DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  He shook his head. “Dogs … dogs weren’t good enough for her, nossir. Geese it had to be.”

  DeKok studied the old man. He looked to be about in his sixties. His skin was wrinkled and weathered. But his gray hair was still thick, and his brown eyes were alert and intelligent.

  “You … you work here?”

  The old man snorted once more.

  “Work?” He shook his head. “I can’t call it work. I am more like a serf, completely at the mercy of a mad woman’s whim.”

  DeKok listened carefully to the tone of voice.

  “You mean, Mrs. Bildijk.”

  The old man did not answer. He placed a calloused hand on the gate and pulled it open.

  “I’ll show you the way. Stay close to me.”

  He walked ahead of them. His wooden shoes made a crunching sound, as if to pulverize the fine gravel on the path. As the geese tried to close in again, he brandished his stick like a weapon. They scattered, protesting in a cacophony of honking.

  The gravel path became wider as they reached the stoop in front of the mansion. The stoop was built with bluestone risers and marble steps. The house itself looked like a small palace with large windows and marble lintels over the door and windows. To the right was a coach house in the same style. There seemed to be a floor over the barn space. The old man pointed with his stick.

  “That’s where I live and sleep … they won’t take me away until one of us, she or I, dies.”

  They climbed the steps of the stoop. To one side the space between steps was filled with concrete. The resultant ramp was rough and certainly too steep for a wheel chair.

  The old man leaned towards the two police officers.

  “Let’s hope she isn’t asleep,” he rasped. “At this time of the day she often takes a nap—before she rests, she locks everything.”

  The old man’s wooden shoes resounded on the steps. Vledder and DeKok followed. At the top of the steps the old man halted. He placed one hand under his chin and stood in thought. Finally he turned around, a deep crease in his forehead.

  “What was that again … DeKok and … Vledder?”

  DeKok nodded.

  “From Warmoes Street Station,” he confirmed.

  The old man turned toward the door and opened it slowly.

  “One moment,” he said. “I’ll announce you.”

  His hoarse voice suddenly acquired a tone of fear as well as humility. He stepped out of his wooden shoes and left them in front of the door. He walked inside on thick black socks. After a few minutes he reappeared.

  “Follow me,” he beckoned.

  He led them down a wide, marble corridor. Near the end, on the right, he opened a door and made an inviting gesture.

  Vledder and DeKok entered a stark, sparsely furnished room. In the center, as if on a throne, a tall, severe looking woman was seated. She turned her head toward the door as the cops entered. DeKok estimated her age in the mid-fifties. Her black hair was caught in a chignon, fastened with a heavy tortoise comb at the back of her head.

  DeKok approached with Vledder close behind.

  Suddenly the old sleuth halted. His glance went over her face … the sharply delineated nose, the somewhat wide, protruding cheeks. He looked at her eyes. They were deep set, almost hooded … just a little too close together. He drew in his breath.

  “Igor,” he murmured, “Igor Stablinsky.”

  3

  The old man bowed in deference, his hand on the doorknob.

  “Will there be anything else, Madam?”

  Mrs. Bildijk dismissed him with a wave.

  “You may go, Willem,” she said evenly. She turned toward DeKok and asked in a different tone of voice: “Did you say something?”

  The old inspector smiled.

  “No, I didn’t say anything. That is … not really. I was just thinking out loud.”

  She cocked her head at him.

  “And I may not share your thoughts?” she wheedled.

  DeKok hesitated. He gave her a searching look.

  “Your face … for a moment it reminded me of a man who is suspected of having murdered two elderly people.”

  There was a hint of a smile on her face.

  “That does not sound a bit flattering.”

  Apologetically, DeKok shrugged and spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.

  “I realize that,” he said. “But the similarity in appearance is striking. Please believe me. A murderer can look quite attractive, especially if looks combine with a winning personality.”

  “Misleading?”

  “Indeed.”

  “And who is this murderer who resembles me?”

  “Igor Stablinsky.”

  Mrs. Bildijk shrugged her shoulders in dismissal.

  “Stablinsky,” she said slowly. “The name means nothing to me.”

  DeKok gave her a friendly smile.

  “I hardly expected that.” His voice was reassuring. “I’ve encountered a resemblance like that numerous times in my career. Most of the time it’s sheer coincidence.”

  He pulled off his wet raincoat, folded it inside out, and placed it over the arm of a chair. He placed his old hat on top of the raincoat. Then he shoved another chair closer to Mrs. Bildijk and sat down. Vledder followed suit.

  Mrs. Bildijk waved a hand.

  “Willem should have taken your coats,” she said. “He must have forgotten. He’s getting old and moody. He’s no longer as dedicated as he used to be. On the contrary, he’s been downright arrogant and impudent, ever since I ordered his dogs destroyed.”

  DeKok’s eyebrows rippled. There is no other word for it. DeKok’s eyebrows could take on a life of their own, moving in ways not expected or even assumed possible. DeKok always seemed unaware of the phenomenon. Vledder was always on the lookout for it and liked to study the faces of the people who beheld the extraordinary behavior of DeKok’s eyebrows. This time he did not see it happen, but deduced from Mrs. Bildijk’s expression that she had clearly seen it. She looked amazed, maybe incredulous.

