The Stranglers Honeymoon

45

Reinhart was dreaming.

Two different dreams simultaneously, it seemed, each one worse than the other. In the first one his daughter Joanna and her red-haired friend Ruth were busy baking his left leg inside some kind of dough — that was why it felt so heavy. . They intended to bake the whole of him in order to present him as an unusually impressive exhibit at a birthday party at their nursery school, they had informed him. The resultant pastry would be decorated with all kinds of pretty little embellishments such as starfish, flags and various sparkling stones — and would win the first prize in a competition: a trip to Disneyland in Paris. The very thought sent spasms of disgust through Reinhart’s whole being, but he was unable to protest because they had first given him a hefty dose of morphine. His tongue lay half-dead in his mouth like a beached jellyfish. The whole thing was disgustingly awful.

In the second one he was wandering through a noisy town on the way towards an accident. His own accident. Something was going to happen — it wasn’t yet clear what, but he continued heading towards his fate just as inevitably as if it had been a repeat performance of an old film that he was watching for the seventh time. He lay there helplessly, with his baked-in and incredibly heavy leg, and watched as he was nudged and elbowed on the menacing pavements of the menacing town. His own Maardam and his own Zuyderstraat, if he was not much mistaken: but there were also odd and unfamiliar aspects that he didn’t recognize at all: shattered bridges and ruined houses, as if from a country devastated by war. He tried desperately to attract the attention of Joanna and Red Ruth and his wife, and to beg them to stop the film before it was too late. But it was in vain. The jellyfish in his mouth was now no more than an insignificant single-cell organism that had died and was drying out completely, and adhering to the palate in the most hopeless way. It was clear to him that all his efforts were in vain and pointless.

All this became clear to him shortly before the accident happened. And just before what had to happen actually did happen, he felt the push on his left shoulder — and registered a fleeting glimpse of somebody disappearing into the mass of people in the street, before he woke up.

He lost his balance, his body suddenly felt weightless, and he woke up in a cold sweat. For a brief moment he didn’t know who he was.

His leg hurt. His hip hurt. His arm hurt and his tongue was feeling sticky.

But the dream persisted. Not Joanna and Red Ruth and the nursery party with the leg encased in pastry adorned with flags. But that push.

That nudge on his shoulder.

He stared up at the clinically white ceiling. And at the plaster of Paris in which he was encased.

My God! he thought, making a heroic effort to loosen his tongue from his palate. There was somebody there.

Somebody pushed me.

Van Veeteren telephoned Winnifred Lynch again on Thursday, and was informed that Professor deFraan had a lecture quite late that same afternoon. Between five and seven, roughly speaking. He asked if she was still prepared to assist him in his somewhat dodgy efforts — and she said that she was, without much hesitation, he thought.

‘There are a couple of things I’m wondering about,’ he said. ‘His contacts, for instance. Is there anybody in the department who is a close friend of his? Or who knows a bit about his habits? It would be very useful if we could get some information of that sort.’

‘I’ll look into it,’ Winnifred promised. ‘I know he goes for a drink with Dubowski occasionally. But what the hell are you after? I can’t just go-’

‘No, no, of course not’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You must be very cautious. He might well suspect that I’m onto something, but in no circumstances must he become aware that there’s a spy in the department. The other detail is more important in a way, and if you could establish the facts it would be even more valuable to me.’

‘Fire away,’ said Winnifred.

‘It’s just a shot in the dark,’ Van Veeteren admitted. ‘But it would be stupid not to follow it up. June 1999. . Could deFraan possibly have been in Wallburg on some sort of university business then? If there’s some kind of record and you can check it without giving yourself away — well, I’d be prepared to bet a beer on his being our man after all.’

‘Hmm,’ said Winnifred.

‘What do you mean by “hmm”?’ wondered Van Veeteren.

‘That I’d have to go via Beatrice Boordon, I’m afraid. She’s the departmental secretary and not one of my favourite people, but I expect I’ll think of something.’

‘Caution,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘Always keep that in mind. Don’t take any unnecessary risks. DeFraan might have five lives on his conscience, and you must not take any chances.’

