“Very good, Dick,” praised DeKok.
The praise inspired Vledder.
“The motive is not related to either Stappert, or Bavel. It relates to the two, as a couple, a unit.” His face became serious. “The boardinghouse owner, Mrs. Lyons, would then be our prime suspect. Or maybe,” he added thoughtfully, “we need to look at the other boarders. This seems like a priority, before we investigate further.”
DeKok did not react. He had heard Vledder. Aside from DeKok’s usual skepticism, doubt was eating away at him. He convinced himself the answer was subtle. The reality of these crimes was somehow convoluted. He couldn’t quite get to the missing elements.
Fatigue set in. DeKok tried to shake it off, rubbing his eyes. It had been a late night, the night before. It was too late to hope for a normal night’s sleep. When he finally found his bed, he was unable to fall asleep. His thoughts persisted, swirling in his mind. He had so many questions and not enough answers. No answers, as a matter of fact. Once his mind became clouded and lethargic he still couldn’t physically relax. Finally he arose and took a cold shower. Exhaustion won and his mind remained as slow and listless as his body.
Even now, he was still in a sort of stupor. He had trouble concentrating—wished he could just sink back in his chair and fall asleep and dream. How he longed to be in a harmonious dream world, populated by peaceful, happy people.
Vledder interrupted his escape.
“Do we have a list of names from the boardinghouse?”
DeKok looked at him through half-closed eyes.
“What?”
Vledder made an impatient gesture.
“With the personal information on Mrs. Lyons’ boarders, we can screen them for criminal records.”
“Well,” said DeKok, irked, “can’t you start with the data you have and your computer? I don’t have the names or anything. You were taking everything down in your notebook.”
“Of course,” said Vledder, sheepishly, “I just …”
He halted. There was a loud banging on the door to the detective room. Through the frosted glass they could see the outline of a person in some sort of wide cape.
“Come in,” yelled Vledder across the nearly deserted room.
It took a while before the door finally opened slowly. A heavy set man appeared in the door opening. With a theatrical gesture he swung his cape over one shoulder and approached at a slow pace, a slight smile on his face.
DeKok noticed the slow pace, the perceptible hesitation of the left leg. Slowly his gaze traveled upward to the face. He estimated the man to be in his late forties. He had a round, fleshy face with red, broken veins under the skin of the cheeks, flanking a wide, full moustache. Long, graying hair came down in waves to his shoulders.
DeKok closed his eyes momentarily, as if to call up a mental picture. Something about the man was familiar. He had seen the visitor somewhere, but could not place him, not yet. While he searched his memory, he stood up and pushed a chair closer to the desk. With a polite gesture he invited the man to sit down.
“My name is DeKok,” he said in a friendly tone of voice, “DeKok with kay-oh-kay.” He pointed at Vledder. “And this is Vledder, my partner, and hope for the future.”
The visitor smiled and unhooked his cape.
“My name is Alex Waardenburg.” He paused, as if for effect. “Do you know me?”
DeKok reseated himself and shook his head.
“You seem familiar,” he said hesitatingly. “I have, I think, seen you somewhere, but …”
Waardenburg waved the rest of the sentence away.
“For years now,” he said, in a pleasant base voice, “I’ve been the second violinist of the Municipal Symphonic Orchestra. Since we give a number of performances on television, lots of people see my face. Some have that sense of recognition.” He added, trying too hard to appear nonchalant, “That’s why I asked, you see.”
DeKok smiled politely.
“How may we be of service?”
Alex Waardenburg raised his left hand in a gesture as if he were gripping the neck of a violin.
“I’m not just the second fiddle of the orchestra,” he said, “I’m also a musical pedagogue.”
DeKok smiled, Mostly, with his eyes.
“You’re a music teacher?”
Mr. Waardenburg pursed his lips.
“Music teacher.” He seemed to taste the word on his tongue. “It sounds banal, almost vulgar. Besides teaching is not my primary or my secondary living. The income, such as it is, means nothing. Fortunately, I’m financially independent.” He let out a jolly laugh. “My great-grandfather had a knack for market timing; he made a fortune buying and selling stocks.” His tone changed again. “I help young people along … strictly for my own satisfaction. I get a great deal of satisfaction watching amateurs develop and mature in their musical ambitions. Yes,” he repeated, “I derive a great deal of pleasure from my contributions.”
DeKok nodded.
“I can understand that. Talent is rare, and promising musicians deserve nurturing. He paused for a moment and looked sharply at Waardenburg, “Surely you didn’t come here to discuss the merits of advancing musical careers.”
The visitor’s face fell.
“I … eh, … I heard,” he began softly, “you found a body on Emperor’s Canal. It was near my house.”
“That is the location, right.”
Waardenburg swallowed hard.
“I came to ask if whether you need me to view the remains. I think I can identify the victim.”
DeKok narrowed his eyes.
“What makes you think so?”
Waardenburg hesitated for a moment.
“It’s all a bit confusing. Perhaps I should tell you from the beginning.”
