DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (19 page)

DeKok laughed heartily.

“You're just upset because she wasn't impressed by you.” He imitated Flossie voice, badly. “Are you another servant of the Law?” he mocked.

Vledder gestured violently.

“Law … justice, what does that child know of either? She's so chuckfull of hate and revenge.”

DeKok shook his head.

“Chockfull of sorrow,” he corrected gently.

Vledder grinned deprecatingly.

“Sorrow!” he jeered. “Did you see her eyes while she was pointing that gun at you? At the slightest opportunity, at the merest excuse, she would have killed you. Believe me. And on what basis? What for? Gossip, that's all. Gossip stories from a bunch of hysterical receptionists, or whatever.” His face was red with indignation. “That's all, just gossip.”

DeKok rubbed his hair.

“Thornbush is dead,” he remarked resignedly. “If we ever find out whether or not he killed Cunning Pete…” He made a dejected gesture. “In any case, we can rule out Florentine La Croix as the possible killer of the Secretary. Of course, we'll go through all the routines, examine the pistol, what have you … But I'm almost positive that she's not responsible for the death of Thornbush.”

Vledder shrugged his shoulders reluctantly.

“I'm sorry that I have to agree with you.” There was regret in his voice. “I don't believe that Flossie killed Thornbush, either.” He sighed deeply. “Too bad really. She would have been such a
fitting
suspect. She had a motive … a pistol … and a black cat.”

With a painful expression DeKok placed his tired feet on the desk. His feet were really tired this time. Again he felt the devilish pinpricks in his calves. The pain should have abated at this stage, because he should have been closer to the solution. Instead, it seemed to have intensified. That could only mean that he was farther from a solution then he had been before. Of all his peculiarities, the feeling in his feet was the most reliable barometer of his progress. But he also hoped that this time, just this once, the feeling was a false alarm. He hoped fervently that he was closer to the end of the case then his feet wanted him to believe. He waved at Vledder who had taken a chair across from him.

“What happened to the money we found under the corpse in the trunk?”

“In the safe at headquarters.”

“Has it been counted?”

“Yes, of course.”

“How much was it?”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars, consisting of various denominations, but mostly American dollars. It took a lot of counting. If B&G's claim is true, we're still missing two million, two hundred and fifty thousand.”

DeKok smiled.

“Plus we're missing the perpetrators.”

Vledder worried for a while with his left thumbnail.

“Don't you think it's strange?” he asked after a while.

DeKok looked at him, not making the connection.

“You mean that the others took off with seventy-five percent of the loot?”

Vledder shook his head.

“No, I mean the seven hundred and fifty thousand underneath the corpse of Thornbush. It immediately raises a question.”

“What question?”

Vledder made an impatient gesture.

“Why did the killer leave the money in the trunk? Nice, easy money, small bills, easy to trade … francs … marks … guilders … dollars, especially dollars. He could have spent it easily, anywhere.” He banged his fist on the desk. “It's crazy. There had to be a reason.”

DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.

“Perhaps,” he opined, “perhaps the killer wasn't interested in the money.”

Vledder stood up, agitated.

“What's the reason for this whole business?”

“Robbery,” answered DeKok laconically.

“Exactly … and why was Cunning Pete killed?”

“Most likely because, driven by the conscience
of
and his love
for
the beautiful Flossie, he wanted to prevent the hold-up.”

Vledder bowed in the direction of his mentor.

“Exactly. That means that whoever organized this party, was after the money. That's all. Even a murder wouldn't stand in their way.” He grinned without mirth. “And yet … they leave seven hundred and fifty thousand bucks behind. That's tax-free, mind you. They just leave it there as a mattress for a dead Thornbush.”

DeKok laughed.

“You're right, Dick. It's indeed remarkable. Highly remarkable.” He moved his hands, pointed at nothing in particular. “Anyway, that car along the dike, is a remarkable situation in itself. Because of the tags we found in Farmer's Alley, we can safely presume that the car was driven there after the hold-up. But it couldn't stay there, of course. One way or the other, we would have gotten wind of a blue Simca in that neighborhood. What intrigues me, however: what happened to the car afterward? I mean what happened to the car between the time it left Farmer's Alley and until the time we found it against the willows at the bottom of the dike?”

Vledder looked for a cigarette, remembered he had given it up to please his girlfriend, and idly twirled a pen between his fingers.

“If we only knew,” he remarked glumly, “who drove that car to that deserted stretch of dike, we would be a lot farther along.”

DeKok nodded.

“Any luck with the tire tracks?”

“You mean the ones we found there?”

“Yes.”

Vledder fished a notebook from an inside pocket.

“The soil sample,” he said, searching through the pages, “is still in my desk drawer. Not much we can do with it, for now, anyway.” Apparently he found the page he was looking for and folded the book inside out. “The tires,” he read, “were radials and relatively new. There was a sharp, deep profile in the clay next to the road. According to those who are supposed to know, they couldn't have had more than three, or maybe five thousand miles on them. The wheelbase was almost five feet and the distance between the front wheels and the back wheels was just over ten feet.”

DeKok's eyebrows danced briefly.

“What was the distance between front and back wheels?”

“More than three meters, over ten feet. It was not possible to determine the exact length. It
was
a bit slippery there, you know.”

DeKok slapped himself on the forehead with a flat hand.

“I'm an idiot,” he said. “I should have asked you sooner about the tire tracks.”

Vledder looked at him with surprise.

“But why?”

DeKok lifted his feet from the desk and shuffled over to the coat rack.

“An overall wheelbase of more than ten feet.”

Vledder followed him to the coat rack.

“What about it?”

DeKok hoisted himself into his coat.