‘I’m aware of the terms,’ said Winnifred, and hung up.

Terms? Van Veeteren thought when he had done the same. Was he aware of them?

If deFraan really is the Strangler, he must surely start reacting in some way or other once he’s understood that the confounded bookseller is rooting around.

But how?

How will he react? What action will he take?

Good questions. After all, this was the whole point of activating deFraan in this way; but if Van Veeteren had succeeded in his mission, it was hardly grounds for feeling satisfied.

Worry was more appropriate. It was a bit like collecting a sample of a chemical brew in a pipette and releasing some drops into a retort without really knowing if it would explode or not. Shit! Van Veeteren thought. Do I really have this business under control?

He really must think carefully about how he was going to manage whatever happened next.

He stationed himself in Kramer’s Cafe opposite the steps up to the university entrance shortly after six o’clock. Sat there smoking and drinking a dark beer while keeping an eye on what was happening through the window. If deFraan took the same route out of the building as normal people did after his lecture, it would be difficult not to see him.

If he preferred to sneak out through some back door or other, so be it. There was no great urgency: if it was not possible to add a drop or two more to the chemical brew this evening, he could just as well do so on one of the next few days. Might it perhaps be preferable to take a little pause? To delay matters slightly?

It was hard to judge. Like everything else associated with this mission.

There was a fresh breeze blowing along the street between Kramer’s and the university. Despite the noise inside the cafe he could hear the flag halyards slapping against the flagpoles. The gap between the rows of buildings acted like a sort of wind tunnel, and people hastening past were huddled up as best they could. A Muslim woman had pressed herself up against one of the pillars on either side of the imposing double-doored entrance, seeking shelter. She seemed to be waiting for somebody. It was obvious that she was feeling the cold, despite the fact that her hair and face were covered by a veil. This was certainly no weather to be out in: it had been raining in short bursts all afternoon. He had had no more than a handful of customers in the bookshop, and had locked up half an hour before the usual closing time.

In order not to neglect his duties as a private detective.

Occasional students emerged through the heavy doors from time to time — usually in pairs or small groups, but shortly after half past six a whole host came out and walked down the steps into the street within the space of a single minute. He guessed that Professor deFraan’s lecture on Wilde and Shaw had come to an end — but of course, it could just as well be some other lecture that had finished. To be on the safe side, he emptied his glass of beer and made himself ready to get up and leave at a moment’s notice.

Sure enough. DeFraan appeared only a couple of minutes later. Walked down the steps and paused for a moment at the bottom, as if wondering which direction to take. Knotted his scarf more tightly round his neck and buttoned up his overcoat. Van Veeteren left his table.

Now, he thought. It’s make or break time.

When he came to Alexanderlaan deFraan turned left. So he’s not thinking of going home yet, Van Veeteren concluded, and followed him some twenty or thirty metres behind. The Muslim woman had evidently not met whoever it was she was waiting for: he noticed her walking some ten metres behind the professor. When he came to Grote Torg, deFraan cut across between the parked cars and headed for Zimmer’s, the restaurant on the corner of Vommersgraacht — not one of Van Veeteren’s favourite eating places. He couldn’t recall having set foot inside it for at least ten to twelve years. He stopped at the little newspaper kiosk and watched the professor go in through the brightly lit entrance. He also noticed, to his mild surprise, that the Muslim woman followed suit.

He took out his cigarette machine, but when he discovered that he had run out of ready rolled ones, he closed the lid and put it back into his overcoat pocket. He thought for a moment before buying a copy of Telegraaf at the kiosk, then also went into Zimmer’s.

If a pause really was needed, it would have to be another day. Now was make or break time.

It wasn’t yet seven o’clock, and there were not many customers. He saw deFraan straight away at a table diagonally to the left of the entrance, where he was just being given the menu by a waitress. Van Veeteren waited until the dark-skinned girl was out of the way, then passed by deFraan’s table without giving any indication that he recognized him and without establishing eye contact. But it was obvious that deFraan had noticed him. He saw from the corner of his eye that the young professor glanced at him for a fraction of a second, before continuing his scrutiny of the menu.

