DeKok crammed the piece of paper into his coat pocket and turned around.
Dazed and a bit glassy eyed Vledder followed him.
“Where are you going?”
“Long Leiden Side Street.”
Vledder looked pained.
“But I need sleep.”
DeKok nodded. His watery blue eyes were wreathed in red.
“Me too, but I won’t sleep peacefully until I’ve got Igor behind bars again.”
10
Long Leiden Side Street was long, narrow, and dark. Toward the end, near Mirror Canal, there were no street lamps. DeKok managed to park the car, askew and after a number of bumps, between two cars. He did not like to drive. By his own admission he was the worst driver in the Netherlands, probably in all of Europe. The straight stick in the ancient VW was his particular nemesis. It was worn and crotchety. Combined with the slippery old clutch, it took maximum effort to get the car in the proper gear. It usually took several tries.
With a sigh, DeKok turned off the headlights. Sweat beaded on his forehead. He wiped his face with a sleeve and turned off the ignition. He slid down in the seat with a feeling of relief.
Vledder gave him a sleepy look. The young man was obviously fatigued. It was the reason DeKok had driven himself. Vledder had been so sleepy he even lacked the energy to make his usual comments about DeKok’s driving ability. “Can’t find ‘em, grind ‘em,” was one of his more innocuous remarks when DeKok was fighting the gears. Vledder was convinced the two of them were still saddled with this ancient relic, simply because their bosses knew DeKok occasionally drove.
“Did we make it?” asked Vledder.
DeKok pointed through the windshield.
“Yes,” answered DeKok testily, “right across the street, just a few doors down. Number one hundred and ninety-seven.”
“Are we going in?”
“No.” DeKok shook his head. “I know these houses along here. It is easy to miscalculate around here. I have done it myself. Literally anyone can find an escape route from the alley side to anywhere. We’d never make an arrest with just two officers. Besides,” he added ruefully, “I’m too old to start chasing over these rooftops and crumbling walls.”
Vledder grinned. He was feeling more alert.
“So, why did we make the trip? What’s our next move?”
“We wait.”
“Until our friend Igor comes whistling through the front door and ask us to please arrest him?”
“I see you’re getting your second wind,” said DeKok, noting the sarcastic words as well as the tone in Vledder’s voice.
“Sorry, but what else can we do?”
DeKok took a deep breath.
“The information from Crazy Chris is current,” the old sleuth explained patiently. “Chris lives only a few houses down the street. It’s possible she would call him first, to get a fresh fix. Igor has been asking after Inge, but her friends weren’t in a mood to cooperate. It will take some time before Igor emerges.”
Vledder yawned.
“He could take days to show.”
DeKok smiled.
“Don’t worry, Inge will have to hit the streets very soon to get enough money for her next fix, if nothing else. The bush telephone in the underworld is very fast … and usually accurate.” He gestured across the street. “We may even be too late.”
“How’s that?”
“Maybe Igor has been here already and dragged her away.”
“Against her will?”
“If necessary.”
“But why?”
“Perhaps Igor has decided she knows too much.”
It started to get warm inside the car. DeKok threw his hat on the rear seat. Condensation started to form on the windows and Vledder cracked the window on his side and loosened his tie.
“Do you think Igor bludgeoned old Willem?”
“It was a typical Igor murder,” said DeKok after a moment’s thought. “He approaches his victim from behind and a deals a single blow to the head. There’s just one deviation.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, the gardener wasn’t Igor’s usual victim—he didn’t own anything of value.”
DeKok cleaned the window on his side of the car by wiping a sleeve across the condensation. He thought he saw a movement across the street. He discovered a man who had his collar pulled up high and his hat pulled down in his eyes. He stopped in front of number one hundred ninety-seven and rang the doorbell.
Vledder had noticed the same thing and sat up suddenly.
“Igor?” he whispered to DeKok.
“No, I’d recognize him anywhere.”
