it, kneisie?”

  “Why not?” asked DeKok, reflecting that if Vledder had been with him he would have had to explain that “kneisie,” with the k clearly pronounced, meant “you know” in Lowee’s underworld language of Bargoens.

  Lowee drained his glass in turn.

  “Da Crow gotta a big mouth, as big as the Queen’s garage.” He held up his right hand with his thumb and index finger just a centimeter apart. “But ‘e’s gotta heart the size of a peanut.”

  DeKok’s face became stubborn.

  “In the old days he was always ready with his fists.”

  “Ach, he was young, just showin’ off.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “Has he been here since Abbenes’ murder?”

  “Nope.”

  “Heard from him?”

  “Nope.”

  “On the lam?”

  Little Lowee shook his head.

  “You muzzent look at it dat way.” He paused and refilled his glass. “You see,” he continued in a didactic tone of voice, “Da Crow blabs all’a time ‘e’s gonna whack da mouthpiece. Word onn’a street gotta be he done it. An’ da Crow knows dat.”

  “I see,” said DeKok. “Why did he dislike that lawyer?”

  Lowee filled his glass again and took a sip before he answered.

  “Da Crow,” he said, “da Crow ain’t had it easy. He blew

  the quarter ten years ago. His fame got inna way, ya know. Everybody here knows he’s good wid ‘is hands, but don’t think aboudit. First he goes off, then, bam! Somebody gonna get hit. He don’ have a future, just a rep.”

  “That’s why I lost track of him.”

  Lowee nodded, as if he were proud of DeKok’s understanding.

  “He still gotta mother in the neighborhood. She stops by now an’en. Tha’s how come I know da Crow gone to Utrecht. He gotta a store there—bikes, widda engine, or not, you know, both kinds. He knows all aboudit. He done well wid’ some moollah from an uncle, got big.” Lowee replaced his glass and his face fell again. “Then, two years ago he meets da broad.”

  “What kind of woman?”

  “She’s called Sophie,” grinned Lowee. “Good lookin’ broad, maybe not a hunnert percent, but with everything and all in da right places, ya knows. An’ da Crow was a goner inna flash. Inna month they was hitched. And that’s when all hell broke loose.” Lowee shrugged. “Not all atta same time.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “Well, Sophie cheated Crow from the start. At first da Crow wooden hear of it. Thinks people rat on her to pester ‘im, ya know. Then one day ‘e comes home and finds ‘er in bed wiv anudder guy. He throws ‘er in
the street and gets ‘isself a mouthpiece.”

  “Abbenes.”

  “Yep.”

  “To get a divorce?”

  Little Lowee nodded slowly.

  “Exacto…and learned da hard way.” He spread both arms. “Wadda broad done wiv da mouthpiece, I dunno—not my binniz. But she musta thrown ‘er body inna ring. So what ‘appens? Dat mouthpiece fixes a joke agreement. Da Crow looses it all…everything he worked for.”

  “That bad?”

  “Sure. Da boy is broke. He might as well sell da binniz in Utrecht.”

  DeKok looked thoughtful.

  “But Frankie doesn’t have to agree to the arrangements the lawyer made. He can appeal to the courts.”

  Lowee gave him a pitying look.

  “Wadda ya think a guy as da Crow knows about da courts? That Abbenes was a good mouthpiece, specialized in divorces.” He sighed. “An’ da Crow thinks he’s okay, she done him wrong by sleeping around.”

  DeKok listened and rubbed his chin.

  “What is more serious is that Frankie uttered some stupid threats in Abbenes’ office, in front of witnesses.”

  Lowee closed his eyes.

  “Wadda sad sack.” He meant every word.

  DeKok took another sip and immediately replaced the glass on the counter. He could no longer enjoy the cognac. He looked at Lowee.

  “Could Frankie have done it, after all?”

  Lowee reacted surprised.

  “You da cop, or Lowee da cop?”

  Silently DeKok slid off the bar stool and replaced his hat on his head.

  Little Lowee pointed at DeKok’s glass, which still showed a generous measure of cognac in the bottom.

  “You gonna finish it?”

  “No.”

  “I unnerstand,” said Lowee. He emptied the glass in the sink and put it in the wash sink. “I’m all tore to pieces about it, too. Ain’t no picnic for Martha, either.”

  “Who is Martha?”

  Lowee smiled tenderly.

  “Nice little broad, she’s a bit stiff, kneisie. Da Crow brung ‘er here once. Since Sophie gone orf, ‘e’s sorta sweet on Martha.” He shook his head, grinning. “You gonna say not da Crow’s cup o’ tea. But he’s taken widd ‘er. Itsa sorta prim little thing…a broad from the black stockin’ church, ya knows, always yakking about God, love, and eternal justice.”

  DeKok’s eyes widened.

  “Justice,” he repeated, savoring the word on his tongue.

  8

  DeKok aimed his old hat at the peg on the wall and then stopped in surprise. He had actually managed to hit the peg and his hat stayed on it, gently swinging. It happened once every two years, at most. He recovered quickly, as if nothing extraordinary had happened. He stripped off his raincoat and walked slowly toward his desk. But there was a triumphant gleam in his eyes.

  Vledder stood up from behind his desk, where he’d been fastidiously updating information into his computer, looked up at the large clock on the wall, and then planted himself in front of DeKok’s desk. It was a quarter past eight.

  “May I remind you we haven’t eaten yet.” There was a gentle rebuke in his voice.

  DeKok nodded vaguely.

  “Why don’t you go downstairs and see if there’s anyone who can fix us some ham and eggs.”

