DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (2 page)

DeKok stared after him in silence. He knew so well what was going on in old Shenk's mind. He was familiar with the feeling from his own experience. A cop would always meet petty criminals, or even big criminals, who, for one reason or another, struck a sympathetic cord, despite their contempt for the Law. It was almost inevitable. If one liked people, and most police officers did, it came with the job. It was simply impossible to always maintain a strict official, distant attitude.

DeKok thoughtfully chewed his lower lip. He felt sorry for Shenk, who had been so suddenly confronted with the murder of his former protege, without warning, via a fax message. And suddenly he felt a resentment, a deep resentment against the man, or woman, who had killed Pete Geffel in the deserted sand dunes near Seadike, who had plunged a dagger in the back of “Cunning” Pete. Regardless of the motives, that could never be justified. DeKok had a personal, as well as a professional abhorrence of murder. To him murder with a knife, or a dagger, was twice as repellent.

He ambled over to the coat rack, slipped into his old raincoat and placed his small, decrepit felt hat on his head.

Vledder approached.

“Where are you going?”

DeKok did not answer. He could ignore people and things with a sublime indifference when it suited him. It was one of his most endearing, or irritating, habits, depending on the situation, or one's point of view. He finished buttoning his coat and handed the message to Vledder.

“Look in the files and see what you can find out about the victim. We must have quite a bit on him. He's an old customer. Be sure to check nicknames.”

“Nicknames?”

“Yes, you'll find him listed under ‘Cunning' Pete.”

Vledder nodded.

“And what about you?”

“What
do
you mean?”

“Where are you going?”

DeKok pushed his hat further back on his head and rubbed his face with a flat hand.

“I'm going to see Little Lowee. I want to know when was the last time Pete had a beer, there.”

*   *   *

Louis, nicknamed “Little Lowee”, because of his negligible size, was well known in the Red Light District and was an old acquaintance of Detective-Inspector DeKok. For years, almost since the beginning of his police career, DeKok had been a frequent visitor in the narrow, intimate little bar of Little Lowee at the corner of Barn Alley. Over the exquisite aroma of fine, old cognac, sipped over the years, a strange sort of friendship had gradually grown between the two men. It was a relationship that was strictly regulated by the limitations imposed by the Law. Yet, the two men, so different in background and outlook on life, genuinely seemed to like each other. But somewhere within the vague concepts of Law and Order they would always be on opposite sides. After all, DeKok represented the Law. And that sort of people, according to Lowee's tolerant reasoning, had some peculiar ideas about what was right and what was wrong. One had to make allowances for that. But it did not hamper the friendship, thought Lowee, unless you let it. You just had to take it into account.

*   *   *

DeKok shook the snow from his hat in the minuscule lobby and loosened his coat. Then he pushed the heavy, leather-bordered curtains out of his way and looked inside. It was quiet in the bar.

He ambled over to the end of the long bar and hoisted himself onto a stool. Little Lowee came over to his side, a friendly smile on his narrow face.

“Good morning, Mr. DeKok. Good to see you again. The same recipe?” Without waiting for an answer, he produced a bottle of Napoleon Cognac from under the counter and, almost in the same movement, placed two large snifters in front of DeKok and poured generous measures.

“Busy at Warmoes Street?”

“So, so,” shrugged DeKok. “Can't complain. Always something going on. No recession in crime, ever.”

“Well, consider it job security,” laughed Little Lowee.

“To tell you the truth,” sighed DeKok, “during the days before Christmas I don't feel much like it. I always feel that it should be a time to reflect, to take some interest in the people you have gotten to know in your job.”

Lowee looked at him with one eye closed tightly.

“Remains to be seen, of course,” allowed Lowee, “if them guys are all that happy about your interest.”

DeKok ignored the remark.

“Sometimes,” he said thoughtfully, “sometimes you can't help but wonder … What happened to them? How will they celebrate Christmas, this year?”

Lowee bounced restlessly on the balls of his feet.

“Geez, you're being downright gooey,” he said, irritated. “Hey, DeKok, it's only your first drink, you know. I means, too soon to go all sentimental on me.”