Okay, Van Veeteren thought and sat down at a table a few metres further into the oblong-shaped room. Another drop in the chemical brew. He knows that I’m here, and that I have him under observation.

And he must be wondering why I didn’t say hello to him.

It was obvious that deFraan had come to Zimmer’s for his evening meal. Van Veeteren restricted himself to some garlic bread and salad, and a small carafe of red wine. He started leafing through the Telegraaf while keeping half an eye on deFraan, and tried to relax.

That was not easy. He soon registered that the optimistic chemistry metaphor had begun to be replaced by nagging doubts — by the perfectly justified questions he had been keeping at bay so successfully all day. But after just a few seconds they had dug their claws into him in earnest. He had to confront them now, that was clear.

What on earth was he doing?

Why the hell was he sitting here?

Good questions. Extremely well-founded queries, in fact.

He took a mouthful of wine and sighed. Was there anything at all in the way Maarten deFraan behaved or reacted to suggest that he might be the Strangler? he asked himself. Anything at all?

That he didn’t remember a book and an author — among hundreds of others — that he had written about fifteen years ago?

That he had been irritated when he was woken up at twenty minutes past seven by an importunate bookseller?

That he was sitting in a restaurant having his dinner after a lecture?

Oh, incredibly suspicious, Van Veeteren thought and drank another half-glass of wine.

Just as irrefutable as the chain of indications that picked him out in the first place, one could argue. A few sinister literary characters. A lapel badge in a shoe in Wallburg. An advanced process of elimination that reduced 152 freemasons to just one!

Oh, shit! he thought as he contemplated his pitiful salad with galactic indifference. I’m a complete ass!

After today’s incontrovertibly correct conclusion — and his no-holds-barred self-criticism — he immediately felt a little better. After all, there was nobody who knew what he was up to, he tried to convince himself. Apart from Winnifred, of course (and presumably Reinhart as well, but he would have to try to cope with that). He picked out the thin mozzarella slices from the salad, and ate them. Then he slid the plate to one side, rolled a cigarette and smoked it.

DeFraan was still sitting there, eating. Completely at ease, it seemed. Van Veeteren drank up the rest of his wine and beckoned to the waitress, so that he could pay and go home. As the person he was shadowing (his prey? his quarry? the Strangler?) did exactly the same at almost exactly the same moment, the bloodhound decided he might as well continue trailing him for a bit longer — now that he had decided to play the role of an ass. A bloodhound ass? The odds on deFraan simply heading back home to his flat in Kloisterstraat were pretty good, so keeping a check on that shouldn’t waste more than a few minutes of this already wasted day.

Make or break? Bollocks to that! Van Veeteren thought. I only hope he doesn’t report me to the police.

But his straightforward plan was thwarted by the fact that deFraan received his bill first — and that he paid and got up to leave as soon as the procedure was finished. The ass of a bookseller tried in vain to attract the attention of his waitress, who had found other matters to attend to. He considered for a second simply leaving a more than adequate banknote on the table, but changed his mind when he saw the veiled woman emerge from one of the booths on the other side of the bar and cash desk, and follow deFraan as he left the restaurant.

Changed his mind and remained sitting there with a quite new thought in his mind. What the hell? he thought. What the. .?

He quickly conjured up his memories of her — how she had been standing up against one of the pillars outside the university building, evidently waiting for somebody. How she had moved on shortly after deFraan had walked down the steps. How she had followed him through the wind and rain, and slunk into the same restaurant.

And how she had left the premises only a few seconds after him.

Could that be coincidence?

Never, he thought.

Not on your life.

There were evidently several people interested in what Professor deFraan did and said on this miserable February evening.

But a veiled Muslim woman?

Shadowing a professor of English literature?

That seemed bizarre, to say the least. Van Veeteren remained sitting there for a while, smoking and drinking a glass of iced water. Then he paid his bill unhurriedly, and decided that he would phone Winnifred again the moment he got home.

Perhaps together with a representative of Maardam’s bloodhound association.

For even if the chemical brew had not reacted quite as he had hoped, there seemed to be more ingredients in it than he had realized.