DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 7

Marianne lowered her eyes a little.

  “I called you that night and said that Marcel had been murdered.”

  “That was you?”

  “Yes.”

  DeKok made a vague gesture in her direction.

  “But you did not mean it literally.”

  She shook her head.

  “It was an impulse, really, an act of pure impotence. I felt at the time Marcel had been murdered.” She raised her hands above her head. “I do not blame or hold any particular individual responsible. My brother was failed by civilization, by a social order in which the health of the community is not a priority.”

  DeKok listened carefully to her tone and sentence structure.

  “Is that why you did not use a name?” He rubbed his nose with his little finger.

  Marianne Hoogwoud sighed deeply.

  “You mustn’t blame me. At the very moment I contacted you, I realized I was talking to the wrong person, the wrong office. The police were not involved in Marcel’s death…it was not even a police matter. I realized I had not thought it through. My childish reaction was an automatic response, unthinking and impulsive. To make sure you would not mistakenly pursue an investigation, I decided to come here and identify myself.”

  “Courageous.”

  A sad smile played around her lips.

  “A person should be prepared to face up to her decisions. I am willing to accept the consequences of my acts.”

  DeKok nodded agreement.

  “Did your…eh, your father help you to come to that conclusion?”

  “Father agreed I should do it. He’s very much upset by Marcel’s death. Marcel was the apple of his eye. He always hoped that Marcel would go further than he had, become something more than a golf club greenskeeper.”

  DeKok reacted with an uncertain gesture.

  “Casper told us your father is a greenskeeper. He’s the person who takes care of the golf courses, particularly the putting greens?”

  Marianne smiled.

  “Yes, but that’s a rather simple explanation. Father has dozens of other responsibilities.”

  “Even so, it seems a rather lonesome profession.”

  Marianne nodded in agreement.

  “We always enjoyed living there, on the Amstel Land property. Father is highly regarded by both the members and the directors of the club…with justification, I think.” She took a deep breath. “But Father had expected more from Marcel. Marcel had a good head, but refused to use his intelligence for a worthwhile goal. He had no interest in an ordinary job. He said he wanted to get rich quickly and, much to my father’s sorrow, left home at an early age.”

  “How?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did Marcel intend to get rich quickly?”

  “Women don’t have that urge as much, I think,” said Marianne with a somber smile. “But men always seem to be in search of some sort of blue print for wealth and success.”

  DeKok rubbed his chin and felt the stubble. It had been a long time since he last shaved.

  “Is there such a blue print?” he asked naively.

  She did not answer at once. She placed both hands in her lap and searched for an appropriate answer.

  “When I saw…eh,” she began hesitantly, “Marcel’s lifestyle, his wealth, I sometimes had the feeling Marcel had found the right blue print.”

  “Did you know what he did?”

  She shook her head.

  “I don’t think anyone knew what Marcel did.”

  “Not even a suspicion?”

  “No.”

  “How did your father react to Marcel’s apparent wealth?”

  She shrugged.

  “Sometimes it seemed he was actually proud of Marcel. But Father has changed in recent years. His mind is still strong, but physically he’s breaking down fast. We’ve already brought his bed downstairs. One leg is stiff from the hip down, so he cannot manage the stairs anymore. I’m afraid Marcel’s early death will only worsen his physical condition.”

  The gray sleuth nodded his understanding. Then he gave her a sharp look.

  “Do you think Casper has taken over the so-called blue print, during Marcel’s illness?”

  Marianne Hoogwoud looked at him without fear.

  “Casper,” she said harshly, “is a child.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “He seems rather precocious for an eighteen year old.”

  She narrowed her mouth and shook her head.

  “It’s all just a game to Casper…he’s posing. His behavior has nothing to do with adulthood. As an old, experienced inspector, you should be able to see that.” It sounded like an accusation.

  DeKok did not react.

