“I’m sorry. I’m afraid there are some things I can’t discuss.
Professional secrecy you know, not only-”
“Crap.” Van Veeteren cut him short again. “It’s true that I don’t have any papers with me, but it will be only a matter of time if I decide to relieve you of that commitment to secrecy.
May I remind you that this is a murder investigation.”
Meisse hesitated.
“Just give me an indication,” said Van Veeteren. “That will be sufficient. Are drugs involved, for instance?”
The doctor looked up at the ceiling.
“Yes,” he said. “To a large extent. But she’s not in my group, so I don’t know all that much about it.”
Van Veeteren said nothing for a while. Then he looked at his watch and rose to his feet.
“Many thanks for your time,” he said. “I’ll have a word with
Miss Linckx as well. May I just ask you one final question?”
“Of course,” said Meisse, who leaned back in his chair and smiled again.
Van Veeteren paused for effect.
“Who do you think killed Maurice Ruhme?”
The smile vanished.
“What…?” said Meisse. “Who…? I’ve no idea, of course.
If I had the slightest idea of who the Axman was, I’d have told the police long ago, obviously!”
“Obviously,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m sorry I had to take up so much of your time.”
This place seems to have a remarkable ability to attract people to it, he thought, after he’d left Dr. Meisse in peace and was instead looking for Miss Linckx’s office. How many people had he come across, in fact, with some kind of connection with this gloomy, isolated institution?
He started counting, but before he’d gone very far, he bumped into Miss Linckx in the corridor, and decided to aban don that line of thinking until after he had interviewed her.
As he drove out of the parking lot an hour or so later, he was thinking mostly about what sort of an impression she had made on him. The beautiful Beatrice Linckx. And if it really was as she maintained, that her relationship with Maurice
Ruhme had truly been based on the strongest and most solid trinity as she claimed-respect, honesty and love.
In any case, it didn’t sound so silly, he thought, and started remembering his own broken-down marriage.
But he’d hardly gotten as far as recalling Renate’s name when he drove into a cloudburst, so he turned his attention to trying to see through the windshield and stay on the road instead.
28
The confession came early in the morning. Apparently, Mr. Wollner had been waiting in the drizzle outside the police sta tion since before six, but it wasn’t until Miss deWitt, the clerk, opened up just before seven that he was able to get in.
“What’s it all about?” she asked, after she’d sat him down on the visitors’ sofa with brown canvas cushions, hung up her hat and coat and put the kettle on in the canteen.
“I want to confess,” said Mr. Wollner, staring down at the floor.
Miss deWitt observed him over the top of her frameless spectacles.
“Confess to what?”
“The murders,” said Mr. Wollner.
Miss deWitt thought for a moment.
“What murders?”
“The ax murders.”
“Oh,” said Miss deWitt. She felt a sudden attack of dizzi ness that she didn’t think was connected with the menopausal flushes she’d been suffering from for some time now. She held on to the table and closed her eyes tightly.
Then she got a grip on herself. None of the police officers would turn up until about half past seven, she was sure of that.
She eyed the hunched-up figure on the sofa and established that he didn’t have an ax hidden under his clothes, at least.
Then she came out from behind the counter, put a hand on his shoulder and asked him to accompany her.
He did as he was bidden without protesting, allowing him self to be led through the narrow corridors and into the inner most of the two cells, the one that could be locked.
“Wait here,” said Miss deWitt. “An officer will come to interrogate you shortly. Anything you say might be used in evi dence against you.”
She wondered why she’d said that last sentence. Mr. Woll ner sat on the bench and started wringing his hands, and she decided to leave him to his fate. She considered phoning
Mooser, who was duty officer, but decided not to. Instead she made the coffee and waited for Inspector Kropke, who duly put in an appearance at seven-thirty on the dot.
“The Axman has confessed,” she said.
“What the hell…?” said Kropke.
“I’ve locked him into the cell,” said Miss deWitt.
“What the hell?” repeated Inspector Kropke. “Who… who is it?”
“I don’t know,” said Miss deWitt. “But I think his name’s Wollner.”
After thinking it over, Kropke decided that it would be best to wait for one of the DCIs to appear, and so it was twenty min utes to nine before the first interrogation of the presumed murderer could take place. Those present, apart from Kropke and the chief of police, were Inspector Moerk and Constable
Mooser.
To be on the safe side, they recorded the proceedings on two tape recorders, partly with an eye to possible requirements if the case eventually went to court, and partly so that the two experts who had been called in from outside, Van Veeteren and
Munster, could be sure of an opportunity to form a correct opinion of the circumstances.
Bausen:
Your full name, please.
Wollner:
Peter Matthias Wollner.
Bausen:
Born?
Wollner:
February 15, 1936.
Bausen:
Address?
Wollner:
Morgenstraat 16.
Bausen:
Kaalbringen?
Wollner:
Yes.
Bausen:
Are you married?
