Vledder was speechless for a moment.
“What!” he gasped finally. “In love … with an invalid?”
DeKok looked at his younger colleague. His face was expressionless.
“So,” he asked, “you think that’s impossible?”
Vledder parked the rickety police car in a lot about a block away from the police station. DeKok hoisted himself slowly from his cramped position and slammed the door. Leaning on the roof of the car, he looked up to the gabled houses that separated them from Warmoes Street. Through a gap in the houses they could just see the back of the station house. For a moment it seemed the unadorned back wall bulged with all the lusts, passions, heartaches, and emotions of many decades. The dismal flood of feelings began to envelope him, threatening to suffocate him. He waited for the feeling to pass and looked at the lighted window of his chief’s office. He knew the commissaris was waiting for him.
He rubbed his chin with his right hand, grinning to himself. He waited for Vledder to lock the doors. They walked through the alley to Warmoes Street side by side. They entered the station house and passed the counter behind which the watch commander presided. It was Mein-dert Post again.
“There’s a guy waiting for you upstairs,” he roared in his usual stentorian voice. “He says his name is Crazy Chris. He’s got information about some dame you’re interested in.”
Vledder and DeKok halted and DeKok looked back inquiringly.
“I told him,” continued Post, still at the top of his voice, “to give me the message, but he wants to talk only to you two.”
Slowly he lumbered toward them from behind the counter.
“But first, I’d talk to the commissaris,” he added, almost at a normal volume. “He just came in a while ago. He had the judge advocate with him, Mr. Schaap. They were obviously in a bad mood.” He nodded at DeKok. “I am to tell you to report immediately, the moment I see you or you contact us. Sorry, I’m just the messenger.”
DeKok waved jovially, hiding his inner qualms. He was afraid he would have to fight off unwanted interference again.
Together with Vledder he climbed the stairs.
“Why don’t you find out what Crazy Chris wants to share with us and I’ll go see the commissaris.”
Vledder gave him a warning look.
“Keep calm,” he advised. “Don’t loose your temper.”
“Why should I?”
“I know you, old friend and … Buitendam isn’t all that bad.”
DeKok knocked on the door and waited patiently for a reaction. He entered diffidently. Then he bowed his head slightly. He consciously assumed that posture. He did not feel up to a confrontation. He firmly resolved not to let any criticism affect him. He would agree to whatever they wanted.
Commissaris Buitendam looked drawn and somehow smaller behind his enormous desk. With an elegant hand he waved to the chair next to him where a dapper little man was seated.
“I am certain no introduction is necessary,” he began in his cultured voice, “to Mr. Schaap, our esteemed judge advocate. You two know each other from previous occasions.” He coughed discreetly to make an impression. “The reason we’re gathered here this evening is a distressing report given to both myself and Mr. Schaap. It concerns your behavior at the house of Mrs. Bildijk. Mrs. Bildijk reports you refused to arrest her gardener, despite the fact there were sufficient legal grounds to do so.” He fell silent and pointed an accusing finger at DeKok.
“If so, it is a serious omission, DeKok,” the commissaris continued. “Now you and we must answer a charge of neglect of duty. Mrs. Bildijk has very influential contacts with the police and in the Department of the Interior, to which we all report.” He cleared his throat repeatedly. “Her contacts, these … ahem, relations have strongly suggested I administer disciplinary punishment for your dereliction of duty.”
DeKok bowed his head deeper.
“Well, if it will pacify those … eh, relations, go ahead and punish me.”
Commissaris Buitendam lowered his arm and his accusing finger. The answer took him by surprise. He had braced himself for an argument. He coughed again, this time to hide his uncertainty.
“You will understand, DeKok, I am not empowered to punish you myself. The matter must be referred to a duly organized committee. Nor would it be appropriate for me to simply recommend disciplinary action to that committee. Not with your record.”
DeKok shrugged his shoulder.
“You spoke of punishment,” he said evenly, his temper in an iron grip. “Well, let it be. What has my record to do with it? If you think I have neglected my duty, you know what you have to do. What else is there to discuss?”
Buitendam gave him a searching look. He did not trust either DeKok’s meek behavior, or his tone of voice. He looked at the judge advocate, as if asking for help.
“The judge advocate shares my opinion that the arrest of the gardener was fully justified, given the circumstances it was mandatory.”
DeKok suppressed a grin. The concept ‘blather’ suggested itself strongly. With a supreme effort he suppressed the urge to say it out loud. He gestured vaguely, helplessly.
“I have not arrested Mrs. Bildijk’s gardener.”
Mr. Schaap interjected a deriding laugh.
“We couldn’t help noticing,” he said.
DeKok ignored the interruption.
“I have not arrested Mrs. Bildijk’s gardener,” repeated DeKok, “because I believe him to be innocent. Regardless of any perception to the contrary, police do not care to waste time, effort, and public funds arresting innocent people.”
Mr. Schaap shook his head.
“He was and is not innocent.”
DeKok gestured feebly.
“All else aside my conscience would not permit me to rob that man of his freedom.”
It was too much for the commissaris. He shoved his chair back and stood up.
