DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat.

Albert Cornelis Baantjer.

1.

Peter Geffel, commonly known as "Cunning Pete" had to come to a bad end. Even his own mother had predicted that many times. He died at a youthful age. It was a quick and violent death.

It happened during the winter in the deserted sand dunes along the coast near Seadike. The sand dunes, in addition to the many dikes, protect the low countries of the Netherlands from flooding. In times gone by it used to be the only protection for a country that is largely below sea level. Because of their importance to the ecology, to protect the spa.r.s.e vegetation and the overall security of the nation, access is restricted in many places and one is never allowed to stray from the established paths. In summer the paths are crowded with people going to the beach, but in winter the landscape is desolate and resembles a desert.

And there Pete Geffel was found by a lonely jogger. On the path, just before it split into two directions. Cunning Pete was p.r.o.ne, both arms outstretched, the long, slender fingers half buried in the loose sand and a narrow dagger in his back. The Seadike police, a total force of less than twenty officers, immediately cordoned off the scene of the crime and with a.s.sistance from the State Police carefully went over the ground.

The result was far from hopeful. There were no clear signs. Dogs, brought in for the purpose of sniffing out any possible scents, were no help. Bred and trained primarily for city situations in the most densely populated country in the world, some were too excited by the traces of rabbits all around and one remained at the fork in the path, loudly barking at a number of tire tracks. About three hundred yards down the path was a well-kept paved road that led to the rest of the Netherlands and from there to more than 300 million Dutch, Belgians, Germans, French, Italians and other members of the EEC.

The chief of the Seadike police, close to retirement, decided after a few hours that there were no obvious clues, that the list of suspects could very well include any of the millions of Europeans and that there was no credit to be gained for his department in the case of the murdered Pete Geffel. He withdrew to his headquarters, a comfortable bungalow near the beach, and issued an All Points Bulletin. Then he had another cup of coffee and decided to wait for results.

Hands deep in his trouser pockets and with a face like a thundercloud, Detective-Inspector DeKok of the Amsterdam Munic.i.p.al Police (Homicide) paced up and down the large, cheerless detective room in the old, renowned police station at 48 Warmoes Street.

The building had been a police station as long as anybody could remember. There were those who speculated that it could have served as such for Rembrandt's "Night.w.a.tch". The "Night.w.a.tch", Rembrandt's largest and possibly most famous painting, was completed in 1642. The original t.i.tle of the painting was "The Company of Captain Frans Banning Cocq". Captain Cocq was the head of the local constabulary at the time. More than 300 years ago, his men roamed the same streets, alleys and ca.n.a.ls that were currently patrolled by the men and women of the Warmoes Street Station. Even then the area was known as a "Red Light District".

The current building was most certainly old and its interior could have served as a set for "Hill Street Blues". Some did indeed refer to it as the Dutch Hill Street. Among police officers, it was generally known as the busiest police station in Europe, situated as it was on the edge of Amsterdam's Red Light District and hemmed in by the harbor and a polyglot population encompa.s.sing all strata of society, from aristocrats to day-laborers and from drug dealers to respectable business people. A hundred or more languages could be heard in the Quarter, churches could be found cheek-to-jowl with brothels and the bars never closed.

As he paced up and down, DeKok reflected on the many hours he had spent this way. He had been on the force for more than twenty years and the last fifteen as a plain-clothed policeman. Sometimes he thought with fondness of his early days as a street cop, a constable in uniform, whose only responsibility was to be turned out neatly and on time. To patrol the a.s.signed beat and to represent the Law. Reports were seldom made in those days. The cop on the beat administered justice, settled disputes and watched over his neighborhood with a fatherly indulgence. In many ways it had been a good life. There were few violent crimes. Amsterdam did not even have a specific Homicide department in those days. Murders were so rare.

Now it was different. As everywhere else in the world, crime had increased in Amsterdam as well. And the crimes had become more violent. Gone were the "good old days". Gone forever. Police work had become more technical, more detail-oriented. It seemed to DeKok that reports and red tape were becoming increasingly more important than keeping the peace, more significant than tangible results. It went against his nature. DeKok was an old-fashioned cop, a "hands-on" policeman.

