DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (8 page)

DeKok shook his head sadly.

“The Commissaris must be associating with bad companions.”

*   *   *

DeKok knocked discreetly on the door and entered. He was at a loss to understand what the Commissaris could possibly want from him. There was no way that the old man had gotten wind of the latest developments. It had to be something else.

The tall, stately police chief was seated behind his desk like an angry father confronting a wayward child. He seemed absorbed in a file. When he finally looked up, his face had assumed a pensive expression.

“I called you because…”

DeKok kept his gaze aimed about two inches above the head of the Commissaris. He was familiar with that opening. It was the beginning of a reprimand, at the very least, an expression of the old man's displeasure. Suddenly he discovered an excellent reproduction of a Monet above and behind the head of the Commissaris. He had never noticed that before.

“Excellent,” remarked DeKok, “really excellent. I didn't know you were interested in art.”

The Commissaris, distracted from his train of thought by the interruption, made an angry gesture.

“Yes, well, the building people hung it there.” His voice was irritated. “It wouldn't have been my choice.”

DeKok's eyebrows rippled briefly, almost unnoticeably. The Commissaris could not suppress a quick, startled look.

“You don't appreciate it?” asked DeKok.

The Commissaris moved in his chair.

“Monet was,” said the Commissaris, “to the best of my knowledge, an impressionist. I don't like impressionists.” He aimed his penetrating look at DeKok and continued: “Look at the painting,” he pontificated, “impressions are always vague, unclear. They form a nebulous territory, a territory in which an inspector can easily get lost.”

“I have the feeling,” grinned DeKok, “that you are trying to tell me something.”

The Commissaris nodded.

“That feeling is correct, DeKok. I just want to convey to you that, if it's your impression that those responsible for the B&G hold-up, should be found within the company, rather than outside of the company, you are indulging in a strictly personal impression. That's all.”

DeKok lowered his head.

“That's all,” he repeated calmly. Then: “I have a strong suspicion that you've been approached by Mr. Bent.”

The Commissaris coughed discreetly.

“Indeed,” he said reluctantly. “Mr. Bent called me last night. He is seriously upset about your behavior, the behavior of both of you, you
and
Vledder. Especially the sarcastic tone of young Vledder offended him deeply. It struck him as extremely unpleasant.”

DeKok grinned broadly. His grin was irresistible. It transformed his somewhat melancholy face into one of boyish delight. It was one of his most attractive features. But the Commissaris remained unaffected.

“Well … well,” said DeKok in a mocking tone of voice, “Mr. Bent has been deeply offended. He was struck unpleasantly. How would he have preferred to be struck?”

The commissarial face assumed a disapproving look.

“You know very well what I mean.” His tone was sharp.

DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

“Mr. Bent has no grounds for complaints,” he answered calmly. “Vledder's remarks were completely justified.”

The Commissaris made a negating gesture.

“Justified, or … not justified,” his voice took on the affected speech of the consummate civil servant, became sententious. “Civil servants, servants of the public,” he continued, “must, under all circumstances behave themselves according to common courtesy.” He gave DeKok another penetrating look. “By the way,” he asked, “where's Vledder? He wasn't here, this morning.”

DeKok rose from his chair and stared somberly at nothing at all. He did not answer. He wanted to spare the old man an outburst of anger. He really did not dislike his chief. Regardless of the many differences of opinion, he actually liked the old man.

“Where
is
Vledder?” repeated the Commissaris. His voice was suspicious.

DeKok swallowed.

“He … eh, he's gone to Seadike.”

“WHAT!?”

DeKok slinked from the room. From a distance he could still hear the tirade of the Commissaris, although he had closed the door of the office behind him.

*   *   *

DeKok would have been surprised if he had seen the gently smiling face of the Commissaris at that moment. DeKok might be a master at manipulating people, but that did not mean that Commissaris had reached his present, exalted rank without being able to do his fair share of manipulating himself.

