29

‘What?’ said Inspector Krause. ‘I’m not quite with you.’

‘All right,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll say it again. I take it you remember that you pressed a button on your enormous computer last week and produced a list of names of places connected with a specific time in a railway timetable. . 14.42? It must have been last Wednesday or Thursday, I’d-’

‘Of course,’ said Krause indignantly. ‘That wasn’t what I was wondering about. I just thought the Chief Inspector-’

‘Hang on!’ interrupted Van Veeteren. ‘I have not been associated with those words for five years now — that ought to have been long enough for you to grasp the fact.’

‘I apologize,’ said Krause. ‘Don’t take it personally. But what was that business about the telephone?’

‘Do you know that Verlangen rang and spoke to his grandson about three weeks ago?’

‘I’d heard about it, yes. .’

‘What I want to know is where he rang from.’

‘Really? And how. .?’

‘It shouldn’t be all that difficult, nowadays.’

‘But if he rang from his mobile, you can’t just-’

‘Mobile?’

‘Yes.’

‘Not everybody has a mobile phone, despite what some people seem to think. Maarten Verlangen didn’t have one, for instance.’

‘Really? Well, I didn’t think-’

‘That means he must have rung from a land line. Perhaps from a card- or coin-operated phone, and so it shouldn’t be all that difficult for a bright detective inspector to track down where he rang from.’

‘I see,’ said Krause. ‘I’m with you.’

‘Good. A telephone call to the Vargas family in Palitzerstraat. Their number is 213 32 35. At some point between the twelfth and eighteenth of April, let’s say, to be generous. And then it would be interesting to compare-’

‘To compare that with the list of train times,’ said Krause. ‘I’m with you now — and I’m sorry that we didn’t catch on to this earlier. I’ll deal with it straight away. Where can I contact the Chief. . Where can I get in touch with you when I’m ready?’

‘Krantze’s antiquarian bookshop,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ll be sitting here, waiting. I assume you have my number?’

Krause confirmed that he did, and asked if there was anything else.

There wasn’t — not for the moment, at least, Van Veeteren assured him, and hung up. Leaned back in his armchair and picked up Nooteboom again.

One plus one, as already said.

Couldn’t they have worked this out themselves? he wondered while he was waiting. Why had they failed to put two and two together?

A telephone call from an unknown place, and a train journey to an unknown place.

Those were the only two leads they had, but even so they hadn’t managed to link them together. How useless can you get?

But on the other hand, perhaps it wasn’t all that odd. No doubt Verlangen’s disappearance was not very high up among the priorities at the Maardam police station. Perhaps it wasn’t even on their agenda at all? Most probably it was just one item among hundreds of others reported to the police — maybe it was more realistic to congratulate Münster on noticing the link with the G File?

The possible link. He suddenly began to feel highly sceptical about the whole business, and regretted having sounded so arrogant when talking to Krause. How big were the odds on the two lines of investigation actually crossing? Was it even going to be possible to establish where Verlangen had telephoned from on that day in April? What if there were a dozen calls during the time he had specified, all coming from places on the list? Saaren or Malbork, for instance. What if Belle Vargas’s husband’s ancient and ailing parents lived somewhere up there, and they were in the habit of ringing every day to discuss this and that, and report on their bowel movements?

I’m a conceited ass, he told himself grimly, going into the kitchenette to boil some water for coffee. They ought to be grateful that I resigned in good time.

‘Two,’ said Krause. ‘There are two possible alternatives regarding that phone call.’

‘Good,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’m grateful that you took the time to look into it.’

‘Eh?’ said Krause.

‘I said I was grate- Never mind. Let’s hear it.’

‘Yes, well,’ said Krause, clearing his throat. ‘I’ve been through all the incoming calls between the twelfth and the eighteenth of April with fru Vargas. . in accordance with the information I received from the telephone company. And there are two which she thinks are the most likely candidates. The only possibilities, in fact. We might be able to exclude one of them when we’ve spoken to her husband, but we haven’t been able to do that yet. .’

‘I see,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘What are the two places, then?’

‘Karpatz and Kaalbringen,’ said Krause. ‘On the fourteenth and the sixteenth respectively. I. . er. . I’m aware that Kaalbringen is on the 14.42 list.’

‘But Karpatz isn’t.’

