Hour of the Wolf

38

Monday was rather more eventful than Sunday had been.

But only a little. Reinhart had only just arrived at Sunset Park when both mother and son Ponczak came out into the street. Pavarotti had the day off and was replaced by the significantly more optimistic Sergeant Baxter, who looked like a successful cross between a bulldog and a young Robert Redford: after a brief discussion he slid out of the car and began following Mrs Ponczak down towards Fifth Avenue. Her son set off in the opposite direction, eastwards towards Seventh Avenue, but Reinhart judged him to be of only minor interest (presumably kids go to school in this country as well, he thought) and remained in Baxter’s car.

It was an hour and ten minutes before anything happened. Baxter rang from a department store down on Pacific (still in Brooklyn) and said he was drinking coffee (with caffeine) in a cafeteria directly opposite the bodyshop where Mrs Ponczak apparently worked. Today, at least.

As number 602 seemed to be deserted (Mr Ponczak’s existence seemed to become more improbable with every hour that passed), Reinhart decided that Baxter might just as well stay where he was, drinking coffee and keeping his eye on the mobile object, while he looked after the somewhat less mobile house in Sunset Park.

Good Lord, he thought as he closed down the call from Baxter. Was this the kind of thing I used to do twenty-five years ago?

By half past twelve he had read seventy pages of James Ellroy’s My Dark Places, and started asking himself once again what sort of a country this was that he’d come to. At one o’clock he left the car and went to buy some provisions at the mini-market on the corner of Sixth and 45th. He bought bananas, a bottle of mineral water, a bar of chocolate and a few bagels. Apparently there was a minimarket on every other street corner, you could take your pick. As he walked back to the car he noticed that it had become a bit warmer, and a quarter of an hour later it started raining. He continued ploughing on through Ellroy’s morbid world, and spoke to both Baxter and Bloomguard on the telephone a few times. At half past three Ponczak junior returned home in the company of a red-headed schoolmate, and half an hour later Reinhart was relieved.

Monday, he thought on the way in to Manhattan. Two days left. What the hell am I doing here?

Despite the fact that a smoggy dusk was already in the air, he took the ferry over to Staten Island. Managed to catch the right bus to take him to Snugg’s Harbor, where he wandered around for an hour among rotting leaves — it was the same place he’d wandered around with a young woman fifteen years ago: that was why he was repeating the experience now, but it didn’t feel the same at all. Then it had been plus thirty degrees, and the leaves had still been hanging on the trees.

Her name had been Rachel, and he hoped it still was: he recalled having loved her passionately for four days. With his head, his heart and his sexual organs. By the fifth day his head (perhaps also his heart, come to that) had vetoed the relationship, and after the sixth they had gone their separate ways.

He spent the evening with Bloomguard in an Asian restaurant in Canal Street. Bloomguard would have liked to take him up to 1 Police Plaza as well, to show him the latest technical advances in the fight against crime (electronic bugging devices, laser-sweepers etc.) but Reinhart declined the invitation as politely as he could.

He was back at his hotel by midnight. Winnifred had sent him a fax with the outlines of both Joanna’s hands and a message to the effect that they had use of Professor Gentz-Hillier’s house in Limbuijs for a fortnight from the 27th.

He slid the fax under his pillow and fell asleep without having rung home.

When he came to Sunset Park on Tuesday morning, he didn’t understand at first what Sergeant Pavarotti said to him.

‘The fucker’s in there.’

‘Eh?’ said Reinhart.

‘In there. That bastard. In the house.’

He pointed over his shoulder.

‘Who?’

‘That guy you’re looking for, of course. Why the devil do you think we’re sitting here?’

‘What the hell are you saying?’ said Reinhart. ‘What… I mean, what have you done? How do you know he’s in there?’

‘Because I saw him go in, of course. A quarter of an hour ago. He came down from Fifth Avenue. Presumably he’d come with the R-train to 45th Street. He came walking past me, up the steps and rang the bell.. Then she appeared and let him in. The boy had left for school just five minutes beforehand. They’re in there now, as I said.’

‘Jesus fucking Christ,’ said Reinhart, to show that he had understood the local lingo. ‘What measures have you taken?’

