Vledder looked confused.
“He consented?”
“Yes.”
Vledder stood up from his chair. His face was colored and there was again the mocking grin.
“You believe her?” His voice was hard and sarcastic. “You believe a grown man would voluntarily allow himself to be cuffed to a pipe?”
The grey sleuth interrupted him sternly.
“You asked me the same question earlier,” he said in a censuring voice. “And again my answer must be the same. I have no evidence to the contrary. I cannot prove otherwise. And as long as I’m not able to do that, I have to take into account—”
A loud, insistent banging on the door of the detective room interrupted DeKok. Both inspectors turned to look at the door.
“Come in,” yelled Vledder across the empty room.
The door opened and a tall, heavily built man in black leather motorcycle apparel appeared in the door opening. He approached, a helmet under his right arm. The sound of his heavy boots reverberated.
“Is she here?” he asked without any preliminaries.
Leaning back in his chair, DeKok looked up. There was an amused smile on his face.
“If you tell me first who you are,” he said brightly, “and if you then explain who she is, we could begin an informed conversation.”
The young man looked sheepish.
“They said Toni was here.”
DeKok stared pensively at the man in leather. The man’s face looked familiar. He wondered when and where he had met him.
“Who told you we had a Toni here?”
“Her neighbor. He said a guy was found dead at her place and the police had dragged her away.”
“Well I accompanied someone here, but there is no question of having dragged anyone.”
“So she’s here?”
“Who?”
“Toni.”
“Possibly. Who are you and why are you interested?”
“I’m her brother.”
“But you still haven’t told me your name. Why don’t you sit down, Mr., eh?”
The man took the chair in front of DeKok’s desk and sat down.
“I’m no mister. My name is Marius, Marius Graaf. Toni, Antoinette, is my sister.”
“Aha, things are becoming clearer.”
“So she is here?”
“Yes. Why did you go to her place?”
Marius placed his helmet on the floor.
“Just to visit.”
“When was your last visit?”
“About a week ago, I think.”
“So the young man wasn’t there at that time?”
Marius Graaf looked up.
“What young man? I don’t know about any young man.”
“Look. One of the neighbors found a man dead in her room.”
Marius spread both hands.
“I never knew she had a guy. It’s nothing like Toni. She’s a bit of a loner, if you know what I mean. She was going steady with someone a long time ago, but it didn’t work out. I don’t know why. Since then she hasn’t looked twice at a man.”
DeKok nodded soothingly.
“Where did she get the handcuffs?”
Marius lowered the zipper of his jacket. It was an obvious stalling ploy.
“What handcuffs?” he asked uncertainly.
“The ones Antionette used to chain her guy to the central heating.”
Graaf hesitated a moment.
“I…I gave them to her.”
DeKok gave him a long look.
“How did you get them?”
Marius turned around and pointed at a steel desk farther down the room.
“A few months ago, I was here for questioning. It was a waste of time—I had nothing to do with the crime. The desk drawer was open. I saw the handcuffs and key. When the cop left for a moment, I took them.”
“Theft?”
Marius Graaf shrugged nonchalantly.
“Maybe I wanted to deliver a message. Anyway, you’ve got them back now, don’t you?”
DeKok tabled the subject.
“Why did Antionette need handcuffs?”
“She didn’t need them.”
“Why did you give them to her?”
“I asked her to keep them for me.”
“You could not keep them yourself?”
Marius grinned.
“You people have a habit of searching my place from time to time. It wouldn’t be cool for me to have a cop’s handcuffs in my possession.”
DeKok took another long look at Marius Graaf. He realized why the face was familiar. Apparently Graaf kept the attention of a number of his fellow inspectors. Personally he had never had any contact with him.
“Does it seem odd to you for your sister to chain a man to her radiator?”
“What’s so odd? You can expect anything from a woman.”
“From Antoinette, too?”
Graaf gestured vehemently.
“How should I know,” he said emotionally. “Perhaps she was in love with him and didn’t want him to get away.” He looked at the inspector. “That’s possible, isn’t it?”
DeKok nodded.
“Maybe so,” he agreed evenly.
Marius Graaf leaned down to pick up his helmet and stood up.
“I just wanted to know if you’re keeping her. Maybe I can arrange something for her, you know, a lawyer.”
DeKok shook his head.
“We’re not keeping her.”
“So she has nothing to do with the murder?”
DeKok looked up.
“Who said anything about a murder?”
Marius grinned, a bit embarrassed.
“Somebody shot the guy through the head.”
“Who says so?”
Marius hesitated.
He swallowed hard.
“The, eh, the neighbor. Can I take her? I mean, may I take Toni with me?”
DeKok rubbed the corners of his eyes. It was a tired gesture.
“Tomorrow. We must first consult the judge-
advocate.”
As Marius Graaf walked out of the detective room, DeKok looked at him with mixed feelings. It was the second trying, unsatisfactory interrogation of the evening. He turned to Vledder, who had been making copious notes on his computer during the conversation.
“Take her to a cell and make sure she gets a good bed.”
The phone on DeKok’s desk rang.
