“Three witnesses?”
“Ramon Bavel, his lawyer, and the driver.”
Vledder shook his head in commiseration.
“What a rip off.”
DeKok grinned.
“On the way back he told me that he had kept his word and that we had never left Dutch soil.”
Vledder snorted.
“But by then Ramon was out of reach again.”
“Exactly.”
“So, what are we going to do about Ramon?”
DeKok did not answer at once. He recalled the picture of the young man in the woods.
“Ramon Bavel is an intelligent young man. He and Van Mechelen are a formidable team. If we hope to achieve anything at all, we must have clear, irrefutable, evidence. And as long as we don’t have that …” He did not finish the sentence, but sat down behind his desk and opened a drawer. He took out the tickets they had received from Alex Waardenburg and tossed them over to Vledder.
“I want another thirteen tickets like that,” he said.
“Another thirteen … what for?”
DeKok gave him a friendly grin.
“For a cultural club … music lovers.”
19
A feeling of extreme tension came over DeKok. It slithered surreptitiously to his throat and threatened to close it. Next he felt it in the extremities, tingling like a light electrical charge. He knew he was taking unacceptable risks. If his plan failed, it would have far-reaching consequences for himself, as well as the entire Amsterdam Municipal Police Force. He could almost see the headlines and could hear the angry questions in the Senate.
If he wanted to solve the boardinghouse murders, it had to happen now … and in the manner that he had planned.
It was an all or nothing gamble. The prize was a triple murderer. DeKok’s hope was concentrated on a psychological bomb and the clock was ticking. When he revealed the unimaginable truth, he counted on the perpetrator to betray himself. Surprise was on his side.
He looked at young Vledder. Vledder guessed his strategy, and looked worried behind his desk. The young man was well aware of the risks. DeKok’s attention turned to the two inspectors he had borrowed from another station house. Joop Klaver and Jan Kuiper always worked as a team. They had readily agreed to help Vledder and DeKok.
With a nervous gesture he pushed up the sleeve of his jacket and looked at his watch, comparing it to the clock on the wall. They should be just about here, the members of his culture club—a somewhat mocking name for a segment of Little Lowee’s clientele.
He sighed a deep sigh of relief when at the agreed upon time, a knock on the door announced the arrival of Little Lowee. Within the next ten minutes all had arrived. Little Lowee wore a dark suit with a subdued tie. Everyone looked to be in their Sunday best. A few even wore evening clothes.
Inspector Kuiper sidled up to DeKok. He had recognized most of the visitors.
“What do you want with these Baker Street Irregulars?” he asked in a whisper. “I count four pimps, three retired whores, a call girl, a barkeeper, a fence, and a card shark.”
DeKok smiled but did not answer.
He pulled chairs together and invited them to be seated. Then he bade them welcome and explained their role.
Once DeKok had answered their questions, everyone went downstairs and waited in the lobby of the station house for the taxis. The cabs arrived at the appointed time and the convoy drove off toward the Concert Gebouw.
They alighted from the cars in front of the main entrance. A bit uneasily they took their seats on the last row to either side of the center aisle. Klaver and Kuiper took their positions elsewhere. Their assignments were different.
The members of the Municipal Symphonic Orchestra were already seated on the stage. The concertmaster made a gesture and the oboe blew a clear A. The other musicians tuned their instruments accordingly and for a short time the hall was filled with the individual sounds and some tone ladders of the various instruments as the musicians tested their adjustments.
Red Lena leaned closer to DeKok. The overpowering fragrance of her perfume almost choked him.
“Have they started yet?” she whispered hoarsely.
DeKok shook his head. He realized that some of his guests had never before attended a live concert.
DeKok stretched himself and looked at the stage. In the foreground, the leader of the second violins, Alex Waardenburg, sat placidly with his violin resting on one knee. He leaned forward and carefully adjusted the placement of his music stand. With his bow he flipped a few pages of the music and then flipped them back. It was a quick and practiced gesture that showed great expertise.
