‘Deplorable is the right word,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But it’s pretty obvious what lies behind it.’
‘The fact that Ferrari is a member of the Succulents?’
‘Of course. He has a chance to obstruct us, and so of course he does just that. Don’t forget that their motto is “Singillitam mortales, cunctim perpetui!”’
‘What does that mean?
‘On your own you are mortal, together you are immortal!’
‘I didn’t know you could speak Latin.’
‘I looked it up,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I work in a bookshop now and then, as you might know, so it wasn’t too difficult. According to Reinhart, Ferrari is going to be replaced, so that detail will be sorted in a few days.’
‘Presumably,’ said Münster, turning to look at the sun again.
I’m doubtful about the whole of this, he thought. Does he really know what he’s doing?
‘If deFraan had had a bit more ice in his veins,’ said Van Veeteren, ‘all he’d have needed to do was to lie low instead of running off in this panicky way. He must have known the situation, he’s no fool. What do you think it signifies?’
‘That he ran away?’
‘Yes.’
Münster thought for a moment.
‘That he’s tired of it all?’
‘Exactly,’ said Van Veeteren, adjusting his straw hat. ‘That’s the conclusion I drew. He knows that we know, and his lunacy isn’t under control any longer. Not completely, in any case, and that’s what will bring about his downfall. He just hasn’t the strength to go on any longer. My guess is that he’s utterly exhausted — no wonder, come to that.’
‘The fingerprints in the Blake book were pretty convincing,’ said Münster. ‘Not conclusive, of course, but they prove that he had a link to the Kammerle family.’
Van Veeteren nodded. Sat in silence for a while, staring at the glass of lemon squash he had in his hand.
‘Of course. But a good lawyer would produce ten innocent explanations from up his sleeve in as many seconds. The same applies to that confounded lapel badge. All the clues pointing to deFraan are so insubstantial that they would carry no weight at all in a courtroom, that’s the problem. But I would really like to meet him eye to eye. I hope we can nail him.’
‘Why?’ wondered Münster. ‘Why would you like to meet him?’
‘Human interest,’ said Van Veeteren, lighting a cigarette.
‘Or inhuman interest, perhaps?’ suggested Münster.
‘Possibly, yes. I want to know what makes him tick, and what the hell lies behind it all. It’s so damned unpleasant for a man of such high intelligence to be driven for so long by such high lunacy. He must be an emotional monster, I can’t see it any other way. But even monsters are made up of flesh and blood and nerves — or so I’ve always believed, in any case.’
Münster put on his newly acquired sunglasses and unfastened a couple of shirt buttons.
‘Nobody seemed to have known him particularly well.’
‘Nobody at all, it seems. If that Dr Parnak was a pal of his for so many years and didn’t have more to say about him than she did, well — who the hell could throw light on him?’
‘His wife? Could have done. .’
‘We’re on the way to her,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘It’s a pity we weren’t able to talk to her sister — that might have given us a few clues, at least.’
Münster nodded. They had managed to track down Professor deFraan’s former sister-in-law, a certain Laura Fenner née Markovic, to Boston, USA, but just before they left Maardam Krause had informed them that fru Fenner was unfortunately on a skiing holiday at Lake Placid, and couldn’t be contacted.
‘What do you think about Christa deFraan’s death?’ Münster asked.
Van Veeteren said nothing for a while, merely sat twiddling his toes.
‘I think what I think,’ he said eventually.
It was four in the afternoon when they got out of their taxi in the square in Argostoli. Van Veeteren stood for a while beside his suitcase, looking around and nodding contentedly. Münster paid the driver, then followed suit. It was not difficult to understand the satisfied expression on the Chief Inspector’s face. The agora was large and square, surrounded on three sides by restaurants, tavernas and cafes. Low, pale-coloured buildings with flat roofs, and plane trees and oleander bushes to provide shade. The town climbed up the mountainside, and down towards the sea. Palm trees were making crackling noises in the warm breeze. Cyclists and small children were everywhere, pedestrians, elderly gentlemen playing tavli, and a few apathetic pigeons pecking away around an empty tribune with some kind of rudimentary loud-speaker set-up.
‘Ah,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘We have come to the real world, Münster. Pascal never saw this.’
‘Pascal?’ said Münster. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He claimed that people are incapable of sitting still in the same place for any longish time, and that almost all wretchedness can be traced back to that fact — evil, for instance. But you could spend an eternity in this square, surely you can see that? If you have a beer and a newspaper, at least.’
Münster looked around.
‘Yes indeed,’ he said, picking up his suitcase. ‘And that hotel doesn’t look so bad either. That’s where we’ll be staying, isn’t it?’
He pointed to the Ionean Plaza, the large building on the northern side of the square. The pale yellow façade was bathed in evening sunshine. Three storeys high, small balconies with wrought-iron bars, and a distinctly French look overall. Van Veeteren nodded and looked at his watch.
‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘But we mustn’t forget that this island has a history as well. A recent history.’
‘Really?’ said Münster.
‘It was one of the worst affected of all during the war, in various ways. The Germans massacred thousands of Italian soldiers, for instance. Burnt heaps of them on big fires. And there was a terrible earthquake here in 1953.’
‘I thought Germany and Italy were on the same side during the war,’ said Münster.’
‘So did the Italians,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘But I suppose we’d better forget about the war and Pascal for a while, and check in instead. Perhaps we ought to get something done today. Or what do you think?’
‘A good idea,’ said Münster. ‘For our peace of mind — especially if we are going to sit around here for an eternal evening.’
The Fauner travel agency had its office in the south-west corner of the agora, and Münster was served by two blonde women in blue uniforms. They looked to be in their thirties, could well have been twins, and for the moment had nothing better to do than sit in front of their switched-off computers with a cup of coffee each. Münster knew that the tourist season proper didn’t start for another four or five weeks, and he was surprised to find the office open from as early as 1 March.
But perhaps there was the occasional island-hopper to look after. And an occasional detective intendent. He turned to the nearest blonde and introduced himself.
‘Were you the one who rang?’
‘Yes.’
She smiled a friendly charter-smile. Münster smiled back.
‘I’ve looked into the matter for you.’
She took a sheet of paper from a file.
‘Maarten and Christa deFraan were here for a fortnight’s holiday in August, 1995, like you said. They bought the holiday from us, and stayed at one of the hotels out at Lassi. That’s only a few kilometres from here — it’s where the best beaches are, and most people want to stay there. The hotel’s name was Olympos, but it’s not there any more. It wasn’t one of the better establishments, to tell you the truth, and we stopped using it about three years ago. They closed down altogether last year. I think they’re converting it into a collection of boutiques, but I’m not sure.’
Münster wrote it all down in his notebook.