DeKok shook his head sadly, rocked the cognac in his glass and sighed again.

“No, really,” he began hesitatingly. “For instance, take Cunning Pete, he was always such a jolly, cheerful guy. I wonder what happened to him. I haven't seen him for ages.” He paused for a moment and then looked over his glass at the small barkeeper. “What about you, Lowee, seen him lately?”

Lowee did not answer at once. A small, but noticeable tic developed on his cheek.

“No … eh,… no,” He stuttered, “I … eh, I ain't seen him for ages meself.”

DeKok smiled.

“You're a bad liar, Lowee. I've noticed that before. It's a weak spot, you know.”

Lowee blushed.

“Another one, Mr. DeKok?” he asked. DeKok nodded slowly. The fine cognac, especially reserved for him, gurgled aromatically into the glass. Meanwhile DeKok observed the normally so steady hand of Little Lowee and wondered why the barkeeper was lying.

“I … eh,… I would really be interested,” DeKok spoke somberly, “if … eh, if I could talk to Pete for a moment. It would save us a lot of trouble and work.”

Lowee looked at him with surprise on his face.

“You're looking for him, then?”

“Who?”

“Pete, Cunning Pete, he's wanted?”

A bit shyly, or so it appeared, DeKok scratched the back of his neck. He thought he had been clear enough.

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “no, we're not looking for him. He's not wanted. I mean, we never have to look for him again, no, never again. You see, we found him, this morning, dead … a dagger in his back.”

Lowee's mouth fell open in utter astonishment.

“Pete … dead? But only yesterday…”

At that moment a uniformed constable stormed into the bar and approached DeKok with long, hurried steps.

“Vledder told me I would find you here. You are to report at once to the Commissaris. We just heard that an armored car was robbed.”

2

Commissaris Buitendam, the tall, distinguished chief of the police station at Warmoes Street, frowned. His gray, bristly eyebrows contracted when DeKok entered his office, coattails flying, hat pushed back from his forehead, busily, self-importantly. It was, of course, a pose, a farce, no more than contrived posturing. The Commissaris knew and DeKok knew the Commissaris knew and the Commissaris knew DeKok knew. The Commissaris was well acquainted with DeKok's abhorrence of order and discipline. The often brilliant Detective-Inspector simply did not seem to fit in the rigid harness of official hierarchy. It was impossible to contain him with rules and regulations. The gray sleuth was too individualistic. It explained why he would never be promoted beyond his present rank. But his brilliance, his obvious suitability for the important aspects of police work, guaranteed his continued employment. Nevertheless, any outward sign that might indicate that DeKok was submitting to discipline, to official guidelines, seemed like a parody, a police comedy. There was, reflected the Commissaris, something Keystone-Cop-like about DeKok at such moments.

Therefore the Commissaris frowned. He had no hope of duplicating DeKok's amazing feats in that department. DeKok, without any effort, or even any conscious volition, seemed to be able to actually ripple his eyebrows. It was a sight that never ceased to fascinate Vledder, who had seen it more often than most. According to Vledder, and many others, DeKok's eyebrows were able to, and did, live a life of their own. But all the Commissaris could do, was frown.

“I'm sorry I took so long,” apologized DeKok. “I was warming a stool over at Little Lowee's.”

The Commissaris made no attempt to hide his surprise.

“Stool? Lowee?”

DeKok gave him a friendly grin.

“Little Lowee, yes. You must know him, certainly? He pours some of the best cognac in town.”

The Commissaris moved in his chair, coughed discreetly. The frivolous subject of “Cognac-Lowee-Stool” was not to his liking. He composed his features into a serious expression.

“Listen, DeKok,” he said in a somewhat pompous voice. “There was an armed robbery about half an hour ago. It happened on Stuyvesant Quay, near Toll House Point. An armored truck, belonging to Bent & Goossens, the transport company, has been robbed by three armed and masked men. A considerable amount of money is involved. Management at B&G estimates the loss at around three million.”

DeKok whistled softly between his teeth.

“A nice bit of change.”

The Commissaris sighed.

