DeKok and the Sorrowing Tomcat by Albert Cornelis Baantjer

Author:Albert Cornelis Baantjer
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781250085047
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

13

Mr. Westerhoff, Assistant Bureau Chief of Customs at Schiphol Airport pointed at the lights of a 747 as it rose into the air near the end of a runway.

“There she goes,” he said with a wide grin, “Destination: Houston in the good old U. S. of A.”

DeKok stared after the lights for a long time until they melded into the distance. Then he turned slowly toward the Customs man.

“And?”

“Nothing.”

“What nothing?”

“He didn’t show up. Everybody had been instructed, everybody was alert. All for nothing. He was a no-show.”

DeKok’s eyebrows rippled briefly. Westerhoff suddenly looked at him intently, as if he could not believe his own eyes.

“So, the plane left without him?” asked DeKok.

The Assistant Bureau Chief shook his head, as if clearing his vision and raised his hands in a helpless gesture.

“I presume so. There was certainly nobody aboard that looked like the description we received of Thornbush.”

“Was he listed as a passenger?”

“Oh, yes. We checked that first. Thornbush was on the passenger’s manifest.”

“Alone?”

“What do you mean?”

DeKok sighed, a bit impatiently.

“According to our information, he had two tickets. Did he travel alone? Was he listed singly on the manifest? I wonder in what name the second ticket was issued.”

Westerhoff looked at him with surprise.

“His wife, of course,” he responded.

DeKok’s mouth fell open.

“Wife?”

“Yes, yes, I thought you knew. They were listed as Mr. and Mrs. Thornbush.”

* * *

At a very sedate pace they drove back to Amsterdam. DeKok was sprawled comfortably in the passenger seat next to Vledder. The greenish light from the communication gear gave his friendly face the contradictory expression of a devil that had been banished from Hell because of its innate goodness. He grinned softly to himself. Vledder looked aside.

“Wife,” remarked DeKok mockingly. “I don’t think that KLM asks for marriage certificates.”

Vledder looked at him defiantly.

“And you do?”

DeKok looked at him.

“What do you mean?”

It was Vledder’s turn to grin.

“Do you ask for marriage certificates? I don’t seem to recall that you asked for any identification from the woman we surprised in the Farmer’s Alley. You certainly didn’t ask for a marriage certificate.”

DeKok shook his head.

“No, I didn’t. But I can tell you that she was born about thirty-five years ago under the name of Judith Klarenbeek in the Old Wilhelmina Hospital in Amsterdam. Before she married Thornbush she was a dancer of some renown.”

“And how did you find all that out?”

“I had it checked out. By the way, nothing detrimental or disreputable is known about the couple. No police records, anyway.”

Vledder stared pensively at the road.

“In any case she wasn’t the woman that was listed as Mrs. Thornbush on the passenger’s manifest.”

DeKok smiled.

“A logical conclusion. The real Mrs. Thornbush wouldn’t have been looking for her husband in Farmer’s Alley if she had made a date to meet him at Schiphol.” He paused for a moment. “Although…”

“Although, what?”

“Perhaps the trip to Houston was a secret that Mrs. Thornbush wasn’t about to reveal to us.”

Vledder gave him a penetrating look.

“In other words, the Mrs. Thornbush on the manifest was the real Mrs.

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