Vledder reached over and lifted the receiver. He listened without a word and then replaced it.
DeKok looked a question. Vledder did not look at him, but made some notes.
“What’s going on?” urged DeKok.
“Lijnbaansgracht Station. Manfred Nettelhorst has just reported a crime.”
“What sort of crime?”
“Robbery. Last night a masked man broke into Arti et Amicitiae and escaped with a silver ewer.”
DeKok closed his eyes briefly.
“The Paulus van Vianen?”
Vledder nodded.
“Estimated value, a million and a half.”
5
It was well past nine o’clock the next morning when DeKok descended from the streetcar on Central Station Square. Surrounded by crowds of rushed commuters from the railroad station, he ambled past the Victoria Hotel toward the wide sidewalks of the Damrak at a leisurely pace. Although some hasty people actually bumped him, he made no attempt to increase his speed. He was facing a full day of grim responsibility. Why hurry?
To the right, in a sunny shop window, a tall man with a long, flowing beard, a bishop’s miter on his head, and a long, flowing red robe shifted his gold shepherd’s crook from one hand to the other. DeKok smiled to himself as he thought about St. Nicholas and Father Christmas, two greybeards who brought happiness and light in the dark days of winter.
The Dutch do not exchange presents on Christmas Day. Instead, they celebrate the Feast of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of children. On the evening of December 4,
&
nbsp; excited children all over the Netherlands fill wooden or everyday shoes with cookies and carrots, placing them on the family hearth. St. Nicholas rides across the rooftops on a white stallion and leaves presents in the shoes. He and his steed eat the treats the children have left for them. Later, St. Nicholas leaves a basket or bag on the doorstep of each household. The basket contains presents for everybody in the family.
Christmas in the Netherlands is a religious holiday. On Christmas Eve, most people go to midnight church services, followed by Christmas breakfast. On Christmas Day, families get together for a traditional meal. The day after Christmas is devoted to visiting. Families visit elder relatives and extended family members to exchange small gifts.
DeKok crossed the Damrak and entered Old Bridge Alley, savoring his nostalgia. He turned the corner onto Warmoes Street. Softly whistling a Christmas carol, he entered the station house. He greeted the watch commander and climbed the stairs to the next floor. He entered the detective room and yelled a cheery “Good morning” to the room at large.
Vledder was already behind his desk, plugging away at his computer. DeKok hung up his coat and hat, and strode toward Vledder’s desk.
“You look busy,” he remarked.
Vledder took his hands off the keyboard and looked up.
“I’ve no choice,” he said somberly. “The commissaris was waiting for me this morning. He looked like he had been up all night. He had a sour face to match his mood. He found our report about the murder too brief and growled about our leaving Arti et Amicitiae ‘prematurely.’ He also let me know we are not justified in setting Antoinette free.”
DeKok looked surprised.
“Why not?”
Vledder pushed away the keyboard.
“He believes she’s an accomplice.”
DeKok grinned.
“How does he figure that?”
Vledder shrugged.
“She facilitated the murder by chaining Robert to the radiator. She set up an execution.”
“What?”
Vledder made a helpless gesture.
“Yes, according to the commissaris, she set him up. Antoinette arranged to render the victim helpless and defenseless for the murderer she knew would come.”
Flabbergasted, DeKok shook his head.
“What complete nonsense. Besides sheer speculation, what’s the basis for his theory? The man is cracked.”
Vledder scratched an ear.
“You better tell him yourself. I’d just as soon not talk to him anymore today. His eyes burned through me until I felt reduced to ash.”
DeKok sank down in the chair behind his desk. He felt a rage building up within him. He knew he had to be careful. Like most Dutchmen, he was usually placid. He could, however, be provoked into a berserker rage. If he were to confront the commissaris in his present state of mind, he would lose control. DeKok knew very well the root of Commissaris Buitendam’s anger. The commissaris took the robbery at Arti et Amicitiae as a personal affront. He had promised Nettelhorst there would be adequate protection. It reflected on his ability to keep his word.
DeKok stood up. He regained his equilibrium and felt able to confront Buitendam. With a renewed twinkle in his eyes, he turned to Vledder and stretched his back.
“Keeping your sound advice always in mind,” he said, “I can now confront Commissaris Buitendam in a mild manner. I will tell myself the commissaris must be indulged…Abundant dulcibus vitiis.”
Vledder looked suspicious.
“What does that mean?”
DeKok grinned.
“He’s rich in friendly failings.”
With a smile on his face, DeKok turned and walked toward the door in his typical waddling gait.
Commissaris Buitendam looked displeased when he saw DeKok. With a slender hand he motioned toward a squat man seated on a chair next to his desk.
“Inspector DeKok,” he said severely, “allow me to present my friend, Mr. Manfred Nettelhorst.”
The grey sleuth bowed stiffly. He was not pleased with Nettelhorst’s presence in the office. It robbed him of the chance to openly discuss Antoinette Graaf’s release.
“I, ahem, I was able to observe Mr. Nettelhorst last night,” he began carefully. “It was at Arti et Amicitiae during a short, I may say, explosive speech aimed at a confused elderly lady.”
