Pierre Brassel grinned again, and DeKok offered him a chair next to the desk.
The first skirmishes passed in a calm atmosphere. At first it was no more than a mutual, careful probing. The men exchanged the usual platitudes and banalities, fleshed out with polite clichés. Vledder cracked Pierre Brassel’s façade, eliciting the first real emotion. In a casual tone, he said, “Homicide really cannot be bothered with practical-joke letters. The police department is not an institution charged with providing public entertainment.” For that, he opined, there were different avenues.
Vledder’s remarks hit a sore spot.
Pierre’s eyes glistened dangerously. He spread his arms in a theatrical gesture.
“But gentlemen,” he exclaimed, irritated and with a hint of astonishment, “surely you have not considered my note a tasteless joke? Really! The very idea is insufferable. In fact, it would be an insult to me, a very grave insult. I am no charlatan.”
Vledder grinned broadly.
“Oh no?” he asked mockingly. “Not a charlatan, you say?”
Agitated, Brassel stood up. Vledder’s question had visibly upset him. His indignation was not an act, it was real. A red flush colored his cheeks.
“This is the limit,” he cried angrily. “I did not come here to be ridiculed. I wrote you about a matter I assumed would be of interest to your department. You agreed to this appointment, to discuss a case. I did everything in accordance with common decency and good manners. There is no reason why you should—”
DeKok raised a hand in a restraining gesture.
“Please sit down and calm yourself, Mr. Brassel,” he said soothingly. “I ask your indulgence and I apologize for my young colleague. You must admit it does seem strange for an intelligent man to contact Homicide in order to acquaint us with his intent to commit murder.”
Brassel forced his lips into a winning smile.
“Your colleague,” he said, much calmer, “is not just young and tactless, he also lacks imagination.”
DeKok looked at him, his head cocked to one side.
“How’s that?” he asked, interested.
Brassel sighed and resumed his seat.
“How can I best explain it,” he said slowly, looking for words. “I’ll give you an example: if you intend to plant flowers in your garden and you are not sure about timing or the best method for planting, you will ask for advice from a florist or a gardener. Logical, I should think. After all, they are professionals.” He laughed pleasantly and gestured vaguely toward DeKok with a slender hand. “I have taken it upon myself to commit murder, so where do I go for professional help?” He looked smugly about, as if expecting a spontaneous answer from an attentive audience. Then he answered his own question. “Of course, from the famous Inspector DeKok, expert in homicide.”
There was a sudden silence.
DeKok looked intently at the gleaming, beaming face of Brassel and tried to detect a hint of the facetious. He saw none. He encountered a pair of cunning, alert eyes that carefully measured the reaction created by the earlier remarks. He got his reaction.
Vledder looked at Brassel with wide, surprised eyes, and DeKok swallowed. It took a while before he trusted himself to speak again.
“I believe,” he said heatedly, “you have made a serious mistake. Your comparison is incorrect. Your premise is faulty. I’m not an expert in the committing of murders. I merely try to solve them. I bring perpetrators to justice after they have committed murders. Others commit the crimes. You understand?”
Pierre Brassel nodded emphatically and showed rows of white teeth.
“Exactly, yes,” he cried enthusiastically. “Exactly right! And that is precisely why I addressed what you think is such a ridiculous letter to you. You have experience with murder. Afterward, you can say exactly what mistakes the killer has made. Why should I not utilize your knowledge to avoid mistakes of my own?”
He moved his chair slightly and sighed deeply. Then he continued. “See here, Inspector,” he said earnestly, “you can only start your work after I have committed a crime, not before! That is too late for my purposes. I cannot change my actions once the deed is done, so to speak. From that moment on, you and I have to be enemies. A normal, open exchange of ideas will cease to be possible. Obviously our goals will no longer be mutual. Right now, under the present circumstances, I mean, during the preliminaries, we could…”
He did not complete the sentence. He appeared to ponder something, turning it over in his mind.
