“Of course he had debtors. But not the kind of debts you are implying.”
“What am I implying?” asked Van Veeteren, placing his toothpick on the arm of his chair. “Tell me!”
Klingfort didn’t answer, but his face had started to turn somewhat redder.
“What do you think about the murder?” asked Van Veeteren.
“A lunatic,” replied Klingfort without hesitation. “I’ve said that right from the start. Make sure you catch him, so that law abiding citizens can wander about the streets at night without fear of assault.”
“Did you go to prostitutes with him?” asked Van Veeteren.
The question came just as Klingfort was inhaling, and the lawyer had a coughing fit that Van Veeteren realized must have been quite painful. Klingfort stood up as quickly as his massive frame allowed, and staggered over to the window. When he came back, he took a swig of soda water from the bar shelf.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” he said when he had recovered, trying to bellow. “This is clearly nothing short of abuse of power.”
“It’s public knowledge that Simmel used prostitutes,” said
Van Veeteren, unconcerned. “I just wondered if you could give me any names.”
“Would you please get out now and leave me in peace.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sit down and answer my questions.
This is a murder inquiry and I have the authority to take you to the station if I want to. Don’t get so high and mighty, Mr. Klingfort. I’m used to shooting down much higher fliers than I’ve noticed around here.”
Eugen Klingfort remained standing in the middle of the room with his chins on his chest. He looks like a sick walrus, thought Van Veeteren.
“You’re spilling ash on the carpet,” he said. “Well? I’m wait ing for some names of those women.”
“I have… I have nothing to do with that side of Ernst’s life,” said Klingfort, going back to his desk chair. “Nothing! I suppose he might have gone off with the odd one of… the usual ones… occasionally. I have no doubt the chief of police has their names.”
“I want the ones who are not known to the police,” said
Van Veeteren. “You are comfortably married, Mr. Klingfort.
Wife, children, your own house-don’t you realize that I can make things very difficult for you if you insist on being willful?”
The solicitor rummaged in his desk drawer. He produced a scrap of paper and scribbled down something, then slid it over to Van Veeteren.
“But I can assure you that this has nothing at all to do with the murder.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Ab solutely nothing.”
I didn’t think for a moment it had, thought Van Veeteren when he emerged into the street. But a shit needs to be reminded that he’s a shit now and then.
“Are you sober today?” asked Bausen, putting the coffee tray on the table and sitting down.
“I’m alluss sober on a Monday,” said Peerhovens. “I have a job to do, haven’t I?”
“Looking after the grocery carts at Maerck’s?”
“That’s it. You have to take what you can get nowadays.”
Bausen held out a packet of cigarettes and Peerhovens took what he could get.
“Coffee and a cigarette-it’s like I alluss said. It pays to stay on good terms with the cops.”
“I hope you haven’t made this up in order to get the occa sional… favor?” said Bausen, leaning forward over the table.
Peerhovens jumped and started to look nervous.
“No, no, for Chrissake, Chief Inspector! I’d never dream of lying to the cops! I saw him just as clear as I can see you now… coming from Klaarmann’s… me, that is. I’d been talking with Wauters and Egon Schmidt, if you know-”
Bausen nodded.
“I’d just passed the bookstore, on the way home. I live in Pampas, if you know-”
“I know,” said Bausen.
“Anyway, just as I come around the corner, into Hoistraat, that is, I turn left, of course, and I see a figure hurrying down the steps. He’d come from, well, from The Blue Ship, if you like, and he seemed to be in a hurry.”
“In a hurry?”
“Yeah, he was more or less running down the steps, sort of-”
“Describe him!” said Bausen.
“Well, it all happened a bit quick, but he was wearing one of those thin overcoats that was flapping a bit. And a hat, yeah, a floppy hat, sort of, and it was pulled down so I couldn’t see a fuck… er, sorry… any detail of his face.”
“What color was his coat?”
“Color? Well, brown. Or blue, sort of. Pretty dark anyway.”
“And his hat?”
“Even darker. But not black. It all happened very quick, like
I said. And I didn’t really think about it then, like… not until Kovvy told me somebody had killed Simmel.”
“Kovvy?”
“Kowalski… Radon Kowalski. The guy that lives under neath me. Good solid guy.”
“When did you hear about it?”
“When? Well, I guess it must have been the next day…
Yes, that’s it… late afternoon. We bumped into each other on the stairs, and that’s when he told me. ‘Have you heard that the
Axman’s killed Ernst Simmel?’ he said.”
“And even so you waited until yesterday before you went to the police,” said Bausen sternly. “Why?”
Peerhovens stared down at his coffee cup.
“Well… I…” he said. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I thought it wasn’t anything important. And I’d been a bit under the weather, but then I heard on the radio-”
“How much had you drunk last Tuesday evening?”
“Hard to say… not easy to say,” said Peerhovens. “I mean, I’d been at Klaarmann’s for a few hours, so I suppose I’d had quite a bit. Wauters had brought a bottle of his own as well.”
“I’m with you,” said Bausen. “And you wouldn’t recognize this person if you were to see him again?”
Peerhovens shook his head.
“What did he look like, by the way? Big or small… well built or thin?”
“No, no, I didn’t have chance to ob… observe that. Some where in between, I suppose. No, I wouldn’t recognize him.”
Bausen nodded.
“What about his hat and coat? Not them either?”
Peerhovens hesitated and was given a cigarette.
“Thanks. No,” he said eventually. “I can’t really say I would.”
Bausen sighed. He stood up and left Vincent Peerhovens to his fate. At least he’s bright enough to see that he’d be running a risk, he thought.
Having seen the Axman, that is.
“Marie Zelnik?” asked Beate Moerk.
She could see that the woman on the red sofa must actually be several years younger than she was herself, and that gave her a dubious feeling of insecurity. On the one hand, it aroused a sort of dormant protective urge; but on the other, she was forced to restrain her antipathy and distaste. Repress her repugnance.
The animosity seemed to be mutual. Marie Zelnik leaned back with one leg crossed over the other in such a way that her leather skirt pointedly revealed most of her thigh. She was smoking, and examining her nails.
“I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”
“Go ahead.”
“You earn you living as a prostitute, is that right?”
“Among other things, yes.”
“What else do you do?”
No answer.
“I’d like you to tell me a bit about Ernst Simmel. I under — stand he was one of your clients, wasn’t he?”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything that might be of use to the investigation. How long have you… been in contact with him, for instance?”
“About six months, roughly… since he came back.”
“How often?”
She shrugged.
“Not all that often. Once a month, or even less. He went more often with Katja.”
“Katja Simone?”
“Yes.”
“We know about that. Inspector Kropke has spoken to her already.”
“So I heard.”
She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immedi ately. Disgusting, thought Beate Moerk.
“What was he like?”
“Simmel? Your average sort of John.”
Beate Moerk made a note.
“How did he usually make contact?”