Praise for the Inspector DeKok Investigates series by Baantjer
“Along with such peers as Ed McBain and Georges Simenon, [Baantjer] has created a long-running and uniformly engaging police series. They are smart, suspenseful, and better-crafted than most in the field.”
—Mystery Scene
“Baantjer’s laconic, rapid-fire storytelling has spun out a surprisingly complex web of mysteries.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“DeKok is a careful, compassionate policeman in the tradition of Maigret; crime fans will enjoy this book.”
—Library Journal
“DeKok’s maverick personality certainly makes him a compassionate judge of other outsiders and an astute analyst of antisocial behavior.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“It’s easy to understand the appeal of Amsterdam police detective DeKok; he hides his intelligence behind a phlegmatic demeanor, like an old dog that lazes by the fireplace and only shows his teeth when the house is threatened.”
—The Los Angeles Times
“A major new voice in crime fiction for America.”
—Clues: A Journal of Detection
“Baantjer seduces mystery lovers. Inspector DeKok is part Columbo, part Clouseau, part genius, and part imp.”
—West Coast Review of Books
“Supports the mystery writer’s reputation in his native Holland as a Dutch Conan Doyle. His knowledge of esoterica rivals that of Holmes, but Baantjer wisely uses such trivia infrequently, his main interests clearly being detective work, characterization, and moral complexity.”
—Publishers Weekly
“There’s no better way to spend a hot or a cold day than with this man who radiates pleasure, adventure, and overall enjoyment. A five-star rating for this author.”
—Clues: A Journal of Detection
“DeKok’s American audiences can delight in his work. Descriptive passages decorate the narrative like glittering red Christmas baubles.”
—Rapport
“Baantjer sets us in place and lets the story move. There are touches of the 87th Precinct, Maigret, and Janwillem de Wetering, but Baantjer is in a category all his own.”
—The Globe and Mail
“Mystery lovers who yearn for a nice old-fashioned police procedural will find a Dutch treat in the Inspector DeKok series. This solid, nonviolent mystery deserves lots of
American readers.”
—Rocky Mountain News
“The storytelling is very strong, paired with a singularly strong sense of place and strong, vivid characters to make an enjoyable read.”
—Mystery Morgue
“A mix of straightforward police procedural and confounding puzzle mystery, reminiscent of Simenon and Mankell, and all the more intriguing thanks to its basis in fact. DeKok’s thoughtful, acerbic wit will have you hooked before the first chapter’s out.”
—Ruminator
“The third translation of a DeKok Dutch police procedural is a fabulous tale that sub-genre fans will want to read in one delightful sitting. The story line grips the audience from the moment the inspector questions the realtor about the theft and never slows down until the final ‘butterfly’ effect. DeKok is an excellent cop while his partner and others bring out the best in the sleuth. This is must reading for fans who appreciate a strong European investigative tale.”
—Midwest Book Review
Inspector DeKok Investigates
Titles Available or Forthcoming from Speck Press
DeKok and the Somber Nude
DeKok and the Geese of Death
DeKok and Murder by Melody
DeKok and the Death of a Clown
DeKok and Variations on Murder
DeKok and Murder by Installment
DeKok and Murder on Blood Mountain
DeKok and the Dead Lovers
DeKok and the Mask of Death
DeKok and
the Dead Harlequin
by
A. C. Baantjer
Translated by H. G. Smittenaar
golden
Published by Speck Press
An imprint of Fulcrum Publishing
4690 Table Mountain Drive, Suite 100 • Golden, Colorado 80403
800-992-2908 • 303-277-1623 • speckpress.com
© 2009 Speck Press. Translated from De Cock en de dode harlekijn by Baantjer, © 1978 by Uitgeverij De Fontein. 1st Dutch printing 1967, 1st American printing 1992.
ISBN: 978-1-933108-27-8
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system—except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review—without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Baantjer, A. C.
[De Cock en de dode harlekijn. English]
Dekok and the dead harlequin / by A.C. Baantjer ; translated from the
Dutch by H. G. Smittenaar.
p. cm. -- (Inspector DeKok series ; no. 6)
ISBN 978-1-933108-27-8 (pbk.)
I. Smittenaar, H. G. II. Title.
PT5881.12.A2C56213 2009
839.31’364--dc22
2008031647
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Book layout and design by Margaret McCullough
Cover image © Shutterstock
Printed in the United States by United Graphics Incorporated
1
The envelope was addressed to Inspector DeKok at the renowned police station on Warmoes Street, located on the edge of Amsterdam’s Red Light District.
Inspector DeKok opened it; at first glance the content seemed ridiculous. Or was it? The note was short and written in an easy, fluid handwriting. The writer had a laconic, but lucid, style.