“Inspector,” he said after a considerable silence, and with a more determined tone of voice, “I want to make you an honest offer. You tell me what mistakes to avoid in committing my murder, and I will deliver myself to you as the culprit.” Brassel smiled charmingly. “Call it a gentlemen’s agreement,” he added.
He paused. When DeKok did not react, he continued, “In fact, you already have my part of the bargain in your hands. I have delivered myself to you. I just have yet to do what I must. You understand? My motive is to commit the perfect crime.”
DeKok rubbed his broad face with his hands. He peeked at Brassel from between his fingers. It was as though DeKok hoped the image would vanish. The visitor looked as if he had just spread a royal flush on a poker table.
“I do believe,” answered DeKok quietly, “I understand you. You expect from me, as the expert in the field, a set of instructions for the perfect murder. A sort of recipe.”
“Indeed.”
“A complete recipe, including all the ingredients to guarantee you will not be caught or punished.”
Brassel nodded joyfully.
“Exactly!” he said.
DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.
“In exchange, you offer me inside knowledge. I’ll know you committed the murder.” DeKok’s voice dripped with sweet sarcasm. “That’s what you mean, right?”
“Indeed, that is what I mean.”
“You underestimate me,” grinned DeKok. “It seems to me a rather one-sided agreement. It seems I would know you committed a murder but would be unable to prove your guilt, thanks to my recipe. No one prosecutes a murderer who has managed to commit the perfect crime. What’s in it for me? Nothing! Absolutely nothing. You offer me a perpetrator, but with no ability to serve justice.”
Pierre Brassel gave him his most winning smile.
“You are clever, Inspector. You’re right, I just want to escape the consequences.” He shrugged his shoulders in a negligent gesture. “Understandable, do you not agree? I am relatively young. I have a darling wife and two wonderful children, a good job. It would be too silly to risk all that for a somewhat belated murder.” He halted suddenly, smiling sheepishly. For the first time it seemed as if he had lost part of his self-control.
DeKok looked at him, a challenge in his eyes.
“What do you mean, ‘somewhat belated’?” he asked.
Brassel stroked his temples with the flat of his hands.
“You will find out,” he said slowly. “Believe me, you will see. There is no reason to get ahead of ourselves.”
A new silence fell upon the room.
Vledder, who leaned against a wall diagonally behind Brassel, pointed at his head with a meaningful look. The gesture did not escape DeKok. He released a deep sigh, again focusing his attention on Brassel.
“You are,” he asked wearily, “actually planning to commit murder?”
“Yes, I am. Even if you do not help me, even without the help of a foolproof recipe. I wrote it clearly enough. I’ve already decided upon the time and place. Nothing can change my mind.”
DeKok leaned forward and studied Brassel’s face with care.
“Seriously,” he said finally, “you really didn’t expect for a moment I would help you commit murder, now did you?”
Pierre Brassel looked up and shook his head. A sad smile marred his handsome face.
“No,” he answered cheerlessly, “I did not believe that for an instant.”
DeKok’s eyebrows rippled
slightly. People who knew the senior inspector swore his eyebrows lived a life of their own. It was certain those eyebrows could do gymnastics outside the capabilities of ordinary eyebrows. Vledder watched with fascination. He thought he could sometimes predict DeKok’s actions or words from the way the eyebrows moved. He was always wrong.
“Let’s get to why you wrote the letter,” said DeKok.
Brassel did not answer. He stretched his left arm slightly forward, pushed the sleeve of his coat back, and looked intently at his watch.
“Why,” repeated DeKok, irritated, “did you write me the letter?”
Brassel completely ignored the question. He kept staring at his watch without raising his eyes. After a few seconds he stood up and looked first at DeKok, then at Vledder, then back again. His demeanor changed. He took the spotlight, like a toastmaster ready to begin the long-winded, well-rehearsed introduction of the next speaker.
“Gentlemen,” he announced dramatically, “in room twenty-one of the Greenland Arms Hotel, about three hundred yards from here as the crow flies, you will find the corpse of Jan Brets.”
