“Moerk’s idea?” he said.
“Of course,” said Van Veeteren. “That’s the only one we’ve discovered so far. All three of them arrived in Kaalbringen this year, that much is certain. It could be a coincidence, of course, but I don’t think so. There’s an opening here, but where the hell does it get us?”
“Not very far,” said Munster.
“No,” sighed Van Veeteren. “We need something more.
Although it may be that they’ve nothing more in common than the link with the murderer. Obviously, you’d expect the local police to find out what the connection is before we do, but if this is all there is, well… that means-”
“-that we’ll see everything as clear as day as soon as we find him,” interrupted Munster. “But not until then.”
“Not a damn thing until then,” said Van Veeteren. “Would you like dessert, or just coffee?”
“Just coffee,” said Munster.
“Just let things take their course, then,” said Munster, trying not to sound impatient. “Sooner or later we’ll fall over some thing. Or else he’ll strike again. How many new arrivals are there, by the way? He might be after all of them.”
“About fifty this year, Bausen says. But let’s hope the motive is a bit more specific than that. I think we should cross our fin gers and hope the press doesn’t latch on to Moerk’s thesis. It could be a bit awkward, providing police protection for all incomers; we’ve got enough panic as it is. No, let’s solve this like greased lightning, Munster; I think that would be best for all concerned! I want to get home as soon as possible.”
Same here, thought Munster. He toyed with the idea of suggesting a changing of the guard, that Reinhart and Rooth should come and relieve them; but of course, that was not very realistic. No, it would doubtless be best to consider themselves citizens of Kaalbringen for the immediate future, and if only he could get a call though to Synn, as he’d already established, he was sure he’d be able to put up with everything fate threw at him.
“What’s the other possibility?” he remembered to ask.
“Huh,” said Van Veeteren, scratching the back of his neck.
“That it’s all a bluff, pure and simple. The ABC Murders — have you read it?”
Munster shook his head.
“The murderer launches a whole series of murders to cam ouflage the fact that there’s only one victim he has his sights on. He kills them in alphabetical order, but it’s only the C mur der that is significant-from his point of view, that is.”
“I see,” said Munster. “So Eggers and Simmel might be red herrings, as it were? The victim who really counts is Ruhme. A bit far-fetched, I’d have thought.”
“It could be Eggers or Simmel as well-the main character, that is-don’t forget that! That would be even more far fetched.”
“But would he keep going afterward? No, I think that’s psy chologically impossible.”
“Not impossible,” said Van Veeteren. “Less credible, per haps. The one who matters might also be number six, or num ber thirteen, although I’m inclined to think this isn’t an ABC affair.”
“What is it, then?” Munster ventured to ask after a pause.
Van Veeteren stirred his coffee slowly with a toothpick.
“A murderer,” he said deliberately, “who is a perfectly nor mal citizen of this town, and who had a damn good reason to kill Heinz Eggers, Ernst Simmel and Maurice Ruhme. All of them men, all of them recent arrivals.”
Great, thought Munster. So now we know.
“How many candidates are there?” he asked.
“I’ve done a few sums,” said Van Veeteren. “If we leave out the women-”
“Can we do that?”
“No,” said Van Veeteren, “but we’ll do it all the same. And the elderly, and children, which we’re not really permitted to do either. Well, that leaves us with about fifteen thousand people.”
“Excellent,” said Munster. “Can we ask all male citizens between the ages of fifteen and seventy-five to turn up at the station and produce an alibi?”
“Of course we can,” said Van Veeteren. “I’ve no doubt that
Kropke would be delighted to feed them all into his computer.
Should be ready by around Christmas, I would think.”
“A shortcut might not be a bad idea,” said Munster.
“That’s what we’re going to find,” said Van Veeteren, finish ing off his coffee. “That’s why we’re here.”
“Really?” said Munster. “I was beginning to wonder…”
“Who do you think we should concentrate on?” asked Van
Veeteren as Munster reached for the door handle.
“Meaning what?”
“Well, even if this isn’t an ABC affair, it might be an idea to off-load a couple of the murders. Concentrate on just one of them, as if the others had never happened. That way you avoid diluting your concentration. If we solve one, we no doubt solve them all. Three flies with one thwack.”
Munster approved.
“Maurice Ruhme, in that case,” he said. “No point in pok ing around old corpses when there’s a fresh one at hand.”
“My view exactly,” said Van Veeteren. “You’ll go far, one of these fine days.”
“Just now I’ll settle for going to bed,” said Munster. “Good night, sir!”
20
As soon as she woke up, she went down to the newsstand and bought the newspapers.
It was part of the Sunday ritual, and she could normally count on walking there and back by the time the kettle had boiled. Today it took four times as long. Mrs. Sorenson stopped her outside the front door and wanted her worries put to rest, Mr. Markovic had opinions to shout down from his bal cony, and Miss deMaar at the newsstand refused to hand over the papers until she had been given a detailed report on how the murder hunt was progressing. A family that had only recently moved in, husband and wife and two blubbering chil dren, had views about the competence of the police and their duty to protect ordinary, decent citizens; and when she finally managed to get away, it was only by referring to the important interrogations she was due to conduct after lunch.
“Interrogations! Really?” growled the janitor, Mr. Geurtze, who had materialized out of nowhere. “That’s something, I suppose. And when do you expect to find the next victim?”
It was impossible not to notice his sarcasm. But there again, she reminded herself that Mr. Geurtze never did have anything nice to say. Not since somebody set fire to the rabbit hutches at his allotment a few years ago. She could see his point, in fact; in his world, good had surrendered unconditionally to evil. There was no reason for him to expect anything but unpleasantness and ugly stuff. It was one way of avoiding disappointment.
Perhaps that wasn’t a stupid stance to adopt-not if you were a lonely old man with a weak bladder, cataracts and heart fibrillation. On the other hand, if you were a woman in her prime, perhaps you ought to try for a more balanced view of life.
Stupid old bastard, was Beate Moerk’s conclusion as she locked the door behind her.
The line taken by the newspapers was more or less consistent.
Two and a half months had passed since the first murder, twelve days since the second, three since the last one-surely it was high time the police spoke out? What leads did they have?
What theories were they working on? Had they any concrete suspicions? The general public had a right to be informed!
Nevertheless, the criticism was not as cutting as what she’d been subjected to at the newsstand. Their faith in Bausen and the two experts summoned from outside to assist appeared to be more or less unshaken. The chief of police had evidently succeeded yet again with his spin and tactical ploys at the press conference the day