He knew there was an a.s.sortment of files in the drawer of his desk. Files from cases that should get his attention, that needed to be addressed. But DeKok ignored them. He could not be bothered with routine just now, or for the past several days, for that matter. A strange unrest plagued him. It was as if a disturbing, outside influence, like static on the radio, interfered with the sensitive nerve endings in his brain creating a sensation of unrest, of expectation. Subconsciously he was waiting for something grand, something wild, something unusual, something that would require all his knowledge and ingenuity. It made him restless and it made him irritable. That is why he cursed. He cursed everything: the wet snow that covered the streets like a dirty, cold, sticky porridge, the Commissaris,* his immediate boss, because he had urged DeKok several times to complete his ongoing cases and he cursed his invaluable a.s.sistant, Vledder, because there was nothing but dregs left in the coffee pot.

d.i.c.k Vledder allowed his fingers to rest lightly on the keys of his computer terminal and looked at DeKok with a worried face. Not for the first time he reflected on the similarity between the names of DeKok and that of Captain Cocq and thought about how well DeKok would have fitted in that time. He noticed the discontent in his partner, mentor and friend and he knew that the curses were not aimed at him, or anybody, or anything in particular. They were used as a release. At times, DeKok seemed to have an uncanny feeling for what was going to happen. A sort of precognition. He knew something was about to happen, he just did not know what was going to happen.

Most of the time DeKok was an amiable person with an even, kind disposition. But Vledder had seen him in this mood before. He had witnessed the dark side of DeKok's character several times. Always it had been a prelude, a prologue to murder, to mystery.

Vledder wondered what sort of difficulties were brewing in the thunderclouds on the horizon of DeKok's premonition. One never knew, with DeKok. He had a way to get involved in the most bizarre and impossible situations, almost in the blinking of an eye. Young Vledder thought about the many cases they had worked on together, the situations in which they had been involved, the characters they had met. He grinned ruefully to himself. Slowly he stood up and walked over to the window. A small measure of DeKok's uneasiness had sparked a similar disquiet in the young Inspector.

Outside, the wet snow kept coming down.

Gus Shenk entered the detective room and distributed copies of a number of telex messages. Although most of the old telex machines had long since been replaced by modern fax machines, almost everybody still stubbornly referred to them as "telexes".

Gus was a former beat-cop. Once, when pursuing a burglar over the quaint rooftops of Amsterdam, he slipped and fell thirty feet to the ground. It had done something to his back and he was declared to be unfit for active duty. Since that time he had been in charge of communications at Warmoes Street. But it rankled. In his heart he was still a beat-cop, wishing he was back, pounding the pavement along the ca.n.a.ls of Amsterdam.

He had been in communications for years and his special interest were the fax messages, or, as Gus too, insisted on calling them, the telexes. The detective branch appreciated Shenk's interest. Because of his long experience in the streets, he was able to separate the really important messages from the merely routine and he often added his own, sometimes sharp, but always knowledgeable notes to the incoming information.

He walked over to DeKok, one leg dragging, and pushed a message form into his hands.

"Hey, DeKok, isn't Pete Geffel an old customer of yours as well? I seem to remember that you once sent him up. Embezzlement, or something like that. At least, that's what I seem to remember."

DeKok read the telex from Seadike. His eyebrows rippled. The wrinkles in his forehead deepened.

"When did this come in?"

Shenk looked at him in surprise.

"Just now," he answered, aggrieved, "less than five minutes ago. Surely you don't think I would sit on something like this, do you?"

DeKok produced a smile. It was as if the sun had come through the thunderclouds. He placed a brotherly arm on Shenk's shoulder.

"It was a stupid question, Gus," he answered pleasantly. "A real stupid question. Of course you didn't sit on it. Especially not a message about Pete Geffel. After all, it's no secret, the whole force knows you always had a weak spot for that guy."

Gus Shenk shrugged his shoulders reluctantly, as if wanting to deny the statement.

"A weak spot," he growled, "what do you call a weak spot? In the old days, maybe, when he wasn't even a teenager yet, yes, when his actions were little more than pranks, yes, maybe I had a weak spot for him then. I sure liked him, then. Although I've had to chase him a number of times." He paused and smiled at the memory. "Strange really, no matter what he did, I could really never get angry with the kid. I mean, really angry. Of course I pretended. He started to lie the moment I laid hands on him. Goodness, how that boy could lie! It was incredible! You wondered where he got it from. He lied with a straight face, daring you to disbelieve him. As I saw it, it was just a game for him. He just loved to play pranks, to fool people." He shook his head somberly. "Too bad," he sighed, "that he later used his talents to make a dishonest living."

DeKok made a vague gesture.

"Not everybody's like you, Gus. There's plenty of people who don't like being lied to, being made a fool of. I think Pete finally met somebody who didn't take his lies as a joke, a game, but somebody who took revenge."

Shenk looked at him.

"That must have been it," he said slowly. "You're right, that must have been it." He stared at the message in DeKok's hands.

"Dumb kid..." He sounded sad. For another moment he stood there, deep in thought. Then he turned abruptly and walked out of the room.

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 att.i.tude.

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 b.u.t.toning 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 b.a.l.l.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s 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 gla.s.s. 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?"