The grey sleuth let his eyes wander. The large auditorium was almost completely filled. There were few empty seats. Even the seats on the stage, behind the orchestra were nearly all filled.
On the first row, directly behind the orchestra he discovered Willy Haarveld in a shiny purple sharkskin suit. It was reassuring. Although he had been assured the impresario would attend the performance, it was a relief to notice his presence on the stage.
On stage left, at the grand piano, was the soloist for the evening, Kiliaan Waardenburg. The young man was in tails and looked immaculate. He was obviously tense. His blond hair glistened in the stage lights.
The audience waited for the conductor.
One more time DeKok checked on the members of his culture club. Kuiper’s appellation of them as the Baker Street Irregulars was humorous, but not exactly correct. They looked the part. Only someone who knew their true identity would have found anything odd about the gathering. DeKok smiled to himself. He loved the group who, although living on the edge of society themselves, had immediately agreed to help him this evening in his fight against crime.
He frowned. Perhaps that was a bit too idealistic. Little Lowee wouldn’t be above a little larceny—he could have blackmailed them into cooperating. The diminutive barkeeper wasn’t above street tactics.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. In reality he couldn’t care less as to how Lowee had achieved his goals. They were here, that’s what counted. He hoped with all his heart they would be able to act when the time came.
DeKok glanced aside at Vledder, who was seated next to Little Lowee. The young inspector was perceptibly nervous. Now that the time was near, the entire group showed some signs of nervousness. Even Red Lena, whose sharp tongue was feared by the most reckless criminals in the Quarter, plucked nervously at the buttons of her blouse.
The house lights dimmed, and the conductor descended the staircase. The audience applauded. The members of the orchestra rose. The orchestra sat down as soon as the conductor reached his position behind the podium. The conductor waited for the applause to die down. He tapped his baton on the side of the lectern and the performance commenced.
The audience listened to the first half of the performance in respectful silence. The piano was used as part of the rhythm section. But after the intermission, when Kiliaan Waardenburg became the soloist, DeKok’s little group started to stir. Little Lowee nodded vehemently. The others made various motions of agreement as well. When Kiliaan repeated a theme, Red Lena suddenly stood up. The others followed suit.
DeKok realized he had to take control of the situation immediately. He signaled Vledder. They both left their seats and stood in the aisle. The culture club noisily bunched up behind the two inspectors.
At a slow, but deliberate pace they advanced toward the stage. The group became noisier and some balled fists were waved in the air. The audience noticed the disturbance and became restless. Some of them stood up to better see the commotion in the aisle.
The conductor saw the unrest among his orchestra and suddenly waved his baton in a cutting gesture. The music ebbed away. The noise in the hall increased.
Ever more threatening, the group came closer and Red Lena yelled: “Murderer” The cry was picked up and repeated by the rest of the group. Vledder and DeKok increased their speed and each walked toward one of the s
tairs at either side that led to the stage.
There was pandemonium among the orchestra. This was unthinkable—it wasn’t a rock concert. This was a sacrosanct symphonic performance. Music stands fell to the floor. In disarray the musicians scattered and stumbled as they tried to safeguard their instruments.
Later DeKok would remember what happened after that as a movie in slow motion. He saw the large figure of Alex Waardenburg come at him. His round, fleshy face was pale with rage. His eyes had a murderous gleam.
Out of the corner of his eyes he saw Kiliaan sprint up the stairs in back of the stage … straight into the arms of Inspector Klaver. Alex Waardenburg raised his violin into the air. DeKok saw it coming, but he was momentarily transfixed. The instrument smashed his head. Just before he hit the floor he saw Willy Haarveld, who stood like a purple statue at the back of the stage.
Then everything turned black.
Mrs. DeKok opened the door.
Dick Vledder stood in the front doorway, flanked by Klaver and Kuiper. Vledder carried a heavy fruit basket.
“We came to visit the patient,” he grinned, “Do old sleuths get visiting hours?”
Mrs. DeKok laughed.