  “When we arrested him,” he said patiently, “he had 100,000 Euros taped to his waist. We still don’t know the origin of the money.”

  “I know the story,” shrugged Marianne. “I don’t know where the money came from.” She gave him a baleful look. “Nor am I interested.”

  DeKok sighed. He felt further insistence would be a waste of time. Marianne Hoogwoud did not look like the sort of woman who would suddenly break down under a flood of questions. He looked at her once again and admired her profile. From her chin, his eyes wandered to a beautiful brooch she had pinned over her right breast…a wide, glistening border, artfully filled with a finely worked filigree of silver. He rubbed his chin again, annoyed at the stubble.

  “We had planned to get more information about AIDS from a doctor. But we don’t need to do that, now. You have informed us completely.” He looked at her with genuine admiration. “I must say, you seem to have a good deal of information.”

  She gestured nonchalantly.

  “Not too hard to understand. I had a brother who suffered from the disease. Besides I’m confronted with AIDS on a regular basis in my work.”

  “What is it you do?”

  “I’m a registered nurse at St. Matthew’s Hospital.”

  DeKok narrowed his eyes.

  “You work with Dr. Hardinxveld?”

  An alert look came in her eyes.

  “Do you know him?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, I don’t know him, I’ve only heard his name mentioned.”

  9

  The next morning DeKok entered the detective room in a cheerful mood and with a closely shaven face. A good night’s rest had revived his spirits and banished the tired lethargy to the deep recesses of his memory. At first he had trouble falling asleep. One hundred thousand in valid currency around a boy’s waist…a death of AIDS on a sofa…a cruelly murdered man in a doorway…a Taurus instead of a Capricorn…a strangely shaped wound…shards of conversation…stupid threats. It all revolved around in his head like a runaway carousel.

  At first he tried to sharpen the images and memories, to discover a connection, any connection. How were Hardinxveld, Marianne Hoogwoud, her father, and Abbenes related? Did their paths cross at St. Matthew’s Hospital, Amstel Land or both? Were the connections coincidental? Or was Amsterdam, despite its importance, really a small town? The population was somewhere between a half million and a million people, depending on the number of tourists in a given season. It was inevitable some would touch each other’s lives. He knew all this would resolve itself somehow, it always did. It’s a small world, after all, he concluded with a smile.

  Finally, after about half an hour, he gave it up and dozed away. His wife’s melodic, refined snore made a comforting sound in the background. In the morning he awoke refreshed.

  He threw his old hat in the direction of the peg on the wall and missed by about three feet. Laughing at his failure he picked it up and hung it properly on the hook. Then he turned toward Vledder. The young man was seated behind his computer, typing rapidly, as one possessed. When he noticed DeKok, he rested his fingers, grabbed a piece of paper from a stack of notes, and stood up.

  “I have Martha’s address,” he announced.

  “How did you get that so quickly?”


  “The police in Utrecht.”

  “When did you call them?”

  Vledder shook his head.

  “I never got the chance, they called here.”

  “How did they know we were interested?” DeKok asked, surprised.

  “They didn’t know,” admitted Vledder. “Last night a young woman, a Martha Maria Hooglied, contacted the police.” He grabbed another scrap of paper from his desk. “She said that her belief in the Lord did not allow her to remain silent on certain subjects. She wanted to clear her conscience and said she was prepared to speak out on the murder of a lawyer in Amsterdam, a Mr. Abbenes.”

  “And?”

  “What?”

  “Did they take her statement?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Vledder looked perplexed.

  “They tried several times, but she only wants to talk to you, Inspector DeKok of Warmoes Street Station.”

  DeKok’s eyebrows suddenly came alive. Vledder watched, fascinated, as his partner’s eyebrows suddenly danced across his forehead like two drunken, fuzzy caterpillars.

  The display ended almost as soon as it started when DeKok began to speak.

  “She asked for me? DeKok?”

  Vledder nodded, while glancing at the scrap of paper in his hand.