Dear Inspector DeKok:
I have seriously decided to kill a man. For obvious reasons I cannot tell you the name of the intended victim, nor will I tell you the place and the time of the murder. In any case, that has already been decided. There are, however, just a few unimportant details that I would like to discuss with you in advance. Would Wednesday night, eight o’clock exactly, be convenient for you?
Yours Very Truly,
Pierre Brassel
The station house was often described as the busiest police station in Western Europe. DeKok seemed lost in the large, inhospitable detective room on the second floor. His tired, often painful feet rested on the desk. His short, strong fingers raked his gray hair. His broad face, lined with the deep marks of a good-natured boxer, looked solemn. He was not at all happy. He had read the strange note several times. Each time he read it, he was as surprised as he had been the first time.
This was an entirely new wrinkle in a career of more than twenty years. A person contacts Homicide and details in a short, businesslike letter his intention to kill someone. DeKok felt he’d entered the theater of the absurd.
Of course, he could recall plenty of instances in which a murder had been announced in advance. Not this way, however. Usually such announcements were full of self-justification and pathos. They were unfailingly anonymous. But this note, which wasted hardly a word, was signed, presumably with a real name.
DeKok looked up Brassel in the phone book. He dialed the number.
“Hello?”
“Yes.”
“Mr. Brassel?”
> “Speaking.”
“Inspector DeKok, Homicide. I, eh…”
“Oh, yes. You’re from Warmoes Street. Inspector DeKok, did you receive my letter?”
“Yes.”
“Fine. Is eight o’clock convenient?”
“Yes, that, eh…”
“Fine, fine. Expect me. I shall be on time.”
Before DeKok could ask a single question, Brassel broke the connection. DeKok thought it inadvisable to call back right away.
After about half an hour, unable to contain his curiosity, DeKok tried the line again and found it engaged. It remained busy every time he called. Pierre Brassel seemed a busy man.
After a few more failed attempts, DeKok angrily slammed the receiver down. If nothing else, he was comforted that he had asked his partner Vledder to do some digging around. Maybe that would bring some clarity to the circumstances.
To help get his anger under control, he stood in front of the small mirror over the water fountain and uttered a number of unflattering things for about two minutes. He said things about foolish people and how they so often succeeded in plaguing him, DeKok, with near insoluble puzzles.
Finally, he decided not to call anymore. He decided to just wait for the appointment. At least he knew that somewhere in Amsterdam there was a Pierre Brassel who had written him a remarkable little letter.
DeKok stood up. He paced past deserted desks with his typical, somewhat swaying gait and his hands deep in his trouser pockets. He tried to form a picture of Pierre Brassel in his mind, a picture that would fit with the voice he had heard over the telephone. He did
not succeed.
He stopped in front of the window and looked outside, slowly rolling back and forth on the balls of his feet. His gaze passed over the backlit rooftops of the houses across the street and rested on the illuminated tower of the Old Church, so called because the New Church was a mere three hundred years old. It was seven thirty. He hoped Vledder would finish soon, in any case before eight.
“Well?”
With an amused smile on his handsome face, Vledder looked at his mentor. “Well, if, eh, you ask me,” he said thoughtfully, “then, somebody’s trying to play some sort of joke on you.”
“A joke?”
“Yes.”
DeKok slipped lazily into his chair and looked at the still-boyish face of his congenial partner and pupil.
“If that’s the case, my friend,” he said with just a tiny hint of sarcasm, “when am I supposed to start laughing? At the time this joker Brassel lets me in on the joke, or when a murder really has been committed? Tell me, please.”
Vledder pulled a moody face. DeKok’s remarks seemed to have offended him.
“But it’s crazy,” he exclaimed stubbornly. “Totally foolish. I’m sorry, DeKok, but I can’t see the seriousness of it.” He snorted deprecatingly. “Come on, admit it, who would write such a letter? Even if somebody planned to kill somebody, they certainly wouldn’t announce it to the police. Nobody does that.”
DeKok looked at him.
“Nobody?”
“Well, maybe somebody who’s crazy.”
DeKok rubbed his large nose with the back of his hand.
“So you think he’s crazy?”
Vledder sighed deeply. “No,” he admitted, shaking his head. “No, I don’t think Brassel is crazy. That is, during my investigation today, there was no indication of that. On the contrary, the people who discussed him with me generally agreed Pierre Brassel has above-average intelligence.”
DeKok nodded.
“That’s too bad,” he said hesitatingly. “I honestly wonder whether it is something to fear.”
“Why?”
DeKok rubbed his chin with the other hand.
“Well, if Pierre Brassel were known as a friendly, harmless madman, everything would be a lot easier. I’d just make one quick phone call to the nut removal team; they could take him away and observe him for a few days. As things stand, though…” He did not complete the sentence, but scratched the back of his neck. “What exactly does our above-average friend do for a living?”