“You better not let him hear that. He doesn’t feel ill at all. He’s just angry to have allowed that pansy to hit him with a fiddle. The doctor wants him to rest for at least two weeks, never mind keeping him housebound. He was in the House of Keeping yesterday, interviewing people.”
The Huis van Bewaring, literally the “House of Keeping” is the place where suspects are kept before sentencing. It is like a very liberal jail. People are locked up in regular, though spartan, rooms, not cells. They can order meals sent in and have daily access to visitors. They were treated as suspects, not convicts.
Vledder nodded.
“Doesn’t surprise me,” he said. “I know him.”
The inspectors entered the living room.
DeKok waved cordially from a large easy chair next to the fireplace. On a small table next to him stood a bottle of fine cognac and a number of large snifters. A telephone call from the station house had forewarned him of the visit. He had taken the necessary steps and uncorked a bottle.
Vledder placed he fruit basket at his feet.
“This is from the colleagues. Everyone wishes you a speedy recovery.”
DeKok waved a hand in the air.
“Take it away. That’s for a sick person. And I’m not sick.” It sounded obstreperous.
Vledder shook his head and looked around for a chair to sit on.
“Can’t get our money back. You’re stuck with it,” he said, as he sat down.
DeKok smiled resignedly while he waved the others to chairs.
“All right. Leave it there. I know an old person somewhere who’d be happy to get it. Sit down and I’ll pour.”
With a rich sound the golden liquid filled the glasses. DeKok was a connoisseur of good cognac, a passion he shared with Little Lowee.
Kuiper leaned forward to receive his glass.
“Don’t mind if I do,” he said, “but that’s not why we came. You asked us to help, dragged us to the Concert Gebouw, and caused a big noise. Joop and I want to know what this is all about.” He pointed at Vledder. “That one has told us a few things, but we don’t really understand all the sound and fury.”
DeKok made sure every one had a glass. Then he raised his own glass.
“Proost,” he said, “here’s to crime.”
Mrs. DeKok came in and placed two large platters of delicacies on the sideboard.
“You’re always telling me, Jurriaan,” she chided, “that you should never salute crime … you should toast against it.”
“You’re right,” answered her husband. “Here’s against crime.” And he raised his glass for the second time and then took a sip.
He fell back in his easy chair. He gently rocked the glass in his hand and sniffed the aroma. Then he took another, larger sip and placed the glass on the table next to him.
“This has been,” he began, “the most difficult, frustrating, and weirdest murder case of my career. The main problem was motive. Two young men, recovered addicts, are strangled. Soon to follow is their landlady. She’s a much older woman and, from all accounts, not always so nurturing. There was no common thread between these victims outside of a rather tenuous business relationship. Erik and Jean-Paul were friends, maybe even, confidants—did they have some sort of partnership? In combination with the housekeeper? Or was there an individual motive for each killing? Whatever I tried, nothing fit.”
“You’re talking about the boardinghouse murders,” confirmed Klaver.
“Yes. From the very get go my own perceptions led me astray. Jean-Paul Stappert was musically gifted … maybe a genius, with a head full of melodies. But Jean-Paul Stappert could not write music, not a single note. The melodies were in his head. That’s all he had. To kill Jean-Paul to steal his compositions would be senseless, hardly a motive for murder. When he died his music would die with him.”
“That seems very reasonable,” observed Kuiper. “I don’t see how your thinking was off.”
“It took a long time before I discovered how wrong I was. During a covert search, with an un-named accomplice, I discovered a folder with the title ‘Jean-Paul Stappert’ on it. I found it in Laren … in the desk of Willy Haarveld. The folder was filled with two sheets of graph paper.”
“Graph paper?” asked Klaver. “What sort of graph paper?”
DeKok sighed.
“Large sheets with tiny blue-lined squares on it. Vledder and I had found a pad of the identical paper in Erik Bavel’s room. We took it to the lab, but they could only tell us there were some vague impressions of small lines and dots on the top sheets.”, stated Klaver. “No wonder you said nothing. You didn’t have a search warrant, did you?”