  “That’s what she said. Somebody must have given her the name.” Vledder sighed. “Our colleagues in Utrecht tried to reach us last night, but we had already gone home. And you must have been sleeping like a puppy dog. Nobody answered the phone at your house.”

  DeKok grinned.

  “I didn’t hear a thing.”

  “Well,” continued Vledder, “from what I understand, Martha must have caused some problems for the guys in Utrecht. When they couldn’t reach you, they didn’t quite know what to do. They tried to find an excuse to hold her, but they could not legally charge her with anything. In the end they had to let her go. But they did get her address, and that’s what they phoned through this morning. Luckily I was here.”

  “Where’s the address?”

  “Oh, right here,” Vledder said, purposefully handing it over.

  DeKok read the note.

  “Cleopatra Drive,” he said out loud. He thought for a minute and turned to get his coat and hat. “Let’s go,” he offered over his shoulder.

  “Where to?” Vledder asked dimly.

  “Utrecht, of course.” He pushed his hat on his head. “Or don’t you believe Martha has a conscience?”

  DeKok looked at the woman in the door opening. Little Lowee was right, he thought. She looked like a prim, proper person. Dressed in black, with a high-closing blouse and a skirt that was just a little too long—she seemed stiff, unapproachable. A severe part in her hair caused the dark-blonde hair to hang on either side of her head. But her elfin face and large, brown eyes emanated peace and friendliness. The old inspector held his head to one side.

  “Martha Maria Hooglied?”

  She looked at him with just a hint of uncertainty.

  “That is my name.”

  DeKok smiled a winning smile.

  “My name is Inspector DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “My colleague, Vledder. We’re from Amsterdam. The police here in Utrecht called us. You indicated that you would be prepared to tell us about the murder of Mr. Abbenes, the lawyer.”

  She stepped aside and made a beckoning gesture.

  “Please, come in.”

  DeKok hesitated for a moment.

  “Are you alone?”

  Her large, brown eyes looked a question.

  “Who else would be here?”

  “Franciscus Kraay.”

  She shook her head.

  “Frankie and I are not married,” she said, chiding him like a teacher correcting a student. “And I wonder if we ever will be.”

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “Has the affair ended?”

  Martha’s friendly eyes suddenly spat fire.

  “There has never been any question of an affair,” she reacted sharply. “Frankie and I are friends within, eh, appropriate limits.”

  DeKok nodded.

  “The bedroom is taboo.”

  “Precisely.”

  The grey sleuth passed her in entering the house. The sharp exchange had not pleased him. He always tried to start out politely, formally. In this case, however, he had judged it advisable to get some idea of the relationship between this prim lady and The Crow right away. Certainly the two were polar opposites. Frankie was a primitive man with a hasty, nasty, temper. DeKok believed Franciscus Kraay capable of murder. As he waited for Martha to close the door, he pushed out his lower lip. He wondered whether the murder of Abbenes was the deed of an impulsive, primitive individual?

  Martha had closed the front door and now led the way to a cozy living room. Some rattan chairs with flowery cushions looked inviting. A number of small dressers stood against the walls, each covered with a wide variety of figurines in white ceramic.

  “Hooglied,” he started. “A beautiful name for a devout woman.”

  Martha nodded comfortably.

  “King Solomon has said some beautiful things about women.”

  DeKok smiled, noting to himself “Hooglied” is Dutch for the Song of Solomon, high song.

  “Solomon was a connoisseur.” He gave her a questioning look. “Is Frankie a connoisseur?”

  “What do you mean,” she asked icily, “as a Bible student, or as a connoisseur of women?”

  DeKok remained silent. He found it difficult to plan a strategy with this woman. To gain some time, he rubbed the back of his neck.

  I…eh, I have known Franciscus Kraay for a long time. I knew him professionally years ago, a strong man with an uncontrollable urge to do things. If he needed to hit somebody, he did. His knowledge of the Lord was limited to a few phrases that can only be considered blasphemous.”

