DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (11 page)

Without any trouble at all, he opened the front door and then he carefully hoisted his two hundred pounds up the narrow, creaking stairs. He paused in the corridor on the second floor. The building was one of those typical Amsterdam canal houses. Three floors, each with their own entrance into what had once been a single family residence. But that was several centuries ago. The exploding population and the price of real estate had forced many subdivisions of this kind. Few people could still afford a large house like this just for themselves. Certainly not in the city. Apparently this particular floor was subdivided again. The front of the house and the back area had both been rented to separate tenants.

He waited until he had his breath under control once again. With a smile he realized that he had held his breath while climbing the stairs. He carefully felt the knob of the front living room and when he ascertained that it was locked as well, he again fished Henkie's gadget from his pocket.

Cautiously he pushed the door until it was barely open. He heard the murmur of voices. A man and a woman spoke in turns. But no matter how he strained his ears, he could not distinguish any words or sentences in the series of sounds that reached him. He hesitated for just one more moment, then he entered.

His sudden appearance in the living room caused a certain amount of commotion. The young man hastily rose from an easy chair and looked at DeKok with large, surprised eyes. His long, gaunt face was pale and the corners of his mouth trembled.

Flossie, too, stood up. Blood rose to her head and her face became a deep red. Anger flashed in her bright, blue eyes. With an abrupt gesture she tossed her long, blonde hair backward.

“What … eh? How … eh?”

Apparently she was unable to formulate her questions in a coherent manner.

With a shy smile on his face, DeKok stood in the middle of the room. His hat in his hand. He made a bumbling gesture toward the door.

“Please excuse me. I … eh, I knocked several times,” he lied. “But nobody heard me, it seems. And because the door was ajar, I just came in.”

She looked at him with suspicion.

“The door was locked,” she declared firmly.

DeKok shrugged his shoulders. He thought it better to ignore the subject. The young man obviously felt ill at ease.

“I … eh, maybe I better leave,” he whispered.

She gave him a sweet smile.

“All right, Frits, go on. We'll see each other tomorrow. I'm sorry,” she continued, with a vague gesture toward DeKok, “I had no idea that Uncle would arrive today.”

The young man grabbed his coat from a nearby chair, stammered a greeting and left hastily. Flossie and DeKok watched him leave. They heard him stumble on the stairs.

When the front door had closed behind him, DeKok unbuttoned his coat and nestled himself comfortably in one of the easy chairs.

Still standing, Flossie looked down on him. Her long, shapely legs spread, her hands on her hips in a challenging stance.

“Intruder,” she hissed. “You don't fool me. The door was locked!”

DeKok grinned and despite herself she was momentarily charmed by the boyish jollity that transformed his face.

“Let's not make a federal case out of it,” he replied airily. “I just didn't feel like waiting until the young man had left. That's all.”

Confused, she looked at him.

“But how did you…”

DeKok waved her question away.

“Forget it, Flossie. I've got my little secrets.” He smiled. “Why don't you make your dear uncle a nice cup of coffee. Because
Uncle
isn't about to leave anytime soon.” His emphasis on the word “uncle” suddenly reminded her that it was Amsterdam slang for a police constable, one of the few slang words that could be directly traced. Shortly after the Nazi Occupation, some genius, in an attempt to make youth less afraid of people in uniform, had started a campaign promoting “Uncle Police”.

“Uncle has a lot of things to discuss with you,” added DeKok.

“Oh, cut out the ‘uncle' stuff,” she snapped. “After all, I could hardly tell that boy you're a cop.”

DeKok grinned broadly.

“But why not? It's an honorable profession.”

Moodily she shrugged her shoulders.

“I didn't want him to know who you were.” She paused. “Besides,” she continued after a while, “it would spoil my plans.”

DeKok looked at her searchingly.

“Plans?”

She did not answer. Slowly she turned around and walked toward the alcove that had been fitted out as a kitchen. She returned into the living room after a few seconds.

