stone paving.
Even I know that… it’s part of the local folklore, you could say.”
“Hmm,” said Bausen. “Anyway, Maurice Ruhme was found dead in his apartment at 26 Leisner Alle by Beatrice Linckx, his live-in girlfriend-thirty years old, psychologist, works down the road in Kirkenau.”
“Really,” said Van Veeteren.
Bausen paused, but there was no further comment.
“She found him shortly after eleven at night last Thursday, the day before yesterday, in other words, when she got home from a three-day seminar in Kiel. She appears to have had a very nasty shock-
went out and sat in her car for two hours before reporting it to us. Bang was on duty, and received the call at 0111.”
“That’s correct,” said Bang.
“Van Veeteren and I got there just after twenty past,” said
Bausen, “and it was obvious to us that our friend the Axman had struck again. Perhaps Detective Chief Inspector Van
Veeteren might like to take it up from there?”
“All right,” said Van Veeteren, taking the toothpick from his mouth. “The most interesting thing is the weapon, I assume.
Forensics are still busy with it, but he left it behind this time, which might suggest that he’s finished now and doesn’t intend to chop anybody else’s head off. That’s only a hypothesis, of course. In any case, it’s a damn effective weapon-lightweight and easy to handle, and incredibly sharp.”
“A child could kill with that thing,” said Bausen.
“Ruhme had been lying in the hall for quite some time when we arrived,” said Van Veeteren. “Is that a box of Danish pastries I can see behind Constable Bang?”
“Mooser, would you go downstairs and order some coffee,” said Bausen, and Mooser departed without more ado. Bang opened the carton and sniffed noisily at the contents.
“Today’s,” he said.
“Anyway,” Van Veeteren continued, “even if Meuritz hasn’t delivered his last word yet, we can safely assume that Ruhme had been lying there dead for at least twenty-four hours by the time we got to the scene.”
“Late on Wednesday evening,” said Bausen. “I think we can take it that was when he struck. We have that witness as well-”
“Mr. Moen,” said Beate Moerk. “I must say he seemed remarkably clearheaded, given the circumstances.”
“Can we take the forensic details first?” said Bausen.
“Kropke, I assume you’ve talked to the lab?”
Mooser returned with a tray and started distributing mugs of coffee.
“Yes,” said Kropke. “They’re not finished yet-with the weapon, that is. All the marks on the floor, in the blood, were almost certainly made by Miss Linckx. Footprints, the marks made by her suitcases-they haven’t found anything that didn’t come either from him or from her. As for the weapon, it appears to be a special tool used by butchers and is several years old, it seems. No manufacturer’s stamp or anything like that-he probably filed that away-but with a bit of luck we should be able to trace where it came from… in a few days, they thought.”
“Why the hell did he leave it behind?” asked Bausen. “Can somebody tell me that?”
“Hubris,” said Beate Moerk. “Wanted to prove he was clev erer than we are, that we’ll never catch him.”
“Presumably correct,” said Van Veeteren, but Munster wasn’t clear which of Inspector Moerk’s assumptions he was referring to.
“Let’s have a few more facts before we start speculating,” said Bausen. “How did it happen, Detective Chief Inspector?”
“The blow came from above, in all probability,” said Van
Veeteren. “Went in more or less in the same place as in the earlier cases… with the same result. He evidently died instan taneously.”
“From above?” said Kropke. “Doesn’t that sound a bit unlikely? There were no signs of a struggle, were there? Or of resistance, as I understand it?”
Bausen exchanged a look with Van Veeteren, then cleared his throat and leaned forward over the table.
“We think,” he said, “the chief inspector and I, that you could do it more or less like this, and you can make up your own minds: One, the murderer rings the doorbell. Two, Ruhme goes to open it. Three, he recognizes the murderer and invites him in. Four, the murderer crosses the threshold and drops something on the floor-”
“A scrap of paper, a coin, could be anything,” said Van Veeteren by way of explanation.
“-five, Ruhme bends down to pick it up, and six, the mur derer strikes!”
Silence all around the table. The only sound to be heard was Constable Bang chewing away on a piece of Danish pastry.
Inspector Kropke loosened his tie and looked doubtful.
“Good,” said Beate Moerk eventually. “I think you’re right-but not a coin. It could have rolled anywhere.”
“Correct,” said Van Veeteren. “Not a coin. In any case, he had time to pick up whatever it was before making his escape.”
“He planted the ax in Ruhme’s back as well,” said Bausen.
“He doesn’t seem to have been in much of a hurry.”
“Didn’t he get any blood on himself?” asked Mooser.
“That’s possible, but not enough for him to have left any traces if he did,” said Bausen. “There are no signs of blood on the stairs or anywhere else.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “A pretty professional job all around, it seems; but I don’t think we should put too much faith in the assumption that Ruhme recognized him. There are masses of possible alternatives-”
“He could have forced him down onto his knees with a gun, for instance,” said Beate Moerk.
“For instance,” said Van Veeteren.
“The witness,” said Bausen. “Let’s examine Mr. Moen’s evi dence a little more closely. It’s crucial that we don’t mess things up here.”
“Absolutely,” said Van Veeteren.
“We’ve spoken to him, both Inspector Moerk and I,” said
Bausen, “with somewhat different outcomes, I suppose you could say. Anyway, his name is Alexander Moen, and he lives in the apartment above Ruhme and Linckx. He claims he noticed somebody coming in the front door of the apartment block shortly before eleven on Wednesday evening, and then saw the same person hurrying out again some fifteen minutes later.
For the whole of that time, Moen was sitting at the table in his kitchen, looking out over Leisner Park and the avenue waiting for and then listening to the eleven o’clock news on the radio.”
“There’s no reason to doubt that,” said Beate Moerk. “It’s part of his evening ritual to sit there listening. He’s been doing it for the last thirty years, it seems.”
“There wasn’t an eleven o’clock news until 1972,” main tained Kropke.
“Really?” said Van Veeteren. “Anyway, I don’t think it mat ters much. Can we get his description of this man? That’s the interesting bit, of course. Bausen first.”
“OK, I talked to him that same night,” said Bausen. “He awoke for the same reason as all the other tenants, hmm-” He glanced at Bang, who was still busy with the Danish pastries.
“-and evidently couldn’t get back to sleep. Stood there on the stairs in his slippers and dressing gown at three-thirty in the morning, and was keen to give evidence.”
“He’s ninety-four years old,” said Beate Moerk, to put Mun ster in the picture.
“Anyway,” said Bausen, “he claimed that he’d seen a man enter the building from the direction of the park-”
“Door lock?” asked Munster.
“Hasn’t been working for several days,” said Kropke.
“-and go in through the front door. He was wearing some kind of tracksuit, dark with lighter markings. Tall and thin and carrying a parcel, or a bundle-well, he eventually decided that it was a bundle. He didn’t see anything of the man’s face because it was in the shadows all the time, but he thinks he had a beard-and quite long hair.