  “Why,” asked DeKok sternly, “did you have his dogs killed?”

  Mrs. Bildijk, still bemused by DeKok’s eyebrows, answered sharply. Perhaps more sharply than she had intended.

  “Willem spoiled them.” She softened her tone somewhat. “He always spoils dogs he is supposed to be handling … it wasn’t any different with those useless Alsatian Shepherds.” Her tone became more shrewish as she continued. “They were lazy, stupid, fat animals. They ate almost three pounds of meat every day.”

  DeKok thought about his own boxer, the fifth of a series of boxers he had owned. One of his regrets had always been that dogs do not live long enough and the loss of each of his companions had always been heart breaking. The thought that someone would kill dogs because they ate too much, disturbed him. He was sensitive on the subject of dogs.

  “Was that the only reason,” he asked evenly.

  She snorted.

  “No, they were too friendly.”

  “Too friendly? Surely that’s no reason to kill them.”

  “Friendly,” she repeated. “I do not keep dogs to get fat and lazy. They earn their keep by guarding my property.”

  “And they did not do that?”

  “No, they did not. Whenever a stranger entered the gate, the dogs would greet them with wagging tails.”

  DeKok swallowed some sharp retorts. He had his own ideas about the relationship between people and animals. But this was not the time.

  “So, that is when you decided to get geese?”

  She nodded.

  “Exactly … geese. You must have heard about the geese that saved Rome from being overrun by the Gauls. Geese are excellent guardians. In groups they can be dangerous to intruders as well. They are territorial, you know, and properly rationed they will defend their turf to the death. No guard dog can top that.”

  “Rationed?”

  “Yes, you must not feed them too much. That way they become even more aggress
ive, in order to protect their food supply.”

  “Vicious, would be a more accurate description.”

  “If you like.”

  “And you need these vicious guardians?”

  Mrs. Bildijk lowered her head.

  “I … eh … I’m afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  Her sallow face turned ashen. The light make-up seemed to separate from her skin. It was strange to see how her demeanor changed. It was as if she suddenly became another person. Her hands resting on the armrests of the chair trembled.

  “That … that I don’t know,” she said softly. “It isn’t specific, but I feel something is going to happen to me … soon.”

  DeKok did not press her.

  “During our rather abruptly interrupted telephone conversation you told me you wanted to talk about your geese.”

  Mrs. Bildijk nodded. Slowly she regained her composure.

  “I know this is actually not your precinct. But, to be honest, I have little faith in the personnel in my precinct. You, on the other hand, have a very good reputation. That’s why I called you.”

  DeKok ignored the compliment. He was instinctively suspicious of people who used expressions such as ‘to be honest’ or ‘to be frank.’ To a career cop, they incriminated themselves for all the times they did lie.

  “Why do you need us here to discuss your geese?”

  Mrs. Bildijk pointed at her wheelchair standing nearby.

  “An invalid is so helpless and dependent,” she whined.

  DeKok did not take his eyes off her.

  “Again Mrs. Bildijk, what’s the problem with your geese?” he repeated.

  Mrs. Bildijk did not answer at once. The tips of her fingers touched her neck.

  “I’m afraid they’re being poisoned.”

  “By whom?”

  “Willem.”

  DeKok showed surprise.

  “That old man?”

  She nodded slowly.

  “I know he recently bought a supply of strychnine.”

  The old man looked first at DeKok and then at Vledder. His glance went from one to the other a few times before he spoke.

  “Strychnine?” he said, amazement in his voice. “Of course, I bought strychnine. I was almost out. I just had another can delivered. It’s the only effective way to get rid of moles. They plague us here. They come from the meadows behind us. The farmer does not care, but they ruin the lawns.” His stocking feet stomped on the floor. “And down here in the coach house, I’ve got rats.”

  DeKok nodded his understanding.

  “You fight moles and rats with strychnine.”

  The man picked up a pipe from the table and emptied it in an ashtray by tapping it against his hand.

  “Yes, I’ve tried other things, but strychnine gives me the best results.”

  “You don’t feel it is overkill?”

  The old man shrugged his shoulders.

  “Of course it’s dangerous, so I handle it very carefully. During the holidays, when the nephews and nieces are here with their children, I keep it under lock and key.” He grinned. “The little ones will get into everything.” He smiled tenderly. With his pipe he pointed out the window. “They’d rather be here than in the big house.”

  “Why?” asked DeKok.

  Willem did not answer at once. He took a copper tobacco jar from the table and started to fill his pipe slowly and methodically.

  “She doesn’t like children,” he said after a while. “She has no patience with them.”

  “You’re talking about Mrs. Bildijk?”

  The man ignored the question. For a moment Vledder was reminded of DeKok’s ability to ignore questions as if no one had asked. Willem showed the same bland indifference.

  “She never had children of her own,” continued Willem hoarsely. “And the Lord knows Mr. Bildijk would have liked children. Squire Iwert was a very caring gentleman … so patient. It’s just too bad he died relatively young. If he had lived, everything would have been different. But he contracted some sort of disease. He just wasted slowly away.”