“Indeed, a considerable sum. That value is in American dollars, by the way. Almost double that amount in guilders. The shipment consisted of banknotes from different countries. In that case the dollar value is used for convenience. A large sum, anyway. Probably a record for our little country. Therefore we can count on a considerable amount of publicity. You understand … press, radio, television…” He paused and looked at DeKok with a penetrating look. “That's why I want you to handle the case,” he added.

DeKok made a deprecatory gesture.

“Not me. Please, no, I'd rather not, I mean. There must be others. Corstant, for instance, or Sweet and young Bonmeyer. I had other plans.”

Buitendam's mouth fell open. He looked at DeKok in astonishment.

“Other plans?” he managed to ask.

DeKok nodded complacently.

“Yes, I thought I'd get involved in Pete Geffel's murder.”

The Commissaris swallowed a sudden lump in his throat.

“You mean, the murder in Seadike. The one that came over the fax, earlier?”

DeKok nodded approvingly.

“Yes, that murder. Right.”

Commissaris Buitendam rose abruptly from his chair. He did not like to be contradicted. It was something he simply could not, and would not, tolerate. It upset him considerably. His normally somewhat pale face became red with rage.

“You … you!” he snarled. “You will concern yourself with the robbery on B&G. Nothing else. Understood? Get acquainted with the facts and make contact with the managing director, the president of the company, one Mr. Bent.”

DeKok shrugged his shoulders in a hopeless gesture and walked toward the door. The Commissaris called him back.

“Team up with Vledder. He already has some of the details. The two of you had some success together, in the past. This time, too, I expect quick results.”

DeKok hesitated for a moment, rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger.

“If,” he began slowly, “… if I happen to encounter, purely by accident, of course … if I happen to run into Pete Geffel's killer…”

The Commissaris seemed on the verge of exploding.

“OUT!!!”

DeKok left.

*   *   *

Vledder laughed heartily.

“So, quarreling with the boss again, eh?”

DeKok grinned sadly.

“Well, yes,” he said, irritated. “Why can't he let me be?” He chewed on his lower lip. “I used to have my differences with the old Commissaris, the previous one, I mean, but I was usually allowed to go my own way. But this one…” He did not complete the sentence, bit his lower lip once more and then continued: “You see, Dick, it's a matter of sentiment, you know. Just like old Shenk, I remember Pete when he was a kid, they are good memories, despite his many pranks and, let's admit it, his many crimes. But he was a cheerful kid who developed into a happy-go-lucky man. I just don't like to think of him with a dagger in his back.”

Vledder smiled in sympathy.

“You're taking it personally?”

DeKok nodded.

“Yes. What do I care about three million, or thirty million, or even three hundred million? Nothing, absolutely nothing at all, at all. Those guys at B&G just have to be a bit more careful with their money. Deep down I hope that the robbers get away with it.” He grinned like a schoolboy. “In any case, far enough away so they'll be outside my jurisdiction.”

Vledder looked at him with amazement.

“You mean that?”

DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

“Let's not get into it. Tell me what you know about the hold-up.”

Vledder sighed.

“Not much. Probably no more than the Commissaris already told you. It happened on Stuyvesant Quay, near Toll House Point, behind the Central Railroad Station, the old one, that is. Two masked men, armed with pistols robbed an armored truck of Currency Transport, Incorporated.”

DeKok looked up.

“Currency Transport, Incorporated? I thought the Commissaris mentioned B&G and he also mentioned
three
men.”

Vledder nodded agreement.

“You're right. Currency Transport is a division of B&G. You know, they're into everything. If you want it moved, no matter what, they'll move it for you. Freight, household goods, money, you name it. They move it by truck, by barge, by plane, whatever. They're big!” He took a deep breath. “About the men,” he continued, “two held up the truck and took the money. The third one was behind the wheel of a fast car, probably a Simca 1500, blue, or light blue.”

“Stolen?”

“We don't know yet. You see, two Simcas were stolen last night, both Models 1500 and both were blue. One was stolen in Haarlem and the other from Heemstede, one of the suburbs of Haarlem. Most likely one of these cars was used during the hold-up. We don't know which one, at this time.”