‘In accordance with orders, of course,’ snorted Pavarotti. ‘I rang Bloomguard. He’s on his way here with a posse. He should be here any minute now.’

Reinhart felt as if he had suddenly woken up out of a three-day-long hibernation.

‘Good,’ he said. ‘Damned good.’

‘It’ll be a straightforward operation,’ said Bloomguard, ‘but we mustn’t take any risks. Two men go round to the back. Two cover the street and the windows at the front. Two go and ring the doorbell — me and Chief Inspector Reinhart. There’s no reason to think he’s armed, but we’ll follow the usual procedures even so.’

The usual procedures? Reinhart wondered.

Two minutes later everybody was in place. Pavarotti stayed in the car with his mobile in one hand and his gun in the other. When Bloomguard gave the signal Reinhart walked up the eight steps and rang the bell. Bloomguard followed twelve centimetres behind him. The door was opened by Mrs Ponczak.

‘Yes?’ she said in surprise.

Three seconds later there were four men inside the house. Sergeants Stiffle and Johnson took the upstairs floor, Bloomguard and Reinhart stormed into the living room and kitchen downstairs.

He was sitting in the kitchen.

When Reinhart clapped eyes on him he had just turned sideways on his chair and seen the two hefty-looking police officers on the kitchen terrace, each of them aiming their 7.6 millimetre Walthers at him. Bloomguard was standing shoulder to shoulder with Reinhart, aiming his own gun at him as well.

Reinhart put his gun into its holster and cleared his throat.

‘Dr Clausen,’ he said. ‘I have the doubtful pleasure of arresting you for the murder of Erich Van Veeteren and Vera Miller. You have the right to remain silent, but anything you say might be used in evidence against you.’

He shrank back slightly, but not a lot. Put down the mug of coffee he’d been holding in his hand. Looked Reinhart in the eye without moving a muscle. His dark face looked haggard — a few days of stubble and bags under his eyes. Hasn’t had much sleep, by the look of it, Reinhart thought. No wonder.

But there was something else about his appearance, something that looked completely fresh, he noted. As if it had only landed on his face a few seconds beforehand. A sort of relief.

That’s probably what it was. Perhaps that’s what he felt, at last.

‘Keller,’ he said in a low voice, hardly more than a whisper. ‘You forgot Keller. I killed him as well.’

‘We suspected as much,’ said Reinhart.

‘I’m sorry.’

Reinhart said nothing.

‘I’m sorry about it all, but I’m pleased I killed Keller.’

Reinhart nodded.

‘We’ll take the rest at the station. Take him away.’

Mrs Ponczak hadn’t said a word since they stormed in, and she didn’t say a word when they led away her brother. Reinhart was the last one to pass her in the vestibule: he paused for a moment and tried to think of something to say.

‘Sorry to intrude,’ was the best he could think of. ‘We’ll be in touch.’

She nodded and closed the door behind him.

He interrogated Pieter Clausen for three hours in a light-blue room in the police station of the 22nd district. Recorded it all on tape, but postponed the transcription and signatures in view of the language problem. When he had finished he left Clausen in his cell, securely guarded, and went to Bloomguard’s office in order to telephone Maardam. After a short pause he was put through to Moreno.

‘I’ll be returning with him tomorrow evening,’ he said. ‘He’s confessed to everything — I think he’s relieved that it’s all over.’

‘What happened to Keller?’ asked Moreno.

Reinhart took a deep breath and began to explain.

‘Clausen killed him. He’d worked out who he was… Ambushed him and killed him, just like that. More or less the same method as he’d used for Erich and Vera Miller. Just outside his home in Boorkhejm, in the centre of the estate — but it was the middle of the night and nobody saw anything… It was just as Keller was about to set off to collect the money. If there’s anything he doesn’t regret, it’s doing Keller in. He claims Keller knew that he was on his trail because he was armed with a big knife that evening. But Clausen was quicker. Anyway, he put the body in his car, drove out towards Linzhuisen and buried him among some trees. I’ve got a description of the location, but maybe we can leave him there for a few more days.’

‘Certainly,’ said Moreno. ‘The ground frost will keep him in check. Winter has set in over here. How did he manage the role change?’