“You know all about my plans,” she said.

DeKok sighed.

“You mean, of course, your plans regarding Pete's killer.”

Her face became serious.

“I'll find him.” She stared past him at nothing in particular. Her big, cornflower-blue eyes had a strange shine, almost otherworldly. “I'll find him,” she repeated tonelessly. “I'll find him before
you
do.”

DeKok looked at her until the strange gleam had left her eyes.

“Is that…,” he asked carefully, “why you invited that young man here?”

She did not answer. She smoothed her skirt with a routine gesture and sank down into one of the chairs. Her challenging, obstreperous attitude had disappeared.

“Why did you invite … Frits, was it? Why did you invite him over?”

“He's from the office.”

“The B&G office?”

“Yes.”

“How did you get to know him?”

“I work there.”

“What?”

She smiled faintly.

“Last night, after our conversation, I realized that the murderer had to be found at B&G. I laid awake all night. The more I thought about it, the surer I was. That's when I wrote you the note.” She sighed deeply. “This morning I went to the office at the Emperor's Canal and asked if there were any openings. I'm an excellent typist, you know.”

“And?”

“I was hired on the spot.”

DeKok pressed his lips together.

“And then you immediately found this young man, Frits, played up to him, perhaps, all in order to learn more about the internal relationships at B&G?”

“Yes.”

Bemused, DeKok shook his head.

“But don't you understand,” he said earnestly, “that you're playing a very dangerous game? If the killer really works at B&G and if he discovers, no matter how,
who
you are and what you're after…” He did not complete the sentence. “Did you really think that the man, or woman … whatever, would hesitate about a second murder?”

The kettle started to whistle in the alcove. Without answering she stood up and attended to it. She returned a little later with two steaming mugs of coffee.

DeKok watched her closely. She was completely calm. With a steady hand she placed the mugs on a small table. She seemed a different woman. He could not find anything in her demeanor that reminded him of the scared, emotional being who had waited for him the night before. Her face looked very serious and there was a determined expression around her mouth. Even her beauty seemed to have chilled, as if an icy wind had blown away all inner warmth. Ice Queen, thought DeKok.

She gave him a pitying look.

“I believe,” she said softly, “that you don't understand at all.”

DeKok rubbed his gray hair in a despairing gesture.

“No,” he sighed. “I've always had trouble comprehending the turmoils of the soul. Especially those of beautiful women. It's really too bad that I so often seem to be confronted with them. I guess it's fate.”

A big, black tomcat rose lazily from a spot near the fireplace. It sniffed DeKok's trouser legs disdainfully and then jumped lightly on Flossie's lap.

“I'm not afraid of danger,” she said, softly stroking the cat. “I
will
find Peter's killer, his murderer, and I'll accept the risks connected with that.” A bitter smile marred her perfect lips. “And I will find him before he winds up in the weak, powerless hands of your so-called
justice.
” She almost spat the last word with special emphasis and a considerable amount of contempt.

DeKok looked at her evenly.

“My justice, Flossie? What's my justice? I'm only a civil servant, a servant of the State. That's all.”

Her blue eyes sparkled dangerously.

“Exactly,” she exclaimed vehemently. “It's no business of the State. It's not
your
business. It's no business for the police. Don't you understand? It's not your concern. This is between me and whoever killed my Peter.” She looked at him evenly. “And nobody else,” she concluded.

DeKok shook his head.

“This is no child's play, Flossie, it's not a game of hide-and-seek. Leave that sinister office. The people who are responsible for the death of your Peter are cool, calculating people, who, when push comes to shove, are capable of anything. Believe me, you'll never succeed in unmasking the killer. You only run the risk of ending your life the way Peter did…”

She pressed her lips together.

