DeKok and Murder by Installment Page 9
“Even so it all seems a waste of time and money to me.”
“That’s because you’re not one of the idle rich,” mocked DeKok.
“Yes,” growled Vledder, “and never likely to become one.”
DeKok rose to his feet. An older man limped past the imposing fireplace and approached their table. The man progressed slowly. His left leg had trouble catching up. When he came nearer, a smile of recognition played around his lips.
“The description was accurate. You’re Inspector DeKok from Warmoes Street. I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s a pity you had to be involved with my family under these unpleasant circumstances.”
The gray sleuth shook the proffered hand. Then he waved at one of the chairs around the table.
“Please sit down. Since I’m here anyway, I asked the secretary for an introduction. I’ve wanted to meet you for some time.”
With stiff movements and a pain-distorted face, Hoogwoud sank down in the easy chair.
“I want to apologize,” he said with a sigh, “for the behavior of my son, Casper. I understand he has been rather discourteous to you, arrogant and uncooperative.” He smiled sadly. “A father always hopes his children become pillars of the community…honorable and respected.”
DeKok studied the man. Hoogwoud, he thought, did not look healthy; he was thin and gray, with sunken cheeks. Only his clear, blue eyes showed alert under his bushy eyebrows.
“You feel you have not succeeded as a father?”
Old Hoogwoud shrugged his shoulders.
“You can lead children up the righteous path, but that’s about all. There’s no guarantee they’ll follow it.” He stared into the distance for a moment and then smiled tenderly. “Marianne has grown up to be a caring young woman. She gives me a lot of support. With the boys I was less lucky.” His face fell. “Marcel wanted to leave the house at a very early age, and Casper, well, you’ve met him—a self-satisfied brat.”
“He blames your despotic ways,” DeKok said evenly.
Hoogwoud shook his head in a melancholic way.
“It’s an empty slogan. He’s parroting the catchphrase of modern youth.” It sounded bitter. “They lose sight of reality and turn things around. I would never have become despotic, as he calls it, if the boys had respected me as their father. ‘Honour thy father and thy mother; that thy days maybe long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.’ It is the Fifth Commandment. But the boys never obeyed it. They did not honor their father.” Tears came into his eyes. “And Marcel’s days were short.”
“God’s hand?”
Hoogwoud produced a handkerchief and dabbed his eyes.
“The ways of the Lord are mysterious,” he said evasively.
DeKok rubbed his face with a flat hand. He realized that for the second time during this investigation he was about to get entangled in a religious discussion. It was time to change the subject.
“Let me ask about Mr. Abbenes. Did you know him well?”
Hoogwoud nodded with conviction.
“He came here often, almost every day, to meet his friends.”
The gray sleuth raised his hand with spread fingers and counted off as he spoke: “Dr. Hardinxveld, Mr. Darthouse—” he stopped.
“ —and Mr. Leem,” supplied Hoogwoud.
“Leem…Leem? I haven’t heard that name before.”
Hoogwoud’s gray face was lit up by a smile.
“Mr. Leem is the minister of a large church, here in town. He’s been a member for many years. I knew his father. Mr. Leem is also a member of the Four-Leaf Clover, the Clover Quartet. Or, as we sometimes mockingly say, the Sex Quartet.”
DeKok relaxed.
“Sex Quartet,” he laughed. “Did the gentlemen mix sex with their golf?”
Hoogwoud gestured vaguely.
“Ach, you know how these things happen among members of a club. There’s alot of gossip; it is to be expected. People whispered about the gentlemen organizing parties among themselves.”
“Aha, and the parties include ladies.”
A naughty twinkle appeared in Hoogwoud’s eyes.
“I presume so. But with one important exception—their own ladies.”
DeKok nodded resignedly.
“The mothers of the children stay at home.”
Hoogwoud spread his hands. His face became serious.
“You should not leap to a false conclusion because of what I say. I mean, I don’t know whether the parties are fact or fiction.” His eyes twinkled again. “I have certainly never been invited.”
DeKok waved around at the surroundings.
“They wouldn’t have held the parties here?”
Father Hoogwoud shook his had.
“Absolutely not,” he said, sounding offended. “The trustees would never have permitted it. Impossible.”
DeKok rubbed his nose with his little finger.
“What else kept the gentlemen together? Naming the relationship after a four-leaf clover seems to indicate a tight relationship.”
“They were all close friends. For years they came here to the course to hit balls. I’m convinced they then passed the balls from one to the other in business and social circles.”
DeKok smiled at the play on words. He looked again at old Hoogwoud’s face and found empathy there. He measured the light in his clear, blue eyes. DeKok suspected the old man’s frail body housed more spiritual power than one would suspect at first glance. Casper’s verdict rang in his mind: An old-fashioned patriarch with outdated ideas about raising a family. Was that right?”
DeKok stood up and extended a helping hand to the old greenskeeper.
“Shall we visit the pro?” He glanced aside. “I think my young colleague is getting annoyed with our casual chat.”
They left the bar, gearing themselves to Hoogwoud’s speed. A short distance from the main clubhouse they found a good-sized shop, packed to the rafters with golf equipment. Hoogwoud introduced the inspectors to a tall, slender young man in his early twenties.
