The Return

39

The Club’s premises were in a basement at the end of a narrow alley that started at Cronin Square and finished with a fireproof gable. On all maps of the town, and according to the filthy and barely readable nameplate above Wildt’s antiquarian bookshop, it was called Zuygers Steeg. But it was always known locally as Butcher’s Alley, after an unusually brutal murder at the end of the 1890s, when body parts of two prostitutes were found scattered over practically the full twenty yards comprising the stunted street. The parts were found by a young chaplain from the cathedral, who had to be locked away in the Majorna asylum in Willemsburg. The murderer was never caught, despite a large-scale hunt.

Van Veeteren seldom managed to get as far as the Club without being reminded of the story, and he didn’t succeed in doing so this evening either.

Perhaps things were worse in the old days, despite everything, he thought as he ducked to avoid hitting his head on the lintel and entered the lugubrious vault.

Mahler was sitting furthest in as usual, in the secluded corner under the Dürer print, and he had already set up the pieces. Van Veeteren sat down with a sigh.

“Oh dear,” said Mahler, digging into his tousled beard with his fingers. “Was it as bad as that?”

“What?” said Van Veeteren.

“What! Being butchered, of course! The green men going about their bloody business.”

“Oh, that,” said Van Veeteren. “A mere bagatelle.”

Mahler looked puzzled for a moment.

“Then what the hell’s worrying you? You’ve been resurrected, early summer is at its colorful peak, the whole of nature is squirming with pleasure at the celebration of exuberant life that is almost upon us. What the devil do you mean by coming here and sighing?”

“I have a problem,” said Van Veeteren, opening with his queen’s pawn.

“I have a thousand,” said Mahler. “Cheers, and welcome back to the world of the living!”

They drank, and Mahler pored over the chessboard. The chief inspector lit a cigarette and waited. Of all the people he had ever played chess with since he started as a teenager, he had never come across a single opponent who played in the way Mahler did. After an introductory period of intense concentration that could last as long as ten or twelve minutes—before the first move, that is—he would then play more than thirty moves without thinking for more than a minute altogether. Then, before the endgame was embarked upon, he generally allowed himself another in-depth analysis lasting for ten minutes or a quarter of an hour, then finished off the game at breakneck speed—irrespective of whether he was playing for a win, a draw or an honorable defeat.

He could give no plausible reason for his method, apart from maintaining that it was a question of rhythm.

“Sometimes it can feel that making the move at the right time is more important than the quality of the move itself,” he had maintained. “If you see what I mean.”

Van Veeteren hadn’t the slightest idea what he meant.

“It’s the same with poems,” the old poet had revealed. “I often sit staring into space for ages, maybe half an hour or more—then I pick up my pen and write down the whole poem. As quick as a flash, there mustn’t be a pause.”

“What goes on inside your head, then?” Van Veeteren wanted to know. “While you’re charging your batteries?”

Mahler had no idea either, it seemed.

“I daren’t try to analyze it,” he said. “Certain things will not tolerate introspection. That kills them off.”

Van Veeteren thought about that as he took a swig of beer and waited for Mahler’s move.

Action without thinking, he thought.

Is that what it looked like?

Perhaps there are a few points of contact after all?

“Well?” said Mahler, when they had agreed on a draw after less than forty-five minutes. “What’s the matter?”

“A murderer,” said Van Veeteren.

“I thought you were on sick leave for the rest of this month?”

“I am,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s just that I find it hard to turn my back on things. And also to turn a blind eye.”

“What’s the problem with this murderer, then?”

“I can’t nail him.”

“Do you know who he is?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“But you have no proof?”

“Not a thing.”

Mahler leaned back and lit a cigar.

“It can’t be the first time you’ve been in this position?”

“I can usually manage to shoo ’em in.”

Mahler burst out laughing.

“Shoo ’em in! I like it! And why can’t you do that this time, then?”

Van Veeteren sighed.

“Does the name Leopold Verhaven mean anything to you?”

Mahler turned serious.

“Verhaven? Yes, of course. A notorious murderer. Of women. Wasn’t he murdered himself, or something of the sort? I read about it in the paper not long ago.”

“He was innocent,” said Van Veeteren.

“Verhaven was innocent?”

“Yes.”

“But he’s been in jail for…God knows how long.”

“Twenty-four years,” said Van Veeteren.

“He’s been in jail for that damn length of time, and you’re claiming that he’s innocent?”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Was innocent. He’s dead, as you said. And it seems that it’s not only the real murderer who would like to draw a line under the whole business, if you follow me….”

Mahler said nothing for some seconds.

“Huh,” he said eventually. He drew on his cigar and spilled ash into his beard. “I think I get it. The big shots?”

Van Veeteren shrugged.

