DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 8
“A golf club?” He was unable to keep the tension out of his voice. “You said a golf club?”
Martha Hooglied looked up with a teary face and nodded.
“That’s what he was going to use.”
“Frankie The Crow?”
She nodded again.
“He told me exactly what he intended to do.” Her eyes again filled with tears. “And now he has done it, too.”
DeKok gave her a searching look.
“Are you certain?”
With the back of her hand she wiped the tears out of her eyes.
“I read it in the paper, yesterday. Mr. Abbenes, renowned attorney, found murdered on the doorstep of his office.”
“Then you knew Frankie had completed the next installment of his threat,” said Vledder.
Martha looked at him as if she just noticed his presence. Then looked away and walked to one of the dressers and took a handkerchief from a drawer. She worked on her face.
“It should never have gone that far,” she said softly, still facing the wall. She turned around. “It’s all my fault,” she said as she returned to her seat.
“I should have been able to convince him that revenge is a sin against God,” she went on, after she was seated. “God will punish the unjust Himself. As it reads in the Bible, ‘Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.’”
DeKok pursed his lips. He looked at Vledder, who shrugged. The shrug indicated that the he did not know what else to say and at the same time apologized for the interruption. DeKok returned his attention to the woman.
“Perhaps Frankie did not want to wait?” he said.
She looked puzzled.
“Did not want to wait for what?”
“The vengeance of the Lord.”
She wiped the handkerchief over her face. Her mouth became a thin line.
“You shouldn’t mock belief in God,” she said waspishly.
DeKok shook his head.
“I don’t,” he corrected calmly. “But it is fact that impatient people sometimes find Heavenly intervention a bit, ahem, a bit long term.”
Martha showed some spirit. Her eyes sparked again.
“When seen in the light of eternity—”
DeKok waved her words away. He regretted his remarks. He hadn’t intended to spark a religious discussion. That was not why he had come to Utrecht. He spread both hands.
“What was Frankie’s plan?”
She thought, momentarily stunned by the abrupt change of direction.
“He planned,” she said warily, “to trick Abbenes to meet him at his office, after hours. Then he planned to wait for him and knock him out with a golf club.”
“Why choose a golf club?”
A sad smile played around her lips.
“Frankie thought the golf club was a brilliant idea. He was actually proud of it.”
“Proud…why?”
She stuffed the handkerchief in a sleeve of her blouse and sat up straight.
“Frankie knew,” she continued, “that Mr. Abbenes was a dedicated golfer.” She took a deep breath. “As far as Frankie was concerned, golf was a game for the rich. Only they had the time and the money for it...the money for all the equipment.”
“Such as golf clubs?”
She nodded, almost absent-mindedly.
“Ordinary people don’t posses that sort of equipment. Therefore, if the police were to discover that Abbenes had been killed with a golf club, they would never think of Frankie.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes. Knowing Frankie it was a cunning plan. He pensively bit his lower lip.
“How did Frankie get the murder weapon?”
“He bought it in a sports store,” she answered, shrugging.
“Did he ever show it to you?”
She shook her head.
“No, he had that thing at home. I’ve never been there, on principle.”
DeKok leaned forward. His attitude was confidential.
“If I understood you correctly,” he said slowly, pensively, “you went to the police last night, after you had read in the newspaper that Mr. Abbenes had been murdered.”
Her glance drifted away.
“I didn’t go immediately. I had to struggle with myself—wasn’t sure what I should do.”
DeKok feigned amazement.
“You contemplated letting a murderer stay on the street?”
She nodded slowly.
“I thought hard about the consequences of that ear evening. Frankie obviously needed to discuss his murderous plans with somebody. In fact, that night I functioned as his confessor.”
DeKok raked his hand through his hair.
“And you thought of the sanctity of the confessional?”
“Yes, that was on my mind. The information was given to me in confidence.”
DeKok did not react at once. He leaned back in his chair. With a meditative look he stared at the serene face in front of him and again he had the feeling he was approaching it the wrong way. He was missing something.
“When Frankie told you his plans,” he asked finally, “did you warn Mr. Abbenes?”
Her eyes were suddenly frightened.
“I did not.”
DeKok stood up. From his height he looked down at her.
“Why not?” he asked in a friendly, soothing tone of voice. “You knew he was in danger. Perhaps you could have prevented a murder.”
Martha seemed to shrink, her body shook.
“I never thought,” she sobbed, “Frankie would really do it.”
As usual, Vledder was behind the wheel of the police VW as they left Cleopatra Street in Utrecht. He scowled as he followed the road signs leading to the main artery between Utrecht and Amsterdam. Utrecht is in the center of The Netherlands. In addition to numerous secondary roads, seven interstate highways converge on the old university town. The center of the town, however, retains its narrow streets as it has for more than five hundred years. To get out of Utrecht is to get out of a maze.
As they reached the highway, it started to rain. Vledder turned on the windshield wipers and DeKok sank down in the seat. The wipers always had a hypnotic effect on him. He dozed off.
