She nodded slowly, reluctantly.

"Yes, my husband had told me that Inspector DeKok was a.s.signed to the investigation. I also learned where you were stationed. That bothered me for a while. You're with Homicide, aren't you?" Without waiting for an answer, she continued. "When I could not get hold of you, I left a message. Time was running out, you see."

"Thornbush," recited DeKok, "has two airline tickets for Houston, USA."

"Yes, that was the message."

"And, of course, you hoped to achieve the arrest of Thornbush with his loot before he could get on the plane."

"Exactly," she answered calmly. "Under the circ.u.mstances it seemed the best solution."

DeKok rubbed the bridge of his nose with a little finger. Then he looked at it as if he saw it for the first time. After a while he lowered his hand and addressed himself again to the young woman. He was struck by the pose of the couple. He, seated rigidly in his chair and she, a hand resting on his shoulder, standing proudly next to him. As if they were posing for an old-fashioned photograph. DeKok rather liked the simile. He approved of old-fashioned things.

"Did you call anyone else?" he asked finally.

She became even more rigid. With an impatient, but graceful gesture she shook the hair from her face and looked evenly at DeKok. Suspicion flickered in her green eyes.

"No," she answered emphatically. "I did not call anyone else."

DeKok made an indeterminate movement with his hand. Then he lifted a forefinger in the air.

"So, you and Mr. Thornbush were the only ones to know about the flight to Houston?"

She did not answer at once. She seemed to think about the question behind the question.

"Yes,... eh, I a.s.sume so." She said finally. There was a distinct hesitation in her voice.

DeKok looked at her searchingly for long seconds. His sharp, trained gaze examined her facial expression. He had the feeling that she was hiding something, was keeping silent on a salient point, a point that could be very important.

Vledder showed impatience. He moved closer to the edge of his chair. In his usual, impetuous manner he broke into the conversation.

"I'm still waiting," he remarked sharply, "for an explanation of the tire tracks along the Joy."

Bent shifted his eyes to the young Inspector. Anger flashed across his face.

"My wife hasn't reached that point yet." His tone of voice matched the expression on his face. "You mustn't rush her. For the last twenty-four hours she's been exposed to inhuman stress." He rose and picked up the black tomcat. Then he led his wife to the empty chair.

"Tell them," he coaxed tenderly.

She arranged her nightgown around her.

"I was worried," she said with a deep sigh. "I could find no rest, was unable to relax. I roamed the house like a lost soul. I kept wondering if the arrest of Charles would succeed. You understand ... the uncertainty of it all?"

DeKok nodded encouragement.

"I understand," he said, barely suppressing a smile. "If the arrest had failed, you had every reason to fear Charles, right? You were the only one who could have betrayed him."

A blush came to her cheeks.

"I'm not a stupid woman, Mr. DeKok. I have been fully aware of that danger all along. Charles Thornbush was not the sort of man who could be betrayed lightly. He would seek revenge. I didn't dare go to bed, to sleep. I kept myself awake. I waited near the phone."

DeKok's eyebrows rippled. Vledder, who had been expecting the phenomenon looked interested. Even the Bents seemed momentarily fascinated. Then, apparently deciding she could not have seen what she saw, Sandra Bent directed her attention to DeKok's question.

"Why were you waiting near the phone? What did you expect?"

"A message, news, whatever," she answered. "If you had recovered the proceeds of the hold-up, you would undoubtedly have called my husband and let him know, regardless of the time. And if the arrest had failed, I fully expected to hear from Charles. But it became later and nothing happened."

She rubbed a forearm across her brow.

"Finally, probably because of pure exhaustion, I must have fallen asleep on the sofa. After a while I woke because of a h.e.l.lish noise. Still half asleep I didn't realize at once what had caused the noise. Confused I picked up the phone, but the ringing persisted. Then I realized it was the front door. I don't know how long it had been ringing before I woke up. In any case, the door bell kept ringing without interruption, as if somebody was leaning on the b.u.t.ton. I was afraid to answer the door. I went to the bedroom and woke my husband."

Bent nodded agreement.

"The alarm clock next to my bed showed two-thirty. My wife was extremely nervous and the door bell rang as if possessed. I slipped on a robe and my wife followed me to the foyer. I switched on the outside light and opened the door. There was n.o.body. A broken match had been forced in next to the b.u.t.ton and that kept it down. A few feet down the driveway was a car. A strange, blue car with the trunk wide open. I ... eh, I walked down the steps. The light from above the door reached into the trunk. Suddenly my wife was next to me. She gripped my hand and she was shaking like a leaf. We were completely at a loss, totally mystified. We were shocked. Thornbush was in the trunk ... and he was ... dead."

