DeKok and the Geese of Death

by A. C. Baantjer

  “Still?”

  “No, cops discovered the car in Amersfoort early this morning. It was parked between other cars near Our Dear Lady Church. The right front fender was slightly damaged, probably in a recent accident.”

  “Is anything known about that?”

  “No … they’re investigating.”

  “How did they spot Igor in Bussum?”

  Vledder smiled.

  “The Bussum police were doing routine safety inspections. You know how that goes; they pull over a car at random and make sure it’s mechanically sound. You’d be amazed how many people drive around in cars that shouldn’t be on the road. For instance …”

  DeKok interrupted him.

  “I don’t care about that, tell me about Igor.”

  “Well, as I said, the Bussum police were performing safety inspections. One of the cars they waved to the side was this red BMW. At first he slowed down, as if to pull over, but then he floored it and took off. One of the cops got a good enough look to recognize the driver as Igor Stablinsky. As you know, I sent his picture out on an APB.”

  “Then what?”

  “They immediately amended my original APB with the information about the car and gave an extra heads-up to all posts in and around Bussum.”

  “Why did they not pursue?”

  “No time. They had one van and a single cruiser. The cruiser was behind the van and all the cops were outside the vehicles, directing traffic, or performing inspections. The BMW disappeared onto a side road before they could even begin to pursue him. They did the next best thing; one got to the radio immediately and amended the APB, as I told you.”

  DeKok grunted.

  “Meanwhile, Igor has had plenty of time to ditch the car. By now he’s long gone—in a freshly stolen car.”

  “Sounds about right,” Vledder answered.

  “What about Uncle Immanuel? Did you tell the Bussum police about Igor’s interest in rich old men?”

  Vledder did not answer at once. He shifted down to skillfully avoid a group of bicycles. For a few moments all his attention was taken by the traffic.

  “Yes,” he said then. “I brought them up to speed and they promised to stay alert.”

  They proceeded in silence. Suddenly DeKok sat up straight.

  “But Uncle Immanuel was not mentioned in Igor’s agenda, was he?”

  Vledder looked startled.

  “You’re right. I don’t think so. I’ll check just to be sure, but I don’t think so. Maybe we’re subconsciously combining the two cases, I mean, the geese and Igor. It must be just a coincidence—Igor running into a safety patrol in Bussum. It could have happened anywhere.”

  “Maybe.” DeKok did not sound convinced. Vledder was not sure which part of his argument his partner doubted.

  “How do you mean?” prompted Vledder.

  “He was seen in Bussum. The car ended up in Amersfoort. He may still be in that general area. Amersfoort and Bussum are not that far apart.”

  Vledder shrugged.

  “So what. That whole area sort of hangs together. Bussum, Naarden, Hilversum, Amersfoort. It’s the eastern corner of the province. Other than that I don’t see any significance. Do you have any contact addresses in that area?”

  DeKok did not answer. He stared out the windshield and seemed lost in thought. It lasted a while. Then he suddenly turned toward Vledder.

  “Don’t you find it strange that all names in this case start with the letter ‘I’?”

  The young inspector thought for a moment.

  “Yes, you’re right … Isolde, Ivo, Izaak, Irmgard, Immanuel … all Bildijks.”

  “You forgot one.”

  “Who?”

  “Igor … Igor Stablinsky.”

  DeKok stopped in front of the wrought-iron gates of Happy Lake and looked up at the sign. The gilded letters against the darkening sky somehow seemed eerie, even macabre.

  The heavy iron gates hanging from the stone pillars made him think of Urk, his birthplace. There was just such a gate leading to the old cemetery in his hometown. The town was now on a hill, once an island in the Zuyder Zee. He still remembered a youthful fascination with the iron gates of the cemetery as a young boy. It had been an imposing portal between two towns, one for the living, one for the dead. One could look through the ironwork; so death was never far away, even as he kept a foothold in the town of the living. Through the gaps in the gate, he envisioned the angel of death slumbering beneath the mosaic of headstones. The idea of death was incomprehensible to a child his age, but he could imagine the persona. When old Jelle, the gravedigger, opened the gates wide, young DeKok never ventured past the symbolic or physical portal. Something held him at bay. He never dared take that final step through the gate. Déjà vu made him hesitate again this time.