“I'm an old-fashioned man,” he grinned. “I don't know much about cars. But I do know that more than ten feet between the front wheels and the back wheels is a very long distance. Especially in Holland. People tend to use smaller cars. The average distance on the average car in Holland is maybe six to seven feet. Eight feet is probably the upper limit. Me, personally, I only know two cars with that kind of distance: a Rolls Royce and … a Bentley.”

Vledder looked at him. For a moment he was speechless. Then his eyes glistened.

“Bent's car. Bent has a Bentley!”

*   *   *

With a steady hand Dick Vledder guided the police-VW through the busy traffic of the city. There was a somber, dissatisfied expression on his young face.

DeKok looked at him from aside.

“What's the matter?”

Vledder shook his head.

“Nothing,” he replied, irked. “Nothing in particular. I'm just upset with myself, is all.”

DeKok smiled.

“Why?”

Vledder did not answer at once. He looked straight ahead through the windshield, but DeKok had the impression that he was only partially occupied by the traffic.

“It bothers me,” said Vledder after a while.

“What?”

“The tracks. The car tracks on the dike. I discovered them myself, for Pete's sake. I looked at them very carefully, I measured them. I wrote everything very precisely in my little note book…” he did not complete the sentence.

“Well, and…” prompted DeKok.

“Then
you
had to tell me that the tracks led to Bent … you see,
that's
why I'm upset. I should have thought of it myself, but I never made the connection, I couldn't see the forest for the trees.” He gave DeKok a suspicious look. “How,” he asked, “how did you arrive at the Bentley? As far as I know, your knowledge of cars is less than my aunt's and she knows nothing at all about cars.”

“It wasn't all that difficult,” confessed DeKok comfortably. “It all came about because of that sergeant-major from the State Police, Windt. He said he'd never solved a case with the use of plaster casts from foot prints, or whatever. That made me think. I wondered what sort of chance
we
had under the circumstances. Our circle of suspects isn't all that great. And as far as I know, we know only positively about one car among them. And Bergen's Simca, of course. But one car stands out, is special.”

“Bent's Bentley.”

DeKok nodded.

“I was just idly researching some technical data on that car. You see, when he gave us a ride to his house, that was the first time I'd ever been in a Bentley. Well, that brought me to the wheelbase. It stuck, somehow.”

Vledder glanced at DeKok with admiration.

“Fantastic!”

DeKok smiled.

“Thanks,” he said, “but it
was
stupid not to ask you for the result of your measurements at once.”

They drove on in companionable silence. They were not in a hurry, which was a good thing, because almost every traffic light was on red when they came to an intersection. After a while it started to annoy Vledder. Leaning on the steering wheel he roundly cursed the Chief of the Traffic Division who was ultimately responsible for the traffic lights. It was an unjust critique, but Vledder felt as if all the lights were deliberately set against him.

DeKok was slouched in the seat next to him. Cars were something to be endured. If it had been possible, he would just as soon have walked. But since they were driving, he felt no need to get excited about the traffic, the lights, or anything connected to this purely mechanical process. The more their progress was impeded, the more he was convinced of the soundness of walking whenever possible. Suddenly he noticed a bulge near Vledder's armpit. He stretched out a hand and felt a shoulder holster with a pistol.

“Armed?”

Vledder blushed. He felt the implied rebuke. He knew all about DeKok's abhorrence of firearms, but it was one of the few things the younger man disagreed about. DeKok felt more sympathy for the British view, which held that cops should not be armed. Vledder disagreed. Times had changed, he felt. A cop
needed
a weapon. He thought briefly about the scene with Flossie and about the two corpses they had so far encountered.

“I saw the corpse of Thornbush,” he said apologetically. “I don't feel like being shot the same way, or any way, for that matter.”

DeKok did not react. His thoughts were occupied by Bent. The remarks that he should never have married for a second time had taken on a deeper meaning during the course of the investigation. The wife of the B&G president was unfaithful to her husband. That much was certain. At the very least she had maintained an affair with a subordinate, with the Secretary and Vice President of the Company managed by her husband. Probably everyone, except the cuckolded husband, was aware of the situation. At least that was the usual chain of events. Was it a motive for murder? A
crime passionnel?
But what did it all have to do with the hold-up? Vledder interrupted his musings.

“You think Bent is home?”

DeKok nodded slowly.

“I think so,” he said carefully. “He hasn't been in the office all day.”

Vledder grinned.

“How do you know that little tidbit?”

“I had it checked, of course. You see, Bent is never long out of my thoughts. He's almost always on my mind.”

“Everything is on your mind.”

It sounded scornful.

DeKok shrugged one shoulder.

“I try,” he said simply. “Besides, it's a matter of practice, of routine, if you will.”

They passed underneath the Utrecht Bridge along the left bank of the Amstel. It was quiet. The roar of the city seemed suddenly far away. The river glistened softly in the pale moon light. It looked ghostly, ethereal. When they were near the Sorrow Fields cemetery, DeKok hoisted himself into an upright position.

“Stop here.”

Vledder looked at him with astonishment.

“We're not there yet.”

DeKok nodded.

“We'll walk the rest.”

They parked the car near the side of the road and got out. They didn't talk while they approached the villa on foot. In front of the old house DeKok stopped and pulled a plastic bag from his coat pocket.

“Take this,” he said.

“What should I do with it?”

“To keep the dirt in it, unless you want to carry it in your hands.”

“Dirt?”

DeKok sighed elaborately.

“Do you remember,” he asked patiently, “how we drove straight into the garage, the last time?”

“Yes.”

“Fine, we'll take the same route this time, but we don't announce our visit. If Bent is home, as I expect, his car will be in the garage. You take some mud samples, some dirt, from the tires and put them in the plastic bag. I'll hold the light. Maybe we'll get lucky. It didn't rain last night and I don't think that the President cleaned his car since yesterday.”

“All right, then what?”

DeKok smiled.