The Stranglers Honeymoon

39

It was Saturday morning before Chief Inspector Reinhart was able to arrange an audience with one of the pro-vice-chancellors of Maardam University. In the meantime he managed to work up an impressive amount of anger.

‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Winnifred as they were eating breakfast in bed. ‘You’ve been grinding your teeth all night.’

‘They’re a lot of halfwitted bloody idiots,’ said Reinhart. ‘There are people in the university administration who would be locked up in a loony bin if they weren’t allowed to prance and strut around and collect a fat salary in Academe.’

Winnifred looked at him with an expression of mild surprise for a few seconds.

‘I’m well aware of that,’ she said. ‘I also work in the talent factory, remember? It’s not something to grind your teeth about.’

‘They’re my teeth,’ said Reinhart. ‘I’ll grind them as much as I like.’

He turned his head to look at the clock.

‘Anyway, it’s time I was off. Professor Kuurtens, is that somebody you know?’

Winnifred thought hard.

‘I don’t think so. What’s his field?’

‘Political science, if I heard rightly. Bone idle.’

Winnifred shook her head and went back to her newspaper.

‘Say goodbye to Joanna before you go.’

Reinhart paused on his way to the bathroom.

‘Have I ever forgotten to say goodbye to my daughter?’

He could hear her chatting away to herself through the open door of the nursery, and noticed that he relaxed his cheek muscles when he started thinking about her. Presumably what his wife had said was true: he really had been grinding his teeth all night.

Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens, he thought, you’d better tread extremely carefully.

Kuurtens received him in an office on the third floor of the registry. Reinhart estimated the ceiling height at four metres, and the floor space at about seventy square metres. Apart from a few freestanding columns in black granite with headless busts on top, a display cupboard from the seventeenth or eighteenth century and a few drab oil paintings depicting long-dead pro-vice-chancellors, there was really only one item of furniture in the room: a gigantic desk made of a black wood Reinhart reckoned was probably ebony, with a high-backed red armchair on each long side.

In one of them sat Professor Kuurtens, gazing out over the world and the empty desk as he slowly and deliberately wrote a few gems of words with a priceless fountain pen on a sheet of hammered white paper.

Reinhart sat down in the other one without waiting to be invited.

A hint of a sneer formed on the professor’s face, which was highly aristocratic in appearance. A classic Greek nose. A high forehead that disappeared under an Olympian mass of greying curls. Deep-set eyes and a firm, trust-inspiring jaw.

An immaculate grey suit, an ivory-white shirt and a dark-red tie.

He’s been given the job on the basis of his looks, Reinhart thought. He’s as thick as three sawn planks.

‘Welcome, Chief Inspector.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Or should I address you as Detective Chief Inspector?’

‘My name’s Reinhart,’ said Reinhart. ‘I haven’t come here to be addressed, nor to play cricket.’

‘Hmm,’ said the professor, glancing at his wristwatch. ‘I can give you fifteen minutes. Cricket?’

‘A metaphor,’ Reinhart explained. ‘But never mind that. The Succulents, what are they when they’re at home?’

Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens screwed off the cap of his fountain pen, then screwed it back on again.

‘I think I must ask you to enlighten me somewhat more on the circumstances before we proceed any further,’ he said.

‘Murder,’ said Reinhart. ‘Now you are enlightened. Well?’

‘I would not say that was an adequate enlightenment,’ said Kuurtens, clasping his hands over the sheet of paper. ‘If you bear in mind that Maardam University has been in existence for over five hundred years, I trust you will understand that I must protect values that cannot be swept aside as casually as that.’

‘What the hell are you babbling on about?’ asked Reinhart, regretting that he hadn’t brought his pipe with him: it would have been an ideal moment just now to envelope this overweening prat in a thick cloud of tobacco smoke.

‘Might I beg you to adopt a more seemly tone of conversational discourse.’

‘All right,’ said Reinhart. ‘But if you are so simple-minded as to claim that this university has had nothing at all to hide for several hundred years, you are doing your Alma Mater a disservice, as you must surely realize. Anyway, the Succulents. Let’s hear about them. I don’t have unlimited time at my disposal either.’

The professor leaned back in his chair and adopted an expression of deep thought. Reinhart waited.

‘An association,’ he said in the end.

‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart. ‘More details, please.’

‘Statutes from 1757. An association of scholars active in various faculties of the university, with the aim of promoting research and progress.’

‘Why the name “Succulents”?’

Kuurtens shrugged.

‘The original founders of the association were biologists. The title was a reference to an ability to reproduce and persist over a long period of time — applied to knowledge, for instance. But perhaps you don’t-’

‘I understand,’ said Reinhart. ‘So we’re talking about freemasons, are we?’

‘There are no freemasons any longer.’