  A smile lit up her face.

  “His knowledge of women,” she said delicately, “is at the same level.”

  DeKok glanced at Vledder. He wished the young inspector would take over the interrogation. But Vledder leaned comfortably back in his chair, his notebook on one knee, pen poised above it. He did not notice DeKok’s glance. DeKok rubbed his little finger against the bridge of his nose.

  “How did you meet Frankie?”

  “During an ear evening.”

  DeKok’s eyes widened.

  “An ear evening?” he repeated, puzzled.

  Martha nodded.

  “We meet twice a week for a so-called ear evening with a few church people.” Her gestures became lively. “There are so many speakers in the world, but so few listeners. We prefer to be speaking ourselves. Therefore we’re not usually prepared to lend an ear.”

  “Aha, thus, they are ear evenings.”

  She entwined her fingers and placed her hands in her lap.

  “The evenings are usually well attended. There are so many people around us in need, more than you might suspect.” She paused and changed her tone of voice. “One evening I was the ear for Franciscus Kraay.”

  “He was in need?” asked DeKok.

  She nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “You could say that. He told me his wife had been unfaithful to him. He said the lawyer who handled the divorce had betrayed him.” Her face was serious as she looked at DeKok. “In my whole life,” she continued softly, “I have never met a man who carried as much hate as did Frankie.”

  “He hated Abbenes?”

  She covered her eyes with her hands.

  “It was consuming. Frankie felt betrayed, swindled, and debased by the lawyer. Women, he said, can be expected to be unfaithful. That was, as Frankie said, part of their nature. But an attorney is an officer of the court and is supposed to serve justice. ‘One doesn’t mess around with justice,’ he said.”

  DeKok grinned broadly.

  “A widely held misunderstanding.” It sounded unbelievably cynical. He le
aned forward. “Did Frankie make any threats?”

  Martha sighed deeply.

  “That night I prayed fervently that Frankie would not meet that lawyer again, at least not for years.”

  “You were afraid of consequences?”

  “Certainly. Frankie is a powder keg. He was in such a state of spiritual confusion. His intense hatred for that man could have burst forth at any moment.”

  “You could have referred him to a psychiatrist.”

  “I did. But Frankie wouldn’t hear of it. When I insisted, he became angry. He asked me if I thought he was crazy. He wasn’t a ‘head case,’ as he called it.”

  DeKok looked sympathetic.

  “That willing, listening got you into a lot of trouble.”

  She gave a tired smile.

  “That is the risk of which I was aware the moment I decided to participate in the ear evenings at the church.”

  DeKok lifted a hand, but then let it drop.

  “But in the end, you took him into your heart…you cared.”

  Martha hesitated.

  “Yes,” she admitted after a long pause. “You could say that. I was worried and filled with pity. For such a big, strong man, he was so vulnerable. I made an appointment with him for the next day. We traveled to Amsterdam together because he wanted to. I saw the neighborhood were he grew up and that explained a lot. He grew up between Sodom and Gomorrah.”

  DeKok swallowed. He had a sharp retort on his tongue, but controlled himself.

  “I take it,” he said carefully, looking for the words, “you tried repeatedly to change Frankie’s mind, to encourage nobler thoughts?”

  She blushed.

  “Of course I tried, several times.” She raised her voice, becoming more emotional. “I tried and I tried. It isn’t okay to just stand back and let somebody become a murderer.”

  The last remark touched DeKok. He remained still while he looked at her closely. He noticed every expression, every movement.

  “Mr. Abbenes is dead,” he said hard, with compelling tone in his voice. “Murdered.”

  Martha Hooglied lowered her head.

  “I know,” she said, sobbing. “I know. He was killed with a golf club.”

  10

  Slightly confused for a moment, DeKok looked from Martha to Vledder and back again.