True, the Chief was constantly irritated with DeKok's irreverent attitude to authority. But he was also keenly aware that DeKok was the most successful detective on the force. He
always
solved his cases. Sometimes he did not solve them to the satisfaction of all concerned, especially that of the Judge-Advocate, or higher authority, but solve them he did. The old sleuth knew all the tricks and all the short-cuts, had thousands of contacts in the underworld, was able to insinuate his particular brand of logic into the most bizarre situations and, above all, was very, very effective.

His appearance was more often than not that of a country bumpkin in unfashionable clothes, an old raincoat or duffel coat, and his ever present, greasy, decrepit, little felt hat, grey hair peeking from under it in great, disordered tufts. He and Vledder made an excellent team. The old curmudgeon, tempered by years on the force into accepting the possible and the young, eager, well educated and sometimes impetuous Vledder, always striving for the impossible. The old and the new. The old hands-on cop and the new breed of policeman, college educated, technically inclined and with a high regard for rules and regulations.

The Commissaris had long since given up the hope that DeKok would ever be reconciled to the modern world. But he hoped fervently that, in time, Vledder would pick up some of DeKok's irreverence and brilliance. With Vledder's background and education, coupled with DeKok's experience and wisdom, Vledder might go far. He might become a Commissaris, maybe even Chief Constable.

*   *   *

Blissfully unaware of these thoughts, Inspector DeKok took the hefty file on Pete Geffel from a desk drawer, tucked it under one arm and disappeared into one of the interrogation rooms. He locked the door from the inside. He was consciously trying to avoid another confrontation with his angry chief. He did not feel like explaining Vledder's trip to Seadike. He would tell the old man when he was in a better, a more receptive mood.

While idly flipping the pages in the voluminous file, his thoughts wandered toward the beautiful and emotional Flossie. Obviously she was from a better, at least a more affluent environment than Cunning Pete. She was also, just as obviously, better educated than most. He reflected on her relationship with the glib, but superficial Pete Geffel, a man with an impressive string of arrests and convictions for his relatively young age. Women were marvelous creatures, he thought. They were almost always on the look-out for men they could ‘reform', make over, change, whatever. It seemed, so thought DeKok, a natural trait. The only difference seemed strictly a matter of personal preference, whether the reform was for better, or worse. A man, he thought cynically, never knew what sort of woman would get a hold over him, would want to change him. But apparently Pete had fallen into good hands. Too late?

How stron had been Flossie's influence over him? Was she indeed the nice, kind girl to whom Pete had been devoted? And what was the meaning of that in connection with everything else? Musing on these and other questions, he was suddenly disturbed by a loud banging on the door of the small interrogation room. Vledder had returned from Seadike and demanded noisy admittance.

*   *   *

“What did you find out?”

Vledder pulled a sour face.

“It was mainly a disappointment. I don't have a lot of news for you. Almost everything known about Pete's murder
was
mentioned in the fax, yesterday morning. There simply were no usable technical details. Even the tire tracks were ordinary. I did make copies of all the reports that have been filed so far. But there seems to be no logical connection.”

DeKok nodded thoughtfully.

“What about the official cause of death?”

“Post-mortem was this morning at ten. They were already working on it when I arrived. I waited for the results, such as they were, and interviewed Dr. Rusteloos. He was pretty positive, you know how he is. He had personally removed the dagger from the body. It was a narrow blade, but almost eight inches long. It had penetrated the body to the hilt. Upon further investigation, Dr. Rusteloos concluded that the wound must almost certainly have caused the death of the victim. The weapon had penetrated one of the lungs and the upper left chamber of the heart.”

Pensively DeKok pulled on his lower lip.

“Almost eight inches … quite a bit.”

Vledder nodded agreement.

“I've never seen a dagger like that before. It looked like an antique Italian
poniard.
Nice handwork on the silver handle, the grip, I mean.”