‘That’s an assertion open to discussion. But I’m talking about those days.’

Kuurtens paused and contemplated his fountain pen.

‘Sort of.’

‘And the Succulents have continued to exist ever since then, have they?’

‘Continuously.’

‘With a red S against a green background as their symbol?’

The professor moved his head in a way vaguely reminiscent of the shape of a banana. A combination of affirmation and protest.

‘Yes, although it’s a comparatively recent invention. Quite late in the twentieth century.’

‘I see,’ said Reinhart. ‘And how many members are there today?’

‘About a hundred.’

‘Men and women?’

‘Men only.’

‘And you are a member yourself?’

‘It is forbidden to inform outsiders with regard to membership.’

‘How can you know that if you’re not a member?’

Professor Kuurtens did not reply. As I said, Reinhart thought: he’s not exactly Nobel prizewinner material.

‘I happen to know that you are a senior member of the Succulents, and I take it for granted that you will allow me to take a look at the membership list. Right now, I can’t see any objections to that.’

‘But that’s. . That is out of the question!’ exclaimed Professor Kuurtens. ‘Do you think you can come barging in here and demand to look at. . at whatever you like?’

Reinhart crossed his arms.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘That’s exactly what I think. If you happen to have a lawyer among your band of fellow-travellers, he will doubtless be able to explain to you that I have every right to — as you so neatly put it — come barging in.’

The professor stared at him for a moment, then put the fountain pen in his breast pocket and sat up straight.

‘I have no intention of handing over to you a list of members,’ he said belligerently. ‘The Succulents are a totally independent organization and have no official links with the university. This is not my pigeon.’

Reinhart eyed him severely and slowly shook his head.

‘Don’t be silly now,’ he said. ‘Don’t behave like an academic jackass. We’re talking about murderers, not pigeons. I’ll give you five minutes in which to sort yourself out and be reasonable. If you continue to be uncooperative, I’ll have you collected by a police car and arrested for obstructing a murder investigation. Is that clear?’

The pro-vice-chancellor turned pale.

‘You. . You are exceeding your authority,’ he muttered.

‘That’s not impossible,’ Reinhart admitted, ‘but I don’t think so. In any case, it would be worth the trouble of shoving you into the back seat of one of our police cars — and I think I’d take the opportunity of having a chat with one of our local newspapers first. Can you imagine the headlines on the front page? Have you ever tried handcuffs, by the way?’

Now I’ve gone too far, he thought. But Professor Kuurtens looked appropriately pale as a result of the seriousness of the situation, and the hair-raising images that had been suggested to him. He sat motionless and straight-backed for half a minute while wringing his hands over the white sheet of paper on his desk. Reinhart began to feel deeply satisfied.

He looks like a plaster cast, he thought. It would be possible to put his skull on top of one of those headless busts, in fact. It would be most appropriate. I don’t think I’m going to need to grind my teeth tonight.

‘Let’s see now,’ said Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens in the end. ‘If you give me a few more details, perhaps we can reach a solution. .’

‘There’s not much more I can say,’ said Reinhart patiently. ‘In the course of murder investigation we have come across a membership badge of the Succulents. One of your colleagues told me on the phone that these badges were made in 1957, and were given to new members as they enrolled.’

‘Which colleague was it who told you that?’

‘That’s not something you should worry about,’ said Reinhart. ‘But the bottom line is that this membership badge plays a significant role in our investigation, and that’s why I need a copy of your current membership list. I can’t tell you any more than that, I’m afraid.’

Kuurtens swallowed a few times, and kept glancing up at the stucco decorations.

‘Well, those badges. .’ he said. ‘They haven’t been all that significant. As you said, they were made in 1957 — for our bicentenary year. And, as you also said, every member receives one when he’s elected as a member.’

‘How do you elect them?’

‘On the basis of recommendations. There must be at least three recommendations from at least three existing members.’

How many per year?’

‘Not many. Half a dozen at most. And applicants have to have a doctorate as well, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Reinhart. ‘Well, have you made your mind up yet? If you want to avoid being up to the ears in a scandal, I suggest that you should produce that membership list. You can probably imagine what the media would make of it if you — a semi-secret gang of freemasons in the academic world — were exposed as being involved in a murder investigation. . I can tell you that it’s not just a matter of one victim, but several. And if you make things worse by refusing to cooperate. . well. .’

Professor Kuurtens took two deep breaths then stood up. Held onto the desk just in case. .

‘I don’t like your methods,’ he said in a feeble attempt to sound uncooperative. ‘I really don’t approve of them at all. But you leave me with no choice, I’m afraid. If you come with me to my office, I’ll give you a copy of our membership list. I assume you will treat it with maximum discretion.’