“This is Rudy, one of our young professionals. What he doesn’t know about golf, is not worth knowing.”
The young man laughed.
“Dad Hoogwoud exaggerates.”
DeKok produced an envelope from a large inside pocket of his raincoat and placed it in front of the young man.
“Inside there are pictures,” he explained, “of Mr. Abbenes’ wound, caused by an object hitting the skull. The blow was immediately fatal, and we presume that it was made with a golf club.”
The young man studied the photos carefully, visibly horrified. His index finger traced the contours of the wound.
“That mark,” he said pensively, but with assurance, “could be a five iron, or maybe a nine or seven iron.”
“Did you say a seven iron?” repeated Hoogwoud, shocked.
The young man nodded calmly.
“Yes, but maybe one of the others, too. It’s a little hard to be too specific with that kind of gash.”
“Dr. Hardinxveld,” Hoogwoud said softly.
“What about Dr. Hardinxveld?” DeKok asked with surprise.
The old man looked away from the photographs and looked at Vledder and DeKok.
“A seven iron is the club, he said, that disappeared from his bag.”
12
Vledder steered the battered VW from between an aged Rolls Royce and a low, sleek Porsche.
DeKok sprawled in the seat next to him. He had listened attentively to the young golf pro. Vledder had only skimmed the surface with his golf research. A golf club, he now understood, was not just a golf club. DeKok shook his head in wonderment.
“Unbelievable that a stick with a lump of wood or metal at one end can have so many names,” he said. It sounded somewhat disdainful.
Vledder glanced at him.
“If Bram Weelen does his job right,” he said, “the evidence against Frankie is just about complete.”
DeKok did not answer at once. He was a bit irritated by the stubbornnes
s of his younger colleague.
“Don’t you find it strange,” he asked, after awhile, “that just a seven iron disappeared from Dr. Hardinxveld’s golf bag?”
Vledder shrugged as if he did not care.
“I understand,” he said nonchalantly, “that a seven iron is frequently used. Another member probably borrowed it.”
DeKok grinned.
“Borrowed it to hit a ball, or to hit Abbenes’ skull?”
Vledder was getting visibly agitated. His face turned red and he gripped the steering wheel so tight that his knuckles stood out white against his skin.
“What would be the motive?” he asked pugnaciously. “Did Dr. Hardinxveld have a reason to kill Abbenes, or anybody else in the club? No,” he answered himself. “But Franciscus Kraay had a motive and a plan. He also had the weapon—he bought a seven iron.”
DeKok remained silent. He felt any further discussion would be fruitless. He did not ask, for instance, how Vledder knew the golf club Frankie bought was a seven iron. Instead he stared at the heavy traffic. It was already getting dark. He glanced at the clock on the dashboard. The trip to Amstel Land had taken longer than expected. Yet he was not dissatisfied.
He looked at Vledder. His face was still hard and stubborn, full of tension. The gray sleuth gave him a friendly smile.
“Tomorrow, first thing,” he said calmly, “we’re going to the sports store where Frankie bought his golf club. It does seem the better course of action. Then we will be less dependent on Martha’s statement.”
Vledder gave him a suspicious glance.
“You mean that?” he asked dubiously.
DeKok nodded, a grin around his lips.
“After all, we’re working together on this murder, aren’t we?”
As Vledder and DeKok entered the lobby of the station house, Jan Kuster looked up and beckoned them to the counter that separated the public area from the rest of the police station.
“Little Lowee has been here.”
DeKok was surprised.
“He was?”
Kuster grimaced.
“Scrawny fellow, mousey face?” he asked with a grimace.
DeKok laughed.
“Yes, yes, of course, you know him as well. What did he want?”
“He wanted to speak with you. It was rather urgent, he said.”
DeKok nodded to himself.
“Did he say anything else?”
The watch commander shook his head.
“He was a bit skittish. He blurted out his message and scurried away in seconds.”
DeKok grinned.
“No doubt. Lowee has a severe allergy. He’s allergic to police uniforms.” He put a hand on Kuster’s shoulder. “We’ll go see him shortly. But first, we are going to get something to eat.” He turned to Vledder. “Would you be willing to fix another plate of ham and eggs?”
“Sure,” said Vledder. “I also do a mean omelette.”
“No, the ham and eggs were perfect.”
Vledder walked to the kitchen and DeKok climbed the stairs. It was extraordinary for Lowee to come to the station in person. He didn’t like to be seen around the station. There was always the danger the underworld would label him as an informer.
DeKok idly wondered what urgent business the small barkeep had to discuss. It was hard to predict Little Lowee. He had connections all over Amsterdam, better connections than the police, thought DeKok with a wry smile.
He walked toward the detective room on the second floor. Slowly he divested himself of hat and coat and sat down behind his desk. A pink envelope was placed in the center of his desk. A feminine hand had written Inspector DeKok. There was no further address.
DeKok lifted the envelope to his nose and sniffed. There was the faint smell of a remembered perfume. He opened the envelope with a pencil and took a thick, pink sheet from the cover.
