DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (3 page)

“Did anybody get the license tag?”

“Yes, NG 12-83.”

“That's a very old number.”

Vledder grinned.

“Right, a very old number. It used to belong to a Chevrolet. The Chevy was junked more than three years ago.”

DeKok pushed his lower lip forward.

“Smart guys.” There was admiration in his voice.

Vledder glanced at his notes.

“You can say that again. Smart guys. The entire hold-up shows professionalism. The timing was excellent. At exactly three minutes past ten, the truck stopped at the rear of the Railroad Station and the two guards in the back alighted with the money. The driver remained behind the wheel. The money was in a large crate, destined for shipment by rail. At that precise moment the Simca pulled up. Before anybody, least of all the guards, had any notion of what was happening, they were staring down the barrels of a couple of pistols and they were relieved of the crate. It all happened so quickly that nobody really noticed anything untoward.” He flipped a page. “There was a constable on duty, not far away, and he didn't notice anything, either. He reacted immediately when one of the guards finally yelled at him. He shot at the fleeing car.”

“Fired?” DeKok's eyebrows rippled dangerously. Despite the situation, Vledder paused briefly to be amazed at the sight. Then he answered:

“Yes, twice.”

“Well?”

“Nothing. The Simca disappeared at a high rate of speed in the direction of the Harbor Building. But, according to the constable, he scored at least one hit. Shall I call him? His name is Bever, he's next door, writing his report.”

DeKok nodded.

“Fetch him.”

Constable Bever was an athletically built man in his middle thirties, with lively gestures and a playful mimicry. He showed a rueful grin when he took a seat across from DeKok.

“You can't help but wonder,” began Constable Bever. “I mean, they steal three million right from under your nose. It's just plain shameful.” He shook his head despondently. “How will I ever explain
that
to my son?”

DeKok grinned back at him

“I don't know, I am not your son,” he said. “My name is DeKok, with … eh, kay-oh-kay. Much to my regret I'm in charge of this case. I heard you shot at the fleeing car. What do you think? You think you hit something, or somebody?”

Bever spread both arms wide.

“Well, I'm a good shot, DeKok. Most certainly. I'm usually in the top three during the shooting competitions. But, well, the car was a good distance away and rapidly disappearing when I first heard the yelling of the guards. They were pointing at the car. I fired twice. I aimed for the left rear tire. From where I was standing that was the easiest shot. But I missed. There was a slight deviation and both bullets hit the edge of the trunk.” He made a dejected gesture. “It was no use trying a third shot. By then the car was too far away.”

DeKok nodded silently.

“Would it be possible that you hit one of the occupants?”

Bever shrugged.

“Hard to say. I don't think so.” He paused, hesitated. “To be honest, I hope not. I mean, you've got to admit it, DeKok, that was a professional piece of work. Nobody got hurt during the hold-up. It was fast, silent and almost unnoticed. I mean, I was barely fifty feet away and I didn't notice anything until the guards started to yell. I saw the truck stop, of course I did, but…” He paused, gripped his head with both hands in a hopeless gesture. “I should be let go, it's simply too much. A robbery with a haul of three million and I'm practically watching it without doing anything about it.” Bever groaned, his eyes closed.

DeKok looked at him.

“How long have you been on the force?”

“Five years.”

“Well, then you should know that this sort of thing can happen. I wouldn't worry too much about it.” DeKok waved negligently. “Return to your report. And if the Commissaris, or your sergeant, if either speaks harshly to you, just let it roll off. Be like a duck.”

“A duck?”

“Yes, water rolls off a duck's back, let the reprimands roll off yours.”

Shaking his head, Constable Bever left the room. It was a black day in his career, he thought, no matter what DeKok said.

When the constable had left, DeKok rose from his chair and started to pace up and down the large room. He invariably did that when he wanted to think. The cadence of his ambling gait helped to organize his thoughts. After a while he stopped in front of Vledder's desk.

“If I remember correctly,” he said thoughtfully, “B&G has been in business for some time.”