  Vledder did not understand the delay. He passed his older partner and pushed against the right half of the gate. As before, it was not locked. The screeching hinge announced their arrival. They closed the gate behind them and carefully followed the path. The crunching sound of their footsteps on the fine gravel broke a grim silence.

  To the left, on the lawn, there were a number of dead bird carcasses. The dead geese had been dragged to one place and heaped in a pile. The tracks still made indentations in the grass. Unpleasant in life, the dead animals made a sad spectacle.

  DeKok bent over a goose that rested a few feet from the heap of dead animals; he examined the carcass carefully. There was nothing visible to indicate how the bird had met its end. There were no signs of violence, no wounds, no twisted neck.

  The old gardener came closer on wooden shoes. He used his stick to point at the birds.

  “Poisoned.”

  DeKok straightened up and nodded.

  “It looks that way,” he agreed.

  The man cocked his head.

  “I just heaped them up here. I didn’t know what you would want to do.”

  “I want them dissected. I want to know what kind of poison has been used.”

  The old man grinned an evil smile.

  “Strychnine.”

  DeKok looked at him evenly.

  “What would make you say that?”

  The man used his stick to point in the direction of the coach house.

  “A considerable dose vanished from my supply. Probably mixed in with their feed.”

  “Is any left?”

  “The feed?”

  “Yes.”

  “No, I cleaned out the bowls.”

  For a long time DeKok stared at the dead birds.

  “Who,” he asked tersely.

  The gardener shrugged his shoulders in a vague gesture.

  “Whoever it was didn’t leave a calling card.”

  DeKok turned suddenly and confronted the gardener. From close up he stared directly into the other’s eyes through his heavy brows.

  “Did you do this, Willem?”

  The old man stared back calmly.

  “No, not me.”

  Suddenly his lower lip trembled.

  “Geese are not my friends, you know.” His tone was sad. “They ruin everything for a gardener.” He turned his head into the direction of the big house. “But if she wants it … you understand … I’m a slave to her will. I do what I’m told, that’s it.”

  For a long moment DeKok looked pensively at the gardener. Then he turned toward Vledder.

  “Please make sure someone removes these carcasses.”

  Vledder nodded.

  “I’ll use the phone in the house.”

  The three of them walked toward the house. The gardener walked between the two cops. He pointed at a row of cars parked in front of the coach house.

  “It’s just like a reunion,” he grunted. “She called the entire family together.” He snorted. “Ever since those silly geese died, she’s consumed by fear.”

  “That bad?”

  The gardener nodded vehemently.

  “Oh, yes, she’s been on the phone almost constantly. I’ve never s
een her so close to hysteria.”

  DeKok gave him a casual glance.

  “I heard she received threatening letters.”

  Willem seemed surprised.

  “What? Who told you that?”

  “Her nephew, Ivo, made a special trip to the police station to tell us. Apparently Dear Aunt Isolde sent him to deliver the message.”

  The gardener shook his head.

  “So she demands I keep it a secret.”

  DeKok smiled.

  “So, there are threatening letters?”

  Willem nodded.

  “Oh, yes. She’s been receiving them for about six months, at least. Somebody’s writing her to tell her that she’s going to be killed soon.”

  “Have you read the letters?”

  “Not all of them, I think.”

  “How many?”

  The old man raised two fingers.

  “Two of them. One morning she called me in, had me sit down and gave me the letters to read. They said she had not much longer to live … they alluded to the hire of a contract killer.”

  “You didn’t take them as crank letters? I mean you felt she should take them seriously?”

  “Oh, yes. They scared me, all right.”

