DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat (22 page)

DeKok glanced at Vledder who made some notes at the next desk. For once it was relatively quiet in the detective room. Just one other plain clothed man was working on something or other at the far side of the room.

DeKok returned his gaze to Little Lowee and waited calmly until he finished venting his anger. He understood full well why the slender barkeeper was so upset. He would much rather have taken a different course of action himself, but time was pressing. He could not afford to wait any longer.

When the stream of invective finally dried up, DeKok carefully placed his elbows on the desk, folded his hands underneath his chin and looked at Lowee with a smile on his face.

“I don't even need you.”

It sounded especially laconic and took Lowee's breath away.

Lowee swallowed.

“But that's false arr…”

DeKok raised a restraining hand.

“Please understand me. I do have formal grounds for keeping you here several hours. But I don't want you at all, at all.”

“Don't want me?”

DeKok shook his head.

“I want the boys from the hold-up.”

Lowee looked at him in surprise.

“And for that you up and arrest me?”

DeKok nodded slowly.

“With, as you said, a lot of brouhaha. I wanted everybody in the neighborhood to know that Little Lowee had been arrested and taken to Warmoes Street. And I wanted to make sure that everybody knew it was for the hold-up and … the murder of Pete Geffel.” He pushed his lower lip forward. “You see, I know my customers. I'm sure that somebody is informing the guys at this very moment.”

Lowee looked at the Inspector with suspicion in his eyes.

“So what?”

DeKok grinned in a friendly way.

“So, then I expect them to come forward to tell me something I have known all along … that you had nothing to do with the hold-up, or the murder.”

The barkeeper nodded understanding.

“I'm the bait.”

“More or less.” DeKok sighed deeply and changed his tone of voice. “I've always liked you Lowee,” he said earnestly. “And I've always appreciated you. Still do. There's few like you. You're honest.”

The barkeeper grimaced.

“Big deal. That and a quarter don't even get me a cuppa coffee.”

DeKok ignored the remark.

“When you,” he continued unperturbed, “didn't want to give me the names of the boys … not even after I dragged you to Pete's funeral, I figured you didn't do it necessarily for profit. You had to be convinced that the guys you protected were innocent of Pete's death.” He made a gesture with a hand that seemed to say it all. “Otherwise you would never have helped them and you would never have kept your mouth shut.” He paused again and scratched the back of his neck. He looked embarrassed. “Actually,” he added, “your attitude toward those boys is the real reason for your arrest.”

“What?”

“I'm speculating on your ability to judge people.”

Lowee slapped his narrow chest in utter astonishment.

“My … what?”

DeKok nodded.

“Yes, if you have gauged the guys correctly, if you think they are really ‘trustworthy', then they'll give themselves up, rather than see an innocent person suffer for their crimes. They'll want to protect you from ‘the jaws of justice', you see?”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“And what iffen they sees right through you? What then, you clever dick?”

DeKok spread his arms wide in a gesture of surrender.

“I give them three hours. If they haven't given themselves up in that time, I let you go.”

The phone on his desk rang at that moment. DeKok lifted the receiver and listened. Little Lowee looked intently at the face of the Inspector, trying to guess what the conversation was about. But DeKok's poker-face did not change. It remained even, expressionless. A steel mask.

After a few seconds DeKok replaced the receiver. Slowly he rose from his chair and waved toward the door.

“Put your shirt back into your pants, straighten your tie and leave. You're free to go.”

For just an instant the barkeeper hesitated, then he stood up and left the detective room without another word. DeKok accompanied him part of the way.

“Don't poison my cognac, tomorrow.”

The answer was lost in the sound of the slamming door.

*   *   *

“I heard you arrested Little Lowee.”

DeKok stared into the friendly open face of a tall, somewhat awkward young man.

“That is correct.”

The young man smiled shyly.

“I came to tell you that Little Lowee wasn't part of the hold-up. He also knows nothing about Pete Geffel's murder.”

DeKok nodded with pursed lips.

“That,” he said, “is an extremely clarifying announcement.”

The young man cocked his head to one side and pulled on his left earlobe.

“Lowee is innocent. I know that.”

“So?”

“Yes, my brother and I committed the robbery. We're guilty. We held up the money transport.”

DeKok did not react immediately. His sharp gaze travelled from the open sandals and baggy pants to the red corduroy jacket with leather patches on the elbows. He studied the full mouth and the weak chin and questioned seriously how this friendly personality could have committed an armed robbery. He looked too guileless, almost artistic.

“You and your brother?”

There was a distinct tone of suspicion in his voice.

The young man nodded.

“My brother conveys his regrets. He wanted to come along, but he was unable to do so. He's in bed and still very weak. A rather disreputable, but obviously competent person
did
take two bullets out of his back.” Again he gave DeKok a shy smile. “One of your people found it necessary to shoot at us,” he added.

DeKok made an apologetic gesture.

“After all, you
did
find it necessary to be armed when you robbed the transport.” He smiled. “How is your brother?” There was warm interest in his voice.

The young man pushed his hair out of his eyes.

“Now that the bullets have been removed, he's fast improving. Not in small part because of Little Lowee's assistance, I might add. We owe him a lot. Lowee is one in a thousand.”

DeKok nodded slowly.

“I know,” he said resignedly. “His arrest was a mistake, a psychological blunder. Therefore I released him immediately.”

Something flickered momentarily in the young man's eyes.

“Released?”

DeKok looked at him, a question in his eyes.

“Isn't that what you wanted?”

The young man nodded emphatically.

“Indeed, yes. That's why I came. As soon as my brother and I heard about his arrest, we knew it was our duty to report in.”

“And the third man?”

For the first time the young man showed a serious expression. The boyish appearance left his guileless face.

“There was no third man.”