A few seconds later, a scantily dressed woman opened the door. The light from inside fell on the head of the man in front of the door. The thinning hair fit like an oily cap.
“Izaak Bildijk,” panted Vledder. He straightened his tie and was ready to get out of the car. DeKok placed a restraining hand on the young man’s arm.
“Wait,” said DeKok.
“But … but …” stammered Vledder.
DeKok made an apologetic gesture.
“It’s not against the law in Amsterdam for a single male to visit a prostitute.”
Vledder grinned without mirth.
“But … eh, he was also in the garden.”
DeKok nodded resignedly.
“Yes, Izaak has been a busy boy.”
“How did the autopsy go?”
Vledder smirked.
“I think it’s the first time I’ve seen Dr. Rusteloos angry.”
“What did he do—slice his finger with a scalpel?”
Smiling, Vledder shook his head.
“No, it was about the old gardener’s head wound. Dr. Rusteloos remarked he’s seen a number of these blunt trauma wounds lately. I told him that we were after Igor Stablinsky for that very reason. I mentioned Igor had been in custody, but we’d let him escape.”
“And that made him angry?”
Vledder nodded, no longer amused.
“Dr. Rusteloos was incensed. He’s all about accountability for people who are responsible for the escape of dangerous criminals. He wants them punished for the felonies their escapees commit.”
DeKok pursed his lips in thought.
“At first blush, I like it. On a practical level no government will pass a law to try neglectful jailers in the criminal courts.” He looked closely at Vledder. “How are you feeling? Did you get some rest last night?”
Vledder nodded.
“I’m glad you finally decided to send me home. I was really drained. But how did you get home after I took the car?”
“I waited until Izaak came out again. I followed him on foot. His path led me to Princes Canal where his car was parked. I presume he went back to Happy Lake from there.”
“And what about Igor?”
“Trail’s gone cold.”
Vledder rummaged in a desk drawer and took out a large yellow envelope.
“From the King’s Procurator in Antwerp,” he explained.
DeKok looked nonplussed.
“Antwerp?” he questioned with raised eyebrows.
Vledder waited a few seconds to see if DeKok’s eyebrows would perform their unusual gymnastics. When that did not happen, he answered DeKok’s question.
“Remember when you asked me to check out the nephews and the niece of Mrs. Bildijk? I started right away.”
“Aha,” said DeKok, “so I did. What did you find out?”
Vledder opened the envelope and scanned the papers he pulled from the envelope. He switched on his computer absent mindedly, and fanned the papers out on his desk. His hands reached for his keyboard.
“Forget that for the moment,” prompted DeKok. “Give me the gist of it.”
“Sorry,” answered Vledder and picked up one of the papers. His eyes scanned down the page. “Well,” he said after a brief pause, “it seems Ivo Bildijk’s hair isn’t the only greasy thing about him. He’s not the solid citizen he appears to be
. Over the last few years he’s been arrested several times for duplicity and tax fraud.”
“Convictions?”
Vledder smiled wryly.
“Every time either a dismissal, or what the Belgians call ‘discharge from prosecution.’ Ivo is as slippery as an eel. Never any convincing evidence against him.”
“What does he do in Antwerp?”
“He’s president and owner of a contracting firm.”
“How’s business?”
Vledder shook his head slowly as he read.
“Business is bad. According to this, Ivo is going belly up. Last week he petitioned the court for bankruptcy protection, to keep the wolves at bay.”
This time DeKok’s eyebrows did start a life of their own. They rippled in ways that made one suspect two hairy caterpillars had come to life on his forehead. Unfortunately, Vledder was still engrossed in the papers and did not see the phenomenon.
“In that case Aunt Isolde’s inheritance would be more than welcome,” remarked DeKok.
“Yes,” said Vledder thoughtfully, “but she has to die first.”
DeKok stood up and walked over to the peg where he kept his raincoat. He put it on and placed his little hat on his head. He motioned for Vledder to follow.