Vledder glanced aside at his partner. Apparently he did not have a worry in the world. He seemed fast asleep. While he drove, Vledder mulled over the interview with Martha Hooglied. It had made a deep impression on him. The Crow, it was understood, had left his business in Utrecht and was not to be found. He had broken off all contact with Martha—made himself scarce. Was Frankie’s flight an indication of guilt?
Amsterdam was already in sight when DeKok pressed himself more upright in the seat.
“Do you think it’s possible?” he asked.
Vledder’s thoughts were rudely interrupted.
“What?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the road.
“A golf club?”
Vledder had learned how to react to DeKok’s seemingly random remarks.
“I think so,” he said slowly. “I don’t play golf, but I know there are different shaped clubs. The variety in putters, alone, is mind boggling. But the wound did have a characteristic shape. It could very well have been caused by a golf club. There are ways to prove it.”
DeKok thought about that for awhile.
“Do we have the pictures that were taken in the morgue?”
“Yes, you pushed the envelope into a drawer before looking at them.”
“Did you look at them?”
“I just glanced.”
“Perhaps we can have them enlarged to actual size and then compare the wound to the end of a golf club.”
“What kind of club?”
“What do you mean?”
“There are woods,” lectured Vledder, “which are used for long distances, and irons, which, depending on the shape, can be used for specific distances. Then there are special clubs, for getting out of sand traps or—”
“And where did you acquire all this knowledge?” DeKok interrupted, slightly annoyed.
“I did some research.”
“All right, can we get a sample of all the possible clubs to compare with the picture?”
“Maybe. I don’t know where we would get them all. Besides, do you really think we could compare all these clubs to the picture of the wound?”
“Yes, well, in the old days we used to prepare and preserve the head as an exhibit for the court. But it created a lot of problems with the surviving families.”
Vledder smirked.
“We would have to bury Abbenes without a head.”
They fell silent as Vledder concentrated on the traffic in the suburbs. The rain increased and Vledder increased the speed of the wipers.
It was DeKok’s turn to mentally review the meeting with Martha. Despite all he knew, he fervently hoped Frankie had not committed the murder of Abbenes. It would, he reflected, have consequences for the young woman. On the surface it seemed she had acted out of concern for Frankie. But she had also remained passive. And the law was unrelenting in that respect. Article 136 of the Criminal Code made it clear that Martha, having knowledge of a planned murder, should have warned the prospective victim and/or police. Now that the murder had actually been committed, she could be charged with a crime of omission. In other words she was an “accomplice outside the fact.” It carried the same penalty as an “accomplice after the fact.” DeKok sighed.
“With Martha’s statements, should the murder weapon indeed turn out to be a golf club, Frankie is in deep trouble.”
Concern was in his voice and Vledder reacted with biting sarcasm.
“You’re actually worried about him, aren’t you?”
“What?”
The young inspector slapped the steering wheel with one hand.
“Martha’s line of drivel worries you.”
DeKok looked genuinely surprised.
“What drivel?”
Vledder shook his head angrily.
“I feel no pity whatsoever.”
“For whom?”
“Kraay, of course. As far as I’m concerned he’s no more than a predacious killer. He’s driven by hate and revenge. He calmly plans a cunning murder. The sentimental slobber offends me. If anyone had consulted me, we’d have gone straight to the Utrecht police. We’d have sent out an APB for him on the spot, requesting location, apprehension, and transportation to Amsterdam.” He glanced aside, his face red with anger.
DeKok resignedly let Vledder’s words pass him by.
“You and Frankie have no past,” he defended weakly. “But I know him. I had a lot of contact with him in the old days. That’s why…that’s why I find it difficult to see him as a killer.”
Vledder remained testy.
“I don’t know him,” he said with emphasis. “But your memory of Frankie back in the day is not a measure of the man. That’s an illusion. He may have been politically naïve and high on the Ape Index, but that was long ago.” Vledder took a deep breath. “Just think about it. He had the guts to leave the neighborhood where he grew up and where he was accepted. He had the savvy to build a successful business in strange surroundings. You, all of you, underestimate the man. He’s exceptionally capable.”
“You really think him capable of murder?”
Vledder nodded with an angry face.
“Yes!”
11
Commissaris Buitendam rose hastily from his chair. He offered a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand to DeKok.
“I asked you to stop by, DeKok,” he said in his usual aristocratic voice, “because I felt called upon to congratulate you for your success.”
DeKok looked surprised and ignored the outstretched hand.
“What success?”
The commissaris changed his gesture to a jovial wave.
“You’ve solved the murder of Mr. Abbenes. I saw the APB that asked for a man’s location, apprehension, and transportation to Amsterdam as a murder suspect. Of course, I immediately informed our judge advocate. Mr. Schaap was overjoyed.” He sat down. “Personally I always felt the perpetrator was to be found among the widespread clientele of Mr. Abbenes. And that turned out to be true. I understand from Vledder this Franciscus Kraay was unhappy about the behavior of the attorney. Thus he came to do his evil deed out of personal revenge.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“You’ve already talked to Vledder?”