20.

Bent pressed both hands against his face.

"It was a terrible experience," he sighed. "We must have stood there for several minutes, Sandra and I, in a complete stupor. We were absolutely stunned. When I more or less got control of myself, I went inside to call the police. My wife came after me within a few seconds. I already had the receiver in my hand and was debating between 911 and your direct number. She took the receiver out of my hands and replaced it. She asked me to first listen to her," he swallowed a lump in his throat. "Then, if I still felt like calling the police, she said I should go ahead..."

Again he swallowed. His eyes were moist.

"Then she told me everything ... about her ... game, her game with Charles ... about the hold-up and the planned flight to Houston."

He made a helpless, sad gesture. The two inspectors listened in rapt silence and did not interrupt. After a short pause he continued.

"I don't know, Mr. DeKok, what you would have done under the same circ.u.mstances. I'm not the type to break the Law. I'm too ... too square for that. Perhaps it has something to do with my upbringing. I don't know. Who knows? My name is connected to a concern that enjoys widespread trust and confidence. Although everybody calls it B&G, I never forget that it stands for Bent & Goossens. My great-grandfather and his friend started the business. It's a business that has been around for generations and although we have only added money transports in the last few decades, it was just a logical development. We have always transported valuable materials: museum collections of all kinds, paintings, statuary, ma.n.u.scripts, instruments, you name it. If it was valuable, rare, or delicate, they'd call us to have it moved..." Suddenly realizing he was "making a commercial", he stopped and looked shyly at DeKok.

DeKok nodded, as if in thought. Taking heart, Henry Bent went on.

"Anyway, I thought about the articles in the papers, on TV, in magazines. I thought about the tens of thousands of small investors and our employees. I reflected that you had been looking for the guilty party within the Company, almost from the beginning. And then, a dead Thornbush in front of my own house..."

He was unable to go on. DeKok came to the rescue. He nodded understandingly with a friendly expression on his face.

"You decided the corpse had to disappear."

Bent reached for a pack of cigarettes on the table with hands that shook almost uncontrollably. When he finally had managed to pick it up he held it in his hands, as if it were a security blanket.

"Yes," he said after a while, "he had to go. I dressed quickly and went back outside. Only then, to my surprise, I discovered that it had to be the blue Simca that was, according to reports, involved in the hold-up. There were stacks of bank notes under the corpse. But I wasted little time on that. I closed the trunk and searched the car. The hood was still warm. It could not have been there very long on a cold night like that. I tried the doors. They were not locked. The key was still in the ignition. I sat down behind the wheel, turned the key and the engine started immediately. I went back inside and told my wife to follow me in the Bentley, preferably at some distance. I wanted to avoid looking like a procession, you see, tried to avoid curiosity."

He paused again. Vledder made a movement as if to say something, but DeKok restrained him with a silent glance. The young man sank back in his chair, content to take his lead from DeKok. DeKok also sat in silence. Mrs. Bent moved slightly in her chair, but made no attempt to add to her husband's narrative. With an effort, Bent seemed to return to the present. He sat up a little straighter and spoke again.

"At that time I had no idea what to do with the car." His voice had become firmer, more decisive. "I drove along the Amstel toward Oldwater. Then across the bridge in the direction of Utrecht. Then I thought about the Joy. I had driven past that particular spot a number of times in the past. Not many people know it's an excellent short-cut between Amsterdam and Utrecht. You avoid all the traffic. I remembered particularly the stretch near the old mill. It seemed the ideal spot to abandon the car."

DeKok nodded.

"Especially near the old, weeping willows."

Bent shook his head sadly.

"Believe me, the surroundings had nothing to do with it, although the place does remind one of a cemetery. But I don't have an eye for that sort of detail. To me it was just a deserted spot, hard enough to come by in our country. I wanted to get rid of the car with its hideous cargo. That's all. The Joy was a subconscious choice."

DeKok could almost feel the relief in the man, now that he had apparently told it all. He changed the subject of the conversation to something more germane, something that interested him more than the actual scene that had left such a vivid picture in his mind.

"You pushed the car off the road, down the embankment until it rested against the trees." His voice was matter-of-fact, business-like. "You wiped off the fingerprints that you might have left and got out of the car. Then you stepped into the waiting Bentley with your wife and, no doubt greatly relieved, drove home."

