The young Inspector swallowed once more.

"In that case Thornbush committed treason, I mean ... he betrayed his accomplices. You know what that means, DeKok? These are people who are not afraid to kill. We've seen that already with Pete Geffel. If we don't find Thornbush real soon, I don't give a plugged nickel for his chances of survival."

They found the missing Simca about halfway between Amsterdam and Utrecht near a small village along the banks of a smaller river with the incongruous name of Joy, just past the old windmill that had seen better days. The shiny b.u.mper was pressed hard against a pair of rotting willows with bare branches that poked at the gray sky. At first glance there seemed to be no damage to the exterior of the vehicle, until one noticed the two bullet holes in the trunk.

Sergeant-Major Windt of the State Police leaned against his bicycle close by with a bored look on his face. He looked at the two Inspectors from Amsterdam.

"I think," said the sergeant-major in a gravelly voice, "that the car must have been placed there last night, during the night I mean. Last evening, during my last rounds, it wasn't there. I'm sure of that. I couldn't have missed it. I saw it for the first time this afternoon."

"At what time?"

"About two o'clock. I had just come from Town Hall," he waved vaguely in the direction of a church tower in the distance. "Then I started my afternoon rounds." He nodded, pursed his lips and repeated: "Yes, it must have been just after two."

DeKok nodded.

"We're very grateful for your prompt notification," he said formally.

"Yes, well, I saw at once that it was the car you were looking for. The two bullet holes were clear enough."

DeKok smiled.

"Did you search the car?"

The sergeant-major shook his head emphatically.

"No," he growled, "I kept my hands off it. You never know what you might spoil. I looked through the windows, that's all. The keys are still in the ignition. And ... I think I saw blood on the rear seat."

DeKok pushed his old hat forward until it almost obscured his eyes.

"That's possible," he said slowly. "One of our constables shot at the fleeing car. That explains the bullet holes. Possibly he hit one of the occupants." He turned to Vledder. "Alert the fingerprint experts and the photographer. Also order a wrecker." He turned back to the sergeant-major and gave him a winning smile. "I take it that you have no objection if we confiscate the vehicle?"

The broad-shouldered State cop laughed heartily.

"On the contrary. The sooner you get it out of my jurisdiction, the better I like it."

DeKok pointed at the old windmill.

"Would they have heard anything, over there?"

Windt grinned.

"No, those people aren't home. Both of them left for England this week. They go there every year for Christmas and New Year. They have a son in London. The mill doesn't work anymore, you know, but I think they have plans to restore it," he added garrulously. He gestured around. "Other than them, not a soul lives along this entire stretch."

DeKok sighed, disappointed.

"So, not a chance of a witness?"

The sergeant-major grimaced.

"I wouldn't count on it," he said darkly.

Vledder returned from pa.s.sing on his messages. The old police VW was parked some distance further.

"Well, I got through," he said. "We have to do something about that car, you know. And the equipment inside is just as antiquated. I could hardly make myself understood over the static."

"Were there any objections?"

"Yes, they asked why they couldn't just wait until the car was back in Amsterdam before they did the prints and the pictures. Since you're towing it anyway."

"And, what did you say?"

Vledder grinned.

"I told them that you insisted on having everything done here because of the decor."

"Good."

Vledder pointed in the direction of the VW Beetle.

"I saw a number of nice tire tracks in the soft ground over there. They seemed fresh. It seems that a car waited there for a considerable amount of time and then turned to leave in the other direction."

"The tracks don't match the ones from the Simca?"

Vledder shook his head.

"No, and they also don't look like the tracks they found in Seadike, those they found near Pete's corpse."

DeKok looked at the horizon for a long time. Then he slowly turned full circle while he looked at the scenery. The place was typical of Holland. A narrow dike with a two-lane highway on the crown, a strip of gra.s.sy clay on either side of the road surface. The road seemed to stretch on forever in either direction. Thin, almost insubstantial poplars in the distance. The water on one side and flat, unrelieved gra.s.s land on the other side of the dike. DeKok noted, but did not find it significant, that the water table was several feet higher than the land on the other side. Most of Holland was always below sea-level.

"Go ahead, d.i.c.k," he said after a long interval. "Do your measurements and so on. Make a sketch, you know what I mean. Have the photographer make a few shots of the tracks you found over there, when he shows up. Oh yes, don't forget to take some soil samples. I don't think they'll be much use, but you never know."