“I don't care how my life ends. Don't you understand?” There was desperation in her voice. “I've got a debt to pay. Me, me with my narrow-minded morals, my naive ideas about good and evil
… I killed Peter!
” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “For days I nagged him, begged him … exploited his feelings for me … until he finally agreed to call the company. I drove him to his death.” She took a few deep breaths, fought against the tears in her eyes. Then she continued:

“Peter … Peter lived off the gullibility of other people, their greed. He blackmailed them, he cheated them, he conned them. But was that so bad? I should have left well enough alone. I should have
let
him take the guys for the money. Then we could have married. Now, what do I have?” She made a sad gesture. The cat opened one eye. “I have dear parents, but they raised me the old-fashioned way. They told me that goodness, truth, is its own reward. Maybe they didn't know any better. But it was a lie … a lie … a lie…” She slammed her fist on one knee. The cat, vaguely alarmed, opened both eyes.

DeKok rubbed his face with a flat hand. He felt miserable. In order to cheer her up, to restore her faith in her Peter, he had told her, only last night, that her fiancé had not betrayed her and had really called in the warning. The intelligent girl, no doubt aided by a healthy amount of intuition, had drawn the obvious conclusion. Peter had been killed by somebody at B&G … and she blamed herself!

Pensively he looked at the young woman across from him. Her body was almost motionless, tense, with an inner tautness that was only evident from the hand that mechanically stroked the black tomcat in her lap. He full well realized that she was capable of almost anything in her present state of bitterness, even murder, and he hoped fervently that he would be able to find Pete Geffel's killer
before
he fell into
her
hands.

He looked at the fingers that stroked the cat. They were long and sinewy. The wrist and muscles of her forearm seemed more developed than was usual in a woman. Still graceful, but strong.

“I must warn you officially,” he sighed, “not to take matters into your own hands. Don't do anything dumb. Peter is dead. That's irrevocable. Nothing … absolutely nothing can change that. And you can't live with the dead. Life is for the living.” He scratched the back of his neck. Hating himself for the facile platitudes he was using. “It's useless, wasteful,” he continued, “to waste your young life for an
idee fixe,
an obsession, a silly idea.”

That got her attention.

“A silly idea?”

He nodded slowly.

“It's a silly idea to convince yourself that you're guilty of Peter's death. It's just silly.”

She gave him a wan smile.

“Love and happiness … those are silly ideas, too. Ideas full of misunderstandings, mistakes. I know that.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Yet, I'm prepared to do silly things because of those silly ideas.”

DeKok swallowed. He understood that he had lost the battle. He had no arguments left. Florentine La Croix had taken the first steps on her path to vengeance.

She was determined. She would find the murderer of Peter Geffel and … she would punish him. She saw it as a holy task, a calling, and nobody was going to stop her. He made one last attempt.

“I offer you a partnership,” he proposed seriously. “Let's find Peter's killer together. I … eh, I have
some
experience.”

Slowly she shook her head.

“I don't need your help. When necessary, I'll call you to … to do your duty.” There was a mocking tone in her voice.

DeKok lowered his head. Two mugs of coffee were sitting on the small table between them. Untouched.

After a few more seconds he rose slowly, buttoned his coat and murmured an inaudible goodbye. At the door he turned around once more. The tomcat on her lap seemed to give him a malicious grin.

11

A wad of chewing gum between his powerful jaws and with a gruff look on his face, DeKok walked across the narrow bridge across the Brewers Canal and from there, through the many alleys and along the maze of canals to Warmoes Street. He ignored the vague greetings and half smiles of the shady characters and prostitutes along the way. His thoughts were occupied by Flossie. Rebellious, defiant, vengeful Flossy. He understood what motivated her, of course, and he could even sympathize with her to a certain extent. But that was all. He certainly was not prepared to become her personal guardian angel. If she insisted on stepping into a hornet's nest, if she really wanted to track down Pete's killer all by herself, she could just go ahead.

With a sudden expression of disgust he spat out the wad of chewing gum. At times like this he longed for one of his cigars that he had long since given up. He had not smoked for years, but still the longing sometimes overpowered him. He always resisted it. He felt for another stick of gum and then decided against that as well. His thoughts returned to Flossie.