Albert Baantjer - Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 127, No. 6. Whole No. 778, June 2006

Nick strode forward and knocked on the door. An angry Sheriff Pike opened it. “We’re not to be disturbed. What are you doing here, Nicholas?”

“I have important information regarding Leonard Fine’s death, Sheriff.”

“Just wait out there till we’re finished with Mr. Oates.”

“It can’t wait,” Nick said, forcing his way into the room. The county prosecutor half rose from his chair, looking startled, and Wayne Oates merely seemed puzzled.

Nick dropped Leonard Fine’s journal on the sheriff’s desk. “I accidentally picked this up along with my papers after Fine’s collapse. When I realized what it was, I had to return it right away.”

“Accidentally,” the prosecutor repeated, but Nick ignored him.

He flipped open the book to the daily appointments section and pointed to the series of MOO notations. “Do you have any notion as to what these mean?” he asked, holding the book for Wayne Oates to see.

“Not the slightest.”

“That’s odd, since they’re your wife’s initials. She happened to mention that her mother’s name was Oliver. She’s Maggie Oliver Oates.”

The sheriff and the prosecutor were both out of their chairs, crowding around for a look at the book. “What’s this mean, Wayne?” Sheriff Pike asked.

“I don’t know.”

But Nick had an explanation. “It means that Len Fine and your wife were meeting regularly, every week or ten days. Can you think of any reason for those meetings?”

Wayne Oates moistened his lips. “No.”

“Since you had no knowledge of these meetings, is it safe to say they were clandestine in nature?”

That brought Wayne out of his chair, too. “Listen, if you’re implying my wife and Fine were lovers, you’re—”

“That’s exactly what I’m implying. And somehow you found out about it.”

Sheriff Pike stepped between them. “Let’s everyone calm down and be seated. If Maggie and Len were having a secret relationship, maybe he broke it off. Maybe that’s why she poisoned him.”

“Would she have poisoned her own pie, Sheriff, knowing it would make her the number-one suspect? And would Fine have used his dying breath to declare her the winner if they’d broken off their relationship?”

Sheriff Pike was shaking his head. “Then you tell me, Mr. Nicholas, who else could possibly have poisoned that pie? The testimony shows that Maggie was alone when she baked it, and sealed it in a box as soon as it was cool. She delivered it to Beth Buckley at the fair. Beth opened the pies and cut slices for judging in full view of the spectators. There was no chance for her or anyone else to have poisoned it.”

“You’re forgetting the matter of motive,” Nick said. “If Maggie and Fine were having an affair, there’s one other person with a motive for killing him — and who wouldn’t be too upset if Maggie got blamed for it.”

“Look here!” Wayne said, out of his chair again. “I didn’t kill anybody! There’s no way I could have poisoned that pie.”

“Ah, but there is,” Nick told them. “While the pie was cooling in the kitchen you went out there to get a knife to cut yourself a piece of the test pie, even though there was only one piece left. While you were out there with the pie it was a simple matter to poison it.”

“How?” Wayne demanded. “Tell me how! The pie was already baked, with its crust intact.”

“By injecting the poison into the pie with a hypodermic needle, through the air holes in the top crust. You’re a security guard at the hospital, with plenty of opportunity to obtain both the poison and the needles.”

That was the beginning of the end. By day’s end, Wayne Oates had made a full confession and Maggie had been freed. Nick and Gloria waited for her and drove her home. “I can’t thank you enough,” she told them. “You’ve saved my life. And Beth is awarding me the blue ribbon, even though Wayne poisoned my pie. If there’s anything I can do to repay you—”

“There is one thing,” Nick told her with a smile. “You could bake us one of those prize-winning pies.”

© 1996 by Uitgeverij De Fontein, Baarn, Netherlands. From De Cock en een hamerslag by Baantjer (Albert Cornelis), English translation ©2006 EQMM

The most popular author in the Netherlands, Baantjer has more than fifty novels in print featuring his series detective Inspector DeKok. A former inspector for the Amsterdam police himself, the author seems to spin many of his tales from commonplace events — if murder can ever be called such. The latest Baantjer title available in English is DeKok and Variations on Murder, which will be re-released in paperback in June 2006 by Speck Press.

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.”