DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat
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Authors: Albert Cornelis Baantjer
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Contents
Peter Geffel, commonly known as “Cunning Pete” had to come to a bad end. Even his own mother had predicted that many times. He died at a youthful age. It was a quick and violent death.
It happened during the winter in the deserted sand dunes along the coast near Seadike. The sand dunes, in addition to the many dikes, protect the low countries of the Netherlands from flooding. In times gone by it used to be the
only
protection for a country that is largely below sea level. Because of their importance to the ecology, to protect the sparse vegetation and the overall security of the nation, access is restricted in many places and one is never allowed to stray from the established paths. In summer the paths are crowded with people going to the beach, but in winter the landscape is desolate and resembles a desert.
And there Pete Geffel was found by a lonely jogger. On the path, just before it split into two directions. Cunning Pete was prone, both arms outstretched, the long, slender fingers half buried in the loose sand and a narrow dagger in his back. The Seadike police, a total force of less than twenty officers, immediately cordoned off the scene of the crime and with assistance from the State Police carefully went over the ground.
The result was far from hopeful. There were no clear signs. Dogs, brought in for the purpose of sniffing out any possible scents, were no help. Bred and trained primarily for city situations in the most densely populated country in the world, some were too excited by the traces of rabbits all around and one remained at the fork in the path, loudly barking at a number of tire tracks. About three hundred yards down the path was a well-kept paved road that led to the rest of the Netherlands and from there to more than 300 million Dutch, Belgians, Germans, French, Italians and other members of the EEC.
The chief of the Seadike police, close to retirement, decided after a few hours that there were no obvious clues, that the list of suspects could very well include any of the millions of Europeans and that there was no credit to be gained for his department in the case of the murdered Pete Geffel. He withdrew to his headquarters, a comfortable bungalow near the beach, and issued an All Points Bulletin. Then he had another cup of coffee and decided to wait for results.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Hands deep in his trouser pockets and with a face like a thundercloud, Detective-Inspector DeKok of the Amsterdam Municipal Police (Homicide) paced up and down the large, cheerless detective room in the old, renowned police station at 48 Warmoes Street.
The building had been a police station as long as anybody could remember. There were those who speculated that it could have served as such for Rembrandt's “Nightwatch”. The “Nightwatch”, Rembrandt's largest and possibly most famous painting, was completed in 1642. The original title of the painting was “The Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq”. Captain Cocq was the head of the local constabulary at the time. More than 300 years ago, his men roamed the same streets, alleys and canals that were currently patrolled by the men and women of the Warmoes Street Station. Even then the area was known as a “Red Light District”.
The current building was most certainly old and its interior could have served as a set for “Hill Street Blues”. Some did indeed refer to it as the Dutch Hill Street. Among police officers, it was generally known as the busiest police station in Europe, situated as it was on the edge of Amsterdam's Red Light District and hemmed in by the harbor and a polyglot population encompassing all strata of society, from aristocrats to day-laborers and from drug dealers to respectable business people. A hundred or more languages could be heard in the Quarter, churches could be found cheek-to-jowl with brothels and the bars never closed.
As he paced up and down, DeKok reflected on the many hours he had spent this way. He had been on the force for more than twenty years and the last fifteen as a plain-clothed policeman. Sometimes he thought with fondness of his early days as a street cop, a constable in uniform, whose only responsibility was to be turned out neatly and on time. To patrol the assigned beat and to represent the Law. Reports were seldom made in those days. The cop on the beat administered justice, settled disputes and watched over his neighborhood with a fatherly indulgence. In many ways it had been a good life. There were few violent crimes. Amsterdam did not even have a specific Homicide department in those days. Murders were so rare.
Now it was different. As everywhere else in the world, crime had increased in Amsterdam as well. And the crimes had become more violent. Gone were the “good old days”. Gone forever. Police work had become more technical, more detail-oriented. It seemed to DeKok that reports and red tape were becoming increasingly more important than keeping the peace, more significant than tangible results. It went against his nature. DeKok was an old-fashioned cop, a “hands-on” policeman.
He knew there was an assortment of files in the drawer of his desk. Files from cases that should get his attention, that needed to be addressed. But DeKok ignored them. He could not be bothered with routine just now, or for the past several days, for that matter. A strange unrest plagued him. It was as if a disturbing, outside influence, like static on the radio, interfered with the sensitive nerve endings in his brain creating a sensation of unrest, of expectation. Subconsciously he was waiting for something grand, something wild, something unusual, something that would require all his knowledge and ingenuity. It made him restless and it made him irritable. That is why he cursed. He cursed everything: the wet snow that covered the streets like a dirty, cold, sticky porridge, the Commissaris,
*
his immediate boss, because he had urged DeKok several times to complete his ongoing cases and he cursed his invaluable assistant, Vledder, because there was nothing but dregs left in the coffee pot.