‘No,’ said Krause. ‘So. .’

‘So one could say that there is really only one alternative?’

‘Well, yes,’ said Krause. ‘If it fits in, yes.’

I knew it, thought Van Veeteren. Dammit all! Thanks to some worn out synapse in my shrivelled mind, I knew it. It’s incredible, it’s simply not possible to get round or go past certain patterns. .

‘Hello?’

‘Yes?’

‘Are you still there, Chief Inspector? Oops, sorry, I-’

‘No problem. So, Kaalbringen it is. . We’d better not invest too much hope in this lead, but if it’s now thought that it’s worth the trouble of searching for Maarten Verlangen, well, it’s an indication of the way the wind is blowing. Don’t you think?’

‘Definitely,’ said Krause. I must say that I-’

‘You and your colleagues will have to take account of your priorities, of course — I understand that completely. Many thanks for your efforts, maybe we shall have reason to discuss the matter further.’

Krause muttered something inaudible, Van Veeteren thanked him once more, and hung up.

He’s too young, he thought. He wasn’t involved in the Hennan case, and he wasn’t there in Kaalbringen.

But Intendent Münster was involved!

In both cases.

He flopped down on his chair.

Both cases? Linden and Kaalbringen? Van Veeteren shook his head. What an arbitrary connection. .

Needless to say Jaan G. Hennan and the axe murderer in the little northern coastal town had nothing to do with each other: it was only in his own private version of history that the two phenomena were linked.

Kaalbringen and the G File.

But it was remarkable nevertheless. Patterns and conformity to law? he thought. Damn it all! He rolled a cigarette and lit it, wondering whether he should contact Münster straight away, or whether he should give himself a little more time to think things over and consider practicalities. He soon opted for the latter alternative — whatever conclusions and plans of action he decided on, there was no urgency involved. One thing was clear: Verlangen had been missing for at least three weeks, and even if his adventures and fate since leaving Maardam were hidden in mist and murky circumstances, it was likely that his daughter’s clear-eyed pessimism was well founded.

There was very little chance of him still being alive.

Van Veeteren sighed. Asked himself on what grounds he could justify that conclusion, but he couldn’t find any. He left the kitchenette and went to fetch the bottle of port instead.

Chief of Police Hiller was busy planting two dwarf acacias when Münster entered his office on the fourth floor.

Münster would have been quite unable to judge that the plants were acacias (although he might have guessed that they were a dwarf variant in view of the fact that they were tiny), but Hiller explained the details even before he had time to sit down.

It was almost like a formal introduction, Münster thought. Acacia, dwarf — Münster, Detective Intendent! Pleased to meet you. The chief of police had spread newspapers out over his desk, and was working in his shirt sleeves with his tie thrown back over his shoulder. He was filling terracotta-coloured pots with soil from a large plastic sack, and pressing it down carefully with his thumbs so that the plants were upright and steady.

‘This Verlangen business,’ he said without interrupting his work or even looking up.

‘Yes?’ said Münster.

‘I heard about it by accident. We mustn’t let ourselves be carried away by our imaginations.’

‘What exactly do you mean, sir?’ asked Münster.

‘What I say,’ said Hiller. ‘Verlangen is an old cheat who has gone missing, that’s all. He used to work for us at one time, and he was involved in an old investigation — but that’s all history now. History, Münster!’

‘History,’ said Münster.

‘It’s ninety-nine per cent certain that he fell into some canal or other in a drunken state — he’s had problems with his drinking habits. He’ll turn up again one of these days. This is not a matter we can waste our resources on. . we’ve got our hands full as it is. What with that confounded business out at Bossingen and those accursed Holt brothers, and-’

‘I know what we’re busy with,’ said Münster, interrupting the flow. ‘No, I don’t think Reinhart intends to assign officers to chasing up Verlangen. But I’ll tell him what your views are as soon as I see him, I promise you that.’

‘Excellent,’ said Hiller. ‘Of course. Where is he, by the way?’

‘Who? Reinhart?’

‘Yes. Wasn’t he the person we were talking about?’

‘Yes, of course. I assume he’s interrogating racists down at number twenty-two. The ones who burnt that school down.’

‘Racists? Ugh, yes. I understand. Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. You can get back to your work.’

‘Thank you,’ said Münster.