“Where are we going?” asked Vledder as he hastily crammed the papers back in the envelope.
“We’re going to Bussum,” answered DeKok. The death of that old gardener is incomprehensible. Where could such a seemingly senseless killing fit into the scheme of things? We just don’t know enough. That’s why I want to talk to Uncle Immanuel.”
“But Immanuel suffers from senile dementia,” said Vledder as he closed the drawer in which he had stowed the envelope.
DeKok nodded pensively.
“So says the family. But a slight eccentricity is often the best way for an older person to defend against young, energetic schemers.” He smiled. “Uncle Immanuel is not just very well off, he is smart enough to have remained that way.”
Vledder looked as if he had just made a new discovery.
“You mean his nephews and nieces …” He did not finish the sentence. The phone on DeKok’s desk started ringing.
Vledder walked over and picked up the receiver. DeKok watched from a distance. He saw his partner’s face pale. Slowly DeKok came closer. Vledder replaced the receiver and looked at DeKok.
“Izaak,” murmured Vledder.
“What’s the matter with Izaak,” asked DeKok, suspecting the answer.
Vledder swallowed with difficulty.
“Izaak is dead, he was found in his chair.”
DeKok looked around the room with a photographer’s eye. He was able to absorb any surroundings and store an image in his memory with the accuracy of a computer. He had total recall. Many times DeKok had relied more on his memory than anything else to solve his cases. It was a useful talent. He looked at the old-fashioned espagnolette closure of the French doors. Inside the room, there was an equally old-fashioned, unused bed and a marble-topped table containing a Delft blue bowl and watering jug. The electrical wires were wall-mounted on small ceramic pods and ran parallel to each other, about two inches apart. The room may last have been modernized around the turn of the century, definitely before the First World War.
Izaak Bildijk’s corpse leaned in a heavy oak chair. The chair’s back and armrests had been fitted with padded leather, secured by intricately designed brass tacks. The corpse was dressed in the same clothes DeKok had observed the previous night, minus the suit coat. The coat hung from a peg on the inside of the door.
DeKok looked closely at the corpse. From just below the hairline a line of coagulated blood ran down next to the left ear. A small puddle of black blood obliterated the elaborate pattern of an Ispahan carpet. Izaak’s clear blue eyes were wide open with an expression of terror. He looked as though he had momentarily comprehended what was happening. The murderer had dealt him a single, fatal blow from the back. The victim had been unaware of his killer’s approach.
DeKok did not feel the need, as in the case of old Willem, to close the eyes of the corpse. In fact, he was numb. He searched his conscience, surprised. Izaak’s death left him unmoved. It was just another murder, one of so many. He wondered if he had lost his sensitivity, if he had become just another calculating machine. It had always worried him. He felt that when a policeman lost his compassion, his effectiveness went with it. It was critical to remain human. He shrugged the uneasy feeling away and looked at Ivo Bildijk.
Bildijk was standing behind the chair. Again DeKok reflected how little the brothers resembled each other. He compared the face of the deceased with that of Ivo, but saw no family resemblance. He gestured toward the corpse.
“Who discovered him?” asked DeKok.
Ivo Bildijk swallowed and licked dry lips.
“I did,” he said hoarsely.
“You seem to have a knack for discovering dead bodies.” It sounded scathing. “What time did you discover him?”
“It was near noon.”
DeKok looked at his watch.
“About forty-five minutes ago?”
“Just about.”
“This man has been dead for hours.” DeKok pointed at the corpse. “There is virtually no rigor mortis. Did nobody think to check on him sooner?” His voice was sardonic. “There are so many of you in the house.”
Ivo did not answer at once. He rummaged in a side pocket, took out a small piece of paper, and offered it to DeKok.
“This was pinned to the outside of his door.”
DeKok accepted the note and read the handwritten text out loud: ““Please do not call me for breakfast.’” He looked at Ivo. “His handwriting?” he asked.
Ivo Bildijk nodded.
“We think he left late last night, after you left. He must have returned even later.”
