He portrayed an attitude of conscious challenge that was almost provocative. He was dressed in a deep-purple jacket with flowers and a light-colored pair of slacks. He answered Vledder’s questions with an irritating smile.
“Do you get along with your father?”
“Do I have to answer that?”
“If you like.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Ronald grinned; it was not a pleasant sight.
“What young man is able to coexist with his father? We tolerate each other. That is probably the most positive statement I can make regarding our relationship.”
“That was different until recently?”
“What do you mean?”
“I understand from your father that you grew close after the death of your mother. He spoke of a good father-son relationship.”
Ronald did not answer at once. He lowered his head somewhat. For the first time his arrogant manner seemed to leave him.
“What could I do?” he asked after a while. “He was the only person who was there for me. I could hardly ask for consolation from the neighbors, right? After all, he is my father.”
Vledder hesitated a moment.
“That, eh, that sounds bitter.”
“Yes!” Ronald Staaten’s voice rose to a scream. “You’re right! It sounds bitter. Have you any idea why my mother died? Well do you? No, of course not. You don’t know anything. That geriatric Don Juan killed her! My mother died of shame, of humiliation.”
“Humiliation?”
“Yes, she died humiliated by my father’s affairs with hundreds of women—women of every age, color, race, type, you name it.”
“And your mother knew that?”
Ronald nodded emphatically.
“My father even had the unmitigated gall, the insolence, to boast about his so-called conquests to others. He talked about it in my mother’s presence. Just think about that, if you will.”
He shook his head several times.
“My mother…my mother was a dear and gentle woman. She never said anything, never complained. She never openly objected to my father’s behavior. She suffered in silence.”
Vledder swallowed and pushed his chair back. Meanwhile he glanced quickly at DeKok, who was leaning against the wall out of Ronald’s line of sight. An encouraging nod from his mentor convinced him that he should continue the interrogation in the same vein.
“Your mother confided in you?”
“Yes.”
“So what she knew of your father’s sexual adventures, you knew as well. You shared the knowledge?”
“Indeed. Mother had no secrets from me.”
“Did you ever discuss divorce with her?”
“Mother didn’t want a divorce.”
“Why not?”
“For one thing, she had religious conviction. Mother was very devout. Also, she wanted to ensure my inheritance.”
Vledder tried to raise his eyebrows.
“Ensure?” he asked.
“Yes, you understand, as long as the marriage between my parents was intact, I remained the sole heir. Mother wanted to keep it that way. Had she decided on divorce, Father would almost certainly have remarried. Who knows how many legal offspring would have been the result.”
Vledder grinned broadly.
“Ah, yes, any of the brats would share in the spoils.”
“That was an inelegant remark, to say the least,” Ronald reacted sharply. “I would say insulting,” he concluded.
A slight blush moved quickly over Vledder’s face. The sharp tone of young Staaten did not, however, break the rhythm of the interrogation.
“But if I understand you correctly,” he continued calmly, “it sounds as though you held your father responsible for your mother’s death. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“You believe your father’s bad behavior actually affected your mother’s health?”
“Yes.”
“Did you ever tell him that?”
Ronald sighed.
“No, I never told him. He never gave me the chance. It’s as simple as that.”
Momentarily confused, Vledder stared at him.
“I don’t understand.”
Ronald sighed again. It actually seemed heartfelt.
“After Mother died, I decided to tell him in no uncertain terms what I thought of him. It was about time someone told him the truth. As long as Mother was alive, I kept silent for her sake.”
“And?”
Young Staaten rubbed a hand through his long hair. He shrugged his shoulders and made a defeated gesture.
“When the time came,” he said softly and sadly, “I couldn’t. To my chagrin, he showed real remorse. My mother’s death really devastated him. It was disarming. I lost the incentive, you understand? He locked himself in his room and would not come out for days at a time. It was a sort of penance, or at least I thought.”
Vledder looked at him searchingly.