DeKok nodded thoughtfully.
“Please continue, if you wish.”
Waardenburg settled in his chair.
“About a year ago a young man came to my house and asked me to teach him. He was different from the usual type of young person who approaches me. He was poorly dressed, unkempt, and much older. He was thin. He appeared to be about twenty-five years old. Frankly I did not feel inclined to take him on. Although I accept a few older students, if one wants to get anywhere in the music world, one must begin very young. Besides this fellow did not play a single instrument. He could not read, nor write, music. In fact he seemed a hopeless case and—”
DeKok interrupted.
“But you did take him on as a student?”
The visitor nodded.
“I’ve wondered about that myself. He was so enthusiastic and determined to learn. It became very apparent, even during that first interview. It was a wonder to behold how he literally absorbed anything to do with music … it was as if he had thirsted for many years and finally had an opportunity to drink his fill.”
“And he made progress?”
“Certainly. He really started to get the hang of writing music, reading it, too.”
“How often did you work with him?”
“Daily, except on the weekends and when I performed with the orchestra.”
“Did you have a fixed appointment?”
“He always came for lessons at night, from ten to eleven. Sometimes we ran over for a half hour, or so.”
DeKok nodded his understanding.
“Did you have a performance last night?”
“No.”
“So, he should have been there at ten o’clock last night?”
“Yes.”
DeKok gave him a searching look.
“But he didn’t show?”
“No.”
“Didn’t you think that was strange?”
The musical pedagogue shook his head.
“It is infrequent, but students have failed to show without an explanation.”
DeKok’s face became a steel mask. He leaned forward.
“But Mr. Stappert wasn’t the type to skip a lesson, Mr. Waardenburg.” His voice was severe, almost accusing
. “Jean-Paul Stappert wouldn’t willingly miss a thing. Not a minute. How did you put that again? Oh yes: ‘It was a wonder to behold how he literally absorbed anything to do with music … it was as if he had thirsted for many years and finally had an opportunity to drink his fill.’”
Alex Waardenburg spread two mighty arms in a gesture of surrender.
“Jean-Paul,” he cried out dramatically, “is twenty-five years old. He’s an adult with his own life. He had the strength of character to fight his way out of drug addiction. Should I be worried, or find it strange, that a man like that doesn’t show up for a music lesson?”
DeKok gave him a long, searching look.
“How close were you to him?”
“I don’t know what you mean by that question?”
“Are you homosexual?”
“I have a wife and a twenty-seven year old son.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Did you or did you not have a homosexual relationship with Jean-Paul?”
“No … I was his music teacher … that’s all.”
“Did Jean-Paul ever miss a lesson before last night?”
“No.”
“And yet, when he failed to show, you didn’t find it odd?”
Alex Waardenburg jumped up from his chair.
“I didn’t think it odd,” he yelled. “There was nothing strange about it.” He paused, dropped his chin and sighed. “But I felt fear.”
“Why?”
“I was afraid something had happened to him.”
“Why?”
Waardenburg sat down again and covered his face with his hands. He did not say anything.
DeKok leaned closer.
“Why were you afraid something might have happened to him?”
The man took his hands away from his face.
“Jean-Paul,” he said softly, “was a special young man. I have never before encountered such a personality. He had a certain aura about him. Sometimes I would catch myself answering questions he had not yet asked, but that he had already formed in his mind. It’s difficult to explain, but it was a strange experience. Sometimes I knew what he thought without a word passing between us.” He sighed deeply. “Last night I thought that Jean-Paul was approaching his own death.”
DeKok swallowed.
“And you did nothing?”
Alex Waardenburg closed both eyes tightly. Clearly the old sleuth’s question tormented him.
“What could I have done?” It was a cry of despair. “There was nothing concrete, but I sensed his fear.”
“He was afraid of death?”
“Yes.”
“And he was on his way to your place?”
Alex Waardenburg looked dumbfounded and bewildered.
“It wasn’t me. No. It wasn’t me. I had nothing to do with his death.”
“Did anyone imply you were involved in any way?”
The man grinned sheepishly.
“You … eh, you could think that … because … because Jean-Paul was found dead so close to my house and I sensed his death.” He grinned vacantly. A stupefied look took over his intelligent face. “But,” he continued, “it was all coincidence, logistics. Death obeys its own laws.” He spread two shaking hands in front of him and stared at them intently. “Jean-Paul,” he whispered, “had no reason to be afraid of me, or my house. On the contrary I felt nothing in my heart but friendship and admiration for him.”
DeKok scratched the back of his neck. He was a bit at a loss with the eccentric musician. He alternated between self-accusatory and vague. DeKok and Vledder knew people falsely confessed (some, regularly) to attract attention. After his ramblings he leaned back in his chair.
“When did you know Jean-Paul was dead?”
Waardenburg pressed his hands against his temples.
“After ten o’clock,” he said thoughtfully, “after ten o’clock I no longer felt his presence. That worried me … it worried me more then when I still felt something.”
