“Correct,” said Van Veeteren. “Not a coin. In any case, he had time to pick up whatever it was before making his escape.”
“He planted the ax in Ruhme’s back as well,” said Bausen.
“He doesn’t seem to have been in much of a hurry.”
“Didn’t he get any blood on himself?” asked Mooser.
“That’s possible, but not enough for him to have left any traces if he did,” said Bausen. “There are no signs of blood on the stairs or anywhere else.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “A pretty professional job all around, it seems; but I don’t think we should put too much faith in the assumption that Ruhme recognized him. There are masses of possible alternatives-”
“He could have forced him down onto his knees with a gun, for instance,” said Beate Moerk.
“For instance,” said Van Veeteren.
“The witness,” said Bausen. “Let’s examine Mr. Moen’s evi dence a little more closely. It’s crucial that we don’t mess things up here.”
“Absolutely,” said Van Veeteren.
“We’ve spoken to him, both Inspector Moerk and I,” said
Bausen, “with somewhat different outcomes, I suppose you could say. Anyway, his name is Alexander Moen, and he lives in the apartment above Ruhme and Linckx. He claims he noticed somebody coming in the front door of the apartment block shortly before eleven on Wednesday evening, and then saw the same person hurrying out again some fifteen minutes later.
For the whole of that time, Moen was sitting at the table in his kitchen, looking out over Leisner Park and the avenue waiting for and then listening to the eleven o’clock news on the radio.”
“There’s no reason to doubt that,” said Beate Moerk. “It’s part of his evening ritual to sit there listening. He’s been doing it for the last thirty years, it seems.”
“There wasn’t an eleven o’clock news until 1972,” main tained Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren. “Anyway, I don’t think it mat ters much. Can we get his description of this man? That’s the interesting bit, of course. Bausen first.”
“OK, I talked to him that same night,” said Bausen. “He awoke for the same reason as all the other tenants, hmm-” He glanced at Bang, who was still busy with the Danish pastries.
“-and evidently couldn’t get back to sleep. Stood there on the stairs in his slippers and dressing gown at three-thirty in the morning, and was keen to give evidence.”
“He’s ninety-four years old,” said Beate Moerk, to put Mun ster in the picture.
“Anyway,” said Bausen, “he claimed that he’d seen a man enter the building from the direction of the park-”
“Door lock?” asked Munster.
“Hasn’t been working for several days,” said Kropke.
“-and go in through the front door. He was wearing some kind of tracksuit, dark with lighter markings. Tall and thin and carrying a parcel, or a bundle-well, he eventually decided that it was a bundle. He didn’t see anything of the man’s face because it was in the shadows all the time, but he thinks he had a beard-and quite long hair. Anyway, a quarter of an hour passed, or thereabouts, and then the man came out again and hurried into the park. That was more or less all, but it took more than half an hour to extract it.”
“The bundle?” asked Kropke. “Was he still carrying the bundle when he came out again?”
“Moen doesn’t remember that. He was uncertain about practically every detail, and to start with, he wasn’t even sure of the day; but when we were able to link it up with what had been said on the news, we eventually concluded that it must have been that Wednesday night. The question is: Was it the murderer he saw? I have to say that I’m very doubtful.”
“Even if it was the Axman,” said Van Veeteren, “what he had to say might not be all that helpful. Inspector Moerk?”
“Well,” said Beate Moerk, sucking at her pencil. “I don’t know. I spoke to him this morning. I had the impression that he was a bit absentminded, but when we came to the point, he seemed to be clearer. Isn’t that the way it usually is? They’re generally more sure of the details than they are of the whole picture, as it were. My father’s in the early stages of dementia, so I have some idea about how it works.”
“OK,” said Kropke. “What did he have to say?”
“The same as he told the chief inspector to start with,” said
Beate Moerk. “Same times, same bundle-it’s just the descrip tion that was different.”
“What did he tell you, then?” asked Mooser.
“That it was quite a short, sturdy person-powerful, rather.
He sticks to the bit about the tracksuit, but he says he didn’t see the man’s hair because he had a hat pulled down over his eyes.”
“Did you remind him about what he’d said earlier?” asked
Kropke.
“Yes, but he couldn’t really remember what he’d said. It was in the middle of the night, and he was tired. I suspect the chief inspector is right: We’re not going to get much useful informa tion out of this gentleman.”
“Which doesn’t prevent us from keeping a weather eye open for joggers, whether or not they’re carrying a bundle,” said Van Veeteren. “It’s as long as it is short. Incidentally,
Meuritz hasn’t yet established the time of death. We shall see if he died during the eleven o’clock news or not. In Simmel’s case, he could pinpoint the time to the exact minute; don’t for get that!”
He broke the toothpick in two and gazed meaningfully at
Bausen’s pack of cigarettes.
“Well, that’s it,” said Bausen. “Any ideas? You can say what ever you like. We’ll go through the strategy after lunch, but right now, anything goes. Well, what do you think?”
Bang belched. Kropke glowered at him, leaving no doubt as to what would happen to him once Bausen was no longer in charge, assuming that Kropke would be the one who took over, that is. Van Veeteren leaned back in his chair until it creaked. Munster sighed.
“At least one thing’s obvious,” said Beate Moerk eventually.
“Regarding the motive, that is. Maurice Ruhme is the Axman’s third victim, and he’s the third one who moved to Kaalbringen this year. Don’t try to tell me this isn’t significant.”
19
It had started quite promisingly, in fact, but after ten minutes it was the same old story. The DCI’s 5–1 lead was transformed via 6–6 and 7-10 to the usual and satisfying score of 9-15. In subse quent sets, Munster’s greater mobility and better precision reaped their reward. His short, angled strokes interspersed with long, high lobs were triumphant as always. It was the same old story, and perhaps Van Veeteren was not in peak con dition after the last few days’ cigarettes and wine. In any case, after 6-15, 8-15 and 5-15, he’d had enough; and they handed possession of the court over to two young men who had spent the last few minutes watching them with a degree of scorn.
“The light is poor in this hall,” muttered Van Veeteren, and they ambled back to the changing rooms.
“Very,” said Munster.
“Not much of a floor either. Easy to slip.”
“Exactly,” said Munster.
“Hard to play with borrowed rackets as well.”
“Hopeless.”
“But we’ll have another joust the day after tomorrow even so,” Van Veeteren decided. “We need to keep in training if we’re to solve this case.”
“You could be right,” said Munster.
The dining room at The See Warf was practically empty when they sat down at a window table. Only Cruickshank and
Muller were adorning a table not far away, accompanied by a man and a woman from TV6. Van Veeteren had spoken to all four of them at the press conference a few hours previously, and none of them showed any sign of wanting to disturb their dinner.
“Nobody seems to be venturing outdoors anymore in this town,” said Van Veeteren, looking around him. “People are a bit illogical. This last time, he actually struck in somebody’s home-Ruhme’s, that is.”
Munster agreed.
“I’ve started to believe it’s a pretty weird business, this thing we’re mixed up in,” said Van Veeteren, helping himself to salad. “They do excellent fish here, by the way, especially the turbot, if you are inclined that way.”