DeKok And The Sorrowing Tomcat Part 25

"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 a.s.sure 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.

"What money?"

DeKok grinned ruefully.

"The money from the hold-up. Two million, two hundred and fifty thousand to be exact."

She looked at the Inspector with unconcealed hostility.

"I don't have it."

DeKok gestured vaguely around.

"I have reasons to believe it's in this house. I suggest you voluntarily give us permission to search." He spoke in a friendly, convincing tone of voice while he gauged her possible reaction. "It saves time," he continued, "and we'll find it anyway."

For a few seconds she seemed undecided. Then she slipped out of the chair and walked to a sideboard.

"You won't find it."

The threatening tone in her voice should have warned the gray sleuth, but for once he was too certain, too overly confident.

He tapped Vledder on the shoulder.

"Go look, d.i.c.k," he said. "Start with the garage. I think I saw a connecting door from the kitchen."

Vledder took a few steps in the direction of the corridor.

"You're not going to the garage."

It sounded like an order.

Completely taken aback both cops turned around to look at the woman. She was leaning against the sideboard and there was a pistol in her right hand.

The confusion on Vledder's face was quickly replaced by a mocking smile. Challenging her, daring her, he took a step in her direction.

There was the sudden explosion of a shot.

22.

DeKok strode down the long corridor of the hospital with an unfamiliar shopping bag filled with fruit awkwardly under one arm. A blus.h.i.+ng nurse pointed the way.

Vledder looked pale, even against the white hospital sheets. His face still bore traces of pain and emotion. But a smile appeared on his lips when he spotted DeKok. His stumbling, c.u.mbersome entrance, combined with the worried look on his face were positively comical to his young partner.

The gray sleuth made quite a production of depositing his old, decrepit hat at the foot of the bed. Then he pulled up a chair and sat down.

"I ... eh, I brought you some oranges and stuff," he said with a helpless gesture. "I hope you like it. I don't know what they feed you in this place."

"Thank you," answered Vledder. DeKok was from a generation that equated hospital visits with fruit baskets.

DeKok placed the bag next to Vledder.

"How is it going?" he asked, concerned.

Vledder pointed toward his shoulder.

"They took the bullet out. There it is, on the night table, in the tube."

DeKok took the bullet from the medicine bottle and let it roll over the palm of his hand.

"The same caliber that put an end to Thornbush?"

Vledder nodded. His face was serious.

"Yes, his wife killed him."

"That's right, d.i.c.k, and she almost killed you as well. We finished the interrogation this afternoon. She confessed fully and in detail."

Vledder shook his head in confusion.

"It's terrible," he sighed. "Just terrible. Despite the fact that she fired at me, tried to kill me, I still think it's terrible."

DeKok looked at him with considerable surprise.

"Why?"

"I liked her. She seemed such a dear ... sweet woman. The last thing I expected was that she would actually pull the trigger. I just didn't think her capable. Despite your hints about her being responsible for the death of her husband, I just couldn't accept it intellectually. Naive, I suppose."

DeKok pulled on his lower lip and let it plop back. He did that several times. It was an annoying sound, one of his more irritating habits.

"Yes," he said after a while, as if reminiscing. "Yes, soft and sweet. She used to be just that. Before Thornbush woke the devil in her and drove her to murder."

Vledder frowned.

"Thornbush drove her to murder?"

DeKok nodded.

"Yes, he drove her to kill him." He moved in his chair, trying to find a more comfortable position on the unyielding hospital furniture. "Perhaps I should tell the whole story. You should be strong enough, by now. Besides ... you're ent.i.tled to know."

Vledder smiled.

"Tell me already."

DeKok rubbed his face with a flat hand.

"Some people," he began slowly, "are driven by dreams. Charles Thornbush dreamed about a carefree existence in South America with the woman he loved at his side."

"Mrs. Bent."

"Yes, he had maintained a more or less intimate relations.h.i.+p with her for some time. His wife knew about it. He never even bothered to keep it a secret from her. He admitted to her, on several occasions, that he was fascinated with Bent's wife. Mrs. Thornbush accepted it, endured it, because she really loved her husband deeply. She hoped pa.s.sionately that his infatuation with the other woman would be a temporary thing."