“What exactly do you mean by ‘thought’?”
The young man snorted contemptuously.
“Within a year of her death he was already pursuing a young girl.”
“Nanette?”
“Yes,” he answered absentmindedly. “Yes, Nanette Bogaard. One night they both came to see me, hand in hand. God, it was so revolting! My father announced in a trembling voice that they had come to an agreement and would soon marry.”
Vledder stood up.
“And thus,” he announced primly, “we arrive at the beginning of the drama. The drama of Nanette, or the struggle for the fatted calf.”
14
Young Ronald reacted angrily. He pulled his lips together until they formed a thin, narrow line. His handsome young face showed hostility.
“What fatted calf?”
With his head slightly cocked, Vledder looked at him for some time.
“Come, come, Mr. Staaten,” he said finally. His tone was friendly, patience evident in his words. “You know very well what I’m talking about…your father’s rather extensive fortune.”
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Everything! You couldn’t have made it clearer; you’re the sole heir. It was the express wish of your mother that this should remain so. Isn’t that right? She was willing to suffer a life of shame and humiliation just to preserve the status quo. It is understandable that you, her son, would want to ensure your mother’s wishes were honored. In other words, you’d make sure to remain the sole heir.”
A tic developed on Staaten’s left cheek.
“You, eh,” he said carefully, “you’re insinuating…”
“What?”
Staaten turned his head away from Vledder. He swallowed several times. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down.
“You’re insinuating I have something to do with Nanette’s disappearance?”
Vledder sniffed.
“To put it mildly,” he said, “you have a convincing motive for murder.”
With a shock the young man sat up straight.
“Murder?”
“Exactly. Murder. And you could save yourself and us a lot of trouble if you were to tell us right now, without unnecessary evasion, when and where you killed Nanette Bogaard.”
Staaten’s eyes grew large and afraid. He looked at Vledder in surprise. All he saw was an impassive face.
“Me?” he whispered.
Vledder nodded silently.
Staaten could not ignore the statement. There was no way out. Like an idiot, he started to grin nervously. All color drained from his too-pretty face. Scared, he looked around him. With a silent appeal in his eyes he looked from Vledder to DeKok and back again. His eyes mirrored an attitude of dog-like devotion.
“M-me?” he stuttered finally. “Nanette. That’s, th-that’s crazy! You cannot be serious! No, you don’t mean it.” He kept shaking his head. “NO!” he screamed suddenly. “Not me…not me!”
Vledder stood up. The denial did not affect
him. On the contrary, Ronald Staaten appeared ready to confess. He judged the broker’s son as having very little resistance left. He had only to persevere, or so he thought. Until now he had built the interrogation neatly, step by step, by the book. After establishing motive he had made an outright accusation. All he needed from Ronald Staaten were the details. Then the Nanette case would be solved. It would be his first great triumph.
From his standing position he looked down at the scared young man on the chair. The deep-purple, floral jacket was no longer a provocation. It was just ridiculous.
“At first,” he began slowly, “I didn’t understand why you took the painting of Nanette and sold it. I couldn’t explain it. It seemed so senseless.” He sighed heavily. “Now I understand. It is as clear as day. The painting had to go. You couldn’t stand to see it anymore. The beautiful, perfect body on the canvas was a constant reminder to you of her death—the terrible, disgusting disfigurement you inflicted…”
Vledder had started to speak louder and faster as he progressed, building up to a climax in his recapitulation. His last words echoed against the bare plaster walls of the small room. In the silence that followed, Ronald Staaten looked stricken. He looked as if nothing had registered. Unaware of his surroundings, he stared in front of him. His mouth was half open.
Vledder became increasingly irritated. The blood rushed to his head, pulsating at his temples. Accusingly he stretched his hand out to young Staaten. It was a theatrical gesture.