“Are they doing anything with it, in Seadike?”

“Yes, they made pictures for circulation. They also want to check with antique dealers. It's a special weapon, possibly antique, as I said.”

“Was there any mention about press, or TV?”

“Not that I know of. They'll probably wait until they've checked everything else.”

Constable Bever entered the interrogation room at that moment. He had a folder under his arm. His face looked gray and his jovial expression was obscured by a worried look.

“Here's my report,” he said dejectedly. “I had to re-write it four times.” He snorted. “One thing is for sure. I'll never, ever shoot again. As far as I'm concerned they can have my pistol right now. Boy, oh, boy, what a trouble over two shots. Everybody is after your ass, the Inspector, the Chief-Inspector, the Commissaris, people from Internal Investigation, Headquarters, you name it. Couldn't you have done this? Or couldn't you have done that? Didn't you think it irresponsible to shoot in the street? After all, it's a bit risky, you know constable, you could have hit an innocent bystander. Did you think about that? Did you think about this? You never know what happens to the ricochet, you know. What if there had been a woman in the way, or a baby, would you still have used your pistol?…”

He slammed the report in front of Dekok, interrupting his Jeremiad.

“Dammit,” he continued, “What in
hell
do they want from me? After all, you have to make a split decision and you do that, right?” He snorted again, managing to sound both indignant and sad. “After all,” he concluded, “in a situation like that you simply don't have
time
to weigh all the consequences.”

DeKok smiled a winning smile.

“Three million makes people nervous,” he remarked cryptically.

Bever put a hand in a pocket of his uniform coat.

“Here's a letter for you,” he growled, unwilling to listen to reason. “It was left with the desk-sergeant.”

“Thank you.”

Bever turned around and walked away without another word.

DeKok looked after him.

Constable Bever had grown years older in a single day.

Vledder picked up the letter and sniffed.

“Perfume,” he established. He laughed at DeKok.

“I'm not surprised,” he teased, “I bet it's from a beautiful blonde.”

DeKok ignored the remark. He took the letter in his hands, pulled a small pocket knife from a pocket and opened the envelope. After having read the note from beginning to end, he repeated it out loud for Vledder's benefit.

Dear Mr. DeKok:

Thank you very much for your help. Our conversation has opened my eyes.

I now know what I have to do. You'll hear from me.

Flossie

Vledder frowned.

“Flossie … Flossie? Didn't Mother Geffel mention a Flossie, last night? Isn't that Pete's girlfriend?”

“Indeed.”

“And you talked to her?”

“Indeed.”

“When?”

“Last night, or rather, early this morning. After I took you home, I found her waiting for me outside the station house. I must say, it was an interesting conversation.”

“Oh, yes?”

“Yes. Flossie, or as she's generally known more formally, Florentine La Croix, told me that she had loved her Peter very much. She was convinced that the feelings were reciprocated. In any case, they had no secrets from each other. Flossie knew about the robbery. Peter had explained it very nicely to her and, in passing, also told her how his knowledge could be transformed into cold, hard cash.”

“As we suspected, blackmail?”

“Exactly.”

“But Cunning Pete wasn't cunning enough. He was killed before he could put his plan into effect.”

DeKok pulled on his lower lip and let it plop back. He repeated the annoying gesture several times. Finally he said:

“Yes, it seems that way. But it isn't at all certain that Pete was going to execute his blackmail plans. Flossie, you see, had overwhelming objections. She had taken it into her sweet head that Pete was going to change his life, was going to follow the narrow path of righteousness. She made him promise her to forget all about blackmail and to warn B&G of the intended hold-up.”

Vledder's mouth fell open in utter astonishment.

“Warn B&G?”

“Yes, Pete was to call the company and inform them about the place and the time of the intended hold-up.”

Vledder grinned.

“Of course, he didn't do that. That's obvious. Otherwise the company would have taken steps to prevent it from happening.”