  Recently, the old police station had added a kitchen, like a fire station. The shortage of personnel necessitated longer work hours for the officers on duty. The city responded by making sure they would not have to go home to eat or stop by some restaurant to take valuable time away from their duties. The system worked haphazardly because no regular cook was assigned. The various officers took turns, schedules permitting.

  “And if there’s nobody there?”

  “Then do it yourself.”

  “You don’t want to go home?”

  “No.”

  Vledder shook his head in disapproval.

  “Yesterday I pulled another late night. I need my bed.”

  DeKok ignored the remark and his hungry stomach. Instead he filled Vledder in on his conversation with Lowee.

  “Why don’t you call the police in Utrecht?” DeKok offered. “Perhaps they know where Frankie Kraay can be found. He’ll probably feel safer there than in Amsterdam.” He paused to rub his chin. “I’m also interested in his new girlfriend, Martha. But she will probably be more difficult to track down.”

  Vledder leaned back in his chair.

  “It seems the outlook for The Crow is not hopeful. You may have a soft spot for the man,” he added mockingly, “but to me he’s the ideal suspect.” Making a grand gesture with his arm, he added, “And we’ve got it documented he threatened Abbenes.”

  “If all threats resulted in real murders, then you would never have time to eat or sleep,” said DeKok.

  Vledder reacted sharply.

  “Abbenes is dead. So the threat didn’t stay just a threat.” He looked up and changed his tone of voice. “Besides, you, yourself, are not sure that The Crow is innocent.”

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “And where do you get that idea?”

  Vledder snorted.

  “I know you, DeKok. How long have we been working together? I can just imagine the way you reacted when Little Lowee used the word justice. You immediately thought about righteousness. I can see it all as if I had been there.”

  The old sleuth lowered his head somewhat.

  “You’re right, Dick,” he admitted. The moment Lowee said something about Martha, I immediately thought about the woman who called our commissaris after Abbenes’ murder.”

  Vledder quoted, with an even tone, “Not because of your righteousness, but because of mine.”

  DeKok put down his knife and fork and took another sip of coffee. He looked at his partner with new appreciation.

  “You fixed this yourself?”

  Vledder nodded.

  “Everybody was gone.”

  “Well, it’s excellent. The toast is just right, the ham is just the right shade of brown, and the eggs are perfection, not easy with sunny-side up. My compliments.”

  The young inspector stood up, gathered the plates and cutlery, and stacked them on a nearby desk.

  “It’s one of only two dishes I cook,” he grinned. “This is the only one that always works.”

  The detective room was nearly deserted when someone knocked on the door. Vledder called “Enter,” but nothing happened. Through the frosted glass they could see the light in the hall outline a shadow. The figure wore a cape with a hood, reminiscent, thought DeKok, of Little Red Riding Hood.

  “Come in,” yelled Vledder, louder, as he hastily transferred the used plates to the floor under the desk.

  The door opened slowly. A young woman appeared in the door opening. DeKok looked at her. He estimated her age at between twenty-five and thirty, probably closer to thirty. She was beautiful, very beautiful. Not fragile, but tall and slender. She looked as though she would be well able to take care of herself, the type of woman DeKok admired. She threw the rain hood back. Long, blonde hair came down in waves to her blue-purple cape. She unhooked the cape and removed the garment with an elegant gesture from her shoulders. A carpet of tiny raindrops colored the floor.

  Vledder hastened closer and took the cape from her. She looked at him for a moment and gave him a wan smile. Then she undulated in the direction of DeKok. The gray sleuth rose with alacrity. He made a slight bow and courteously offered her a chair.

  “Please be seated,” he said.

  “Thank you very much.”

  There was a soft, dark timbre to her voice. She sat down, placed her purse on the edge of the desk, and crossed her shapely legs. DeKok’s glance passed over her knees. She wore thick, black stockings and her shoes were flat, sturdy walking shoes.

  He sank down in the chair behind his desk.

  “My name is DeKok,” he said winningly, “with a kay-oh-kay.” He waved in the direction of Vledder, who had hung her cape on a peg and walked clo
ser. “This is Inspector Vledder.” A playful smile spread across his face. “How may we be of service?”

  Her face became pensive; she was apparently looking for a way to start the conversation.

  “Perhaps,” she said softly, “if I introduce myself first. My name is Marianne…Marianne Hoogwoud, the sister of Casper and Marcel.”

  DeKok leaned forward.

  “In that case allow me to express my sympathy for the untimely death of your brother Marcel,” he said formally.

  Marianne pressed the outstretched hand.

  “Thank you.”

  The gray sleuth leaned back with a sigh.

  “AIDS,” he said sadly, “is a terrible disease.”

  Marianne nodded to herself.

  “And still no cure,” she said with anguish. “The virus attacks just those organs that could produce the antidotes, such as the liver and the lymph glands. That is what causes the loss of immunity. Other microorganisms, normally destroyed by the body’s natural defenses, reproduce unchecked. Did you know AIDS patients usually die of diseases normally kept in check by the antibodies we produce?” Her face was distorted by a caustic smile. “Did you know it resembles swine fever?”

  DeKok looked startled.

  “Swine fever?” he repeated.

  Marianne Hoogwoud nodded vehemently. It was as if something disturbed her. Red spots appeared in her neck. After a slight pause she said,“I have to confess something.” Her lips quavered and her voice sounded unsteady. “I regret it, I’m sorry.”

  “What about?”

  She worried nervously with the collar of her blouse.

  “When Casper called me that night, to tell me that Marcel had died of AIDS, I was not just sad, I was so angry. It is very difficult to accept Marcel’s death. I feel everybody, the entire medical profession, is guilty of his death.” She looked at DeKok. “In these modern times a plague like this should have no place.”

  The old man did not answer. For several seconds he expressionlessly observed her face closely.

  “What about your confession?” His voice was insistent.