Borkmann's point

16

“It’s the bishop that’s in the wrong place,” said Bausen.

“I can see that,” said Van Veeteren.

“F6 would have been better. As it is now, you’ll never man age to get it out. Why didn’t you use the Nimzo-Indian defense, as I suggested?”

“I’ve never mastered it properly,” muttered Van Veeteren.

“There’s more oomph in the Russian-”

“Oomph, yes,” said Bausen. “So much oomph it whips up a damn gale and blows big holes through your own lines. Do you give up?”

“No,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m not dead yet.” He checked his watch. “Good Lord! It’s nearly a quarter past one!”

“No problem. Night is the mother of day.”

“You have no more pieces than I have, after all-”

“Not necessary by this stage. My h-pawn will become a queen in another three or four moves at most.”

The telephone rang, and Bausen went indoors to answer it.

“What the hell?” he muttered. “At this time in the morn ing…”

Van Veeteren leaned forward and studied the situation. No doubt about it. Bausen was right. It was hopeless. Black could force the exchange of both castles and central pawns, and then the h-file would be wide open. His remaining bishop was stuck behind his own pawns on the king’s side. Bad play, really shitty play-he could have accepted a loss if he’d been black, but when he had the white pieces and was able to use the Russian opening, there was no excuse. No excuse at all.

Bausen came rushing out.

“Call it a draw, for God’s sake!” he yelled. “He’s done it again!”

Van Veeteren leaped to his feet.

“When?”

“I don’t know. They phoned in five minutes ago. Come on for Christ’s sake! This is an emergency!”

He plowed his way through the undergrowth with Van

Veeteren after him, but stopped at the gate.

“Oh, shit! The car keys…”

“Are you really thinking of driving?” said Van Veeteren.

“You’ve drunk at least three pints!”

Bausen hesitated.

“We’ll walk,” he said. “It’s only a few hundred yards.”

“Let’s go!” said Van Veeteren.

Constable Bang had been first on the scene, and had succeeded in waking up the whole apartment block in the space of a few minutes. When Bausen and Van Veeteren came around the corner, lights were on in every window and there were masses of people milling about on the stairs and landings.

Bang had placed himself in the relevant doorway, however, so there was no risk of unauthorized persons trampling all over the crime scene, at least. In firm but friendly fashion

Bausen started ushering the neighbors back into their own apartments, while Van Veeteren turned his attention to the young woman sitting on the floor at Bang’s feet, shivering. It looked as if she’d discovered the body and called the police.

“My name’s Van Veeteren,” he said. “Would you like some thing to drink?”

She shook her head. He took hold of her hands and noted that they were icy cold and trembling.

“What’s your name?”

“Beatrice Linckx. We live together. His name’s Maurice Ruhme.”

“I know,” said Bausen, who had cleared away all the neigh bors. “You can go with Mrs. Clausewitz for the time being, and she’ll give you something hot to drink.”

A chubby woman was peering at the scene from behind him.

“Come along, little Beatrice,” she said, holding up a yellow blanket. “Come on. Auntie Anna will look after you.”

Miss Linckx clambered to her feet and went with Mrs.

Clausewitz as bidden, albeit unsteadily.

“There’s goodness in the world as well,” said Bausen. “We mustn’t forget that. Shall we take a look? I’ve instructed Bang to keep the rabble at bay.”

Van Veeteren swallowed and peeked in through the door.

“God Almighty!” said Chief Inspector Bausen.

The body of Maurice Ruhme was lying just inside the door, and at first glance it looked as if every single drop of blood had left it. The wall-to-wall carpet in the hall, some four or five square yards, was so thoroughly soaked that it was barely pos sible to guess its original color. Van Veeteren and Bausen re mained in the doorway.

“We’d better wait for the crime scene boys,” said Van Veeteren.

“There are some footprints there,” said Bausen, pointing.

“Yes, I can see them.”

“The same blow, more or less…”

That seemed to be right. Ruhme was lying on his stomach with his arms underneath him, as if he’d fallen forward but not managed to stop himself. His head was still attached, but it looked as if it had very nearly been severed as well. His face was turned to one side and slightly upward, and his wide-open eyes appeared to be staring at a point level with Bausen’s knees, more or less. Not only blood had flowed out of the opening in his neck, but also some undigested bits of food, by the look of it… and something fleshy that was still attached somewhere.

Van Veeteren assumed it must be his tongue.

“He must have been here for some time,” said Bausen.

“Have you noticed the smell?”

“Twenty-four hours at least,” said Van Veeteren. “Shouldn’t the forensic team be here by now?”

“Five minutes, I’d guess,” said Bausen, checking his watch.

“It seems I was right about the weapon, at least.”

That was the novelty this time. In the case of Maurice

Ruhme, the murderer had not been content with one blow after slashing through his neck and killing him instantly, he’d dealt him another blow. This time to the base of his spine, and he’d left the weapon embedded there.

It looked as if it was firmly entrenched. The handle was pointing diagonally upward, like some sort of grotesque phal lus, back to front; and from the little of what could be made out of the blade, it seemed to be more or less as Bausen and Meuritz had supposed.

Short handle. Wide but shallow blade. A butcher’s imple ment, evidently, of the highest quality.

“God Almighty!” said Bausen again. “Can you really face standing here and looking at this?”

“No,” said Van Veeteren.