Borkmann's point

6

Four reporters were lying in wait by the front desk, but Bausen was clearly used to sending them packing.

“Press conference tomorrow morning, eleven o’clock sharp. Not a word out of us until then!”

Van Veeteren declined Bausen’s offer of a modest meal and a lift back to the hotel.

“I need some fresh air. Thought I’d buy some newspapers as well.”

Bausen nodded.

“Here’s my phone number in case you change your mind. I expect I’ll be in all evening.”

He handed a business card to Van Veeteren, who put it in his breast pocket. The chief of police clambered into his some what battered Toyota and drove away. Van Veeteren watched him go.

Nice fellow, he thought. I wonder if he plays chess as well.

He looked at his watch. Half past five. A couple of hours’ work in his room, and then dinner. That sounded like a good way of passing the time. That was just about the only skill he’d managed to acquire over the years: the ability to kill time.

Well, plus a certain aptitude for finding violent lawbreak ers, of course.

He picked up his briefcase and set off in the direction of the harbor.

Fourteen cassettes and three folders.

They were all that constituted the material concerning the Eggers case. He tipped them onto the bed and hesitated for a moment. Then he rang reception and ordered a beer. He tucked the folders under his arm and went to sit on the balcony.

It took him several minutes to adjust the parasol so that he wasn’t troubled by the evening sun, but once he’d sorted that out and the girl had brought his beer, he sat out there until he’d read every single word.

The conclusion he drew was simple and straightforward, and perhaps best expressed in Inspector Moerk’s words: “We don’t know a damn thing.”

He wasn’t exactly looking forward to listening to the recordings of all the interviews. In normal circumstances, if he’d been on home ground, he would have had them typed out as a matter of course; but as things were, it was no doubt best to take the bull by the horns and put the earphones on. In any case, he decided to postpone that chore until later, or even tomorrow. Instead, he moved on to the next murder, as depicted in the newspapers. He’d acquired four-two national ones and two issues of a local rag, today’s and yesterday’s.

The national dailies had suitably large, fat headlines, but the text was decidedly thin. They evidently hadn’t sent any reporters to Kaalbringen yet. No doubt they would turn up at the press conference. The man in charge of the case, Chief Inspector Bausen, had issued a statement but had only revealed the alleged fact that the police were following up several lines of inquiry.

Oh, really? thought Van Veeteren.

The local rag was called de Journaal, and the coverage was more substantial: pictures of Bausen, the place where the body was discovered and the victim-albeit one from when he was still alive. And a photograph of Eggers. The headline on the front page said the axman strikes again. town terror stricken, and on an inside page a couple of questions were highlighted: “Who’ll be the next victim?” and “Are our police up to it?”

He skimmed through the articles and read the obituary of Ernst Simmel, who was something of a local stalwart and hon orary citizen, it seemed-a member of the Rotary Club, a director of the local football club and on the board of the bank.

He had held several offices previously, before moving to live in Spain… no sooner is he back home than he’s brutally murdered.

De mortuis… thought Van Veeteren, and threw the news paper onto the floor. What the hell am I doing here?

He took off his shirt and padded into the bathroom. What was the name of that restaurant?

The Blue Ship?

The assumption that representatives of the national press would turn up proved to be well founded. As he walked through the hotel foyer, two middle-aged gentlemen darted out of the bar. Their ruddy complexions were a telltale indica tion of their trade, and Van Veeteren paused with a sigh.

“Chief Inspector Van Veeteren! Cruickshank from the

Telegraaf!”

“Muller from the Allgemejne!” announced the other. “I think we’ve met-”

“My name’s Rolling,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m a traveling salesman specializing in grandfather clocks. There must be some mistake.”

“Ha ha,” said Muller.

“When can we have a chat?” asked Cruickshank.

“At the press conference in the police station at eleven o’clock tomorrow morning,” said Van Veeteren, opening the front door.

“Is it you or Bausen who’s in charge of the investigation?” asked Muller.

“What investigation?” said Van Veeteren.

The main color used for the interior decoration of The Blue

Ship was red. The bar was no more than half full, and there were plenty of empty tables in the dining room. Van Veeteren was seated right at the back, with no near neighbors; but even so, he hadn’t even started his main course before a thin gentle man with gleaming eyes and a nervous smile materialized in front of him.

“Excuse me. Schalke from de Journaal. You’re that chief inspector, aren’t you?”