Bent smiled bleakly.

"Relieved ... I've never in my life felt as bad, as ... as threatened, as then."

Vledder could not contain himself any longer. His youthful impetuosity took control of his actions, made him appear heartless. He laughed derisively.

"Come, come, Mr. Bent," he said contemptuously. "You had every reason to be proud of yourself ... you had just gotten rid of a annoying co-respondent, a compet.i.tor for your wife's love."

Bent's face became red. If looks could have killed, Vledder would have been dead on the spot.

"That ... that," he stammered in his anger, looking for words, "that's a ... a highly ... disagreeable remark."

Vledder grinned broadly.

"Murder is a highly disagreeable crime."

Bent jumped up from his chair.

"I didn't kill Thornbush," he screamed at the top of his voice. Startled, the tomcat jumped from his arms and landed gracefully on the floor. "I tell you, he was dead already!"

Vledder looked up at him, a taunting look in his eyes.

"Really, Mr. Bent, please be serious. Surely you didn't expect for a moment that we would believe your story. I mean: finding the Simca in front of your house and your wife's ex-lover as cargo. It defies rationalization."

Vledder's voice became more and more sarcastic. His att.i.tude more pugnacious. DeKok watched carefully. Vledder was a young man with a mercurial temperament at times. A sharp mind, but an impetuosity barely kept in check by better judgement.

"I'll tell you what really happened," said Vledder sharply. "When Thornbush realized that his paramour did not arrive at the airport on time, he came to get her. You received him in a friendly manner and courteously led him to this room. Then you told him that Milady had changed her mind. It was over. But determined Charles didn't take no for an answer. He had risked everything for his love, burned all bridges behind him. He wasn't about to give up now. He insisted that you immediately relinquish your hold on your wife, Mr. Bent. Consequently you saw but a single solution..."

The cat raised his head and miaowed for attention. When Vledder glanced at him, he jumped up and nestled himself comfortably on the Inspector's lap. The couple looked on as if mesmerized.

Vledder gently stroked the soft fur of the black tomcat. His motions were slow, barely kept in check by an enormous inner tension. Slowly he looked up at Henry Bent. The look in his blue eyes was as cold as ice, but he became calmer, less vehement, as if the cat had a therapeutic effect.

"You forgot the cat hairs," announced Vledder softly.

They drove back to the city along the banks of the Amstel. The engine of the old VW sputtered and the rusted exhaust added additional noises. The racket echoed across the water.

Vledder kept his eyes on the road. He looked pale and there was a tired look on his face.

"I do believe," he remarked thoughtfully, "that we should have arrested those two."

DeKok ignored the remark with supreme indifference.

"It was a wonderful theory," he said instead, with admiration in his voice. "And so convincingly performed. If Mr. and Mrs. Bent had indeed killed Thornbush in conjugal cooperation, then they would most certainly have confessed after your accusation." He produced an embarra.s.sed smile. "You even had me wondering there, for a while."

Vledder gave his old partner a quick look. There was a question on his face.

"You mean to tell me you believe the story they dished up?

DeKok shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly.

"I have no reason to disbelieve it. It is entirely possible that the Bents are not responsible for the death of Thornbush. It is entirely possible that the real killer did indeed park the car with the corpse in front of their door."

Vledder shook his head in despair at so much obtuseness.

"But who? And why?"

DeKok released a deep sigh.

"I hope to get an answer to both questions before the night is out."

"Tonight still?"

DeKok looked at his watch. The old VW did not even have such a minimal convenience as a dashboard clock.

"It's half past midnight. You better hurry. We only have another half hour."

Confused, Vledder looked at him.

"Half an hour? What for?"

"To arrest Little Lowee."

"Little Lowee?"

There was incredulity in Vledder's voice.

DeKok nodded slowly, pensively.

"Yes, during the week he closes his bar at one in the morning. Usually it's packed toward that time. I know that from experience. And I want you to arrest Lowee in front of all his clientele. Half the neighborhood will be there, you see. You understand? I want you to make a big production out of it. Take all the uniforms you can find with you. For all I care, you order a Paddy Wagon. But be loud about it, make a fuss, be obvious. Make sure everybody hears that Lowee is being arrested for complicity in a hold-up, that he's responsible for ... for the murder of Pete Geffel."

Vledder looked at him with wide eyes.

"But ... but that's a lie!"