“You,” he yelled, “you killed her! Nanette was in your way. You saw your inheritance threatened. You didn’t want your father to marry again. You suddenly realized how vital, how virile he still was.” Vledder imitated Ronald’s voice, mocking him. ‘And who knows how many legal offspring would have been the result of that.’ Those are your own words.”
Staaten failed to react. He remained in a cloud of apathy. The disconnection insulated him from the world for the moment.
Vledder shook his head angrily. He felt himself losing his grip. His words had not elicited the desired result. It was so frustrating. He had been so close to triumph, and now it was washing away like footsteps in wet sand.
Overcome, he took Staaten by the lapels of his jacket, lifting him out of his chair. Vledder’s anger seemed to make him stronger. The silk-like fabric strained in his grip.
“Why,” he hissed, “did you sell the painting? Why?” He shook Staaten the way a dog shakes a rat. “Dammit, you bastard, open your mouth. Why did you sell the painting? Answer me!”
The young man remained silent.
Vledder changed his tone. His eyes narrowed to slits.
“I’ll answer for you,” he said softly, threateningly. “It was fear, pure fear. You were afraid of that nude portrait; it was a constant reminder, an accusation on the wall of your living room.”
It seemed as if Ronald suddenly woke up. He looked Vledder in the eyes. His gaze was clear and steady. Softly, tonelessly, he said, “It was not fear. Not that at all.”
The denial irritated Vledder even more. His eyes spat fire. In a sudden explosion of near hysterical strength he pressed Staaten against the wall of the interrogation room. The chair was kicked out of the way and fell noisily in a corner of the room.
“It was fear,” he screamed at the top of his voice. “You’re lying, it was fear. Tell me. Tell me!”
Vledder kept repeating himself. He was obviously beside himself. As he lost control, his voice broke.
DeKok saw the danger.
“Vledder!”
It sounded stern; there was condemnation in the voice.
“Let go of him and get out.”
Vledder did not respond at once. It took a few seconds before DeKok’s words penetrated. He closed his eyes tightly and shook his head as if to clear it. The red mist of rage that had taken control of him dissipated slowly. He let go of the young man. After a moment of stillness, he looked at his victim and murmured, “Sorry, really sorry.” Then, head down, he left the room.
DeKok watched him go. He knew so well how his pupil felt at this moment…utterly miserable. He remembered his early days, when he was as young as Vledder and faced with an inevitable defeat. It was almost impossible to accept. But those days were gone. The years had made him more experienced. Above all, the years had made him wiser.
Sighing, he picked up the fallen chair.
“Please sit down,” he said in his friendliest tone of voice. “Are you all right? Did he hurt you?”
Staaten smiled faintly.
“It wasn’t all that bad.”
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“My colleague is, eh, a bit short-tempered and overzealous at times. Please don’t hold that against him. Although his methods can be a bit unusual at times, he’s after all fighting for the truth. He’s fighting the good fight. I mean to say, his motives are pure.” His faced creased into a friendly smile. He asked, “Wouldn’t you agree?”
Young Staaten managed a sad grin.
“Pure?” he laughed mockingly. “What a choice of words. Your colleague wanted to force a confession out of me. Perhaps you consider that fighting the good fight, maybe you think that is pure. I regret to inform you, I do not share your opinion. His methods are contemptible.”
He sank down in the chair, crossed his legs, and rubbed both hands through his hair. Apparently he had recovered from Vledder’s attack. His face had regained some color. He gestured in DeKok’s direction.
“How can I possibly confess to something I haven’t done? That’s too crazy, don’t you agree? Nanette is dead, according to your colleague. She’s been murdered. It’s tragic, but I did not do it. If you want to hold me responsible for her death, then it is strictly your own affair. But you’d better be able to prove it. So far all I have heard are unsubstantiated accusations.”
“I think,” said the grey sleuth calmly, “my colleague has made a rather clear and concise explanation of your motives.”
“Motives?” uttered Ronald defiantly. “Just because I may have what seems motive to kill someone doesn’t prove I would…or did. You should know that better than anybody.”