“Since when,” he demanded angrily, “does it depend on your conscience whether or not an arrest takes place?”
DeKok looked defenseless
“Ever since I have been an inspector. And that has been a long time.”
The commissaris was clearly losing his temper. Red spots appeared on his cheeks.
“I don’t give a … a … a crap for your conscience,” he roared, beside himself.
DeKok looked at him serenely.
“Nonetheless I do,” he said. He nodded to himself as if to confirm his statement. “I do,” he repeated. Then he sighed deeply and controlled his breathing as he positively banished any emotions.
“If both of you have decided,” DeKok continued after he had gathered himself, “the gardener is guilty, either one of you has plenty of authority to go to Happy Lake and make the arrest himself. Or you could go together.”
Buitendam seemed close to exploding.
“You do not decide what we will do,” he screamed.
DeKok pressed his lips together and took a deep breath.
“And I,” he said finally, “do not make it a policy to compromise my conscience.”
Commissaris Buitendam came from behind his desk. For a moment it looked as if he would physically attack DeKok. Then he stopped. He was red, nearly purple, down to his neck. A little vein stood out on his forehead, and his eyes began to bulge dangerously. He pointed at the door with an outstretched arm.
It was a gesture with which DeKok was very familiar. He turned to leave the room. Just as the furious commissaris could open his mouth, Vledder bolted into the office. He stopped in the middle of the room.
“The gardener,” he panted.
DeKok looked at him apprehensively.
“What about the gardener?”
Vledder swallowed.
“He’s been murdered … apparently, in the coach house.”
8
DeKok scowled at both men next to the desk. One was behind it and the other on the side, as if ready to pounce. Slowly they moved toward each other as if seeking mutual support. They l
ooked at each other, still processing their shock. There was nothing left of Buitendam’s dignified, aristocratic posture. Mr. Schaap was no longer dapper; he simply looked small and a bit disheveled.
DeKok took a step in their direction. There was a stinging remark on his tongue, but he thought better of it at the last moment. He turned abruptly and followed Vledder out of the room.
Vledder ran down the corridor to the stairs and DeKok followed. DeKok at speed was usually a comic sight. But there was nothing comic about the grim determination on his face.
Vledder guided the decrepit police car through the inner city in the direction of Oldkerk. He entered the narrow tunnel under Weesp Street too fast. Halfway around the bend he suddenly hit the brakes. DeKok banged his head against the side of the car. He shot Vledder a disgusted look.
“Think of my old age. I’d like to enjoy my pension,” he said, annoyed. “I haven’t that long to go.” He gesticulated. “Why would you be driving like a maniac to get to a murder scene? Dead is dead. I have some experience in these matters. Never have I seen a man or woman come back to life because the police arrived a few minutes sooner.”
Vledder again braked hard because a traffic light jumped to red. He held out a protective arm in front of DeKok.
“Sorry,” he apologized. “I don’t want you to bang your head again.” As the light turned green, he added: “I just did not anticipate that.”
“The bend in that tunnel has been there since it was built,” growled DeKok, only slightly mollified.
Vledder shook his head.
“I mean Willem’s death. I don’t understand it. What’s the sense in murdering an old man like that?”
“Who said anything about murder?”
“Ivo Bildijk called. Ivo was clearly upset and stumbled over his own words. His aunt had pressured him into going to the coach house to talk some sense into the old man. She undoubtedly wanted Ivo to find out whether Willem authored the letters.”
“And that’s when he found him?”
Vledder nodded.
“His head was bashed in.” The young man sighed. “I told Ivo not to touch anything. I also told him to wake the family and have them assemble in the ‘throne room’ for interrogation.”
DeKok frowned.
“They were already in bed?” He seemed surprised.
“Yes, that’s what I understood from Ivo, incoherent as he was. This was after the arrival of his brother-in-law, Miller.”
DeKok gingerly felt for the growing bulge on his head.
“Miller?” he interrupted.
“Yes, Irmgard’s husband, the father of the children.”
“The businessman?”
“Exactly. After his arrival they had a light dinner and then they went to bed. Mrs. Bildijk could not fall asleep, however. She called Ivo to talk about the case.”
DeKok nodded his understanding.
“And that conversation led Ivo to go to the coach house.”
“That’s about it. Of course, I couldn’t ask him everything in our short phone conversation. Besides, he was much too overwrought. Not to mention Crazy Chris was sitting at my desk, drinking in every word. I had to keep it low key.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But there was no way to prevent him from hearing more than he needs to know.”
DeKok smiled.
“Crazy Chris. I’d almost forgotten about him. Did he have anything useful?”
Vledder took his notebook out of his pocket and waved it around.
“I’ve made some notes. It seems that, despite rumors to the contrary, German Inge is still very much alive. She sent some post cards from Hanover to girls who still walk her old beat in Leiden Street.”
“No red herrings … forgeries?”
Vledder put the notebook back in his pocket.
“The cards?”
DeKok nodded emphatically.