“What?”
Pierre Brassel grinned.
“Jan Brets,” he continued cheerfully. “His skull is crushed.”
He gestured toward the telephone on DeKok’s desk.
“Please call them,” he encouraged, “the Greenland Arms Hotel, or send one of your alert constables to verify.”
DeKok’s eyes narrowed dangerously.
“What kind of a joke is this?!” DeKok roared in anger.
Brassel gave him a sad look.
“It seems,” he said, shaking his head, “you find it difficult to take me seriously. Am I right?”
DeKok bit his lower lip and stared at the eccentric before him. He could not penetrate the thoughts of his adversary. Neither could he tread the tightrope between joviality and seriousness on which Brassel seemed continually to balance. For a moment he was buffaloed, his equilibrium disturbed. DeKok never hesitated long, however.
“Dick,” he commanded, “call the Greenland Arms.”
The three men stood grouped around the phone. Vledder dialed the number. The only sound in the room was the beeping of the touch-tone phone. DeKok’s face was serious. Around Brassel’s lips played a faint smile, a glow of triumph lit up his light gray eyes.
DeKok listened on an extension.
“Greenland Arms,” said a voice, “concierge speaking.”
“Police,” answered Vledder. “Vledder, Warmoes Street Station. Can you tell me the name of the guest in room twenty-one?”
“One moment, please. Yes, that’s Mr. Brets.”
“Is he still alive?”
“What did you say?”
“Is Brets still alive?”
A soft chuckle came over the line.
“I handed him his key at eight o’clock.”
“That was at eight o’clock. But is he alive now?”
“I believe so.”
Vledder sighed.
“If it’s not too much to ask, would you please take a look in his room?”
“All right. Police, you said? As you wish. Please hold the line.”
Meanwhile, DeKok looked at the clock in the detective room. It was a quarter to nine.
It took exactly four minutes until the concierge of the Greenland Arms manifested himself again on the other side of the line.
“Police, police!”
His voice was shaky, anguished.
“Yes?”
“Please send someone here. Mr. Brets…Brets is dead!”
3
Pierre Brassel stepped toward the door.
“I presume,” he said with a dismissive gesture, “you gentlemen will have no time for me at the moment. Regrettable. Perhaps another time will be more convenient.” He took hold of the doorknob. “In any case, gentlemen, I wish you every possible success with your investigations.”
Vledder suddenly seemed to wake up from a daze. Impulsively he leaped at Brassel, grabbing his arm.
“You’re not leaving,” he said shaking his head. “No, you’re not free to walk away, just like that. No, sir! First you’ll have to answer a few questions about this killing. Apparently you know a bit too much about it.”
The tall, distinguished Brassel, so abruptly prevented from leaving, raised a cautioning finger.
“You do not have the right to manhandle me.” There was a barely concealed threat in his tone of voice. “Nor do you have the right to keep me here. The concierge and, perhaps, additional staff of the Greenland Arms will tell you Jan Brets entered the hotel healthy, with his cranium intact. Furthermore, you will hear from the clerk who handed Brets his key shortly thereafter. He will tell you he saw Jan Brets cheerfully depart for his room.”
He smiled broadly, a false grin.
“Oh, and I beg to remind you, gentlemen, I have been with the two of you, under your close surveillance, since exactly eight o’clock.” He grinned again, mocking and challenging them. He had a twinkle of pure venomous pleasure in his eyes. “What more could you ask? Nobody could wish for a better alibi for a murder case.”
Vledder let go of Brassel’s arm, but placed himself in front of the door. He stood there like an implacable Cerberus. His boyish face showed a grim, uncompromising expression. It did not seem Pierre Brassel was going to leave without a struggle.
“How did you know,” he barked, “that Jan Brets would die in the Greenland Arms tonight? Who, exactly, told you?”
Mr. Brassel gave a bored sigh in response.