“But you stayed at home?”
“By quarter past ten Jean-Paul had not shown up, I left the house to go looking for him.”
“Where did you go?”
“I headed for his rooming house on Prince Henry Quay.”
With a sudden movement DeKok pressed himself upright in his chair.
“And?”
Alex Waardenburg shook his head. His eyes were big and his face was ashen.
“Jean-Paul wasn’t there. There was another dead young man in his chair.”
5
After Alex Waardenburg had left, Vledder jumped up from his chair. There were red spots on his cheeks. With a wild gesture he threw both arms up in the air.
“Nonsense,” he yelled agitatedly, “pure nonsense.”
DeKok, absent-mindedly, looked up.
“What?”
Vledder came closer to the desk.
“He kept on yakking about impulses, auras. It was pure New Age mumbo jumbo. How could Jean-Paul know he was about to die? How could he possibly know some weirdo was planning to strangle him? If that wasn’t strange enough the crackpot ‘felt’ Jean-Paul knew his death was imminent. What sort of connection is he imagining? Other than a radio or cell phone—what?”
Vledder sounded exasperated, as well as mocking. DeKok laughed.
“They must have had something.”
Vledder got excited all over again.
“I sat there listening and I couldn’t believe my ears.”
“Why is that?”
Vledder gesticulated wildly.
“You swallowed it whole! You treated him like a believable witness.” He pulled a chair nearby and straddled it backward. “Do you remember what we’re investigating, DeKok? Do you? We are supposed to be investigating the facts surrounding a straightforward murder—two murders. This double murder will be solved by old-fashioned police work and forensic applications. What we have here is some abstract, nebulous mess about people who feel people feeling death overtake them.”
DeKok smiled.
“You may be judging me too hastily. We have solved worse than this. No matter what, I’ll never set aside the importance of classical investigative techniques. But, tell me, what should I have done? Should I have told Waardenburg right from the start not to burden me with his nonsense? That would be an arrogant approach. We need to know how he thinks. In addition, I managed to pluck out some useful tidbits of information.”
Vledder sighed.
“Sorry. It was torment listening to the two of you. I kept squelching an almost irresistible impulse to interrupt.”
DeKok winked slowly.
“I’m glad you decided not to interrupt. Had you broken in he might have been less candid. From any angle Alex Waardenburg is plenty strange. That said I believe he had a particularly close relationship with Jean-Paul Stappert. Remember when he said sometimes he ‘would catch himself answering questions his student had not yet asked?’ Whether or not we accept it as truth, it has an eerie quality.”
“More so, if true,” scoffed Vledder.
DeKok ignored the remark.
“But there were other remarkable parts to his story. When Jean-Paul had not shown up by quarter past ten, the feelings, or lack of them, drove Waardenburg to the rooming house. There he found the corpse of Erik Bavel.” DeKok raised an index finger into the air. “That’s what Waardenburg told us … what he wants us to believe.”
Vledder looked nonplussed.
“But he came here of his own accord. We didn’t summon him.”
DeKok changed the direction of his index finger and pointed it at Vledder.
“Here’s the challenge. You don’t believe in impulses, auras, or telepathy. Well, if it was not one of these, why would Waardenburg go to the rooming house? Was he worried about Jean-Paul’s absence, or did he have other motives?”
Vledder nodded agreement.
“Other motives,” he said decisively.
“All right … what motives?”
Vledder shrugged.
DeKok looked thoughtfully at his young colleague.
“If your theory is correct the murderer had some sort of relationship with both victims. In that case Alex Waardenburg becomes our prime suspect.”
Vledder smiled.
“You’ll see! I’m right this time.”
DeKok gave him an admiring look.
“It’s about time.” He changed his tone. “I’ll say this for you, sometimes you have glimmers of real intelligence.”
The young inspector stood up and uttered some barely audible grunts. DeKok laughed heartily. Sometimes he felt like stimulating the thinking process of his former student with a bit of derision. It was never malicious, never insulting. He felt too strong a bond with his long-time partner for that. They had solved numerous cases together, sometimes in dangerous situations. A bond had grown between him and Vledder, which was stronger than the usual partnership between cops.
DeKok’s phone rang. He reached for it, but Vledder had already picked it up. Vledder listened in silence. After a few seconds he covered the mouth piece. He looked at DeKok.
“Mrs. Bavel is downstairs. According to the desk sergeant, she knows all about her son’s death. She wants to talk to you.”
DeKok nodded.
“Send her up.”
DeKok approached her slowly, almost languidly, with drooping shoulders. His head was bent to one side and there was a sad expression on his face. His demeanor was a symbol, an expression of sorrow and understanding. It was genuine, not a practiced act for the occasion. He felt real empathy with the grieving woman. Hesitatingly he took her hand.
“Please accept my condolences,” he said gravely, “for the loss of your son, Erik.”
He led her to the chair next to his desk.
“As I understand it, you suffered another loss, not too long ago.”
Mrs. Bavel bowed her head.
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 4
