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 n.o.body 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 fiance 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 plat.i.tudes 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 n.o.body 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, b.u.t.toned 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 Ca.n.a.l and from there, through the many alleys and along the maze of ca.n.a.ls to Warmoes Street. He ignored the vague greetings and half smiles of the shady characters and prost.i.tutes 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.

Her personal actions were no concern of his. Officially they were none of his business. He had enough on his plate as it was, even without Flossie trying to act as a detective. Who did she think she was, anyway. Solve the puzzle all by her lonesome, would she? He grinned at the thought. Stupid, silly business. With a last, half-hearted curse aimed at all beautiful, blonde women in the world, he entered the station house.

The desk sergeant emerged from his high bench as soon as he saw DeKok enter.

"Vledder left barely fifteen minutes ago."

DeKok looked at him with surprise.

"Where to? Didn't he go to Haarlem?"

"Oh, he's back from there already. He came in here about fifteen minutes ago and went straight on to Maltese Cross Alley. He's supposed to be waiting for you there, on the corner of Farmer's Alley."

"But why?"

The desk sergeant shrugged his shoulders.

"That's all he told me to tell you. It's all I know." He gave DeKok a reproachful look. "It's your own fault. Why don't you carry a walkie-talkie. Why do you always insist on walking? h.e.l.l, we can't even get you on the police radio. But then, you guys in plain clothes are always so secretive." He returned to his desk and sat down. Then he looked up. "Oh, yeah," he added, "a woman called you several times."

"A woman?"

"Yes."

"What's her name?"

"I don't know. I asked, but she wouldn't tell me. She just said that she had to speak to you, personally."

DeKok grinned.

"Oh, well," he said finally, resignation in his voice, "if it's important, she'll call again."

He waved at the sergeant and left the station.

As usual, it was busy in Warmoes Street and the area around it. The bars and night clubs were filled to overflowing. Groups of drunks staggered from one bar to the next and the Red Light District was operating at capacity. The curtains in front of the windows that indicated whether a room was "occupied" or not, opened and closed with the regularity of a well-oiled machine. A detachment of the British Fleet was in port and large contingents of British sailors searched avidly for s.e.x, fun and pleasure. Amsterdam's Red Light District absorbed them all and tended to their needs, desires and l.u.s.ts.

DeKok pa.s.sed through it all with a nonchalance bred from familiarity. He knew the business of the Quarter, the fat madams, the smooth pimps, the suspicious characters, the beautiful, often exotic ladies of the "Life". The Quarter had no secrets for him. He thought about Vledder and wondered why his young colleague had so suddenly left for Farmer's Alley. He must have discovered something. But what could possibly be found in the Farmer's Alley, a decrepit, neglected pa.s.sage-way in a dark corner of the District. It was, of course, typical of DeKok that he never once considered contacting Vledder via a walkie-talkie, although they had by now become so small and un.o.btrusive that he would hardly have noticed their presence. Also, despite the apparent urgency of the call, he walked. Anyway, he was convinced that the fastest way to get around the inner city of Amsterdam was either on foot, or on a bicycle. And he had not ridden a bicycle for years. Besides, however innocuous, a bicycle was a mechanical contraption. DeKok did not like modern means of communication and transportation, avoided them as much as possible.

With his typical, somewhat waddling gait, he crossed the Quarter, in one alley and out another, across some forgotten footbridge and along a deserted ca.n.a.l, places unknown even to many native Amsterdammers. Finally he turned the corner of Maltese Cross Alley, saw Farmer's Alley and the silhouette of Vledder. Softly he approached.

Vledder was visibly startled by his sudden, silent arrival.

"d.a.m.n," he whispered, "is it you?"

DeKok pulled a serious face.

"You're not very alert for a policeman," he admonished. "That could be fatal, one of these days. You should have seen me coming."

Vledder nodded silent a.s.sent.

"You're right," he allowed after a while. "It was stupid. I didn't watch that side at all. I was too occupied by the Alley."

DeKok nodded.

"What's in the Alley?"

"The hiding place of the gang."

"What!?"

Vledder grinned softly.

"Yes, the guys who robbed the transport were supposed to use an old, abandoned warehouse to lie low."

"Who told you that?"

"A prisoner in Haarlem."