“And therefore he pinned this to the door,” DeKok held up the note, “to ensure that he would get a few hours rest?”
“It seems reasonable.”
The inspector pointed at the unused bed, still made up in military precision.
“He did not get a lot of rest, after all.” He looked sharply at Ivo. “Do you have any idea where he could have been, last night?”
“No.”
“Did he say anything to anybody?”
“Izaak and I were never close, even as children. Our characters were too different. Each of us always preferred to go his own way. We had our own boyhood friends and acquaintances, rather than mutual associates. As we matured, we drifted even further apart. I moved to Antwerp and Izaak settled in Oldkerk.”
DeKok pounced. “It was from Oldkerk the threatening letters were mailed,” he remarked.
Ivo’s mouth pulled into a wry smile.
“A remarkable coincidence, don’t you find?”
“You think so?”
Ivo shrugged, annoyed.
“In any event, I don’t want to discuss Willem’s involvement again.”
DeKok was getting irritated. His voice sounded harsh.
“Willem’s involvement in what?” he demanded.
“His coincidental trips to Oldkerk when someone mailed the threatening letters,” answered Ivo, rubbing his hands together as though he were washing them. “His animosity toward my aunt,” he continued. “We have discussed that business among ourselves … among the family.” He made conclusive gesture. “Those discussions ended with Willem’s death.”
“Not for me,” asserted DeKok vehemently. “As far as I’m concerned the discussions have just begun. I feel in my bones Willem was murdered to no end, unnecessarily.” He smiled grimly. “As if there could be such a thing as a necessary murder.”
“Ach,” said Ivo nonchalantly, “the gardener was old and troublesome. In fact, he’d long since become a waste of space.”
The contempt and callousness in Ivo’s voice caused something within DeKok to snap. He strode past the chair with the corpse and planted himself directly in front of Ivo. Slowly, menacin
gly, he leaned forward and brought his face within inches of the now frightened Ivo Bildijk. DeKok became overcome with a combination of disgust, abhorrence, and loathing for the plump, obsequious man before him. He struggled with a sudden urge to pound his greasy face to a pulp. Fortunately DeKok recognized the trigger of berserk rage that sometimes overcomes the usually placid Dutch people. It was almost a national curse. He shook a trembling index finger in front of Ivo’s face.
“If one of you … because of some insane notion of taking the law in your own hands … if one of you has killed that old man, I’ll …”
He stopped suddenly and took a deep breath. His rage began to subside. Slowly he lowered his arm and pressed the nails of his fingers into his palms.
The shiny face of Ivo Bildijk was distorted by an ugly grin as he pointed to the dead body of his brother.
“Tell me, Inspector, what sort of insanity explains this?”
11
Two stoic men from the municipal morgue placed the corpse of Ivo Bildijk inside the body bag and strapped the bag to the stretcher. With a slightly swaying gait, the stretcher between them, they left.
As DeKok watched them leave he felt a stirring of conscience. Oddly, it felt good. Seeing Izaak leave for good, DeKok felt a stir of conscience and compassion he had not felt as he first looked down at the unfortunate man’s corpse. He became suddenly consumed with this death. It was no longer a routine event.
Vledder accompanied the paramedics, opening and closing doors for them. No family members were anywhere to be seen. They had gathered in the somber living room.
Bram Weelen, the photographer, had already left. He had been recalled to Amsterdam where other cases were waiting for him. Just DeKok’s favorite fingerprint expert, Kruger, lingered. The technical team from the Twenty-third Precinct never materialized. This allowed DeKok to insist police headquarters in Amsterdam provide him with his usual support group. It would be easier to work with people he knew and respected. He watched as Kruger re-packed his case, preparatory to leaving.
“With this kind of situation,” said Kruger sadly, “you never find anything. Just smears and prints from the residents.” He pointed at the now empty chair. “I’ll get his prints in the morgue.”
DeKok and the Geese of Death Page 9