‘Discretion is one of my strongest sides,’ said Reinhart. ‘Let’s go. So you have an office as well? What exactly is this room, then?’

‘This is what’s called an Audi — a reception room,’ said Kuurtens. ‘It’s been used as such ever since 1842 when this building came into use. Yes, indeed.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ agreed Reinhart, following the pro-vice-chancellor down the stairs.

The total number of current members of Sodalicium Sapientiae Cultorum Succulentorum, which was the official name of the association in accordance with the statutes of 1757, proved to be 152 persons.

Reinhart glanced quickly through the columns of names, year of entry and academic specialities. Then he folded the four sheets of paper in two and put them in his inside pocket. Glared for a moment or two at Professor Kuurtens, then shook his hand and wished him a fruitful Saturday before turning on his heel and leaving the university building.

So, that’s that done, he thought as he took the short cut through the park towards Keymerkyrkan. We’ve narrowed it down nicely.

Narrowed what down? he thought in his next breath. What the hell am I trying to fool myself into imagining? Do I really believe I’ve got the murderer tucked into my inside pocket?

One of the hundred and fifty-two?

He put on his gloves, raised his shoulders as a defence against the strong wind, and thought about that.

It must be pure wishful thinking, he told himself — as inevitable as an attack of mildew or the growth of a cancerous tumour after all those unproductive weeks and months. Figuratively speaking.

Or was there in fact a realistic possibility?

Hard to say, thought Chief Inspector Reinhart. Right now, when the excitement engendered by the revelations about the Succulents is so fresh, it’s difficult to distinguish between genuine thoughts and mere emotions or hopes. Having the name of the murderer hidden away with a hundred-and-fifty-one others is not exactly an ideal situation to be in — but it’s significantly better than the barren desert to which we’ve been banished hitherto, with not so much as a lump of fly shit for a clue.

So, it’s now a question of making progress. In principle, at least. We suddenly have a field to start ploughing. The murderer may well be one of a large group: but the group is clearly defined.

What he needed to do now was to sit down and work his way through the personal details of these dodgy academics, and that should shrink the size of the group of suspects significantly — their age is an obvious starting point. It seemed highly unlikely that the average age of a group like this would be all that low: Reinhart assumed that they remained members for life, and as the statutes required that members should have doctorates and also be recommended by a number of their peers, it was unlikely that any of them could have joined the association before the age of thirty-five at least.

And the Strangler could hardly be older than forty-five: several friends of the victims had stressed that aspect.

So let’s face it: this list of members should infuse new life into the investigation. That must surely be the case?

It occurred to him that he was now walking at tempo furioso and had started whistling. He obviously needed to calm down and get a grip.

Hold your horses, you berk! he told himself. If you assign all your resources to this line of investigation and it turns out to be a dead end, you’ll never solve this case. Bugger that for a lark!

That blasted badge could have landed up in Kristine Kortsmaa’s shoe in God only knows how many different ways. Or? She might have found it somewhere. One of the Succulents might have paid her a visit in a perfectly innocent context — erotic circumstances, for instance — and happened to drop it. Somebody else might have found the badge somehow or other — come to think of it, Reinhart thought, the murderer could have come across the badge lying in the street, picked it up, and purposely left it in the victim’s flat in order to mislead the police. . Well, maybe that was a pretty far-fetched possibility, more appropriate to a fifth-rate English 1930s crime novel than the real world. .

Anyway, there were plenty of possible variations, that was clear. And there were plenty of the badges in existence — two thousand were manufactured in 1957. Pro-Vice-Chancellor Kuurtens had said that there were over three hundred still available in the store, so there would be no need to make any new ones for quite a while yet.

Oh, shit, thought Reinhart. Do I believe in this, or don’t I?

As confused as a donkey faced with a hundred-and-fifty-two wisps of hay, he emerged into the relative hustle and bustle of Keymerstraat — and that’s when it happened. One second, that was all it took: no more.

Without really registering how it happened, he bumped into one of the other pedestrians and stepped to one side, into the road. The bus pulling into the stop at Keymer Plejn hit him with its right wing and sent him flying across the pavement and into the display window of the cheese and delicatessen shop Heerenwijk’s — he was a regular customer most Saturdays, for fancy dessert cheeses.

But not this Saturday. Even before he hit the ground, Chief Inspector Reinhart had lost consciousness and was mercifully unaware of all the bones in his body that were broken, and of the young lady in a light-blue quilted jacket who screamed in such a way that the hearts of all those who heard her missed several beats.

Her name was Vera Simanova: she was a student at the opera college and the possessor of a soprano voice that for a brief moment that Saturday afternoon resounded throughout the whole of central Maardam.

But not in the ears of Chief Inspector Reinhart. Or at least, he had no recollection of it afterwards.