DeKok and the Somber Nude Read online

  On the contrary, the painting reflected an intense calm, a serene, almost exalted, modesty.

  Utterly fascinated, DeKok was absorbed by the impressions of color and composition. His glance followed every line of the painting. A long, slender hand rested on one knee, the breasts swelled sweetly, the back arched slightly. The long gold hair served as a frame for the fine face, a face that struck him. He recognized it even more so because of the somber look in the eyes.

  “Nanette,” he whispered softly.

  Vledder took a deep breath.

  “Yes,” he sighed, “Nanette Bogaard. That’s what the tipster wanted us to see.”

  For a long time they both stood speechless. Their noses were almost flattened against the window. The exquisite painting kept them spellbound.

  Vledder was first to break the silence.

  “I wonder,” he said softly, “who could have painted her against such a dark backdrop?”

  DeKok did not answer at once. As if bewitched he stared into the distance. His coarse face was expressionless.

  “That’s it,” he said after a while, “that’s it exactly.”

  Vledder looked at him with surprise.

  “What?” he asked.

  “The ‘Somber Nude.’ I can’t think of a better name for the painting.”

  DeKok sat down on the bluestone stoop of the antique shop. Broad and immovable, he was like a human Cerberus. He had a face uniquely like a good-natured boxer.

  Vledder stood in front of him and looked down at his mentor. Unable to ripple his eyebrows, he frowned.

  “You’re surely not planning,” he started in a suspicious tone, “to remain on guard here the rest of the night?”

  DeKok rested his head in his hands, elbows on knees.

  “I must have that painting,” he said resignedly. “I must know who painted it.”

  Slowly he rose, took his notebook from his pocket, and wrote down the name and phone number of the proprietor.

  “It’s too bad,” he sighed, “the good man doesn’t live near, behind, or above this shop. Then we could reach him at once.”

  He motioned to Vledder.

  “Come on,” he said. “We’re going to call him.”

  “Now? At this hour?”

  “Why not? Antiques dealers, so I’ve been told, always stay up very, very late.”

  They drove back to the police station following the deserted streets and canals. As soon as they arrived, DeKok picked up the phone and called the antiques dealer. It took a long time before anyone picked up on the other end.

  “Grevelen here,” said a sleepy voice.

  “Yes, this is Inspector DeKok, with a kay-oh-kay, from Warmoes Street station.”

  “Homicide?”

  “Yes, but don’t worry. I just want to let you know I’m interested in one of the paintings displayed in your shop on Mirror’s Canal.”

  “You’re interested in buying it?” The sleepy voice sounded confused.

  “Yes, I would appreciate it if you didn’t sell it right away. You see, I want to take a good look at it first. I’ll be by your shop in the morning.”

  For a while there was utter silence on the line. After a moment the man inquired, “Say, Mr. DeKok, is there something the matter with that painting?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you’re the second person to call me about it.”

  “The second?”

  “Yes, there was a very excited man who wanted to buy the painting unseen, regardless of price. I thought it rather strange and all. I didn’t take the call very seriously.”

  “Who was the man? Do you know?”

  “Yes I do. Just a moment. I wrote it down somewhere.”

  The statement was followed by a few seconds of silence that seemed like an eternity to DeKok. Then the dealer came back on the phone.

  “Here it is,” he said. “Yes, that’s who called. A fellow by the name of Wielen.”

  8

  The next morning DeKok arrived late, as had been his habit for many, many years. As he walked in, Vledder met him halfway across the large detective room.

  “Frank Bogaard,” he began excitedly, “is gone! Last night he fled from the hospital. The commissaris wants to see you at once.”

  DeKok gave him a friendly nod.

  “Good morning,” he called cheerfully, “slept well, did you?”

  Vledder swallowed.

  “Last night,” he tried again, “Frank Bogaard fled…”

  Unperturbed, DeKok passed him by.

  “Coffee ready?”

  “Yes, that is, eh, I think so.”

  “Excellent,” warbled DeKok exuberantly. “Excellent, really excellent.”

  He went to his desk, took his mug from a drawer, ambled over to the coffeepot, and poured calmly. Like most old-guard police officers on the force, DeKok lived by the golden Amsterdam rule: the day starts with coffee or not at all. It was a habit that could simply not be broken. The failure to solve a murder case, in a manner of speaking, was not nearly as serious as breaking the tradition of the renowned old station.

  DeKok stirred an exorbitant amount of sugar into his coffee and sat down at his desk. Apart from tradition, he regarded coffee as a sort of tonic, an elixir capable of delivering both strength and inspiration. He enjoyed it luxuriously. An impatient Vledder stood next to his desk. DeKok looked up at him and savored his restlessness along with his coffee.

  “What’s the matter, my boy?” he asked in mock surprise. “Haven’t had your coffee yet?”

  Vledder snorted.

  “Coffee, coffee,” he grumbled, “by all means, coffee first. The commissaris said you were to report to him immediately! Not after an extended coffee break.” He made a jerky, irritated gesture. “Furthermore,” he continued, “I’d have thought you would find the news of Bogaard’s escape from the hospital rather important.”