Vledder nodded.

“Oh, yes, at least three generations and more than twenty years in the armored car business, that is CTI, the division, was formed more than twenty years ago.”

“And this is their first hold-up?”

“Yes, it has never happened before. Perhaps it lulled them into a false sense of security. They became more lax, perhaps, without really noticing it.”

DeKok rubbed his chin pensively.

“Are the transports always for such large amounts? I mean, three million seems a lot, doesn't it?”

Vledder nodded.

“Yes it is,” he answered. “But it's usually not that much. Their main business is transport between banks, you see. The average amount on a truck is usually between four and five hundred thousand. The rest is checks and papers. This time the amount of cash was extremely high. The robbers were lucky.”

DeKok grinned. It transformed his craggy face into that of a mischievous schoolboy. Few people could resist a grinning DeKok.

“Sometimes,” he said mysteriously, “sometimes Lady Luck receives a helping hand.”

Vledder looked at him, wondering.

“What
do
you mean?”

DeKok shrugged.

“Just exactly what I'm saying. Sometimes Lady Luck gets a helping hand. B&G has been transporting money for more than twenty years. For twenty years one transport follows another, one run after another, without incidents. Nothing happens. Don't you think it's rather coincidental that suddenly, the one time they carry a larger than usual amount of cash, they're robbed? A bit too convenient, don't you think?”

Vledder came from behind his desk in a highly agitated state of mind. His round, somewhat boyish face showed he was excited.

“Why?” he questioned loudly, “Why should it be too much of a coincidence. It's possible, after all. I interrogated the guards thoroughly, I can assure you. There's no question of complicity. They're completely innocent.”

DeKok looked at Vledder for long moments. Then he smiled.

“Come on, Dick,” he said amicably, “get your coat. We have an appointment with Mr. Bent.”

3

DeKok and Vledder were standing in the enormous hall of the B&G building. A bit lost, they looked around.

A large, tall black granite column rose up in the middle of the hall, supporting an enormous, bronze bust of the late Mr. Josephus Johannes Maria Goossens, the co-founder of the Company. He had died childless. The current Bent was the third President of Bent & Goossens by that name. On either side of the statue, wide marble staircases wended upstairs in a curve before meeting at an elaborate balcony overlooking the hall. Glistening crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling and the walls reflected the light from expensive marble. It was very beautiful and impressive.

DeKok pressed his lips together.

Interiors that were aimed at impressing visitors, had exactly the opposite effect on DeKok. He would not be impressed, or awed, or influenced by it. It only aroused in him feelings of inexplicable rebellion. Part, if not most, of that was caused by the puritanical soul of the civil servant and his Calvinistic childhood.

He took another look around and felt the dissatisfaction and discontent grow within him.

A neatly dressed gentleman in a dark suit caught the attention of the two police inspectors. From a glass booth he moved a crooked index finger in a beckoning gesture.

DeKok had a long standing dislike of beckoning gentlemen in glass booths. Therefore he did not make any effort to obey the beckoning finger, but instead beckoned back with his own crooked index finger. He smiled pleasantly and persisted in that attitude until the authoritarian gentlemen left his cage, dark red with rage.

“You are supposed to report to me.” The man's voice was excited.

DeKok's eyebrows performed one of their famous dances. For once the effect was lost on the subject of his gaze.

“Why?” asked DeKok mildly.

The man in black made a vague gesture.

“I'm the doorman,” he said.

“So, what?”

The man swallowed.

“You have to report to me, first.”

DeKok shook his head.

“No way,” he replied stubbornly. “First of all, a doorman is supposed to look like an admiral and stand at the door. It simply isn't done to sit in a glass booth in the middle of a reception hall. Secondly, our Commissaris said nothing about reporting to a doorman. We have an appointment with Mr. Bent.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, he's waiting for us.”

The gentleman in black performed a measured bow.

“In that case I will announce the gentlemen. Who can I say?”

DeKok lifted his little felt hat in a polite gesture.

