impression but their own; you could easily imagine having been transported to some Greene esque or Conradian outpost. A mangrove swamp at the mouth of some river in the as yet unexplored continent. The heart of darkness, perhaps. A couple of topis, a jar of quinine tablets and a few mosquito nets would not have disturbed the image.
But nevertheless, he was in the middle of Europe. A little toy jungle by a European sea. Van Veeteren took a sip of his drink, which smelled slightly of cinnamon, and felt a brief pang of satisfaction.
“Your wife…?” he said. Sooner or later he’d have to ask that question, after all.
“Died two years ago. Cancer.”
“Any children?”
Bausen shook his head.
“What about you?” he asked.
“Divorced. Also two years ago, or thereabouts.”
“Ah, well,” said Bausen. “Are you ready?”
“For what?”
Bausen smiled.
“A little trip into the underworld. I thought I’d show you my treasure trove.”
They emptied their glasses, and Bausen led the way down into the cellar. Down the stairs, through the boiler room and a couple of storage rooms full of still more junk-bicycles, fur niture, worn-out domestic appliances, rusty old garden tools, newspapers (some in bundles and some not), bottles, old shoes and boots…
“I find it hard to let anything go,” said Bausen. “Mind your head! It’s a bit low down here.”
Down a few more steps and along a narrow passage smelling of soil, and they came to a solid-looking door with double bolts and a padlock.
“Here we are!” said Bausen. He unlocked the door and switched on a light. “Stand by to have your breath taken away!” He opened the door and allowed Van Veeteren to go in first.
Wine. A cellar full of it.
In the dim light he could just make out the dull reflections from the bottles stacked up in racks around the walls. In neat rows from floor to ceiling. Thousands of bottles, without doubt. He sucked the heavy air into his nostrils.
“Aah!” he said. “You are rising in my estimation, Mr. Chief of Police. This denotes without doubt the pinnacle of civili zation.”
Bausen chuckled.
“Exactly! What you see here is what will become my main occupation when I’ve retired. I’ve worked out that if I restrict myself to three bottles per week, they’ll last ten years. I doubt if I’ll want to continue any longer than that.”
Van Veeteren nodded. Why haven’t I been doing something like this? he thought. I must start digging the moment I get home!
It might be a bit problematic in view of the fact that he lived in an apartment block, of course, but maybe he could start by purchasing the goods instead. Perhaps he could rent an allot ment or something of the sort? He made up his mind to take it up with Reinhart or Dorigues as soon as he was back home.
“Please choose two for us to drink,” said Bausen. “A white and a red, I think.”
“Meursault,” said Van Veeteren. “White Meursault, do you have any of that?”
“A few dozen, I should think. What about the red?”
“I’ll leave that to the boss of the investigation team,” said Van Veeteren.
“Ha ha. All right, in that case I’ll propose a Saint Emilion ’71. If my friend the chief inspector doesn’t disapprove.”
“I expect I’ll be able to force it down,” said Van Veeteren.
“Not too bad an evening, on the whole,” he maintained two hours later. “It would be no bad thing if life were to be enhanced by rather more of this kind of thing-good food; intelligent conversation; sublime wines, to say the least; and this cheese.” He licked his fingers and took a bite of a slice of pear. “What do I owe you, by the way?”
Bausen chuckled with pleasure.
“Haven’t you figured it out? Put the Axman behind bars, for God’s sake, so that I can grow old with dignity!”
“I knew there’d be a catch,” said Van Veeteren.
Bausen poured out the last drops of the Bordeaux.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll have a whiskey to round it off later. Well?”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “It might be better if we take what you have to say first. You’ve been in it from the start, after all.”
His host nodded and leaned back in his chair. He kicked off his shoes and put his feet up on a wooden crate of empty jars.
Wiggling his toes for a while, he seemed to be lost in thought.
“God only knows,” he said after a minute or two. “I have so many ideas and loose ends buzzing around in my head that I don’t know where to start. I’ve spent most of today wondering if there really is a connection, when you get right down to it.”
“Explain!” said Van Veeteren.
“Of course we’re dealing with the same murderer; I take that for granted-for simplicity’s sake if for no other reason.
The same murderer, the same method, the same weapon. But the link between the victims-that’s what I’m a bit doubtful about. I’m a bit afraid of finding out something that we might jump at simply because we’ve found it. That they were on the same package holiday in Sicily in 1988, or were in the same hos pital in October 1979, or some other damn thing.”
“Two people always cross each other’s path somewhere or other,” said Van Veeteren.
“Something like that, yes, and the fact that they do doesn’t necessarily mean a thing. It can, but it doesn’t have to, by any means.”
“Don’t forget that we’re talking about three paths,” said
Van Veeteren. “The murderer’s as well.”
“Yes, fair enough; of course we have to look for the third link as well if we’re going to make a breakthrough. It’s just that I have the feeling it might be different in this case.”
“You mean that Eggers and Simmel might have been picked out at random?”
“Possibly,” said Bausen, staring out into the darkness. “Of course he has picked on Eggers and Simmel on purpose, but it’s not certain that they have much to do with him personally.
There could be much looser connections, as it were.”
“A list picked out at random from the phone book?” sug gested Van Veeteren. “There are precedents, as you know. Har ridge, if you remember him. He shut his eyes and stuck a pin into the Coventry edition of the telephone directory. Then went out and strangled them, one after another.”
“I know,” said Bausen. “One every Saturday… finished off five before they got him. Do you know what scuppered him?”
Van Veeteren shook his head.
“One of the people he’d picked out, Emerson Clarke, if I remember rightly, was a former boxing champion. Harridge simply couldn’t cope with him.”
“Tough luck,” said Van Veeteren. “But he ought to have taken the boxers off his list before he got started.”
“Serves him right,” said Bausen.
They both lit a cigarette and sat in silence for a while listen ing to the gentle rustling among the roses. A few hedgehogs had appeared and sniffed around before drinking from the saucer of milk outside the back door, and a few swallows were still sailing back and forth from underneath loose tiles. Perhaps not exactly the sounds and creatures of the jungle, but Van
Veeteren still had a distinct feeling of the exotic.
“Of course, we’ll be in a different position altogether if he beheads somebody else,” said Bausen.