Vledder pulled a chair closer to the desk.
“Brassel and his elderly father own a modest but highly regarded accounting firm, along Emperor’s Canal. The business is a holdover from the previous century, an unshakable monument of solid respectability.”
DeKok laughed.
“One calls that renowned.”
Vledder made a nonchalant gesture.
“Have it your way,” he grunted. “A renowned accountant’s office, with a bookkeeper, a clerk, and a darling of a secretary.”
“Old?”
“Who?”
“The secretary.”
“Oh, hardly! She’s twenty-three, with chestnut hair, olive skin, and green flashing eyes. She has an irresistible dimple in her left cheek, or, wait a moment, no, it was the right cheek, yes, the right cheek.”
DeKok looked searchingly at his younger colleague.
“Apparently you spent some time with the hardly old lady?”
Vledder grinned broadly.
“Yes, with the assumed identity of an inspector of historic preservation coming to look at the interior of the old canal house.”
“Did you meet Brassel?”
Vledder shook his head.
“No, I managed to avoid him. When the secretary started to insist she wanted to introduce me, I quickly made my excuses and disappeared.” He smiled at the memory. “It’s a dank, old office, but the secretary…” He looked dreamily into the distance.
DeKok tapped a finger on the desk.
“What about family?”
“Whose?” Vledder asked absentmindedly.
DeKok jumped up.
“Not the secretary’s family!” he said, irritated.
Vledder swallowed. DeKok’s heated voice brought him back to reality. He took his notebook from his pocket and read in a monotonous voice.
“Pete or, as he prefers to be called, Pierre Brassel is a handsome man, attractive to women. He’s thirty-three. According to my informants, he finished high school and college without any problem. He continued his studies and became a certified public accountant. Immediately upon obtaining his CPA, he was offered a management position in the office. He’s been married almost five years, has two children, a boy and a girl. His son is three years old, his daughter is eighteen months. There appears to be no friction in the household. The family lives in a nice villa outside of town, just off the road to Schiphol Airport. There is almost no mortgage left on the house. The financial status of the family is evidently solid.”
DeKok grunted.
“An altogether respectable citizen.”
Vledder nodded.
“Exactly, a solid citizen. The terms murderer or latent killer don’t spring to mind. I’ve been unable to discover anything negative about the man. As far as anyone knows, there are no skeletons in his closet. He’s not in the police files.” He rose from his chair and began to pace up and down the detective room. He halted in front of DeKok’s desk. “I don’t know what you think about it,” he said with a gesture of barely suppressed impatience, “but as far as I’m concerned we’ve already wasted far too much time on that idiotic letter.”
Thoughtfully, DeKok chewed his lower lip.
“I hope,” he said uncertainly, “you’re right. In any case, let’s wait for Pierre Brassel. It’s only three minutes until eight.”
2
DeKok watched the clock like a raptor, barely blinking.
He realized his constant gaze was becoming compulsive. Although he could not explain it, his eyes remained fixed on the clock’s second hand. It was like an athletic event in slow motion; it was impossible to resist watching.
Driven by the same subconscious compulsion, he had asked Vledder to check the time by telephone; they had then synchronized their watches. DeKok had an intuition. He had the feeling time would be of vital importance. It was of the utmost importance to Pierre Brass
el.
A few seconds before eight, the partners heard sounds of footsteps in the corridor leading to the detective room. Within seconds they could see an indistinct shadow against the frosted glass of the door.
Both inspectors looked on silently, Vledder annoyed and DeKok tensely expectant.
The arm of the shadow rose and knocked softly on the glass.
“Enter,” called DeKok.
There was a moment of hesitation. Once the door opened, a tall, slender, handsome man entered. He gave a confusing first impression. There was something unbalanced about his appearance. He looked something like a Calvinist church warden out on a weekday. He wore a long, somber dark coat, but the pearl gray scarf he wore outside the collar gave him an elegant, worldly appearance. The most noticeable feature, however, was his high forehead, which was accented by a receding hairline. A mocking grin played around his weak, thin-lipped mouth.
“I have an appointment,” he said, carefully enunciating every letter, “an appointment for eight o’clock exactly.” He glanced at the electric clock on the wall. “I notice with pleasure that I am exactly on time. My name is Pierre Brassel.” He announced himself like a game-show host announcing a new champion.
DeKok looked at him searchingly for several seconds, trying to sort out his impression of the baffling visitor, but the man remained enigmatic. Slowly he extended a hand.
“DeKok,” he said vaguely. “DeKok with, eh, a kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at his younger partner. “This is Inspector Vledder, my invaluable partner.”
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 1
