Mind's eye

chair and turned his back on him.

In nineteen cases he was sure. In the twentieth. .

Underneath all the broken and chewed-up toothpicks was his diary, and it was not long before that had engaged his attention.

Twenty-eight days to Christmas Eve, he worked out.

Nineteen sweet young ladies

Aspired to be his wife. .

How much overtime could he turn into vacation time?

Number twenty killed him. . no, spurned him. .

Presumably enough for him to take the rest of the year off?

The next one took his life.

What the hell was he doing? What was it, whizzing around so helplessly in his ancient, sluggish brain? Was he thinking of giving up? Was he thinking. .

There was no point. The thought had struck home right away, he wasn’t going to be able to banish it. . He might as well admit it. An easy chair on a terrace in. . Casablanca.

He’d be able to sit back there in just a few days from now! A warm breeze, a book, and a glass of white wine. Why continue to kid himself that this pretentious guessing game served any purpose at all?

But there again, should he not. .? Didn’t he owe it to Mitter, at least, to crack this case? Incidentally, what was the aver-age temperature in North Africa in December? Not much to shout about, presumably. Cold winds from the Sahara, and all the rest of it. .

The next one he got wrong!

Wouldn’t the chances of success be better if somebody else took over completely?

Australia! That was it! What was it Caen had said?

Seventy-five degrees. . Lemon blossoms? Australia. .

He dialed Hiller’s number.

“I’m thinking of handing this case over to Munster. I’ve got stuck.”

“The hell you will,” said Hiller.

“I’m old and tired,” said Van Veeteren.

“Crap!”

“I’ve got back pain.”

“You’re supposed to work with your head, not your back.

For Christ’s sake, you have six men under you!”

“I was thinking of going to Australia.”

There was silence for a while.

“All right,” said Hiller. “Why not? Put this bastard behind bars, and you can have a month’s vacation. Shall we say you have six days in which to crack it? I’ve promised on television that we’ll clear up this case within two weeks. There’s a direct flight to Sydney every Thursday.”

Van Veeteren thought it over. Put down the receiver and studied his diary again.

“Are you still there?”

“Yes, dammit!” said Van Veeteren.

“Well?”

“Okay, let’s say that,” said Van Veeteren with a sigh. “But if I haven’t cracked it by Wednesday, you’ll receive my letter of resignation. This time it’s serious. I shall buy a ticket tomorrow.”

He hung up before Hiller had a chance to get the last word in. Looked through his notes one more time. Then he tore them out of the pad and threw them into the wastebasket.

Six days to go, he thought.

Didn’t the last one in the rhyme get away with it, by the way?

Rooth sat down on the chair he had vacated half an hour earlier.

“What did you do before going to Majorna?” Van Veeteren asked.

“Bendiksen.”

“A possible murderer?”

“No way.”

“Had he received a letter?”

“No.”

“What else?”

“Former wife. The children. No letters. .”

“Tips?”

“No. The ex-wife seemed shocked.”

“Out of the question as the murderer, I take it. Any more?”

“Marcus Greijer and Uwe Borgmann.”

“Brother-in-law and. . neighbor?”

“Correct. Nothing.”

“Alibis?”

“Watertight.”

“How long have they been living in Maardam?”

“Greijer for about ten years, Borgmann all his life.”

“Okay, anything else?”

Rooth shook his head. Van Veeteren dug a sheet of paper from out of a desk drawer.

“I have a list here of twenty-eight names. It’s Mitter’s suggestion for people who might have killed Eva Ringmar. I think we’ve investigated most of them, but not all.”

He handed the paper to Rooth.

“I want you and deBries to take a look at them.”

“What exactly are we after?”

“Alibis, of course. And their past. The interesting ones are those who’ve only moved to Maardam recently. And. . well, use your imagination, for Christ’s sake!”

Rooth blew his nose loudly.

“When are we supposed to do this by?”

Van Veeteren looked at his diary.

“Let’s say Monday. But if you find the murderer before then, do feel free to let us know.”

“With the greatest of pleasure,” said Rooth. “Have a nice weekend!”

He folded the sheet of paper and put it in his inside pocket.

Stood up and added:

“We’ll find him, no doubt, never fear.”

“Clear off,” said Van Veeteren.

“And what do we do, then?” asked Munster when they were alone again.

Van Veeteren tore up a few more notes while he thought the matter over.

“You and Reinhart can do what the devil you like,” he said eventually. “Whoever solves the case gets a bottle of cognac.”

“Five star?” asked Munster.

“Four,” said Van Veeteren. “Can I give you a few tips?”

Munster nodded.

“Concentrate on newly appointed staff at Bunge. I’ll wager that’s where we’ll find him, in any case! But for God’s sake don’t actually go there!”

“We’ve got their names,” said Munster. “All the ones appointed after Eva Ringmar.”

“How many of them are there?”

Munster took out his notebook and leafed through it.

“Men?”

“Yes, only the men, of course.”

“Eleven.”