DeKok's eyebrows danced briefly. Vledder thought he saw the remarkable phenomenon, but unfortunately it was too dark.

"And he just told you that?"

Vledder sighed elaborately.

"Well, I asked the warden who had a.s.sociated with Geffel during his incarceration. There were quite a few."

"How's that?"

"Actually, you can't exclude anyone. After all, the prisoners meet each other in the work shops, on the exercise yards. Did you know they even have a swimming pool there? Anyway, Cunning Pete could have gotten the information from just about anybody in that prison."

"Very well, then what?"

"Well, I asked the warden to tell me who had been Pete's cell-mate during the last few months. This turned out to be an old guy called 'Uncle Safe'. It seems that 'Uncle Safe' is a rather old burglar who used to specialize in antique safes. I talked to him. At first he didn't want to tell me a thing, but after I told him that Pete was dead and how he had lost his life, he became more forthcoming. 'If you ever tell anyone I told you, I'll call you a liar to your face,' he said, 'but there's an old abandoned warehouse in Farmers Alley in Amsterdam. Go have a look there.' I tried to get him to tell me more, but he clammed up after that."

DeKok nodded pensively.

"And then you rushed right over to arrest the supposed gang." Vledder could almost taste the sarcastic tone of voice.

"Well, no ... eh, no, or rather, yes. I ... I didn't want to waste any time."

DeKok smiled.

"Did you know that Farmer's Alley makes a sharp turn a little further down and that there's another exit toward the Cleavers Ca.n.a.l? While you stood here, guarding one end of the alley, they could have left by the other side."

Blood rushed to Vledder's head.

"I thought it was a dead-end. Anyway," he continued, irritated, subconsciously contradicting himself, "I wasn't after an arrest. I knew very well that I couldn't do that by myself. I just wanted to take a look. That's all."

"And?"

"What?"

"Is there an old, abandoned warehouse?"

"Yes, just a little down the alley, on the left side. It has an entrance with double doors. They were opened recently. The hinges are oiled."

DeKok pushed his hat further back on his head.

"Excellent," he grinned, "really excellent. Then the doors won't squeak for us, either."

He felt for Handy Henkie's little gadget in his trouser pocket and stepped into the Alley. Vledder followed with a flashlight.

DeKok had little trouble with the ancient lock. His experienced fingers touched the lock, made some adjustments to the gadget and the lock softly clicked open. Softly he pushed the doors ajar. The hinges were as soundless as they had hoped. Vledder aimed his flashlight into the interior. A set of bright, green cat's eyes lit up like forgotten Christmas lights. As the two man carefully pushed the door wider, the animal slipped between their legs into the Alley. Nothing else moved. Carefully, following the cone of light as it explored the interior, they tiptoed into the warehouse. Slowly their eyes adjusted to the dark. They saw a number of empty racks and shelves. A thick layer of dust covered everything. Two doors were situated at the end of the main floor. One opened up on a filthy toilet, the other revealed a spa.r.s.ely furnished room with black paper glued to the windows. DeKok found a switch. A few wires with a bare bulb hung from the ceiling. It illuminated a couple of dirty beds, an old sofa, three rickety chairs and a wooden table.

"We're too late," said Vledder regretfully. "The birds have flown the coup."

DeKok nodded.

"They were here." His gaze wandered through the room. He took it all in, recorded it like a movie camera. Every detail was imprinted in his brain. "In any case," he added carefully, "a number of men lived here for some time. I don't think they'll be back."

Vledder gave him a surprised look.

"Why not? After all, they can't know we have discovered their hideaway!"

DeKok rubbed an index finger across one of the backs of the chairs.

"Wiped clean," he remarked resignedly. "They didn't want to leave any fingerprints." He placed a pinky into the neck of an empty whiskey bottle on the table. Carefully he lifted the bottle and breathed on the gla.s.s. "You see, no prints."

Suddenly he noticed the label on the bottle, took a closer look and examined a small scratch near one edge. Carefully he replaced the bottle on the table. There was a faint smile around his lips.

Vledder rummaged around. In a corner of the room he leaned forward. He had found a set of old license tags. He picked them up and placed them on the table. Both plates showed the numbers NG-12-83. The young Inspector's eyes gleamed.

"The tags from the blue Simca," he said enthusiastically.

DeKok looked at the tags.