“My name is DeKok, with … eh, kay-oh-kay. This is my colleague, Vledder. We are, by the grace of our Chief Constable,
*
Detective-Inspectors attached to the Warmoes Street station.”

The neatly dressed gentleman turned around and disappeared into the booth. Through the glass the two inspectors observed him making another bow while he spoke into the telephone. It was a comical sight. When the conversation had been concluded he emerged from his glass cage.

“Mr. Bent,” he spoke self-importantly, “prefers to have his interview with the gentlemen elsewhere, not here in the office, but in his study at home. Mr. Bent will be down directly and lead the way.”

Almost simultaneously with this announcement, they observed a muscular man descending by way of one of the marble staircases. He was a well-preserved man in his fifties with quick and athletic movements. He approached the two policemen with outstretched hand.

“I hope you won't mind coming home with me. I promised my wife I'd be home early.” He made a joking gesture. “A promise to a beautiful woman has the force of Law.”

DeKok looked at him.

“And what would you call the promise
from
a beautiful woman?”

The question seemed to touch Bent particularly. A hint of steel flickered momentarily in his eyes.

“The promise
from
a beautiful woman,” he answered thoughtfully and slowly, “is fleeting like perfume. It's seldom more than a sweet dream.”

He seemed to be lost in thought. Then he laughed broadly.

“Would you gentlemen ride with me?”

DeKok nodded carelessly.

“As you wish,” he drawled.

He never objected to meeting his potential opponents in their own surroundings. It sometimes gave him surprising insights.

*   *   *

Bent steered the big, heavy Bentley with a steady hand through the busy Amsterdam traffic. Meanwhile he talked lightly with Vledder next to him about various models of cars he had owned, or had tried out. He studiously avoided any reference to the hold-up. There was a painful silence when Vledder asked guilelessly what sort of car Bent thought most suitable for hold-ups.

The B&G president was visibly embarrassed by the question. But his confusion did not last long. He controlled himself almost immediately and remarked that he had never contemplated the use of any specific model in connection with a hold-up. DeKok did not participate in the conversation. He was comfortably ensconced on the back seat and listened. He was not particularly interested in the subject matter of the conversation, but he listened with considerable attention to the intonation of the words, the sound of the voices. In his opinion, Bent was less than straight-forward. The attitude of the president was too emphatically cheerful, too deliberately nonchalant. It was phony.

DeKok wondered what bothered the man. The hold-up? The loss of three million?

Bent's house was on the left side of the Amstel river, just outside the city limits. It was a splendid old villa with a thatched roof, partly hidden from view by a fine tangle of bare tree branches and twigs. Bent parked in a garage with an easy elan that showed much practice.

From the garage Bent led the way through an inside passage to a large room with big windows, that afforded a beautiful view of the river. To the left of the windows stood a solid, oak desk of immense proportions. It was heavily decorated with intricate carvings. The remaining walls of the room were covered from floor to ceiling with books and in the center of the room four easy chairs were grouped around a round table made of rare wood. A big, black tomcat was curled up in one of the chairs. It stood up, stretched itself and idly gazed at the visitors. For only a moment. Then the animal settled in its former position, yawned unashamedly and ignored the policemen. DeKok noticed the expression on the cat's face. It seemed to him as if the cat gave him a mocking grin.

Bent made an inviting gesture.

“Please sit down and excuse me for a moment. I'll be right back.”

He left the room and DeKok stared after him. He admired the straight back, the athletic posture, the light thread and he concluded that Bent, despite his years, must have gone to considerable effort to keep fit. Rowing, perhaps, on the Amstel.

Bent returned to the study after a few minutes. He seemed dejected. There was a disappointed set to his mouth.

“I wanted to introduce you to my wife,” he said morosely, “but she has gone to bed. She asks you to excuse her. She's not feeling well. A slight migraine, I think.”

“I'm sorry to hear that,” said DeKok with genuine sympathy. “We would have liked to meet her. Another time perhaps?”