The chief nodded.
“I encountered him in the corridor. I complimented him as well for this success. I must say, a remarkable achievement!”
DeKok feigned confusion.
“You are referring to the murder?”
Laughing, Buitendam shook his head.
“I mean finding the perpetrator.”
“We don’t have him yet.”
“A matter of time, I am certain. In our densely populated country he’ll surface, if not today, tomorrow.”
DeKok nodded slowly to himself.
“I hope tomorrow.”
The commissaris looked at him with suspicion. He had noted DeKok’s tone of voice and was not pleased with what he heard.
“Why tomorrow?”
DeKok grinned.
“That will give me a whole day to find the real murderer.”
Buitendam paled.
“That, eh, that Franciscus Kraay is not the murderer?”
DeKok rubbed his chin.
“I’m sorry,” he said somberly, “but I don’t feel he’s the killer. Frankie is not our man.”
The commissaris grinned without mirth.
“What about the APB?”
The gray sleuth waved that away.
“From a strictly judicial point of view it was perfectly legitimate.” He leaned his head to one side. “Sometimes an old inspector must humor an overly enthusiastic, younger colleague. It is especially important when the junior officer wishes to make an overeager commissaris happy.”
Buitendam stood up. Red spots appeared high on his cheeks. His nostrils trembled. With a wild gesture he pointed at the door.
“Out!” he screamed.
When DeKok returned to the detective room, he lowered himself behind his desk with a sigh. Vledder looked at him.
“You went too far again, eh?”
“Whatever can you mean?”
“The commissaris sent you from the room again, right?”
DeKok nodded with a sad face.
“He does it every time,” he admitted timidly. “The man should have more self-control.”
Vledder rolled his eyes.
“And he wanted to congratulate you with solving Abbenes’ murder.”
DeKok shook his head.
“That’s a misunderstanding. The murder isn’t solved at all.”
Vledder’s face fell.
“Are you starting up again?” he exclaimed, irritation in his voice. “I thought we had discussed this at length in the car?” With a gesture of resignation he raised both hands in the air. “After all, you agreed to send that APB?”
“Of course,” agreed DeKok. “We have to talk to Frankie. We have to ask him some questions. For instance, I’d like to know why he didn’t bash in Sophie’s skull?”
“You’re talking about his ex-wife?”
“Exactly. If Frankie is not the primitive, impulsive wild man Martha, Lowee, and I know, then he’s a cunning, deliberate killer. If he truly is capable of anything, why did he murder his attorney instead of his wife?”
“That’s obvious. Revenge.”
DeKok grinned broadly.
“What is the financial return for revenge? Zero! A truly cunning Frankie would have killed his demanding ex-wife. One blow and he would have been rid of his heavy alimony payments. He could have quietly continued his successful business.”
Vledder’s eyes widened.
“We have to warn her.”
“Who?”
“Sophie, his ex.”
“Why?”
“She’s his next victim. She’s almost certainly the next installment.”
“Installment?”
“Sure he threatened installments, don’t you remember? First came the threat, then a killing, next another killing. If his wife is next, who will follow her?”
DeKok stood up and walked away. He grabbed his coat and hat in passing. Vledder followed him.
“Where are you going now?”
DeKok did not answer the question directly. He gestured at his desk.
“Bring along those photos of the head wound and ask if Weelen will meet us at Amstel Land, the golf club.”
“Amstel Land?”
DeKok placed his hat on his head and nodded.
“I want to see with my own eyes the sort of things one uses to hit a little ball.”
DeKok’s admiring glance roamed around the central lobby of the clubhouse. The space was comfortably furnished and decorated. To one side was a magnificent teakwood bar. Comfortable chairs were grouped around low tables, providing inviting conversation nooks. The walls were decorated with original paintings by René Broné, the American sports painter.
Large, floor-to-ceiling windows gave a panoramic view of the undulating golf course, where a landscape artist had planted trees and bushes. The trees waved gently in the breeze against a cloudless blue sky.
Mr. Oude, the secretary of Amstel Land, a gregarious man with a slight Frisian accent, received the inspectors in his large office. He revealed himself as an entertaining conversationalist, telling them about the day-to-day operations of the club with a touch of humor. After that, he accompanied them courteously to the bar area, awaiting the arrival of Father Hoogwoud, the greenskeeper. Vledder worried nervously with his necktie.
“I’m not interested in old Hoogwoud. I want to see the rest of the club.”
“That will come later,” soothed DeKok. “We’ll ask Mr. Hoogwoud to take us to the resident pro. We’re waiting for Bram Weelen, anyhow.”
“Well I can understand Frankie on at least one point. He says golf is a sport for the idle rich. It must cost a fortune to maintain so much open space in our densely populated country.”
“Yes, the dues must be astronomical. Good farm land, this is,” nodded DeKok. “But I believe, in other countries, notably England and the United States, golf is a more, eh, egalitarian sport. They even have municipal golf courses.”