‘It was straightforward, it seems. Before burying the body he took Keller’s keys and wallet. Drove back to Boorkhejm, let himself into Keller’s flat and… well, stole his identity, I suppose you could say. They were quite similar in appearance, that was what The Chief Inspector had caught onto, and anyway, who the hell looks like his passport photo? On the Friday he rang and ordered a ticket to New York, took the scooter around lunch time and rode out to Sechshafen. Stayed one night at one of the airport hotels, then flew out here. No problems at passport control — a two-month tourist visa and white skin solves all the problems, I expect. Checked in at that hotel in Lower East — you know the place. Then moved out after just the one night. Rented a little flat among all the Russians on Coney Island — saw an advert in a shop window and followed it up. I don’t understand why he didn’t find something better, he had plenty of money after all. But in any case, it wasn’t as good as he’d thought…’

‘Alone with his conscience?’ said Moreno.

‘Presumably,’ said Reinhart. ‘He contacted his sister and told her he’d got problems — that was before I went to see her. She phoned him and warned him, but she probably didn’t realize who I was and he couldn’t stand being on his own any longer. He didn’t tell her what he’d done, just that he had problems. So he came to visit her when he thought the coast was clear — but of course it wasn’t. He must have felt really cut off. The more people who live in a city, the more space you have to feel isolated. I think he’d been taking quite a lot of medication as well — that’s presumably what enabled him to go through with it all… It’s only just beginning to sink in that he’s killed four people.’

‘So he’s on the edge of a breakdown, is he?’ wondered Moreno.

‘I suspect so,’ said Reinhart. ‘We can go into more detail when I get back. Can you inform The Chief Inspector, by the way? I’ll be arriving with Clausen tomorrow evening… It will be good if he can let us know how he wants to go about things. What do you think?’

‘All right,’ said Moreno. ‘I expect he’ll be wanting one last round.’

‘It looks like it,’ said Reinhart. ‘Anyway, over and out.’

‘See you soon,’ said Moreno.

It snowed again on Wednesday morning. There were four of them in the car out to JFK: Bloomguard and Reinhart in the front seats, Clausen and a gigantic black police constable by the name of Whitefoot in the back — the two latter were linked together by handcuffs for which Whitefoot had a key in his back pocket, and Reinhart had another in reserve in his wallet. It was obvious that Christmas was coming: the journey took only half an hour, but they managed to hear ‘White Christmas’ twice and ‘Jinglebells’ three times on the car radio. Reinhart was feeling homesick.

‘It was great to meet you,’ said Bloomguard as they stood outside the security check. ‘We plan to make a little trip to Europe in three or four years’ time, Veronique and I. And Quincey, of course. Perhaps we can meet over a cup of coffee? In Paris or Copenhagen or somewhere?’

‘Sure,’ said Reinhart. ‘Why not both? You’ve got my card.’

They shook hands and Bloomguard vanished into the departure hall. Clausen seemed to have become more lifeless with every hour that passed since they found him, and Whitefoot had to more or less drag him onto the plane. Reinhart was deeply grateful that he wasn’t the one who would have to sit handcuffed to the murderer for the seven hours of the flight. He had offered to take the doctor back home himself, but there had been no question of the offer being accepted. Whitefoot had been on this kind of mission before, and knew what it was all about. Without a word he dumped Clausen into the window seat, sat down next to him and left the aisle seat for Reinhart. He explained to Clausen that he would be allowed one toilet visit, no more, and that he should regard his right arm as having been amputated. Everything — eating, turning the pages of a book or newspaper, picking his nose, the lot — would have to be done with his left hand. It was no problem, said Whitefoot, they had more time than in fucking hell.

Reinhart was deeply grateful, as already said. Read some more of the Ellroy, slept, ate, listened to music, and at 22.30 local time they landed at Sechshafen in a foggy Europe. Whitefoot said his goodbyes. Checked in for one night at an airport hotel, handed Clausen over to Reinhart, Rooth, Moreno and Jung, and wished everybody a Merry Christmas.

‘Three of you?’ said Reinhart. ‘There was no need for all three of you to come, for Christ’s sake.’

‘DeBries and Bollmert are waiting in the cars,’ said Moreno.

There was one day left to Christmas Eve.