Dick Vledder allowed his fingers to rest lightly on the keys of his computer terminal and looked at DeKok with a worried face. Not for the first time he reflected on the similarity between the names of DeKok and that of Captain Cocq and thought about how well DeKok would have fitted in that time. He noticed the discontent in his partner, mentor and friend and he knew that the curses were not aimed at him, or anybody, or anything in particular. They were used as a release. At times, DeKok seemed to have an uncanny feeling for what was going to happen. A sort of precognition. He knew
something
was about to happen, he just did not know
what
was going to happen.
Most of the time DeKok was an amiable person with an even, kind disposition. But Vledder had seen him in this mood before. He had witnessed the dark side of DeKok's character several times. Always it had been a prelude, a prologue to murder, to mystery.
Vledder wondered what sort of difficulties were brewing in the thunderclouds on the horizon of DeKok's premonition. One never knew, with DeKok. He had a way to get involved in the most bizarre and impossible situations, almost in the blinking of an eye. Young Vledder thought about the many cases they had worked on together, the situations in which they had been involved, the characters they had met. He grinned ruefully to himself. Slowly he stood up and walked over to the window. A small measure of DeKok's uneasiness had sparked a similar disquiet in the young Inspector.
Outside, the wet snow kept coming down.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Gus Shenk entered the detective room and distributed copies of a number of telex messages. Although most of the old telex machines had long since been replaced by modern fax machines, almost everybody still stubbornly referred to them as “telexes”.
Gus was a former beat-cop. Once, when pursuing a burglar over the quaint rooftops of Amsterdam, he slipped and fell thirty feet to the ground. It had done something to his back and he was declared to be unfit for active duty. Since that time he had been in charge of communications at Warmoes Street. But it rankled. In his heart he was still a beat-cop, wishing he was back, pounding the pavement along the canals of Amsterdam.
He had been in communications for years and his special interest were the fax messages, or, as Gus too, insisted on calling them, the telexes. The detective branch appreciated Shenk's interest. Because of his long experience in the streets, he was able to separate the really important messages from the merely routine and he often added his own, sometimes sharp, but always knowledgeable notes to the incoming information.
He walked over to DeKok, one leg dragging, and pushed a message form into his hands.
“Hey, DeKok, isn't Pete Geffel an old customer of yours as well? I seem to remember that you once sent him up. Embezzlement, or something like that. At least, that's what I seem to remember.”
DeKok read the telex from Seadike. His eyebrows rippled. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened.
“When did this come in?”
Shenk looked at him in surprise.
“Just now,” he answered, aggrieved, “less than five minutes ago. Surely you don't think I would sit on something like this, do you?”
DeKok produced a smile. It was as if the sun had come through the thunderclouds. He placed a brotherly arm on Shenk's shoulder.
“It was a stupid question, Gus,” he answered pleasantly. “A real stupid question. Of course you didn't sit on it. Especially not a message about Pete Geffel. After all, it's no secret, the whole force knows you always had a weak spot for that guy.”
Gus Shenk shrugged his shoulders reluctantly, as if wanting to deny the statement.
“A weak spot,” he growled, “what do you call a weak spot? In the old days, maybe, when he wasn't even a teenager yet, yes, when his actions were little more than pranks, yes, maybe I had a weak spot for him
then.
I sure liked him,
then.
Although I've had to chase him a number of times.” He paused and smiled at the memory. “Strange really, no matter what he did, I could really never get angry with the kid. I mean, really angry. Of course I pretended. He started to lie the moment I laid hands on him. Goodness, how that boy could lie! It was incredible! You wondered where he got it from. He lied with a straight face, daring you to disbelieve him. As I saw it, it was just a game for him. He just loved to play pranks, to fool people.” He shook his head somberly. “Too bad,” he sighed, “that he later used his talents to make a dishonest living.”
DeKok made a vague gesture.
“Not everybody's like you, Gus. There's plenty of people who don't like being lied to, being made a fool of. I think Pete finally met somebody who didn't take his lies as a joke, a game, but somebody who took revenge.”
Shenk looked at him.
“That must have been it,” he said slowly. “You're right, that must have been it.” He stared at the message in DeKok's hands.
“Dumb kid⦔ He sounded sad. For another moment he stood there, deep in thought. Then he turned abruptly and walked out of the room.