“Dear Inspector DeKok,” he read out loud. “It is difficult to reach you by phone, so I am having this delivered. I request you return the pendant you found on my husband to me. I want to have it as a keepsake, to remember him by. Mrs. Abbenes. P. S. It is not a bull, but a calf.”
The partners ambled companionably from Warmoes Street to Rear Fort Canal. The pace was picking up in the Red Light District. The sex entertainment business was nearly running at capacity. It was a mighty engine, generating millions of dollars a day. DeKok nudged Vledder with an elbow.
“It’s not a little bull, but a calf.”
Vledder’s look was one of consternation.
“What did you say?”
“The little bull is a calf.”
“What little bull?”
“The pendant Abbenes wore around his neck.”
“Why did you bring that up?”
“That’s what Mrs. Abbenes wrote. She wants the pendant back as a memory of her husband. She ended her note with a P. S.: It is not a bull, but a calf.
Vledder shrugged.
“Well, I don’t see the difference. A young bull is also a calf. Or am I wrong?”
DeKok shrugged in turn.
“I’m not sure,” he said hesitantly. “I grew up in a family of fishermen. I just thought it was strange, you see. That postscript to the note was completely superfluous. I feel it is some kind of cryptic message, something she wants to tell us.”
Vledder reacted irritated.
“We’re not here to crack codes. If Mrs. Abbenes wants to let us know something, she’d better use clear language.”
DeKok nodded slowly, pensively.
“And yet,” he said, “I find her behavior rather peculiar. When I visited her that morning, to offer my regrets for her husband’s passing, she acted more like the ‘Merry Widow’ than a woman sorrowing over her lost husband.” He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “And I still don’t understand why she happened to remember the conversation between Abbenes and Hardinxveld, when they discussed Casper Hoogwoud and his alleged fraud.”
Vledder laughed carelessly.
“Once The Crow has confessed,” he said airily, “you can forget all that.”
DeKok did not react. He did not feel like another argument with his colleague.
Once they reached the corner of Barn Alley they entered Little Lowee’s establishment. When the small barkeep noticed DeKok, he came from behind the bar and hurried over. His face was serious.
“Da Crow,” he whispered.
DeKok leaned closer.
“What about Frankie?”
Lowee looked around, made sure Vledder was out of earshot.
“He’s widdus Mom, onna canal.”
Franciscus Kraay took the inspector by the lapels of his coat with both hands. There was fear and despair in his dark eyes.
“I didn’t do it, DeKok,” he yelled. “I did not do it. Believe me. I didn’t do it. When I read it in the papers it scared me half to death.”
DeKok took the hands from his lapels and pushed Kraay back into his chair. Frankie, he thought, had visibly aged. It seemed as if his mighty torso had sunk down to his hips. The lines in his face were sharper and deeper. His black hair was gray at the temples. DeKok straightened his lapels and sat down opposite the distraught man.
“Frankie, you had trouble with Abbenes. We know you threatened him.”
Kraay grinned crookedly.
“What trouble? The slime ball cheated me. That’s all there was to it.”
“And nobody cheats The Crow.”
Franciscus Kraay shook his head, calmer now. He had regained his composure.
“The Crow of today,” he said conversationally, “is not The Crow of yesterday. The out-of-control wild man is gone. I haven’t had anything to prove for many years.”
DeKok smiled primly.
“That’s true,” he said with a smirk. “Today’s Crow is much more cunning. He planned a refined way to do away with Abbenes. He bought a golf club.”
Kraay looked surprised.
“You know that?”
DeKok spread his arms.
Kraay became excited all over again.
“To crush Abbenes’ skull—is that what you want to hear?”
DeKok folded his hands.
“I want to hear the truth. That’s it, no more.”
“I didn’t do it.”
“That’s a song,” said DeKok, “I have heard before. You’re repeating yourself.”
Kraay covered his face with his hands.
“Inspector, it is the truth.”
DeKok lifted his index finger and studied it for a few seconds, as though he had never seen it before.
“All right,” he conceded, “it is the truth. We’ll take it as given, for the moment. Let’s start again. You felt Abbenes cheated you. You bought a golf club, but not for golf?”
Kraay seemed to surrender. With a sigh he lowered his head. Only after several seconds did he lift it again.
“DeKok, will you listen to me?”
The inspector spread his arms wide.
“That’s why I’m sitting here.”
Kraay nodded to himself.
“It’s true,” he began softly, “I walked around for days planning to break that guy’s head.” He smiled sadly. “It’s useless to deny it. I’ve said it so often and in so many places, I could as easily have taken an ad in the papers. In my defense, I suddenly saw everything I’d fought and worked to build taken away. It was more than any man could choke down, especially since I was innocent of wrongdoing. Who needs a no-good, cheating wife?” he asked, shrugging his shoulders. “What would most men do? I looked for a lawyer, a good one. I told the guy I wanted a divorce. It’s a normal reaction, isn’t it? While you’re confiding in the lawyer you’re not thinking you could be instantly ruined! No, but that’s exactly what happened. One day I was on solid ground—financially, at least. The next, I was flat broke, forced to sell my business and—”
DeKok raised his hand to stop the flow of words.