“You are wasting your time,” he said slowly. “I have already proven abundantly I am not the murderer. What more can I tell you?” He grinned maliciously. “Or perhaps you would like me to tell you who killed Jan Brets?”
Vledder nodded, lips pressed together.
“Yes,” he hissed from between his teeth, “exactly. That’s what I want to know.”
Brassel slowly shook his head. His handsome face showed utter contempt.
“But gentlemen,” he exclaimed derisively, “where is your professional pride? I should be very disappointed if you did not insist on finding Jan Brets’s murderer yourselves.” His voice was sarcastic, the expression on his face ugly. “Surely the famous Inspector DeKok knows exactly how to proceed. Elementary, you agree? Find the mistakes that have been made.”
He paused and looked demonstratively at his watch.
“I am terribly sorry. My time is limited. I have to leave.”
He uttered a few more apologies and finally turned toward Vledder.
“If you would be so kind as to step aside so I can pass.”
Vledder’s face became red. He maintained his stance in front of the door and seemed disinclined to move. Sighing, DeKok rose from his chair. He came from behind his desk and walked over to Vledder.
“Come on, Dick,” he commanded gently, “let the gentleman pass. You heard him. The gentleman’s time is limited, he has to leave. We should not force our hospitality upon him.” He smiled pleasantly, then added, “We won’t detain him, not yet. Perhaps another time.”
Grudgingly, Vledder stepped aside, a look of hatred in his eyes.
With a courtly bow, Brassel left the room. With an equally courtly bow, DeKok held the door for him.
Jan Brets was supine, arms and legs stretched out wide. It was as if he had wanted to cover as much of the floor space as possible. That’s how they found him. The position of the corpse made the man resemble a wooden harlequin, a marionette whose every string had been pulled tight. The illusion of a life-sized harlequin struck DeKok. It would not have surprised him in the least if the arms and legs had suddenly started to move rhythmically, guided by the hands of an unseen puppeteer. Adding to the pervasive imagery of a clown was Jan Brets’s face. It was waxen and as pale as white greasepaint. It had frozen in an astonished grimace. It seemed Jan Brets, even in death, tried to grasp the joke of his own sudden demise. If it was a joke, he’d just missed the punch line.
The scen
e may not have struck anyone’s funny bone, but it wasn’t macabre or fearsome. Death presented itself mildly, without horror. A cursory examination did not even show any overt signs of violence. A small trickle of blood from the left ear ended in a coagulated puddle on the floor. That was all.
“That’s exactly how I found him,” repeated the concierge in a voice still a bit shrill with excitement. “That was after your, if I may say so, unusual phone call.”
DeKok nodded.
“You may say so,” he answered amiably. “Please tell me you didn’t touch anything.”
The concierge shook his head vehemently.
“No, no, Inspector. I didn’t touch a thing. Nothing. Well, of course, except the door. But that was hard to avoid. I had to do that. But I didn’t go any farther than the door. First I knocked several times. Only after I didn’t get an answer did I open the door.”
“And?”
“That’s when I found him.”
“Dead?”
The concierge looked at DeKok with wide-open, scared eyes. He pointed at the floor, his hand shaking.
“Exactly as he is now.” His large Adam’s apple bobbed up and down and his fingers worried nervously with the buttons of his jacket. “He, eh, he is really dead, isn’t he?”
DeKok pursed his lips and nodded.
“He’s dead now.”
The concierge swallowed quickly.
“You mean he was still alive earlier?”
“You didn’t touch the corpse, I mean, you didn’t check to see whether he was indeed dead? Did you feel his pulse or check his breathing?”
“No.”
DeKok smiled at the subdued face of the concierge. He placed a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder.
“He couldn’t have been saved anyway,” he said soothingly. “Please don’t let it bother you, there was nothing you could have done.” He gave the man an encouraging smile. “One more thing. Was the room locked when you got here?”
“No.” The concierge thought about it. “No, the door wasn’t locked. I could just push it open.”
Dekok and the Dead Harlequin Page 2