“No,” admitted DeKok, “and I would prefer if you forgot all about that.”
“No problem, go on.”
“It puzzled me why Willy Haarveld kept two sheets of graph paper, filled with little lines and dots. There had to be a meaning behind the seemingly random markings. I also knew through Little Lowee, Jean-Paul had been in contact with the impresario to discuss his melodies,” DeKok took another sip. As strange as it seems it wasn’t until days later I realized the hen scratches on the graph paper were music.”
“You never told me that,” said Vledder.
“Sorry, I thought I had,” said DeKok without remorse, knowing full well he had neglected to tell Vledder because the notion had seemed too outrageous to him at the time.
Vledder raised his eyebrows; he was well aware of DeKok’s almost infallible memory.
“Anyway,” resumed DeKok, “Jean-Paul had actually put those melodies of his down on paper. Since he could not read or write music, he developed a system of his own. He used graph paper, because it was the easiest way to make his notations of dots and little lines. The only limitation was he, alone, could read the music. Without considerable instruction, nobody else would be able to discern his system.”
DeKok paused to take another sip of cognac. Mrs. DeKok handed one of the platters to Vledder, who helped himself to some of the food. Then he passed the platter on to Kuiper. Klaver urged DeKok on.
“Very well,” DeKok resumed his narrative. “After meeting with Willy Haarveld, Jean-Paul knew the self-styled impresario was incapable of deciphering the code. He decided to learn composition, so he could transcribe his melodies in regular music script and thus—”
“He wound up with Alex Waardenburg,” interrupted Vledder.
“Exactly,” agreed DeKok. “Waardenburg was a rich music teacher with only rich students. Whatever his flaws Waardenburg recognized at once he had found a musical genius in Jean-Paul. Let me point out that Alex never intended to kill Jean-Paul. He just wanted the music, the melodies. From the start he raved about the melodies—said they were harmonically perfect and contained refined transpositions. He talked of another Mozart. I was led
astray because he was self-satisfied, not to say self-impressed. His ambition was for his son. Not satisfied with his son’s desire to become a concert pianist, he dreamed of making his Kiliaan into a world-renowned composer, as well as a concert pianist.”
DeKok paused. He silently reviewed the case. The plot of the drama was clear in his head. He couldn’t get over his amazement for taking so long to unravel it.
“Jean-Paul was on fire,” he went on, “he was thrilled to talk about his melodies, to explain his code. Naively he told Waardenburg there were drawers full of his compositions in Erik’s room.”
Vledder snorted.
“He was begging to be killed.”
“Perhaps. But it took an incident … a spark to inflame the tragic proceedings. Jean-Paul told Kiliaan he had contacted Haarveld a second time. This time he’d left a few sheets of manuscripts, those ones on the graph paper.”
“And you found those,” concluded Klaver.
“Kiliaan was enraged. He did not want anyone else to see the sheets. He wrote a threatening letter to Haarveld, warning him to keep his hands off Jean-Paul’s music. He also tried to get Jean-Paul to change his mind—urged him to get the sheets back and break off all contact with Haarveld. At home, in the presence of his domineering, ambitious father, Kiliaan dared not broach the subject. Jean-Paul went to the house on the night of the murder. Kiliaan was waiting for him. On the edge of the canal, between the parked cars, they quarreled. When Jean-Paul refused to retrieve the sheets and sever his relationship with Haarveld, Kiliaan snapped. He gripped Jean-Paul by the throat and strangled him.”
“And nobody saw it?” asked Kuiper.
DeKok shook his head.
“It’s a quiet canal. Most of the houses have been converted to offices. There’s almost no one around after dark. Of course, we asked around, but nobody saw anything.”
“Come on,” urged Vledder, “what else did Kiliaan do?”
“Well, I heard most of this only yesterday, you understand. But according to him, Kiliaan walked around in a daze afterwards. Then he realized what he had done and weighed his chances. That’s when he remembered the wealth of music in Erik’s room.”
DeKok and Murder by Melody Page 15
