“Well,” said Munster, “so that’s that, then.”
“Really?” said Van Veeteren.
“Where have they sent him?”
Van Veeteren snorted.
“Majorna. Hasn’t Caen answered yet?”
“No, but we have lots of other things to see to.”
“Oh yes? What, for example?”
“This, to start with,” said Munster, passing him the newspaper.
The case of the black street girl who was discovered nailed to a cross in the fashionable suburb of Dikken kept Van Veeteren and Munster busy for thirty-six hours without a break. Then a neo-Nazi organization claimed responsibility and the whole business was handed over to the national antiterrorist squad.
Munster went home and slept for sixteen hours, and Van Veeteren would have done the same had it not been for Bismarck. The dog was now in such a bad way that the only option left was to have it put down. He phoned Jess and explained the situation, whereupon his daughter was suddenly afflicted by an attack of sentimentality and begged him to keep the dog alive for two more days, so that she could be present at the end.
It was her dog, after all.
Van Veeteren spent those two days half crazy with exhaustion, shoveling gruel into one end of the bitch, and wiping her clean at the other end with a wet towel. By the time Jess finally turned up, he was so purple with anger and fatigue that she felt obliged to remind him of the fifth Commandment.
“Oh, Daddy,” she said, giving him a kiss. “Might it not be just as well to take you, too, while we’re at it?”
This induced from Van Veeteren a bellow so loud that Mrs.
Loewe, a widow who lived in the apartment below, felt it incumbent upon her to ring the police. The duty officer, a young and promising constable by the name of Widmar Krause, recognized the address and had a fair idea of the circumstances. On his own authority, he canceled the police response he had promised the complainant.
Jess took over Bismarck, drove her to the vet’s, and a few hours later the dog breathed her last in Jess’s lap.
Van Veeteren took a shower, then chased down Munster on the telephone with unusual enthusiasm.
“Has Caen replied?” he roared into the receiver.
“No,” said Munster.
“Why the hell not?”
“How’s Bismarck?” enquired Munster, refreshed after his rest.
“Hold your tongue!” yelled Van Veeteren. “Answer my question!”
“I’ve no idea. What do you believe the reason might be?”
“Belief is something you have in church, and God is dead!
Give me his telephone number this instant, and shove the fax up Hiller’s ass!”
Munster looked up the number, and half an hour later, Van Veeteren got through to Caen.
“Caen.”
“Eduard Caen?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Detective Chief Inspector Van Veeteren. I’m phoning from Maardam, in the Old World.”
“Yes?”
“I’d like to ask you a few questions. I’m sorry we’re so far apart.”
“What’s it about?”
“Eva Ringmar. I assume you are familiar with that name.”
There was silence for a few seconds.
“Well?”
“May I remind you of my oath of professional secrecy. . ”
“The same here. May I remind you that I have the authority to summon you to Europe for interrogation, if I want to.”
“I understand. Let’s hear it, then. What do you want to know?”
“A few minor details. In the first place, did you have an affair with her?”
“Of course not. I never had an affair with any of my clients.”
“So that’s not the reason why you immigrated to Australia?”
“Don’t be silly, Inspector! I really have no intention of answering that kind of. .”
At that point the connection was lost. Van Veeteren thumped the receiver on his desk a few times, and after a short intermezzo in Japanese, Caen was back on the line.
“That kind of what?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Insinuation,” said Caen.
“I’m looking for a murderer,” said Van Veeteren, unmoved.
“A man. Can you give me any suggestions?”
There was a pause.
“No. .” Caen said hesitantly. “No, I don’t think I can. To tell you the truth-can I rely on you, Inspector?”
“Of course.”
“To tell you the truth, I didn’t get anywhere with her. But she got better even so. The reason I was brought in was the problems caused by the death of her son. . But there was something. .”
It sounds as if he’s weighing every single word, Van Veeteren thought. Does he have any idea of what it costs to phone halfway across the world?
“What?”
“I don’t know. There was something hidden. She didn’t bother to pretend-that there wasn’t anything, I mean. Perhaps it wasn’t possible to hide it. There was something she didn’t tell me about, and she was quite open about that fact.
Are you with me? It’s not easy to explain this over the telephone.”
“She had a secret?”
“To put it simply, yes.”
“A man?”
“I have no idea, Inspector. No idea at all.”
“Give me a clue!”
“There’s nothing else I can say. I promise you!”
“What the hell did you talk about?”
“Willie. Her son. Yes, we talked almost exclusively about him. She used me as a means of remembering him. I have a son myself, about the same age as hers, and she liked to compare. . We often pretended that Willie was still alive; we talked about our sons and discussed their futures. That kind of thing.”
“I see. . And she got better?”
“Yes, she did. Those meetings in Maardam were not justified at all from a therapeutic point of view, but she was insistent. I liked her, and she paid my fee. Why should I turn her away?”
“Why indeed, Mr. Caen? What was your impression of her husband, Andreas Berger?”
“Not much at all. We never met, and she didn’t say much about him. She was the one who wanted a divorce. . It was due to the accident, no doubt about that; but don’t ask me how. I think he wanted to keep her, even when she was at her worst.”
Van Veeteren pondered that.
“I thought you had arrested a suspect?” Caen said.
“He’s been tried and sentenced,” said Van Veeteren.
“Sentenced? Has he admitted it? Then why are you still-”
“Because he didn’t do it,” interrupted Van Veeteren. “Can I ask you to do something for me?”
“Of course.”
“If anything occurs to you, no matter how insignificant it might seem, would you please get in touch with me and tell me? You have my number, I take it?”
“No, I don’t think I have.”
“Didn’t you receive our fax?”
“Your fax? I’m afraid I haven’t checked the fax machine for a week or more. I’m on holiday, you see.”
“On holiday in November?”
“Yes, it’s early summer here. Seventy-five degrees, the lemon trees are in bloom. . ”
“I’ll bet they are,” said Van Veeteren.