‘Inspector… What did you say your name was?’
‘Poirot,’ said Rooth. ‘No, I’m only joking. My name’s Rooth.’
‘My dear Inspector Rooth,’ said Brandt impassively. ‘I don’t like having to sit here and listen to your insinuations about a colleague and a good friend. I really don’t. I can assure you that Dr Clausen has nothing at all to do with this business.’
‘With what business?’ said Rooth.
‘With… with that nurse. The one who’s been murdered. Don’t think you can fool me, I know perfectly well what you’re after. You’re completely wrong. She didn’t even work at this hospital, and Clausen really isn’t the type to go running around after women.’
Rooth sighed and changed track.
‘Do you know if he has any close relations?’ he asked.
Brandt leaned back on his chair and seemed to be debating with himself whether or not to answer. His nose was trembling, as if he were trying to smell his way to a decision.
‘He has a sister,’ he said. ‘A few years older, I think. She lives abroad somewhere.’
‘No children?’
‘No.’
‘And that woman he was married to — what’s her name?’
Brandt shrugged.
‘I can’t remember. Marianne, perhaps. Something like that.’
‘Surname?’
‘I’ve no idea. Clausen, of course, assuming she took his name.. They don’t always do that nowadays. But I expect she’ll have retaken her maiden name in any case. I’ve never met her.’
Rooth thought while struggling with a little scrap of skin that had got stuck between two molars in his lower jaw.
‘Why isn’t he at work today?’
‘Who?’ said Brandt.
‘Clausen, of course.’
‘Isn’t he?’ said Brandt. ‘How the hell am I supposed to know? I suppose it’s his day off. Or that he’s still on sick leave. He has flu, if I understand it rightly — it’s quite wrong to think that just because you’re a doctor you are immune to such things…’
‘He’s disappeared,’ said Rooth. ‘Have you no better explanation to offer?’
‘Disappeared?’ said Brandt. ‘Rubbish. I don’t believe that for a moment. Surely he can’t just disappear?’
Rooth glared at him and took the last piece of his sandwich, despite the fact that the scrap of skin was still stuck between his teeth.
‘The other angels — the ones in your little club — do any of them know Clausen a bit better than you do?’
Dr Brandt fished out his spectacles and put them on again.
‘Smaage, perhaps.’
‘Smaage? Could you kindly give me his address and telephone number?’
Brandt took out a little notebook, and shortly afterwards Rooth had details of all the members of the club. He took a lump of sugar from the bowl on the table, and wondered how best to thank him for his help.
‘Okay, that’s it, all finished,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time for you to go and give birth again… Don’t let me keep you any longer.’
Verhouten’s Angels? he thought. Christ almighty.
‘Thank you,’ said Reinhart. ‘Thank you for your help, herr Haas.’
He hung up and looked at Moreno with something that might possibly be interpreted as a grim smile.
‘Let’s hear it, then,’ said Moreno. ‘I think I can detect a degree of satisfaction in the bloodhound’s facial expression.’
‘And not without cause,’ said Reinhart. ‘Guess who was at the Spaarkasse last Thursday and picked up two hundred thousand!’
‘Clausen?’
‘Nail on the head, to quote one of his victims. He called in to collect it at the branch in Keymer Plejn shortly after lunch. In cash! Did you hear that? Two hundred and twenty thousand in fact… Every damned piece of the puzzle is falling into place.’
Moreno pondered.
‘Thursday?’ she said. ‘It’s Tuesday today.’
‘I’m aware of that,’ said Reinhart. ‘God only knows what’s happened, and God only knows where he’s got to. But the Wanted notices have been sent out, so we’ll have him here sooner or later.’
Moreno bit her lip and looked doubtful.
‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she said. ‘What was he going to use the money for?’
Reinhart paused for a couple of seconds, staring at his pipe.
‘He told them at the bank that it was something to do with buying a boat. A likely story! Huh, he was going to pay the blackmailer, of course.’
‘And you reckon he did so?’ asked Moreno. ‘In that case, why has he disappeared?’
Reinhart stared gloomily at the piles of cassettes still lying on his desk.
‘Enlighten me!’ he said.
Moreno sat in silence for a while, sucking a pencil.
‘If he made up his mind to pay,’ she said in the end, ‘and actually did so… Well, there would be no reason for him to run away and hide, surely? Something more must have happened, I don’t know what, but it seems illogical otherwise. In any case, it can’t have simply been that he just coughed up. For God’s sake, two hundred thousand isn’t exactly pin money.’
‘Two hundred and twenty,’ muttered Reinhart. ‘No, you’re right, of course — but when we catch him we’ll no doubt discover the explanation.’
There was a knock on the door and Rooth came in, carrying a chocolate cake.‘Peace be with you,’ he said. ‘Do you want to hear the one about the obstetrician and the angels?’
‘Why not?’ sighed Reinhart.
It took Rooth a quarter of an hour to report on his conversation with Dr Brandt. Reinhart made notes while listening, then ordered Rooth to find the other ‘brothers’ and collect more information about Pieter Clausen’s all-round character. Plus what he had been doing and saying this last month.
‘Try to get Jung and deBries involved as well,’ said Reinhart. ‘So that you’ve finished the job by this evening. This Smaage character first of all, of course.’
Rooth nodded and left the room. He bumped into Krause in the doorway.
‘Have you got a moment?’ Krause asked. ‘I’ve spent the afternoon following something up.’
‘Really?’ said Reinhart. ‘What kind of a something?’
Krause sat down beside Moreno and opened a notebook with a certain degree of ceremony.
‘Van Veeteren,’ he said. ‘He phoned this morning and gave me a tip-off.’
‘A tip-off?’ said Reinhart, sceptically. ‘ The Chief Inspector phoned and gave you a tip-off?’
‘Yep,’ said Krause, and couldn’t resist a slightly smug smile. ‘He was careful to stress that it maybe wasn’t all that important, but I’ve done a bit of research in any case.’
‘Can you come to the point, or would you like an ice cream first?’ wondered Reinhart.
Krause cleared his throat.
‘It was to do with a name,’ he said. ‘Erich Van Veeteren’s fiancee — Marlene Frey — had found a name scribbled on a scrap of paper that she had forgotten to tell us about. Only a few days ago, it seems.’
‘And what was the name?’ asked Moreno neutrally, before Reinhart had a chance to interrupt again.
‘Keller,’ said Krause. ‘Spelt like it sounds. It was only a surname on a small scrap of paper. Erich had scribbled it down in haste just a day or two before he died, apparently, and it wasn’t a name in his address book. Anyway, there are only twenty-six people called Keller in the Maardam section of the telephone directory, and they are the ones I’ve checked up on… if for no other reason than that The Chief Inspector wanted me to. Hmm.’
‘And?’ said Reinhart.
‘I think there’s one that could be of interest to us.’
Reinhart leaned forward over his desk and gritted his teeth.
‘Who?’ he said. ‘And why is he interesting?’
‘His name’s Aron Keller. He works in the orthopaedic department at the New Rumford… In the prosthesis workshop, if I’ve understood it rightly. And he lives out at Boorkhejm.’
Reinhart opened his mouth to say something, but Moreno got in first.
‘Have you spoken to him?’
She could have sworn that Krause made a dramatic pause before answering.
‘No. They don’t know where he is. He hasn’t turned up for work since Friday.’