twins. In French.
It was astonishing what his mind was capable of in the early hours of the morning. .
Mind you, their visit to the ward the previous afternoon had hardly passed unnoticed.
A cracked windowpane, a split cuticle, a demolished infu-sion stand and other minor calamities. He had noticed that the smiles on the faces of the staff had become somewhat strained as time went by. As the noise level increased and accidents became more frequent.
How the hell does she manage? he wondered, allowing himself a faint smile as he slept. She must have inherited some of her father’s mental strength, presumably.
22
“Gossec’s Requiem?” said the young man with dark curly hair, pushing his glasses up onto his forehead. “Did you say Gossec’s Requiem?”
“Yes,” said Munster. “Is there such a thing?”
“Oh yes, there certainly is.” He nodded assiduously and leafed through a folder. “It’s just that we don’t have it. There is a recording with the French Radio Choir from 1959, I think; but there’s nothing on CD. Your best bet would be to ask at Laudener’s.”
“Laudener’s?”
“Yes, at Karlsplatsen. If they don’t have it we could always try to get it secondhand. The label is Vertique.”
“Thank you very much,” said Munster, and left the store.
He glanced at his watch and saw that he wouldn’t have time to go to Karlsplatsen. He was due to meet Judge Heidelbluum at six o’clock, and he had the feeling the old gentleman would not be best pleased if he arrived late.
I wish the chief inspector could stick with Bach or Mozart, he thought as he got into his car. Why the hell does he want to lie in a hospital bed listening to this particular requiem?
He parked in Guyderstraat, in the Wooshejm suburb, a considerable distance away from Heidelbluum’s house. No doubt the old gentleman wouldn’t be best pleased if he arrived too soon, either. He decided to take the opportunity of having a stroll around this exclusive district, where he didn’t normally set foot.
There never seemed to be a reason to do so. Insofar as there was any crime at all in Wooshejm, it was the more sophisticated, financial kind, not the sort of thing an ordinary, simple detective inspector would get involved in.
The houses skirted the western edge of the municipal forest; a lot of the sizeable plots backed directly up to the trees, so the owners could enjoy a very pleasant combination of town and countryside. There were about sixty or seventy houses in all, built at the beginning of this century or the end of the last; nowadays you could be sure that three or four times as many villas would be built in the same area. Munster knew that the wealth and fortunes concealed behind these flowering hedges and copper-topped walls accounted for most of the town’s tax income. This was where the cream lived, you could say.
Retired surgeons and professors, elderly generals and district judges, the occasional former government minister and indus-trial magnate of the old school. Newly arrived aristocratic families, perhaps, who had tired of the family seat and life in the country. There was no doubt that the average age of the gentlefolk living in this neighborhood was much closer to a hundred than fifty. And Heidelbluum was far from being a youngster, even in this exalted company.
A dying race, thought Munster as he sauntered slowly
along the quiet street, the air laden with the scent of jasmine; and when he heard the cries of children and the splashing of water behind one of the hedges, he knew that those responsible were great-grandchildren rather than grandchildren.
Ah well, some of it will be handed on to the next genera-tion, it seemed reasonable to assume.
He came to the Heidelbluum residence and rang the bell by the gate in the high wall. After a while he heard footsteps on the gravel path on the other side and a maid appeared, wearing a black skirt and blouse, an apron and a white hat.
“Yes?”
“Detective Inspector Munster. I have an appointment with the judge.”
“Please come this way,” she said, opening the gate a little wider.
She was buxom, with pretty red hair. She couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, Munster thought.
What strange worlds there were in existence.
Judge Heidelbluum received visitors in his library, but the French doors were open, leading out to a newly mowed lawn and fruit trees in blossom. The contrast between inside and outside was so marked, it almost seemed to be a parody of the situation, Munster thought. Outside, it was early summer, new life stirring and sprouting, fresh scents and birdsong; inside, it was predominantly dark oak, leather, damask and old books. And a rather pungent smell from the blackish green cigarillos that Heidelbluum insisted on smoking one puff at a time, before depositing them in an ashtray of oxblood-colored porphyry on the desk in front of him.
A bit reminiscent of the thin cigars Van Veeteren occasionally felt like smoking, Munster noted. Both in looks and smell.
He was ushered into a leather armchair in classical Anglo-Saxon style; it had obviously been placed in front of the desk specifically for this occasion, and as Munster settled down into it, he noticed that the old judge’s bald and birdlike head was swaying back and forth a couple of feet higher than his own.
That was no coincidence, of course.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me and to let me ask you some questions,” he began.
Heidelbluum nodded. In fact he had been negative about the request until Hiller and Van Veeteren intervened and persuaded him to see reason.
He’s not quite all there, Van Veeteren had warned Munster. Not all the time, at least. Handle him carefully.
“As things stand,” Munster continued, “we would be most grateful if you would kindly give us the benefit of your views.
There doesn’t seem to be anybody who knows more about the case of Leopold Verhaven than you.”
“Quite right,” said Heidelbluum, lighting the cigarillo.
“You know that we found him murdered, I take it?”
“The chief of police mentioned that.”
“To tell you the truth, we’re groping around in the dark as far as a motive is concerned,” said Munster. “One theory we are working on is that it must be connected in some way with the Beatrice and Marlene cases.”
“In what way?” asked Heidelbluum. His tone was sharper now.
“We don’t know,” said Munster.
There was a pause. Heidelbluum drew on the cigarillo, then put it down. Munster drank a little soda water from the glass he had been given. Van Veeteren had advised him to allow the old judge plenty of time; not to put him under pressure, but give him lots of time to think and reflect. There’s no point in cross-questioning an eighty- two-year-old, he had maintained.
“It was my last case,” said Heidelbluum, clearing his throat. “The Marlene trial, that is. Hmm. My very last.”
Was there a trace of regret in his voice, or was Munster only imagining it?
“So I understand.”
“Hmm,” said Heidelbluum again.
“It would be interesting to hear what you thought of him.”
Heidelbluum ran his index and middle fingers along the inside of his shirt collar, and slightly loosened the dark blue cravat he was wearing around his neck.