Van Veeteren didn’t respond.

“I was the last person to speak to him. I’ve been inter viewed by Bausen and Kropke, of course; but if you’d like a chat, I’d be happy to oblige.”

He glanced down meaningfully at the empty chair opposite the chief inspector.

“Could we meet in the bar when I’ve finished eating?” pro posed Van Veeteren.

Schalke nodded and withdrew. Van Veeteren started to work his way listlessly through something described crypti cally on the menu as “Chef ’s Pride with Funghi and Moz zarella.” When he’d finished his meal and paid his bill, he still had no idea what he’d been eating.

“He sat on the same chair as you’re on now,” said Schalke.

“Very much alive. One thing is certain. He had no idea he was going to have his head chopped off. He acted exactly the same as he always did.”

“And how was that?” asked Van Veeteren, sucking the froth off his beer.

“How was that? Well… a bit distant and supercilious, to tell you the truth. Not easy to talk to. He was always like that.

His mind was sort of… elsewhere.”

That doesn’t surprise me, thought Van Veeteren.

“He seemed to be trying to flirt a bit with one of the girls sitting over there.”

He pointed.

“Flirt?”

“Well, maybe that’s exaggerating it. But he was giving her the eye all right.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Are you saying that Ernst Simmel was a… philanderer?”

Schalke hesitated, but only for a second.

“Well, not quite that, I don’t think. I didn’t know him all that well, and he’d been away for several years… kicked over the traces now and then, I suppose, but nothing serious.”

“His marriage wasn’t all that serious either then, I assume,” said Van Veeteren.

“No… You could put it like that, I suppose.”

“And he left here at about eleven?”

“A few minutes past.”

“Which way did he go?”

“That way.” Schalke pointed again. “Down toward the square and the harbor.”

“Didn’t he live in the other direction?”

“You can go either way, in fact. It’s just that it’s a bit longer via the harbor.”

“You didn’t see anybody follow him?”

“No.”

“Why do you think he took the longer route?”

“I don’t know. Women, perhaps.”

“Whores?”

“Yes… we have one or two. They usually hang about down there.”

“Did you notice anybody else leave the bar after Simmel?”

“No… I’ve been thinking about that, but I don’t think any body did.”

Van Veeteren sighed.

“What questions would you ask if you were in my place?”

Schalke considered.

“God knows! I haven’t a clue, to be honest.”

“You don’t have any theories about what happened?”

Schalke considered again. It was obvious that he would have loved to come up with a bold hypothesis, but he gave up after a while.

“No, none at all, to be honest,” he said. “It must be a mad man, I reckon… Somebody who’s escaped from a funny farm, maybe?”

Funny farm? thought Van Veeteren. A well-chosen expres sion for a scribbler to use, I must say.

“Bausen’s been following that up,” he said. “The only per son who’s escaped is a confused old lady in her nineties. Has Alzheimer’s and goes around in a wheelchair…”

“I don’t suppose it’s her then,” said Schalke.

Van Veeteren drained his beer and decided it was time to go home. He hopped off his bar stool and thanked Schalke for his assistance.

“Is it always as empty as this here?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no!” said Schalke. “It’s usually packed. I mean, it’s Friday and all that… People are just scared stiff. They daren’t go out!”

Scared stiff? thought Van Veeteren as he stood on the pave ment outside. Yes, of course they’re scared stiff.

Town terror stricken?

It took him barely ten minutes to walk from The Blue Ship to the harbor and The See Warf. Quite a few cars were around, but he saw no more than a dozen or so pedestrians, all of them in groups. The few bars and cafes that were open also seemed to be fairly empty. The Palladium cinema had started its late evening showing, but he had the impression that it was just as empty in there. Even if the Kaalbringen nightlife was nothing to write home about, the trend was clear enough.

The murderer… the executioner… the Axman left no body unaffected.

Hardly surprising. He stood for a while outside his hotel and wondered if he maybe ought to go to the municipal woods and take a look but decided to wait. No doubt it would be bet ter to do that in daylight.

There were a lot of other things to take care of tomorrow, of course, but as he settled down in bed and switched on the cassette player, it was Inspector Moerk’s words that were ring ing in his ears.

Nothing. We don’t know a damn thing.

An attractive woman, incidentally, he thought. A pity I’m not twenty-five years younger.

By the time he’d heard one and a half interviews, he was sleeping like a log.