  Comfortably, DeKok continued to sip his coffee.

  “Listen to me,” he said, placing his mug in front of him, “one does not escape from a hospital. A hospital is not a prison. At most one could conclude Frank Bogaard did not appreciate the medical facilities available to him.”

  “It’s the same thing. In any case Frank jumped out of a window and disappeared down the street in his pajamas. The crew of a patrol car saw him this morning near the Leiden Woods. A man in nightclothes does draw some attention, after all.”

  “And?”

  “They put him in the car and delivered him here—he’s downstairs.”

  DeKok looked surprised.

  “Here? But why didn’t they take him straight back to the hospital?”

  “He didn’t want to go. He most emphatically did not want to return to the hospital unless he had spoken with you first.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, he’s downstairs waiting for you.”

  With one last swig DeKok drained his mug and stood up.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s go and hear what Frank has to say.”

  Vledder looked at him in astonishment.

  “But what about the commissaris?”

  DeKok pointed at the large clock on the wall.

  “The commissaris has no time for me right now.”

  “No time?”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “It’s ten o’clock. The commissaris is having coffee.”

  Their fellow officers had taken Bogaard to one of the interrogation rooms. That is where they found him. Frank Bogaard presented a shivering, shaking picture of human misery as he leaned against the radiator in the corner. He looked ridiculous in a wrinkled suit (left over from a drowning) and an old uniform overcoat from a sergeant long-since retired. A friendly constable had taken pity on him, issuing whatever clothing the station offered. Bogaard had looked so cold in his pajamas, suffering symptoms of withdrawal. But it did not help much. He was still shivering.

  DeKok and Vledder entered the room, but Bogaard was barely able to look up. DeKok took a chair and straddled it backwards,
his arms resting on the chair back. He had a gut feeling the seriously ill young man was the key to the riddle created by Nanette. He just did not know yet how the key would fit. It was still all so mysterious, so…ethereal.

  “Why didn’t you stay in bed? It’s rather dumb to start roaming the streets in pajamas, especially in the middle of the night.” DeKok’s tone of voice was friendly, confidential. “If you wanted to speak to me I would have gladly come to you.”

  Frank looked up. It was as if he were just now noticing the presence of the two detectives. He looked from Vledder to DeKok, a haunted look in his eyes.

  “Where is Nanette?”

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know. Nanette has disappeared. I told you so yesterday.”

  The young man flicked a quick tongue along his dry lips.

  “Yes,” he said tonelessly, “you told me she had disappeared. Nanette has disappeared, you told me. She’s…” He kept repeating the same phrase over and over with slight variations. It was monotonous, as if he were trapped in a single thought.

  Suddenly he seemed to free himself from the spell of his own words. His face gained some liveliness and the dullness receded, but soon his expression turned into a look of fear. He gripped DeKok’s arms.

  “You must find her, Mr. DeKok,” he said quickly in a hoarse voice. “As soon as possible. You must find her…you must.”

  DeKok gave him a penetrating look.

  “Why?” he asked sharply. “So that she can supply you with your next fix?”

  Bogaard’s mouth fell open. Then he started to grin idiotically.

  “How’d you know Nanette is my—”

  “Your supplier?” offered DeKok.

  Bogaard released DeKok’s arms, turned, waved his arms in the air, and sank down on a chair.

  “But the-then you must understand,” he stuttered. “Y-you must understand she is in grave danger. Every minute is important. You mustn’t lose a moment. You must find her before… before it’s too late.”

  DeKok rubbed his nose with the back of his pinky finger.

  “Too late?”

  Bogaard’s face contorted in fury.

  “Yes,” he screamed, “too late! There are no more ruthless people than drug dealers. You must know that. They’re scum, all of them—bloodsuckers, poisonous snakes, hyenas, vultures.”

  DeKok pulled on his lower lip.

  “Who,” he asked, “delivered the drugs to Nanette that she in turn delivered to you?”

  Frank Bogaard shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know,” he answered morosely.

  “She never discussed it with you?”

  “No, never.”

  “And you never asked?”

  “No!”

  DeKok sighed.

  “You must have heard her mention a name at some point.”

  Frank hesitated momentarily.

  “No.”

  “Think hard.”

  “No!” he screamed.

  DeKok pressed his lips together. He knew the young man was lying. He felt he knew more than he wanted to say. Slowly DeKok rose, gripped Bogaard by the lapels of his coat, and lifted him out of the chair.

  “What did you pay Nanette for the stuff?”

  “Nothing.”

  DeKok took a firmer grip and pulled the young man closer.

  “What,” he asked intensely, “did you pay her for the stuff?”

  Bogaard swallowed.

  “Nothing. Really, I’ve never paid her a single solitary nickel for it.”

  DeKok’s eyebrows started their dangerous ripple.

  “Why not?” The tone was incredulous.

  “She didn’t want any money.”

  “What did she want?”

  “Nothing,” he screamed, “she wanted nothing.”

  DeKok snorted contemptuously.

  “Oh, yes. Nanette, sweet angel of mercy, distributes free dope among the poor, tired, and huddled masses.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “Was it mercy or was it something else? Love, for instance, pure love for Cousin Frank? Is that it?”

