DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (15 page)

DeKok waved goodbye to him but held Lowee in his uninterrupted gaze.

“See you around,” he said, “and I hope your leg gets better soon.”

Henkie hobbled away.

“Thanks,” he tossed over his shoulder, “you knows where to find me.”

Then he disappeared between the leather-bordered curtains. A little later they heard the door slam behind him.

DeKok stood up.

“Where can I find the guys?”

Lowee shook his head.

“I don't know,” his voice was curt.

DeKok sighed.

“One of the boys is in bad shape,” he exclaimed despondently. “Don't you understand? You just can't sit there and let that guy bleed to death. It just isn't worth it.”

Lowee pressed his lips together.

“I cain't tell you a thing.”

DeKok bit his lower lip.

“Then I will make you a promise,” he said threateningly. “If that boy dies of his wounds … if he dies, I'll hold
you
responsible. Now, for the last time: where are they?”

Little Lowee raised his arms in a gesture of despair and confusion.

“I don't know. I don't know, I tole you. They don't tell me everything!”

Slowly DeKok shook his head.

“I told you before, Lowee,” he said calmly. “You're a bad liar.” He took the slender barkeeper by the shoulder and gently pushed him forward. “Just close the place and get your black suit out of the mothballs. We're going to a funeral.”

“Funeral?”

DeKok nodded.

“Yes, Pete Geffel's funeral.”

Lowee looked at him. There was fear in his eyes.

“I … eh, I cain't,” he stammered. “I-I I've gotta…”

DeKok waved his protest away.

“Just put a sign up for your whiskey clients,” he said cynically, “Say:
Closed because of death
and hang it on the door.”

*   *   *

A watery winter sun pinked through the high, narrow windows of the Chapel, reflected off the pulpit and shined playfully on the bald skull of the minister who spoke in pregnant tones of love, death and resurrection. As is common in Holland, the Chapel was non-denominational and actually stood on the grounds of the cemetery. Convenient, thought DeKok sardonically, and so wise of our early ancestors. It certainly kept the costs down.

DeKok stood toward the rear, his back against the oak panelling and rocked softly to the cadence of the minister's words. Little Lowee stood next to him, estranged, ill at ease, in a subdued, black suit.

The gray cop let his gaze wander through the Chapel.

Mother Geffel was seated close to the flower-bedecked coffin. Her head was bent and she plucked nervously at a minuscule handkerchief in her lap. Next to her, sitting straight and unmoving, was Flossie. He kept his gaze on her for a long time. Outwardly she seemed unmoved, distant. But there was a determined set to her mouth.

DeKok feared for the girl. He was afraid of her irreconcilable persistence. In her present state of mind he judged her capable of anything. He wondered what he could do to protect her from herself, but could not find a reasonable solution. Again he looked at her. The black scarf on her head accentuated the wax-like paleness of her fine face.

After the minister, Gus Shenk climbed the pulpit for the eulogy. As could be expected, old man Shenk was straightforward and to the point. He stated that Pete, despite his many missteps, had not deserved to die as he did. It was not fair, according to Gus and despite all talk about “loving thy neighbor', so eloquently described by the minister, he, Gus, hoped that the killer would soon be caught and would not escape his just punishment. And anyone, he announced loudly, who helped hide the murderers from the police, who aided and abetted the scum that had killed Pete Geffel was an accomplice and just as guilty of the murder. He went on to describe Pete as an ordinary boy of the people, a boy with a good heart, who, no matter what anybody said, had always been good for his mother.

A murmur of agreement went through the chapel after those words and Mother Geffel sobbed audibly. DeKok glanced at Little Lowee. The small barkeeper's lower lip trembled and his adam's apple bobbed up and down. Apparently he had difficulty controlling himself. And Shenk acted as if every word was aimed directly at him, at Little Lowee from the disreputable bar in the Barn Alley.