“It’s not all that bad, I hope, but however you look at it, there’s no chance of getting proceedings under way unless we’re standing on solid ground. Very solid ground.”

“But can’t you dig out some proof? Isn’t that what usually happens? You know who did it, but you have to work your butts off to turn the knowledge into proof, afterward? I thought that was how the police usually went about things.”

“Yes, you’re right, of course,” said Van Veeteren. “But it looks pretty hopeless in his case. Time has run out on the first murder; we’re not allowed to open it again. And if the second one is to be reopened, we either have to produce cast-iron proof more solid than the defenses at Fort Knox, or he has to confess and stick with that confession. And we’re nowhere near either of those setups.”

“What about the murder of Verhaven? The same killer yet again?”

“Very much so. No, there’s not an ounce of technical proof there either. We don’t know when he died. Nor how. Nor where.”

He shrugged again.

“That’s about it, all in all.”

“But you know who the murderer is?” said Mahler, raising his bushy eyebrows to register doubt.

“We’re absolutely certain,” said Van Veeteren.

Mahler turned the board around and started setting up the pieces for another game.

“How can you be so certain that you won’t be able to make him confess? Don’t try and tell me you don’t resort to third-degree stuff when you have to?”

Van Veeteren lit another cigarette.

“I’ve been following him for two days,” he said. “Not furtively, of course, but making it obvious. So that he couldn’t avoid noticing. That usually puts anybody you care to name out of his stride, but not this character. He seems to be enjoying it. Gives me a nod now and then. Laughs up his sleeve. He seems to be certain that we haven’t got a shred of evidence that could nail him. I haven’t confronted him yet, but I’d be amazed if he lost his cool. And even if he did, he’d find it again before the trial started, and we’d be back to square one, having made all that effort for nothing….”

“Hmm,” said Mahler. “What are you going to do, then? It sounds a bit on the awkward side, I have to admit.”

Van Veeteren didn’t answer at first, but Mahler was determined to get a response.

“Well?”

“I’ve given him an ultimatum,” the chief inspector said eventually. “Would you like another beer?”

“Of course. What kind of an ultimatum?”

Van Veeteren stood up, made his way to the bar and returned after a while with two new, frothy tankards.

“What kind of an ultimatum?” asked Mahler again, after they’d drunk each other’s health.

“I’ve given him an opportunity, that’s all. To bow out like a gentleman.”

“Meaning?”

“To commit suicide.”

Mahler seemed almost moved.

“But what if he isn’t a gentleman? There seems to be a lot of evidence to suggest that he isn’t.”

“Then I’ll make public what I know. He has a daughter and two grandchildren. If he merely shrugs and turns away, I’ll tell her that her father has three murders on his conscience, and I’ll make sure she’s convinced that it’s the truth. His wife held her tongue for the whole of her life for this very reason…. Or so I think.”

Mahler thought it over.

“Yes, sounds good,” he said. “Do you think it’ll work?”

Van Veeteren pulled a face.

“The devil only knows,” he said. “We’ll find out tomorrow at noon. I’m going to pay him a visit then.”

“You cunning bastard!” said Mahler. “You have your methods; I have to grant you that.”

He took another swig, then started to study the board again. After barely a moment’s thought, he advanced his king’s pawn two squares.

“Not much of a job, the one you’ve got,” he said.

“Serves me right,” said Van Veeteren.

“Yes, I expect it does,” said Mahler.

An hour and a half later, Mahler had turned a single-pawn advantage into a win after just over sixty moves. He bent down and produced a small, flat parcel from the briefcase he had on the floor beside him.

“You can have this as consolation,” he said. “Hot off the press this afternoon, so it’s as fresh as it comes.”

Van Veeteren tore off the wrapping paper.

Recitative from the Back of Beyond, it said.

“Many thanks,” he said. “Just what I need, I suspect.”

“You never know,” said Mahler, looking at his watch. “About time to call it a day, methinks. You can start with page thirty-six. I reckon you might find something there that rings a bell.”

Van Veeteren split open the pages of the thin collection of poems after taking a shower and settling into bed. The clock radio on his bedside table said a couple of minutes after half-past twelve, and he decided to make do for the time being with the author’s recommendation. Poetry was not something you lapped up at any old time, especially not Mahler’s fastidious verses, and he could feel slumber lurking behind his eyelashes.

The poem was called “January Night” and was only seven lines long.

Light unborn

Lines unknown

The law as yet unwritten

In the darkness the child

In the dancing shadows the rhythms

From the rules of Chaos for the handling of heartache

And a little categorical imperative

He switched off the light, and the lines lingered on, both in the darkness of the room, or so it seemed, and in his own fading consciousness.

The inner and the outer darkness, he thought, just before succumbing to the infinite embrace of sleep.

Tomorrow at noon.