  Bogaard turned his head and did not answer.

  DeKok was getting angry.

  “Is that it?” he pressed. “Love?” He pronounced it like a curse.

  Frank’s eyes were red rimmed. His eyeballs started to glaze. Hot tears dribbled on his cheeks, dripped on the back of DeKok’s hand. They seemed to burn like drops of hot metal.

  DeKok’s grip became less tight. He looked in the pale, unhealthy face of young Bogaard. He looked at the tears, his soft, slightly weak facial features. Suddenly DeKok noticed how much he and his sister, Kristel, had in common. It made him less angry.

  “Sit down,” he said softly. “How about a cup of coffee?”

  Bogaard pulled his coat straight and sank down in the chair.

  “I’d rather have a cigarette.”

  DeKok presented an opened pack that he usually kept for moments like these.

  “Sometimes I may appear a little less friendly,” he apologized. “Not because I want to be, you understand, but because it’s my job.”

  A trace of a smile fled over Frank Bogaard’s tired face. He lifted his right arm, causing the long sleeve of the old uniform coat to fall back to near his elbow. He accepted a cigarette with shaking fingers.

  DeKok provided a light.

  “I want to know why Nanette disappeared,” he continued calmly. “Perhaps just maybe I can then discover where she disappeared to. You see,” he explained further, “I have a feeling the two are connected, very closely linked. Mr. Bogaard, an extremely important question: was Nanette a poisonous snake, a vulture, a hyena, or an angel?”

  Frank did not react at once. He lowered his head. He thought about it, was obviously looking for the right way to compose his answer.

  “Most people,” he said finally, “can be all those things at the same time. It is repulsive. An incomplete composition with strange, shrill dissonants and shades of good and evil.”

  “And what about Nanette?”

  Frank pulled deeply on his cigarette. He looked at DeKok through a heavy cloud of bluish smoke. His eyes narrowed slightly.

  “Nanette,” he said with an unpleasant grin, “is a poisonous snake in the shape of an angel.”

  DeKok rubbed his hands over his broad face.

  “A classical disguise,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “Very old—been in use from the beginning of time.” He made a slow, lazy gesture. “The daughters of Eve have apparently little originality.”

  “But the apple became morphine,” grinned Bogaard bitterly.

  DeKok looked at him silently for a long time. The bitter remark had touched him. After a while he stood up and pushed his chair back.

  “We’ll have you taken back to the hospital, Mr. Bogaard. But you must promise not to indulge in repeated nightly excursions. The doctors don’t like it. It’s also not conducive to your health.” He placed a concerned hand on Frank’s slender, shaking shoulder. “You must remember you have very little leeway for experimentation left,” he concluded.

  Bogaard looked up at him.

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your health is more undermined than even you suspect, Mr. Bogaard. A second nightly escapade may very well be fatal.”

  “Fatal?”

  DeKok nodded with a grave face.

  “I would like to see you stay alive.”

  Nonchalantly Bogaard shrugged his shoulders.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “A young, promising author…” DeKok gestured vaguely.

  Frank sighed deeply.

  “You mock me.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, not me,” he answered sharply. “I don’t mock you. You mock yourself. You’re playing with your life and Nanette’s.”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you!” exclaimed DeKok with emphasis. “Every moment is valuable, as you said. That remains true. Frank Bogaard, who supplied Na
nette with morphine?”

  “I, eh, I don’t know.”

  “You do know!”

  The young man’s eyes filled with tears.

  “Really, Mr. DeKok,” he begged, “please believe me. I don’t know. I really don’t. In passing, almost by accident, I once heard her mention a name in connection with dope. Just once she spoke of a Brother Laurens. It just slipped out. When I asked her who that was, she laughed. She never told me.”

  DeKok raked his thick grey hair with his fingers.

  “Who is Brother Laurens?”

  9

  Commissaris Buitendam wore a perplexed frown. DeKok nervously entered his large office.

  It was a pose, almost a game, and they both knew it. Neither fooled the other; they had known each other too long. Their association started in the almost forgotten past. Over the years the polite phrases had been twisted and modulated until they resembled a comedy. Although a farce, both performed it with utter seriousness.

  “You wanted to see me immediately?”

  The commissaris smiled thinly.

  “Yes, about an hour and a half ago,” he answered.

  DeKok hung his head in shame.

  “Sir, it is unforgivable. But I didn’t want to disturb you while you were having your coffee.”

  The commissaris coughed.

  “That is very considerate of you, DeKok.”

  “At your service, sir.”

  Buitendam coughed again.

  “But I go so far as to presume that the coffee could not have been the only reason?”

  DeKok shook his grey head and took a chair.

  “May I?”

  “But of course, please sit down and tell me all about it.”

  “I was engaged in an investigation.”

  “Connected with the girl who disappeared?”

  “Indeed.”

  The stately commissaris searched among the papers on his desk.

  “That’s what I wanted to discuss with you. I read the telex message, the APB. It must be here somewhere. What was the name again?”

  “Nanette Bogaard.”