Vledder looked at him, surprise on his face.

"You don't want to take a closer look at the car?"

"No, not now. I want the experts to go over it first. I have a feeling about this. It seems strange, and at the same time too pat, for us to find the car now, at this late date. Just take your measurements and so on. Disturb as little as possible."

"Well, if you think so."

"Yes, I agree with the sergeant." He made a deferential bow toward the burly State cop. The gesture did not seem out of place. It was the sort of thing that one accepted as natural from DeKok. "Best wait a while with the closer examination," he continued, "the rest of them will be here soon enough."

Sergeant-major Windt looked at Vledder as he brought out his tape-measure and began.

"As for me," said Windt importantly, "I don't believe in it. In an old shed behind the post, I've got a whole pile of plaster casts of foot prints, tire prints, and you-name-it prints. I've never been able to solve even a chicken theft with it."

DeKok ignored the remarks of the State cop. He looked at his watch and wondered how much longer he had to wait before the police wrecker arrived and before the specialists made their appearance. He estimated at least another half hour.

He pulled up the collar of his coat and pushed his hands deep in the pockets. It was bitterly cold near the narrow river. There was a strong wind and even the relatively placid water between the high riverbanks showed an occasional whitecap. He paced up and down the narrow road and tried to imagine the situation when the Simca had been parked here. Why, he wondered, did they wait so long to get rid of the car? It was four days since the hold-up. Where had the car been during those four days?

Idly he watched the sergeant-major who had placed his official bicycle against a tree and was now approaching the Simca. He watched the big man come near the rear of the car and he observed how the man plucked at something green that seemed to protrude from between the lid of the trunk. The little bit of green became larger and became a green triangle. DeKok watched as if mesmerized. Windt gave a short pull and he suddenly found a hundred dollar bill in his hand.

Hastily DeKok rushed over. Without thought, almost as a reflex, he pushed the lock of the trunk. The lid flew up. Both policemen stared in consternation at the contents of the trunk. Their breath caught in their throats. In the trunk, on a thick bed of money, they found the corpse of Thornbush, the missing Secretary and Vice President of B&G.

16.

A strong gust of wind dislodged some of the bank notes from under the corpse of the Secretary and pushed them along in a playful flight toward the tops of the willows. The large sergeant-major rushed after them with wide spread arms. It was a comical sight. Near the tree trunk he stopped and looked up. DeKok pressed his lips together and quickly closed the trunk before the wind could grab more money from the piles under the corpse. A single glance had been enough. Feisty Thornbush was dead, dead as a doornail. Somebody with a cynical twist of mind had placed him on top of his own loot. There was something macabre about the whole set-up, thought DeKok, something devilish. Again he realized how dangerous his prey was, how merciless Almost in a trance, he walked away from the car and climbed the slight angle of the narrow dike. Then he stopped and looked over the situation from a distance. The various elements stood out sharply. The streamlined, blue Simca with its lugubrious cargo against the wild decor of gray, sweeping, wind-scourged clouds and deformed willows. DeKok would never forget that particular impression. Nor would he soon forget his own feeling of resignation, of despair and acceptance. The uncertain feeling, the doubt, the apprehension about the fate of Thornbush had come true. He wondered if you could have prevented it.

Traffic was slowly building up on the narrow dike. The car from the Dactyloscopic Service, the fingerprint experts, was the first to arrive. The photographer followed shortly thereafter. Next came a small wrecker from the Amsterdam Munic.i.p.al Police. It was one of the type used to fish cars out of the many ca.n.a.ls of the city. After a short interval, warned by an additional call from Vledder, an ambulance arrived, sirens blaring and lights flashing. DeKok would have preferred to see the Coroner but under the circ.u.mstances an ambulance was probably the best they could do.

After Bram, the photographer, was finished, DeKok gave the Paramedics permission to place the corpse in a body bag. He watched carefully while they lifted the corpse out of the trunk and placed it in the opened bag on the gurney.

Thornbush looked perfectly groomed. Death had not changed him much. He wore expensive shoes, a perfectly pressed, dark-blue suit and a white, silk scarf, tied like an ascot. His black, gleaming hair seemed unruffled. But a bank note had stuck to his left cheek. Just before closing the zipper of the body bag, one of the Paramedics removed it gently and replaced it in the trunk of the Simca.