DeKok smiled to himself. As soon as he had heard that Gus Shenk would deliver the eulogy, he had made sure that Lowee would attend the funeral. After all, DeKok knew “Uncle Gus” and he was hopeful that his speech might just touch a weak string in Lowee's conscience. Perhaps enough to get him to talk about what he knew. And DeKok was convinced that Lowee had a lot to tell.

After the heart-rending speech of the old cop, organ music filled the Chapel. The doors opened and the professional pallbearers lifted the coffin from the stand. Slowly, the visitors followed the coffin to the cemetery grounds.

DeKok held Little Lowee by the arm as they followed at the rear of the procession. At the end of the procession he could gain a good overview of all those present. He had been unable to find any “strange” faces among the spectators in the Chapel. He nudged Lowee.

“If you see one of the guys I'm looking for,” he whispered, “I trust you to let me know.”

The barkeeper nodded mechanically. For the moment he had no resistance left. The gathering and the echoes of Shenk's eloquence had taken the fight out of him.

DeKok wondered why Lowee was protecting the crooks. There was no denying the fact that the whiskey bottle he had found in the warehouse originated in Lowee's bar. There was no question about it. The label was marked with Lowee's private identification. It was ironic, but it had been DeKok's idea originally. When several years ago Lowee had systematically been robbed by a cleaning lady who absconded with several bottles a day, it had been difficult to find evidence. DeKok had advised the barkeeper to mark his bottles in a certain way. It had become a habit. Again he nudged the barkeeper.

“Well?”

Lowee seemed to recover from a half dazed state.

“The boys ain't here,” he retorted sharply. He paused. “And iffen they
was
here, I wouldn't tell ye.”

DeKok cocked his head at him.

“So, you
know
who they are.”

“Yes.”

“And you hid them from me,” said DeKok bitterly. “You hid them in that old warehouse.”

Lowee shook his head.

“I gave 'em food and something to drink. No more.”

DeKok nodded slowly.

“How did you find out they were on Farmer's Alley?”

“Somebody tipped me.”

“And where are they now?”

Lowee turned abruptly toward the cop.

“Are we gonna play those games all over again?” His tone was belligerent. “They's gone. They couldn't stay any longer because of the boy. He needed a doc.”

“Go on.”

Lowee sighed.

“He's being took care of.”

“Medical care?”

“That too.”

“Why wait so long?”

“Wadda you mean?”

DeKok gave him a hard, long look.

“That boy has for several days been kept on a bunch of rags in the Alley, without anybody taking care of him. Why didn't they get a doctor at once?”

Lowee stared in front of him, avoiding DeKok's eyes.

“Doctors that don't ask questions, cost bread.”

DeKok grinned.

“So what? They certainly had plenty.”

Lowee did not answer.

DeKok was beginning to get angry. The rigid attitude of the small barkeeper was getting on his nerves. He pressed his lips together, took a deep breath and said:

“After all, there was plenty of money.” He hissed the words.

Little Lowee looked pale.

“I,” he answered softly, “I paid for the doc.”

“You?”

Lowee started to walk faster. He closed up to the end of the procession.

DeKok knew he had to wait for a better opportunity. Perhaps later, in the bar. He fervently hoped that Lowee would come forth on his own account. He had, after all, a weakness for the slender barkeeper and he did not feel like spoiling their friendship of years with an arrest. He shifted his attention back to the procession that slowly moved along the gravel paths of the cemetery. In the forefront, above their heads, the coffin bobbed on the shoulders of the pallbearers. They stopped next to the open grave. The coffin was lifted from the shoulders with routine, much practiced movements and placed on the grave lift. The mourners formed a rough circle around the hole in the ground. DeKok was on the alert. He looked sharply at the faces around him. He always made it a point to attend the funerals of murder victims. He knew so well that there were a number of killers who could not resist attending the funerals of their victims.

Suddenly he saw a face in the circle opposite him. Almost at the rear of the crowd he discovered a man with sharp features in a deeply creased face. It gave DeKok a sudden shock. He had first met the man a short time ago, just a few days. The face seemed to have aged years since the last time he saw it. Their glances crossed each other. Just for a moment. For a short moment in time they looked deep into each other's eyes. Then the man ducked.