DeKok rubbed his hands over his craggy face. Staaten was right. There was no proof. Motive alone was not enough for a trial. With just motives, the judge advocate would not even think of prosecuting.
He closed his eyes momentarily. He felt drained and exhausted. His feet started to hurt, always a bad sign. It happened when a case was not progressing. As DeKok seemed to get farther and farther away from a solution, his feet would hurt. Sighing deeply, he slid down deeper in his chair and placed his feet on the table. With a painful grimace on his face he looked at young Staaten. He did not like the arrogance of this young man. The way in which he spoke about Nanette was cold, emotionless, without a grain of compassion for the victim. The death of the girl had not upset him in the least.
Again DeKok looked at the handsome, somewhat-weak face. He saw suspicion.
“You didn’t kill Nanette?”
“No, I did not kill Nanette.”
“You are not in any way responsible for her death?”
“It has nothing to do with me.”
Slowly DeKok nodded.
“Excellent,” he said resignedly, “really excellent. I like to meet innocent people.” It sounded solemn. He made a tired gesture. “So there’s no reason to hold anything back. You can answer my questions frankly and truthfully.”
Ronald looked suspiciously at the old detective. He saw a tired man with the friendly face of a good-natured boxer.
“Yes,” he answered. He did not sound convinced. He added, “Yes, I suppose I can.”
“Then I would like to repeat my partner’s question: Why did you sell the painting of Nanette?”
Staaten’s eyes narrowed. Obviously he was still disturbed by the question. His reaction did not escape DeKok. He watched a shudder go through the boy’s body. Ronald became white around the nose. He did not answer.
DeKok took his legs of
f the table. The drained, disabling feeling had disappeared. His gaze rested on the young man.
“Well?” he pressed.
Staaten swallowed. “The painting irritated me.”
“Why?”
Ronald lowered his head. He seemed to wrestle with an answer. His nervous, searching fingers moved toward his dry lips.
“Because…because of the setting.”
“The setting?”
Suddenly Staaten jumped out of his chair.
“Yes,” his voice rose, “the setting!”
He had lost control. All his arrogance, his self-assurance were gone. His face was red and distorted. His lower lip trembled. Tears appeared in his eyes.
“The bastard!” he exclaimed intensely. “The dirty, sneaky, filthy fiend.” The words tumbled out. “He made her pose on the sofa naked. You understand? He had her pose on the sofa where my mother used to rest, especially when she became ill. He just had to paint his naked slut on it. Even after her death he had to humiliate my mother.”
DeKok looked at him, incredulity on his face.
“Did he do that on purpose?”
Ronald nodded emphatically.
“Yes, just to provoke me by besmirching the memory of my mother. He made it cheap, tawdry.” He ground his teeth. A hint of insanity was visible in the hard green eyes. “I would have killed her,” he hissed. “Oh, yes, you can be sure of that. I would have murdered her. Nanette was never going to take my mother’s place. Never!” His voice rose to a fevered pitch. He screamed, “Never! Never! Never!”
15
Ronald Staaten sobbed in sorrow and regret. The noise reverberated through the small interrogation room. His head was resting on his arms, hiding his face. Long, deep sobs racked his body. Sometimes he shrieked a long wail.
DeKok stood and watched him without emotion. From his height he looked down at the shaking back of the young man in the deep-purple jacket. He wondered if Ronald was guilty.
He had seen many, many murderers during his long and varied career. He’d seen all forms, from cold stranglers to emotional, hypertense shooters. He had never been able to find anything common in killers. DeKok had known men who murdered for a few bucks, without thought or pity. He had known people who had been forced to kill in self-defense or for some other compelling reason. Judged guiltless they became guilt-ridden, constantly tortured by what they had done. What Inspector DeKok knew for certain was lions and tigers can turn out to be meek sheep, and meek sheep can turn into ruthless killers.
DeKok and the Somber Nude Page 11