DeKok gestured for them to open the zipper again. Then he called Vledder over and pointed at a pattern of hair on the coat of the dead man. The young inspector leaned forward and took one of the hairs between thumb and forefinger and inspected it carefully.

"Cat hair?"

DeKok nodded slowly.

"It looks like it. We'll double check it, of course. But considering that Thornbush is a bit of a dandy, I think the fur on his coat is a little out of place. Strange, don't you think?"

Vledder suddenly looked at him with wide eyes.

"I remember that I had cat's hair on my coat in about the same place, not too long ago."

DeKok grinned.

"Yes, only a few days ago. After our visit to Bent's house. They were from the black tomcat that always jumped on the laps of people when they sat in a particular chair."

"Yes." Vledder almost panted with excitement. "Yes, that's when it was." He moved his tongue along suddenly dry lips. "Do you think that ... that Bent's place was the last place Thornbush visited before he was killed?"

DeKok looked into the distance. A sad look on his face. He visualized again the sharp features of the face he had seen near Pete Geffel's grave.

"It's possible," he said finally, reluctantly. "Of course, it's possible. But it seems a bit early to come to any definite conclusions in that respect."

Vledder looked closer at the corpse.

"How has he been killed? I don't see any wounds."

DeKok did not answer. He unb.u.t.toned the coat of the murdered man and flipped the lapels aside. The shirt underneath and the lining of the jacket were red with blood. DeKok looked at it pensively. He lifted the arms one by one and looked at the slender hands. There was blood on the hands as well. Then he closed the dead man's coat again and motioned for the Paramedics to proceed. They zipped the body bag closed, placed the straps around the body and took off toward their vehicle.

DeKok placed a hand on the shoulder of his young colleague.

"I think I'll go with the ambulance, d.i.c.k. It seems best. The clothing on the corpse really interests me. I want to keep an eye on it. Also, perhaps I can get an autopsy today. At least I'll try." He pointed at the blue car at the bottom of the dike. "Make sure it all gets to Headquarters in one piece. And watch the money, be careful with it. Count it in the presence of others."

Vledder nodded. His face was serious.

"And what else?"

DeKok chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. He resembled a cow chewing its cud.

"What else ... what else? Nothing else, actually. Just make sure the money gets into the safe at Headquarters and have it sealed. Make sure somebody takes a look at the blood stains on the back seat ... see if you can get the blood group as soon as possible."

"All right, and then?"

"Then go back to Warmoes Street and wait for me there. I think it best if we don't do anything until we've had a chance to talk. If something unexpected happens, call me. I'll be in the morgue, or at the Pathology Lab. It depends who I can snare for the autopsy."

The naked body of the late Thornbush was displayed on the black granite top of the dissecting table in the Police Pathology Laboratory. Dr. Rusteloos leaned forward and looked at the two bullet holes in the left chest. He used a probe to determine the depth of the wounds. After a while he looked at DeKok.

"At least we can determine," he remarked slowly, thoughtfully, as if begrudging every word, "that either shot would have been fatal. Of course," he added hastily, "I'll have to do a more thorough examination. It wouldn't do to be too precipitous. But for the time being, you can take that as my preliminary judgement." He paused, as if reflecting on his words, wondering whether or not he had been too positive. Then he continued: "In any case, both shots were fired from a relatively short distance. I estimate no more than maybe four or five feet."

DeKok nodded.

"Through the heart?"

Dr. Rusteloos made a vague gesture with the hand in which he held the scalpel.

"Well," he allowed, "let's say in the region of the heart."

DeKok smiled. Sometimes Rusteloos would not even admit to the rain, afraid that the sun might shine around the corner. Nevertheless, his final reports were always accurate and very much to the point. As he said, he just did not like to be precipitous.

"Can you tell me anything about the time of death?" asked DeKok.

The doctor looked at him solemnly.

"Let's say," he answered carefully, "he's been dead between ten and twenty-four hours." He made an apologetic gesture. "You know how difficult it is to be more precise. Especially at this stage."

DeKok was sitting at his desk. The personal possessions of Thornbush were spread out before him. A white handkerchief with a discreet monogram, a comb in a leather holder, a rather small amount of money, a bunch of keys on a key ring, a plastic folder with two airline tickets to Houston, a pocket calendar and a crumpled piece of paper.

Vledder surveyed the a.s.sortment.

"Is that all?"

DeKok nodded.