DeKok's eyebrows vibrated like the antennae of an insect. Both Vledder and the young man took a sudden interest in the phenomenon. As usual, DeKok was totally unaware of the effect. His eyebrows did seem to live a life of their own.

“That's strange,” remarked DeKok. “Three people were observed. There's no doubt about that.”

The young man shook his head, unable to tear his gaze away from DeKok's forehead.

“There was no third man.”

DeKok sighed elaborately. His eyebrows subsided.

“Who,” he asked patiently, “got out of a blue Simca behind the Central Station and threatened the guards with weapons?”

“My brother and I.”

DeKok grinned. For a moment it looked like the young man would grin in return at the irresistible charm DeKok displayed at such moments. Then he took note of DeKok's words.

“Who was the third man, behind the wheel?”

The young man bowed his head.

“We … eh, my brother and I,” he said softly, hesitating slightly, “my brother and I have decided to take full responsibility.”

“Responsibility for what?”

“For the robbery and…” his voice broke for a moment. He bit his lower lip and then uttered: “… and the murder.”

“What murder?'

“The murder of Pete Geffel.”

DeKok's mouth compressed into a narrow, implacable line.

“Who put the dagger in his back?”

The young man tried to escape the hard eyes of the Inspector. His hands started to shake and his lips trembled.

“It … eh, it was
my
dagger.”

DeKok banged his fist on the desk in a sudden display of anger.

“That's not what I asked,” he roared. Then, in a normal tone of voice he repeated the question. “I asked who put the dagger in Pete's back. Who stabbed him.”

The young man swallowed.

“I … I did it, I stabbed him.”

The gray sleuth dropped back into his chair. He rubbed his eyes in an infinitely weary gesture. He looked at the young man.

“You know,” he said, shaking his head, “I don't believe you. Nossir, I don't believe you at all, at all.”

The young man smiled.

“You have little choice, I think. You have two options. You may believe me, or … not. I can assure you that my brother will tell you exactly the same thing.” He made an abrupt, meaningless gesture. “But why should you worry about it? Don't search for answers that aren't there. The case is closed, solved. You know who killed Pete Geffel and you know who did the hold-up. You can consider it solved, close the file and forget it. From our side we will promise you solemnly that we will stick to our story to the bitter end.” He spoke as if he was explaining some elaborate practical joke instead of a serious crime.

DeKok looked at him in total astonishment. Again he studied the face. The full lips, the blond hair, the green eyes. Suddenly something clicked. It was as if the veils had been ripped away from his eyes, as if his brain was suddenly allowed to run again at full speed with a new infusion of oxygen. Suddenly it was all clear to him. He stood up and forced his face into the friendliest of smiles.

“I must correct an oversight,” he said cheerfully.

“An oversight?”

DeKok nodded.

“Yes, it's really unforgivable. I never did introduce myself.” The gray cop stretched out his hand in an inviting gesture and announced:

“My name is DeKok, with … eh, kay-oh-kay.”

The young man rose slowly from his chair. He took the hand and said:

“I'm Tim … Tim Klarenbeek.”

*   *   *

Considering the lateness of the hour, Mrs Thornbush looked extremely well groomed. It seemed as if she had expected the visit from the two Inspectors and had prepared herself for it. The blonde hair was put up in a complicated style and her make-up was flawless. The light purple duster she wore did nothing to conceal her attractive shape, instead seemed to accentuate it. She was seated in a wide, easy chair covered with an off-white material. She had tucked her legs under her on the chair and now she gestured at DeKok with a pale hand.

“Can you tell me who killed my husband?”

DeKok looked at her. There was a slight vibration in her voice, a slight undertone that indicated fear and uncertainty. It was in complete contrast to her relaxed, somewhat arrogant posture.

“Is that what you expected?'

She smiled.

“Isn't that what the police is for? To solve murders and other nasty things like that?”

DeKok nodded.

“Indeed,” he drawled, “that's what the police is for.” He rubbed his face as if thinking about the next words. “Actually,” he went on in the same lazy, slow tone of voice, “the police are very irritating people. They're always sticking their noses where it isn't wanted and they always want to know the how, what and wherefore of everybody's business.” He grinned shyly, as if apologizing. “Yet, despite all that rooting around, many cases remain completely unsolved, remain unexplainable. The real motives can seldom be identified.” He gestured in her direction. “You should understand … I know why your husband was killed … but I don't understand your husband.”

The corners of her mouth trembled.

“You know why my husband was killed?'

“Yes.”

She frowned. There was an alert look in her eyes.

“Then … what is it you don't understand?”

DeKok looked at her evenly.

“Why he longed for another woman.”

The remark hit like a bolt of lightning. Suddenly she lost her pose and her poise. The alluring impression melted away. She jumped up like a banshee, her face transformed by hate.

“Because … because…” She caught herself suddenly. Within fractions of a second she again had herself under control. She wiped the look of hate from her face and smiled wanly, without joy. A smile that went no further than her lips.

“Some men are insatiable in their desires.” It sounded like an apology. “They simply have too much love for just
one
woman.”

“That, in itself,” said DeKok thoughtfully, “was not enough reason to murder him, Mrs. Thornbush. You had known for some time that he was cheating on you.”

It was a second attack on her equanimity. She rose above it. She closed her eyes, sat down and lowered her head as if overcome by grief and weariness.

“I … eh, I had gotten used to the idea,” she whispered. “I had learned to live with it.”

DeKok nodded.

“Until he betrayed you.”

She looked at him. The corners of her mouth trembled. Her lower lip dropped slightly.

“I don't know what you mean.”

It was a pathetic attempt at denial, a feeble defense.

DeKok pressed his lips together.

“Where's the money?”

An angry, malicious flicker in her eyes broke through her mask of confused innocence.