“I was onto a burglar some years ago. He had a friend send me a postcard with his signature from the south of Italy. The plan was to provide him an alibi, or just to distract my attention. I caught the burglar committing a robbery the same day the postcard arrived.” DeKok grinned. “Who knew I would happen to walk my dog that evening—right in the area where he was committing the theft?”
Vledder shrugged and spread both hands.
“Of course, I haven’t seen the cards myself. Crazy Chris claims the girls got the cards from Hanover a few days ago. They recognized Inge’s script.”
DeKok looked disapproving.
“Please don’t do that again!’
“What?”
“Take your hands off the wheel while you’re driving.”
Vledder remained silent.
DeKok made a soothing gesture.
“She’s from Hanover, isn’t she?”
The young inspector nodded agreement.
“Born and bred. Perhaps it all became too much for her in the Quarter. Maybe she had an epiphany and decided to return home.”
DeKok pursed his lips.
“Maybe, but for how long? Addicts, especially those in the life, usually fall back in their old habits pretty soon. When they …” He did not complete the sentence. “Regarding the present case … have you kept the Twenty-third informed?”
“No, not about the latest developments. I guess we’ll have to ask them to supply a herd.”
Vledder referred to the team of experts, crime scene specialists and high-ranking officers that normally gather info at the scene of a murder, a herd. DeKok usually referred to them as the Thundering Herd, after the big band. It was not an endorsement of their subtlety.
DeKok nodded thoughtfully. Vledder busied himself with the radio. After he had passed the information to the Twenty-third Precinct, he switched off the radio. DeKok did not like all those modern conveniences and refused to be contacted by a voice through a contraption. He longed for the time when police officers patrolled on foot, or on a bicycle, and the only contact with the station was through call boxes.
“By the way,” said Vledder suddenly. “There’s another bit of news.”
“Well?”
“A cop caught up with Igor Stablinsky around eight o’clock tonight in the neighborhood of Leiden Square. He was asking after Inge.”
“And?”
“According to Crazy Chris, ‘les girls’ gave him the run-a-round. They did not tell him about the post cards.”
“Why not?”
Vledder grinned.
“The other whores are afraid of him. They’re avoiding him like HIV. Word is Inge left to get away from him.”
The stack of dead geese was still on the lawn. Even in the pale moonlight the limp necks and the dead, staring eyes made for a macabre spectacle. The cumulative odor of death was becoming worse and oppressive. DeKok looked a question at Vledder, who made an apologetic gesture.
“I did call,” he defended himself. “They promised to collect the bodies today. I’ll call again and find out why they haven’t done their part.”
They passed the dead geese and proceeded along the gravel path. All the windows in the large mansion were lit up. There also was a light on in the upper floor of the coach house. The silhouette of an overweight man slipped past a window.
Vledder walked in the direction of the main building, but DeKok restrained him by pulling on a sleeve.
“Where are you going?”
“To see Mrs. Bildijk. To announce our arrival, what else?”
DeKok shook his head and pointed at the coach house.
“It’s an old tradition,” he lectured, “for an inspector to have the first look at the victim. Politeness can wait.”
Murmuring to himself, Vledder followed his older colleague.
Behind the parked cars, the lower doors of the coach house were opened wide. A big black rat scurried away from them and disappeared somewhere inside.
DeKok almost soundlessly climbed the stairs to the living area. Vledder followed.
Upstairs a door was ajar. A narrow beam of light fell across the la
nding. Carefully and without sound DeKok approached the door. He opened the door a little wider and looked inside. The first thing to confront him was a man kneeling in front of an old armoire. A drawer partially hung out of the bottom rank. DeKok banged a fist on the upper panel of the door and entered noisily. The man in front of the armoire was startled and tumbled on his back.
DeKok approached and looked down at him.
“Mr. Ivo,” DeKok said mockingly, “why are you here?”
The man gathered himself and stood up hastily. He straightened his jacket. There was a blush of shame on his face.
“What do you expect to find in here?” repeated DeKok.
Ivo Bildijk swallowed.
“Nothing … eh, nothing at all.”
DeKok grinned maliciously.
“You kneel in front of an armoire, pull out drawers, but you’re looking for nothing?” The skepticism dripped from every word. “Please allow me to observe this is a completely unsatisfactory response.”
Bildijk nodded quickly.
“Yes … eh, yes, I can understand that.”
“In that case, may I have an answer more in keeping with the situation in which I found you?” DeKok looked disgusted. “Or is it your habit to peek in the cupboards and drawers of deceased persons?”
Ivo Bildijk shook his head.
“No … eh, no. Certainly not.”
DeKok spread his hands.
“In that case, I repeat, what were you expecting to find?”
Bildijk flicked his tongue along dry lips.
“I … eh, I hoped to find something that could give me proof that my aunt’s gardener indeed wrote the threatening letters.”
“And?”
The man gestured helplessly.
“There’s nothing.”
DeKok came closer. He looked menacing. With one hand he gripped Bildijk’s silken necktie. Ivo squirmed under DeKok’s angry stare.
“Weren’t you told not to touch anything? To leave everything untouched?”
DeKok and the Geese of Death Page 7