Old Gus Shenk stepped forward and expressed thanks on behalf of the family of the deceased. DeKok pulled his head into the collar of his coat and circled around the rear of the crowd to the place where he had seen the man. But the man was gone when he arrived on the spot. With quick steps DeKok followed the gravel paths to the exit. He hoped to be able to overtake the man before he left the cemetery. Numerous questions burned on his tongue. But when he turned the corner of the Chapel, he saw the black Bentley just clear the gate.

DeKok slowed down. He panted for breath. He was not used to exerting himself this way. Pensively he looked after the car. Bent must have run to make it so quickly to his car. Why? Why was he in such a hurry to leave? It seemed more like a flight. After all, it was a free country. He was certainly allowed to attend Pete Geffel's funeral. DeKok decided to call on Bent again, very soon.

*   *   *

Vledder looked reproachfully at DeKok.

“You could have told me ahead of time that you were going to the funeral.”

“Why?”

Vledder made an impatient gesture.

“If I had known, I would have come straight to the cemetery from Haarlem. Now I've wasted two hours waiting for you.”

DeKok's eyebrows vibrated briefly and then stilled.

“Wasted time?” he asked, surprised. “But surely you could have used those two hours productively.”

A slight suspicion seemed to glimmer in Vledder's eyes.

“What could I have done?” he asked, unsure of himself.

“Think,” was the laconic reply. “You could have spent your time thinking. For instance: who killed Peter Geffel, aka
Cunning Pete
and why? Who actually executed the hold-up? Did they really steal three million? If so, where is the money? If not, who committed fraud? As you see, there was no need to ‘waste' two hours. There are plenty of problems.”

Vledder nodded willingly.

“You're right,” he said. His face and his voice were serious. “There are indeed plenty of problems. Too many, if you ask me. There seems to be little progress. Things don't compute. We've been at it for four days already and we're almost as far as we were in the beginning. It's disheartening.”

DeKok raised a hand in protest.

“I don't agree with you there. We just haven't yet figured out how the various pieces fit together. That's about it. It still looks very much like a jig-saw puzzle and so far we only have a few pieces in place. But I'm confident that we'll solve the mystery before long. We're a lot closer to the guys that committed the robbery, for instance.”

Vledder looked at him with bewilderment.

“Why do you say that? We know where they
used
to hang out, at Farmer's Alley. But that's all.”

DeKok smiled.

“This morning, more or less under duress, Little Lowee told me that he knew them.”

“But that's great.”

“Perhaps. But he wasn't about to reveal any names. He admitted that he knew about the warehouse and he admitted that he supplied them with food and drink. The whiskey bottle, for instance, came from his bar.”

“And what else?”

“What do you mean … what else?”

Vledder made a peevish gesture.

“Surely you tried to get him to talk?”

DeKok sighed.

“Of course I tried, Dick. I tried just about everything to get him to talk. I even forced him to come to Pete's funeral in the hope of weakening him. Lowee is a pretty sentimental guy, you know. But nothing worked.”

“So, now what?”

DeKok shrugged his shoulders.

“I don't know,” he answered hesitantly. “There's something strange about Lowee's attitude. You see, a robbery is a robbery. But murder is a different kettle of fish altogether.” He paused, gathered his thoughts. “Especially in Amsterdam. Among the regular crowd of criminals, murder is taken very seriously, indeed. I don't mean to include the drug trade, you know. No, among the robbers, the burglars, the petty thieves, in short, among the common criminals murder is almost unheard of. And when one of their own is killed, the whole underworld is against them. Lowee must really feel very strongly that the robbers had nothing to do with Pete's killing.”

“How does that follow?”

“Well, I don't think that Lowee would have taken care of them, otherwise, or that he would have kept it a secret from me if he had even the slightest doubt about their innocence. Lowee is an old-fashioned crook, so to speak.”

Vledder laughed scornfully.

“Three million is a lot of money.”

DeKok's eyebrows rippled in earnest this time.