42

“You’re a real pal!” said Ulich.

Tomas Heckel wasn’t supposed to start his shift until ten, but this evening they had a special agreement. If Heckel started at a quarter to nine instead, Ulich would have time to get to the boxing gala where his son was due to take part in a light-heavyweight bout with a black Englishman by the name of Whitecock.

It wasn’t the main event, of course, just one of the supporting fights. But like his dad in the old days, young Ulich packed a formidable punch. And a marked ability to take punishment.

Heckel, who was a second-year medical student, was well aware of the risks boxers took when they allowed other people to bash them around the head for money, but his job as a night porter was too important for him to get into an argument about the rights and wrongs of it. Nor did he want to deprive the father of the opportunity to sit at ringside as his son’s brain cells hit the canvas. As well as sandwiches and coffee, his rucksack contained three fat anatomy books. He intended to stay awake all night, swotting. Time is money, and there were only six days to go before his exam.

“You’re a real pal,” said Ulich again as he eased his gigantic body out of the porter’s booth. “There’ll be a bottle of the hard stuff for you if the lad wins!”

“I wouldn’t dream of accepting it,” said Heckel. “Is there anything I need to know?”

Ulich thought for a moment.

“There’s a handball team from Copenhagen on the third floor,” he said. “You’d better keep an eye on them. Oh yes, there’s somebody who has to move his car. He’s parked in such a way that the garbage truck won’t be able to get at the bins tomorrow morning. Prawitz called in to tell me, there’s a note by the telephone. I think it’s that Czerpinski character in number 26. I rang his room, but he wasn’t there.”

“Okay,” said Heckel. “Have a good time. I hope he does well.”

“He’ll skin the guy alive, dammit!” said Ulich, shadowbox-ing his way out through the swing doors.

Heckel sat down and leafed through the log book. Thirty of the thirty-six rooms occupied-not bad for a Monday in December. He switched on Ulich’s little television set: it might be an idea to watch the news before devoting himself to his anatomy studies. Besides, he usually found it difficult to settle down and read before midnight.

A few minutes still to go. Some ridiculous program called A Question of Sport hadn’t finished yet. What had Ulich said?

A wrongly parked car?

He found the note. Scrutinized it and memorized the car registration number while calling Room 26. No answer. He hung up, but taped the note to the telephone, so that he wouldn’t forget about it.

The news program was starting. The lead item was that murder hunt, of course. He’d heard about it several times during the course of the afternoon. There was something about it in the newspapers lying on the counter as well, he noticed.

Carl Ferger. . at least three murders. . blue Fiat, registration number. .

He stared at the plate on the television screen.

Stared at the telephone.

Switched off the TV and grabbed one of the newspapers.

He snatched at the note he had just taped to the telephone and started comparing, letter for letter, number for number. As if he could barely read. Or was standing there with a lottery ticket in his hand, one that had just won over a million and he couldn’t really believe it was true. .

An absurd but irritating thought buzzed around inside his head: he wasn’t going to get much anatomy revision done that night.

Then he pulled himself together and phoned the police.

The first call came just after half past nine. Munster took it, as Van Veeteren happened to be in the bathroom.

“Excellent,” said Munster. “Yes, I see. He’ll get back to you in five minutes. What’s your number?”

He made a note of it, then settled down again with the evening paper. Van Veeteren returned. Munster waited for a few seconds.

“They’ve got him, up in Schaabe,” he said, in the calmest tone of voice he could manage.

“They’ve what?” Van Veeteren exclaimed. “About bloody time.”

“Well, nearly got him,” Munster added. “You’d better ring back. It was a Detective Chief Inspector Frank. Do you know him?”

Van Veeteren nodded and dialed the number.

“Frank? Van Veeteren here. I’m delighted to hear that a blind chicken can still find a grain of corn. . What did you say?”

Munster observed his boss over the top of his newspaper.

Van Veeteren was hunched over the telephone and looked as if he were trying to squeeze the murderer out of the receiver. All the time he was chewing away at two toothpicks, and listening.

“I see. . Make sure you grab him when he comes back, or I’ll have you skinned alive. I’m flying to Australia on Thursday, and I need him before then.”

Frank said something, and Van Veeteren nodded slowly.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll stay here. Ring the moment you’ve got him.”

He hung up.

“You can go home now,” he said to Munster. “They’ll pick him up as soon as he shows at the hotel. He’s shaved off all his hair, started wearing glasses and made himself up, it seems.

An ingenious bastard. Booked into the Palace Hotel for four nights, a congress for artificial-limb salesmen. . Have you ever heard anything like it, Munster? Artificial-limb salesmen!”

“How did they find him?”

“Parking offense,” said Van Veeteren with a shrug. “The deadly sin of our time, no doubt about it.”

When Munster emerged into the raw night air, he realized to his surprise that he wasn’t dying to get home: he would have happily stayed up there with the chief inspector and waited.

Sat reading his newspaper for a while longer, until the next call came. .

The last verse.

The signal to indicate that the hunt was over.

Case closed. Murderer captured.

Time for the wheels of justice to start grinding. .

There were still a few loose ends, it seemed; but even so, the basic facts appeared to be clear. The fax had explained everything; there was no longer scope for alternative theories m i n d ’ s e y e

and solutions. Van Veeteren had been right. As usual. Carl Ferger was their man.

And it was, as somebody had remarked a few weeks ago, a terrible business.

As he drove to the suburb where he lived, Munster thought over what Van Veeteren had said about the determinant. He couldn’t quite work out if the chief inspector was being serious or not. However, it couldn’t be denied that there was some truth in it, and maybe it was yet again the same old story: the only way of catching the big and most evil players was by trawling with a wide-mesh net aimed at capturing both the serious and the frivolous.

He was momentarily surprised by the wording of that thought, but then it dawned on him that it must be something Reinhart had said.

A wide-mesh net. .

In any case, he made up his mind to look up “determinant”

in his new and as yet incomplete twenty-four-volume encyclo-pedia when he got home.

Van Veeteren didn’t have to wait for as long as he’d feared. The call from Frank came as early as half past ten.

Ferger had been arrested.

He had strolled into the hotel without a care in the world, and immediately been overpowered by twelve armed police officers.

“Twelve?” wondered Van Veeteren.

“Twelve,” said Frank.

“Has he confessed?”

“No. He’s playing silly buggers.”

“Okay,” said Van Veeteren. “Put him in a prison van and shunt him up here tonight. I fancy him for breakfast.”

“Your word is my command,” said Frank. “How’s your

backhand nowadays? I seem to recall that you had a few problems with it when we were in Frigge. . ”

“Lethal,” said Van Veeteren. “Next time you’re in these parts, call in and I’ll give you a demonstration.”

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