  DeKok sensed the undertone.

  “You held him in high regard?”

  The old man nodded slowly, pensively.

  “He was the only reason I stayed on. I was little more than a gardener. But as he lay dying he called me to his side. ‘Willem,’ he said, ‘stay with Isolde. She needs you.’ Well, I promised him I would stay.”

  He paused, lost in thought. After a while, DeKok spoke a question.

  “You regret your promise now?”

  The old man shook his head.

  “Only fools have regrets. At the time of decision, a man is supposed to know what he’s doing.”

  “And you knew.” It was not a question.

  DeKok received a sad smile in return. Willem pointed at the surroundings: the bare, planked floor, the plain, pine furniture, the rattan chairs, the faded, peeling wallpaper.

  “Obviously, it didn’t make me wealthy.”

  “Who said anything about getting rich?”

  The old man looked at the pipe in his hands.

  “Squire Iwert told me I would be richly rewarded in his will.”

  “And?”

  “But first she …” He did not finish the sentence, but replaced the filled pipe on the table. Slowly he raised his head and met DeKok’s eyes with unabashed curiosity.

  “Did she send you to speak with me?”

  DeKok did not find it necessary to lie.

  “Yes,” he said.

  Because of the geese?”

  “Exactly.”

  A faint grimace played around Willem’s lips.

  “Well, now you know. I have plenty of strychnine.”

  They drove back to Amsterdam at a leisurely pace. The rain had stopped, but banks of heavy cumulus clouds drifted against the blue sky. The gray melancholy lifted and sunlight danced over the rippling water of the Amstel. Subconsciously both Vledder and DeKok noticed the level of the water had already noticeably diminished. The windmills had done their work as they had for hundreds of years.

  DeKok slid down in his seat and thought about the interviews at Happy Lake. The name seemed a cruel misnomer. He couldn’t shake a feeling more of foreboding than gloom. There was a strange, ambivalent relationship between the old woman and her old gardener. Mrs. Bildijk and Willem were ruled by passions and secrets no outsider could fathom. One thing DeKok could discern was the tension between the two. He sensed an explosion in the offing. The elder inspector searched his memory for similar situations from his long career, but could not recall anything quite like it.

  Vledder looked at him briefly.

  “How did Mrs. Bildijk know her gardener had ordered a new supply of strychnine? She could hardly be expected to search the coach house. I don’t think she could have made it on her own.”

  DeKok thought for a moment.

  “I imagine she paid the bill,” he said after a brief pause.

  Vledder looked surprised.

  “You mean to tell me,” he exclaimed. “She just read the invoice and then paid the bill—no questions asked.”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  Vledder grinned.

  “But then there’s no secret, no hidden motive. The old man wasn’t hiding anything.”

  DeKok looked thoughtful.

  “But that does not change the fact that strychnine is a deadly weapon.”

  Vledder remained silent. They had reached the inner city and he needed all his attention to maneuver the old Volkswagen through the heavy traffic. The narrow streets and quays along the canals were never really intended for motorized traffic. The thousands of bicycles did not make it any easier. In an instant a truck careened toward them—Vledder floored the gas, turning sharply into Half Moon Alley. The tires screeched, as they barely escaped colliding with the truck.

  “Cool down,” growled DeKok. “I don’t want to miss out on my pension this way. You could have cracked an egg between our car and
that truck. Whew.”

  “Well, it was either that, or have him smack into us head on.”

  DeKok grunted.

  Eventually they reached the station house on Warmoes Street.

  Vledder parked the car and they entered together.

  As they passed the desk of Meindert Post, the watch commander raised a hand.

  “DeKok!” he yelled, although DeKok was barely three feet away.

  DeKok stopped and turned toward the desk.

  “Did you say something, Meindert?” he asked.

  For a moment the sergeant looked at him.

  “Igor Stablinsky has escaped,” he said, still at the same volume as before.

  DeKok simply waited for further information, but Vledder could not resist the obvious question.

  “Escaped?” he asked.

  Post handed them a report.

  “Escaped from jail,” he added in a more normal tone of voice.

  4

  Vledder paced up and down the cluttered, noisy detective room. His facial expression was pinched. It was as if a thundercloud surrounded him. He was so enraged he felt himself choking. None of the other officers had ever seen Vledder loose his temper. He tore his tie from around his neck in one violent gesture. Sputtering, he stopped in front of DeKok’s desk.

  “How is it possible,” he cried furiously.

  DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

  “He knocked down one of the guards,” he said tonelessly. “During the ensuing commotion he managed to escape.”

  The young inspector leaned over the desk and slapped both hands down in front of DeKok.

  “Months’ of work,” he roared. “All that tedious detail for nothing—one letter at a time for two months and all blown away. Months of work flushed down the toilet. It took that long before we had enough evidence to make an arrest. We had no lives, tracking down every little thing we could think of and for what? A dangerous suspect like him … at least two murders … they let him walk away, just like that.”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “No, not just like that. The guard is in the hospital with a fractured jaw.”

  Vledder fell down in the chair behind his desk.