  “What did the letters look like?”

  “They were typed, and sent in blue business envelopes. The inside of each envelope was lined. Whenever I get the mail from the box, I look for such an envelope, one without a sender’s name. That’s how I know she has received another threatening letter.”

  DeKok nodded to himself.

  “How often does this happen?”

  “Lately, they come at least once a week.”

  “Did the sender ask for money … in the letters?”

  Willem shook his head.

  “I haven’t read anything like that. I don’t think it’s about money … I think someone just wants to scare her.”

  “Why?”

  The gardener shrugged his shoulders.

  “No idea,” he commented.

  “Why didn’t she call the police sooner?”

  “She’s asked for protection all along.”

  “But she never said anything about the letters?”

  Again the old man shook his head.

  “No, she didn’t. And she wouldn’t let anyone else tell the police about them.”

  “Why not?”

  That question seemed to suddenly irritate the gardener. A blush spread over his cheeks. With an annoyed gesture he pointed at the entrance to the mansion.

  “Why don’t you ask her yourself?”

  Everyone gathered in a soberly furnished room. The sole relief was a view of the meadows from a bay window. Mrs. Bildijk held court in the center, stiffly upright in her ornate chair. Her nephew Ivo stood to her right. His plump left hand rested on the back of the chair.

  DeKok ambled toward the chair while he studied the faces. There were no physical similarities, no recognizable familial resemblances between the old lady and her nephew. But there was something in the imperious way they looked at him that suggested a common heritage.

  To the left was a wide wooden bench with embroidered cushions. He noticed a man and a woman, seated as far apart as was possible on the bench. Three children stood behind the bench, as if on parade, two boys and a girl. DeKok estimated the older boy to be about sixteen. He was a solidly built young man in a blue T-shirt with a capital letter “S” on the chest. He had the look of a sheepdog puppy with tousled blond bangs hiding his eyebrows. The boy next to him was more fragile, almost scrawny. A black sweater, several sizes too large, made an untidy impression. The girl looked to be about ten years old. She wore a red velvet dress with a short embroidered cape, almost like a pelerine. Long blonde hair hung down below her shoulder blades in old-fashioned corkscrew curls. The Bildijk family resemblance was more marked in the faces of the children … each had a sharp nose and high cheekbones.

  DeKok stopped in front of the ‘throne’ and bowed slightly, a hint of a smile on his face.

  Mrs. Bildijk nodded condescendingly, gesturing toward her right side.

  “Inspector, you already met my nephew, Ivo, this morning. He has reported to me the result of his interview with you.” She pointed at the bench with a bony finger. “I’ll introduce my nephew Izaak … my niece Irmgard and her three children, Peter, Paul, and Penny. We expect Irmgard’s husband this evening. Business affairs prevent him from attending at this time.” She looked regally around the room and waved in the direction of Vledder and DeKok. “This is Inspector DeKok and his assistant, Vledder,” she said to the room at large.

  DeKok shook his head.

  “Colleague Vledder,” he corrected.

  Mrs. Bildijk seemed not to have heard him.

  “I have summoned both gentlemen,” she continued as if there had not been an interruption, “to investigate the death of the geese. This is extremely serious. I took the animals to help protect me … a task the police should have been performing.”

  She paused for emphasis and looked at DeKok with a disapproving expression.

  “Yesterday,” she went on, “I already expressed to you my concerns. I had a strong suspicion something would happen to my geese … something terrible. My suspicion was obviously well founded.” She raised her chin defiantly. “If the animals have indeed been killed by strychnine poisoning, I insist you arrest my gardener.”

  DeKok looked vacant.

  “Old Willem?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  DeKok made a doubting gesture.

  “I questioned your gardener less than ten minutes ago. He gave me his word he is not responsible for the death of your geese.”

  Mrs. Bildijk gave him a pitying smile and then looked annoyed.

  “And you believe him?”

  DeKok hesitated before answering.

