crouching over his victim in the bushes, waiting for them to go away. (On realizing this, one of the girls had burst into a fit of hysterical sobs-the very girl, incidentally, for whose sake they had avoided contacting the police sooner. Her father was the pastor at the local Assembly of God; and at the time in question, she ought to have been at home in bed at her friend’s house [another of the girls in the party of young people] instead of wandering about in the woods with a group of boys.)
Whatever, this piece of evidence suggested that the time of the murder could most probably be fixed at 2340 give or take a minute or so.
“That’s about it, more or less,” said Kropke, closing his note book.
“We ought to give Meuritz a cigar,” said Van Veeteren. “It looks as if he was spot-on regarding the time of death. What I want to know is how the murderer managed to cross the square. I mean, there were-let me see-six or seven people there at the critical moment.”
“Eight,” said Kropke. “At least eight. He probably walked along the arcade. There’s a line of columns along the western side of the square, the Waalska Building-I don’t know if you’ve noticed them, Chief Inspector. The lighting is pretty bad there. None of our witnesses went that way.”
“As if built for a murderer,” sighed Bausen. “Well, gentle men, what do you think? A good day?”
Mooser scratched himself behind the ear with a pencil and yawned. Kropke studied his notes. Van Veeteren drained the last drops from his cardboard cup and registered that there was a world of difference between stale, lukewarm coffee and white Meursault.
“Hard to say,” he said. “At least we’ve acquired a great deal of information. And tomorrow is another day.”
“Monday,” Mooser made so bold as to point out.
“He could have been waiting there in the woods,” said
Kropke, who had evidently been following his own line of thought. “We shouldn’t dismiss that possibility out of hand.”
“Nevertheless,” said Van Veeteren, “I think I’d like to con duct a series of little interviews now. Unless our leader has other tasks lined up for me, of course?”
“None at all,” said Bausen. “Good police officers know how to keep themselves usefully occupied.”
Mooser yawned again.
12
“You were his legal adviser, is that right?” asked Van Veeteren, taking a toothpick out of his breast pocket.
“More a good friend of the family,” smiled the lawyer.
“One doesn’t exclude the other, does it?”
“Not at all.”
Eugen Klingfort’s office had the touch of a luxury cabin about it. Bright teak panels with heavy brass fittings here and there. Built-in bookcases with rows of leather-bound volumes, every one of them unopened since they’d left the printer’s. A leather-covered filing cabinet, a bar counter that could fold into the desk, a Wassermann/Frisch safe.
The incarnation of bad taste, thought Van Veeteren. The more money they have to satisfy it with, the more ghastly it gets.
“And for how long?” he asked.
“How long? Oh, you mean… let’s see, twenty-five or Hakan Nesser thirty years, something like that. Ever since I established myself in Kaalbringen, I think it’s fair to say. Would you like a cigar, Chief Inspector?”
“No, thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “What state were his affairs in?”
“His affairs? What do you mean?”
“I want to know what state Ernst Simmel’s affairs were in.
You were his financial adviser, after all; I thought we’d agreed on that.”
Klingfort lay back in his chair and let his chins rest on his chest. A bit on the corpulent side, thought Van Veeteren.
“His affairs were in perfectly good shape.”
“And his will?”
“There is no will. He didn’t need one. Grete and the chil dren will each get a share of his estate; there are no unusual cir cumstances.”
“How much are we talking about?”
“Now, listen here, Mr. Veeteren-”
“Van Veeteren.”
“-Van Veeteren. I’ve already wasted enough time on that with Inspector Kropke. If you imagine that I have any inten tion of going through everything once again just because you are a rank higher, well…”
“Well what?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Well, you’re deluding yourself.”
“Thank you, Mr. Klingfort. I gather there must be some thing fishy hidden away, but we’ll no doubt be able to track it down without your help.”
Eugen Klingfort snorted and lit a cigar.
“Let me make one thing crystal clear to you,” he said after creating a few thick clouds of smoke. “There isn’t the slightest trace of any irregularity with regard to Ernst’s affairs or his estate.”
“So you exclude the possibility that the murderer could have had financial motives?” asked Van Veeteren.
“Yes.”
“But were there not people who owed him money?”
“Of course he had debtors. But not the kind of debts you are implying.”
“What am I implying?” asked Van Veeteren, placing his toothpick on the arm of his chair. “Tell me!”
Klingfort didn’t answer, but his face had started to turn somewhat redder.
“What do you think about the murder?” asked Van Veeteren.
“A lunatic,” replied Klingfort without hesitation. “I’ve said that right from the start. Make sure you catch him, so that law abiding citizens can wander about the streets at night without fear of assault.”
“Did you go to prostitutes with him?” asked Van Veeteren.
The question came just as Klingfort was inhaling, and the lawyer had a coughing fit that Van Veeteren realized must have been quite painful. Klingfort stood up as quickly as his massive frame allowed, and staggered over to the window. When he came back, he took a swig of soda water from the bar shelf.
“What the hell do you mean by that?” he said when he had recovered, trying to bellow. “This is clearly nothing short of abuse of power.”
“It’s public knowledge that Simmel used prostitutes,” said
Van Veeteren, unconcerned. “I just wondered if you could give me any names.”
“Would you please get out now and leave me in peace.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. Sit down and answer my questions.
This is a murder inquiry and I have the authority to take you to the station if I want to. Don’t get so high and mighty, Mr. Klingfort. I’m used to shooting down much higher fliers than I’ve noticed around here.”
Eugen Klingfort remained standing in the middle of the room with his chins on his chest. He looks like a sick walrus, thought Van Veeteren.
“You’re spilling ash on the carpet,” he said. “Well? I’m wait ing for some names of those women.”
“I have… I have nothing to do with that side of Ernst’s life,” said Klingfort, going back to his desk chair. “Nothing! I suppose he might have gone off with the odd one of… the usual ones… occasionally. I have no doubt the chief of police has their names.”
“I want the ones who are not known to the police,” said
Van Veeteren. “You are comfortably married, Mr. Klingfort.