The commissaris glanced at Nettelhorst, then at DeKok, and back again.
“You gentlemen have already met?” His voice seemed unsure.
Nettelhorst nodded slowly.
“I saw Inspector DeKok last night,” he said in a condescending tone. “He was accompanied by a young man, perhaps a colleague. Much to my surprise, the inspector seemed captivated by my Monet.”
The commissaris coughed discreetly to regain their attention. He addressed DeKok.
“I’ve tried to explain to Mr. Nettelhorst why you and Vledder abandoned the surveillance of his collection. I refer to the report of a murder on Beuning Street of a young man we have not yet identified.”
DeKok raised his chin.
“Perhaps Vledder and I would have left, even without the report of the murder.”
Commissaris Buitendam seemed confused. For a few seconds he literally gaped at DeKok.
“I don’t understand what you are telling us.”
DeKok gestured in the direction of Nettelhorst.
“We witnessed this gentleman raging at a fragile old lady in a denigrating manner. She only wanted to see one of the objects at a closer range. His invective inspired a strong desire to leave.”
Nettelhorst’s face became deep red.
“You saw for yourself,” he yelled, uncontrolled. “You were there. That repulsive harpy took a precious antique off its pedestal.”
DeKok shrugged.
“So?”
Nettelhorst shook with anger.
“So?” he repeated enraged. “So she touched it with her filthy hands. An art exhibit is no flea market!”
DeKok smiled.
“I remember you making the same observations yesterday.”
Nettelhorst gesticulated wildly.
“She had to keep her hands off. That’s all. What’s been in somebody else’s hands, I no longer want.” He swallowed. “It is contaminated—”
“No longer unblemished,” completed DeKok.
Nettelhorst balled his fists until the knuckles showed white.
“Who do you think you are? You…you,” he stammered, “don’t understand anything.”
DeKok nodded resignedly.
“I must honestly tell you,” he said with mock amiability, “it is extremely difficult to put myself in your place. Perhaps my understanding of the thought processes of, eh, a dedicated gatherer of unblemished beauty is limited.” He smiled winningly. “Therefore I will not use your conduct of last night as an excuse for having left. Now that I think about it, the murder seems a more acceptable excuse.”
Nettelhorst raised both arms in the air.
“No. You should have stayed. You left the job, the assignment you received from your superiors. We can certainly assume your presence and that of your colleague would have prevented the robbery.”
DeKok snorted. His antipathy toward the man grew.
“In my opinion, the value of a human life far exceeds the value of an art collection, no matter how beautiful or impressive.”
Nettelhorst became more and more agitated. He came half out of the chair and yelled.
“Human life?” he roared with contempt in his voice. “In comparison to a work of art, what is one human life? Nothing, absolutely nothing!”
His voice became more conciliatory.
“In a moment of divine inspiration, an artist creates a masterwork. Perhaps he creates only one in his lifetime. A true masterwork is the apex of an artist’s achievement forever captured in a medium. Perhaps it is in stone or metal. Or it may be immortalized on a panel or canvas. It defies the ages.” He grimaced, became more strident. “How many billions of people have
lived and died through the ages? What do they leave? Bones and offal, barely distinguishable from animal waste?”
The grey sleuth looked at the squat man as if he were viewing a particularly repulsive insect. In his mind’s eye, Nettelhorst’s face was satanic.
“I don’t think it serves any purpose to continue this discussion. It would compel me to say something unpleasant.” DeKok turned away from the man and addressed the commissaris. “May I have a moment regarding Antoinette Graff’s release?”
“Certainly.”
“From Vledder I understand that you suspect her of complicity.”
“I do, yes.”
DeKok smiled.
“I would not like to go that far. I think the term accomplice is bit far-fetched. We have nothing to indicate a relationship between her and the perpetrator.”
“You can also not prove that the relationship does not exist, particularly without the identity of the victim. Therefore I will advise the judge-advocate to keep her in custody for the time being.”
“Let me make sure I understand. You want to keep her in custody not because you have reasonable suspicion of her guilt, but because you do not have proof of her innocence?”
“Yes.”
“But she does not have to prove her innocence. We have to prove her guilt. By that reasoning we might as well lock up the entire population of Amsterdam. I’m sure the majority will be innocent, but they probably can’t prove it, not according to this twisted reasoning.”
“DeKok, my decision stands.”
Nettelhorst laughed.
“Instead of worrying about an ordinary murder, you’d be well advised to use your time and energy to recover my valuable object.”
That remark nearly drove DeKok over the edge of his carefully husbanded equanimity. He looked at Nettelhorst with contempt and then turned back to the commissaris.
“I hope,” he said hoarsely, “in the future you’ll be more careful in your choice of friends.”
It took a while, several long seconds. All the color drained from Buitendam’s face. He rose behind his desk. With a gesture of barely controlled outrage, he pointed at the door.
“OUT!”
DeKok left.
6
When DeKok reentered the large detective room, his face was grim. Vledder watched him carefully as he walked toward his desk and sat down behind it.
DeKok and the Dead Lovers Page 4