  “For a police officer,” he said carefully, “it’s not so much a matter of belief as it is legal proof.”

  Mrs. Bildijk was getting upset.

  “Willem hated the geese. He could hardly hide his dislike of the animals. He has bought strychnine. A significant amount of his supply has since disappeared.”

  DeKok gave her a winning smile.

  “He told me as much.”

  “And?”

  DeKok shook his head, as if in regret.

  “None of it is significant. The coach house is not locked at night. It would not be much of a challenge for anyone able-bodied to scale the fence and enter the coach house.”

  “You think it was an intruder from outside the house—a stranger?”

  “It may not have been a complete stranger. More likely, I think, someone who has been here before … or stayed the night.”

  Mrs. Bildijk looked at DeKok with disbelief.

  “And a person like that goes straight to a cupboard, to a newly purchased supply of strychnine, and poisons my geese.” She gestured, as if at a loss for words. “That is … you have to admit … that is … is ludicrous.” She moved in her chair and placed herself tight against the back. “I must repeat my demand. Arrest my gardener!”

  DeKok shook his head.

  “I will not take Willem into custody.” he looked at her sharply, then, continued. “There will be no arrest, unless you have evidence Willem is the author of so much as a single threat.”

  Mrs. Bildijk’ tightened her grip on the armrests of her chair. DeKok saw her knuckles whiten.

  “Such evidence can be furnished.” She spat out the words. With a wild look in her eyes, she looked at her nephew. “Ivo, get the letters,” hissing like one of the demised geese.

  Ivo walked over to a roll-top desk in the corner of the room. He turned a key and opened the top. He pulled out a drawer. He returned with a bundle of blue envelopes, bound with a purple ribbon.

  Mrs. Bildijk took the bundle from him and gave them to DeKok with a theatrical gesture.

  “You will note the postmarks,” she said severely. “These letters have all been post-marked at Oldkerk. All w
ere dates when Willem shopped for me.”

  7

  Vledder, sitting behind the wheel of the old VW again, gazed at his partner. There was a look of disbelief on his young face. He slapped the steering wheel with his right hand.

  “So, why did you not arrest the gardener?” His voice had a tremor of anger and astonishment. “My God, you had sufficient grounds. Mrs. Bildijk is distraught, and with reason. I just bet she’s back on the phone, calling every influential person she knows. Before you know it, you’ll have the entire bureaucracy all over us … for neglect of duty.”

  DeKok did not react. He sank down in the seat with an austere look on his face. Vledder’s critique did not touch him. As if the words went in one ear and out the other.

  Vledder snorted in disgust and did not let up.

  “I found those cancellations very significant. She must have noticed early on the letters were always dated on days Willem was away from the house … in Oldkerk. Whether she believed the dates to be coincidental, or not, she kept track.” He remained silent for a few seconds. “And as far as those geese are concerned, I found your supposition of an outsider debatable, to say the least.” Vledder shoved his lower lip forward and shook his head. “I cannot say that this afternoon was one of your better moments. I must say I’ve never seen you so ineffectual.”

  The younger man concentrated on the traffic. DeKok’s silence annoyed him and made him unsure of himself. He well knew about his friend’s unpredictability. It would certainly be useless to second-guess him. He tried again, his tone more friendly this time.

  “After all, it cannot be coincidence. I mean the post marks.”

  DeKok raised himself in the seat somewhat and sighed.

  “I don’t believe Willem is the guilty party.”

  Vledder gave a short, mocking laugh.

  “You speak with forked tongue, DeKok,” he asserted. “In your own words: For a police officer it’s not so much a matter of what he believes, but what he can prove legally.”

  DeKok recognized his own words and it elicited a smile.

  “Well,” he said after a while, “Sometimes I also rely on my knowledge of people. Old Willem is, as far as I can see, not the person we’re looking for … not the man who’s threatening Isolde. On the contrary, I think he’s in love with her.”