Translated from the Dutch by H.G. Smittenaar.
Inspector DeKok of the renowned old police station at Warmoes Street in Amsterdam looked with surprise at the stately man who sat down on the chair next to his desk in the crowded detective room.
“Schouten,” he exclaimed happily, “Jan Schouten.”
The man crossed his long legs and nodded slowly. “You still have a good memory for faces,” he observed.
DeKok smiled. “And for names,” he answered. “A useful professional talent.”
The inspector surveyed his visitor attentively. His sharp glance roamed from the willful chin to the clear blue eyes.
“You’re still looking good,” he said with an admiring tone in his voice. The gray sleuth shook his head. “Jan Schouten,” he repeated with a sigh. “I had no idea you were still around.”
The visitor grinned. With widespread fingers he combed through his silver hair, which reached almost to his shoulders.
“I always check the obituaries first,” he said with a shrug. “If I don’t see my name, I’m ready to start another day with gusto.”
DeKok looked at him, listened to the tone of voice, but did not react. Instead he pointed to the desk next to him.
“Do you know Dick Vledder... the great Dutch hope of the Municipal Police Department... he’s been my partner for ages.”
Schouten frowned in thought.
“Was he here when I left?”
DeKok shook his head.
“No, he came shortly after you resigned.” DeKok tilted his head and looked at Schouten with a question in his eyes. “How do you like being a private eye?”
“I serve whoever hires me.”
“Do you also serve Justice?” asked DeKok with a grin.
“Well,” sighed Jan Schouten, “as an ex-cop it takes some getting used to the fact that the interests of your client take precedence.”
“Precedence over what?”
“Over what you are pleased to call Justice.”
DeKok, with his maddening ability to ignore anything he did not want to pursue, looked over Schouten’s head into the distance. He pointed a finger at the clock over the entrance to the room.
“It’s a quarter past eleven,” he said harshly. “Our shift was over at eleven.” He gave his ex-colleague a closed look. “What is it you want?”
“Clayberg is afraid.”
“And who is Clayberg?”
“President of Clayberg and Bosch. Since his life has been threatened, he distrusts everyone... even me. He wants you to investigate the matter.”
“Where does he live?”
“South Walkway... a large house.”
DeKok shook his head.
“That’s out of our jurisdiction. It doesn’t fall under Warmoes Street. That’s the... eh...”
“Fourteenth Precinct,” supplied Vledder.
“Right,” agreed DeKok, “Leyden Street, Fourteenth Precinct.”
Schouten sighed.
“I know that. And I told him so.” His voice changed. “Do it for me,” he pleaded. “I don’t particularly like Clayberg. He’s a man without scruples. But he pays well and I cannot afford to lose a client.”
DeKok looked at his former colleague with a smile.
“All right, until what time can he receive us?”
Vledder, as usual, manoeuvred the police car through the busy streets. DeKok seldom drove. By his own admission he was the worst driver in the Netherlands, maybe all of Europe. And he was not about to drive in the snow under any circumstances. The flakes came down thick and fast. The wipers could hardly keep an opening for Vledder to peer through. From Amstel Dike they approached South Walkway. The snow became heavier. The young inspector slowed down even more... leaned close to the windshield. South Walkway looked deserted.
Suddenly Vledder pointed and took his foot off the gas pedal. On the side of the road the blue lights of an ambulance rotated. Close-by were the red and blue lights of a police car. Faint tracks in the snow showed that the ambulance had stopped suddenly and then slid to the side of the road.
Vledder allowed the car to creep forward and parked behind the ambulance. There was nobody in sight. The two inspectors stepped out of the car and approached two blanket-covered bodies.
It was strangely silent. The snow seemed to absorb all sound. DeKok leaned forward and lifted the corner of the closest blanket.
He found a dead dog, stretched out and with a long tongue half out of its mouth. It was a Rottweiler. The beautiful black coat had been perforated by several bullet holes. Blood still seeped from the wounds.
The old inspector kneeled down next to the dog and looked at its mouth. Shreds of cloth were stuck between the fearsome teeth. DeKok covered the dog up again and walked to the second blanket. A young uniformed constable came running from the direction of the police car.
“What are you doing?” he called out. “Who do you think you are?”
DeKok ignored the constable.
Carefully he pulled the blanket away. A dead man lay supine in the snow. DeKok estimated his age to be around sixty. He had a round, full face and a dark, receding hairline. The legs were slightly spread and the feet were almost perpendicular to the ground. The dark-blue overcoat and the plaid jacket were open. On the white shirt there was a horizontal line of bloody spots where bullets had impacted. Snow melted on the dead face.
Panting, the constable reached him.
“I asked you a question,” he said in a severe tone of voice.
DeKok ignored the remark and pointed at the dead man.
“Do you know him?”
The constable nodded slowly.
“Mr. Clayberg... President of Clayberg and Bosch. He lives nearby.”
DeKok pointed at the other blanket.
“And the dog?”
“It’s his dog.”
“Make sure that the dog is also transported to the lab.”
“The dog?”
“Yes, I want an autopsy on the dog as well.”
Suddenly the young constable recognized DeKok.
“You’re Inspector DeKok,” he said.
Vledder rolled his eyes and watched DeKok.
“Who found them?” asked DeKok.
“Mrs. Clayberg. She heard the shots and came out to investigate.”
“You were first on the scene?”
“Yes.”
“And you covered them?”
“Yes, I couldn’t just leave them lying in the snow like that.”
“Where’s the ambulance driver?”
“Calling for instructions. He’s not sure he can transport dead bodies.”
“Quite right. Wait for the coroner and the van from the morgue.”
The young constable saluted.
“Now show me the house. I want to talk to Mrs. Clayberg.”
DeKok estimated the woman to be about ten years younger than her late husband. She was seated in an imposing chair upholstered in red velour and fringed with gold thread. She looked upset, small and fragile. Her makeup was streaked and the too-dark dyed hair hung down in disorderly streams.
DeKok leaned forward.
“My condolences for the loss of your husband,” he said formally. “It must have been a great shock to you.”
Mrs. Clayberg attempted a half-smile, but did not succeed.
“I knew something was bound to happen,” she said softly. She raised her head and with a tired gesture removed some hair from in front of her eyes. “May I ask who you are?”
DeKok hesitated for a moment.
“DeKok,” he said after a slight pause. “DeKok — spelled kay-oh-kay.” He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “This is my colleague, Vledder. We’re inspectors, attached to Warmoes Street station.” He paused. Then he continued in a businesslike manner: “Your husband let the dog out at the same time every evening?”