How old is he now? he thought as he closed the door behind him and heard Hiller saying something encouraging to his acacias. Isn’t it about time he was pensioned off?

Mahler had set up the pieces and was scribbling away in a black notebook when Van Veeteren came down to their usual table at The Society on Saturday evening.

‘New poems?’ he asked.

‘New is an exaggeration,’ said Mahler. ‘Poems is an exaggeration. It’s modern abstractions concerning the black hole, rather. Unrhymed.’

‘That sounds like good fun,’ said Van Veeteren.

‘I know. I think that’s exactly what I shall call it, in fact. What do you reckon?’

‘Modern Abstractions Concerning the Black Hole?’

‘Yes.’

‘It sounds more like a summary of contents than a book title.

Mahler stroked his beard thoughtfully.

‘Maybe. Ah well, I suppose I’d better fill it out with some kind of content first. In any case, it’ll be my twelfth. I think that will be enough.’

‘Your twelfth? Congratulations! A full dozen!. . How long have you been at it?’

‘It’s forty years since my debut. According to my calculations that works out at just over two words a day.’

‘Two words a day?’ said Van Veeteren. ‘That can’t be all that much of a burden, surely?’

‘Rubbish,’ said Mahler. ‘It’s the hardest grind in the world. You’re forgetting that each word is chosen from a range of twenty-five thousand: and every time you choose a new word, you have to start again at the very beginning.’

Van Veeteren gestured to the waiter that two more beers were required, and gave that some thought.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘You’re right, of course. I was a bit too presumptuous. Shall we play?’

‘It’s your turn for white,’ said Mahler, lighting a cigar.

‘That was due to a lack of concentration. You ought to have noticed that bishop on G6. Is something worrying you?’

Van Veeteren started setting up the pieces for the next game.

‘In a way,’ he said. ‘It’s an old story that seems to have come to life again.’

Mahler emptied his beer glass and dried out his beard.

‘Nothing can compete with an old, old story. Is it something I know about?’

Van Veeteren picked up one of the black knights and weighed it in his hand for a while before replying.

‘I’d have thought so,’ he said. ‘The G File.’

‘The G File!’ exclaimed Mahler. ‘The only blot in your copybook. Of course! What’s happened?’

There was a disgusting level of amusement and curiosity in the old poet’s tone of voice, Van Veeteren thought: but perhaps that was nothing to get upset about. Nor to worry about. If there was anybody — apart from Ulrike, of course — in whom he could confide his irresolution, it was Mahler. That was something he had learned over the years. As far as secrecy was concerned, talking to Mahler was like talking into a well. An unusually talented well, in which words and confidential comments sank down to the bottom and lay there in hermetically sealed silence for all eternity.

And from where a word or two — extremely carefully chosen words — came bouncing back.

He lit another cigarette, and started telling the tale.

‘Soup with unknown ingredients,’ was Mahler’s summary twenty minutes later. ‘And the police have no intention of intervening, I gather?’

‘No more than routine. They have plenty of other things on their plate, it seems — not least that damned Nazi business, for instance. I have to say that I understand their position. The Verlangen link is about as substantial as a strand of hair.’

Mahler said nothing for a while.

‘I don’t agree,’ he said eventually. ‘As far as I can judge, there must be something in this. Don’t ask me what and how — but surely it would be even more strange if Verlangen’s disappearance didn’t have anything to do with G? Don’t you think? After that note on the kitchen table and that telephone call.’

‘I know,’ muttered Van Veeteren. ‘I’m not senile yet. Not quite, at least.’

‘Same here,’ said Mahler, looking grim. ‘As clear in the head as a mountain stream and as morally aware as a thirteen-year-old. It would presumably be easier to live if one were not like that. What are you thinking of doing?’

Van Veeteren inhaled deeply and thought it over.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Don’t know?’

Mahler eyed him critically through the smoke. Van Veeteren said nothing.

‘You’re lying. You know only too bloody well what you’re going to do.’

Van Veeteren turned the chessboard round so that the white pieces were on Mahler’s side.

‘All right, I’m lying. I intend driving up to Kaalbringen, of course. One of these days. It’s your move, herr Poet.’

‘That’s what I thought you’d do,’ said Mahler, adjusting his glasses. ‘But hold your tongue now, you’re disturbing my concentration.’

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