And the same to you, deBries thought, exchanging glances with Rooth.
“You know that we’ve had two phone calls, I suppose?”
said Rooth when the chief of police had closed the door.
“No,” said deBries. “What kind of phone calls?”
“Anonymous. From Kaustin. They don’t seem to be from
the same person, either. One was a man, the other a woman, according to Krause.”
DeBries looked up and bit his pen.
“What do they say?”
“The same thing, more or less. That this Jahrens had something to do with the murders. The Verhaven murders. They’ve always suspected it, but didn’t want to say anything, it seems.
That’s what they say, at least.”
DeBries thought for a while.
“Well. I’ll be damned,” he said. “So he’s got his punishment after all, has he?”
“Could be,” said Rooth. “Mind you, they are probably just a couple of Nosey Parkers who want to make themselves noticed. In any case, it’s not something we need to worry about.”
Nobody spoke for several seconds. Then deBries shrugged.
“No, the case has been dropped, if I understand matters rightly. I think so. We’ve got plenty of stuff to keep our noses to the grindstone.”
“More than enough,” said Rooth.
“May I join you?” asked Mahler, sitting down on the empty chair. “Why are you sitting here, by the way?”
“I sit wherever I like,” said Van Veeteren. “I’m on sick leave, and the weather’s not bad. I like watching people trudging away on the treadmill. Besides, I have a book to read.”
Mahler nodded in sympathy.
“It wouldn’t be so good for you in the sun, perhaps.”
He looked out over the square and summoned one of the waitresses.
“Two dark beers,” he said.
“Thanks,” said Van Veeteren.
They waited until the beer was served, toasted each other, then leaned back in their chairs.
“Well, how did it go?” asked Mahler.
“How did what go?”
“Don’t play games with me,” said Mahler. “I’ve just bought you a damn beer, and given you my poems.”
Van Veeteren took another drink.
“That’s true,” he said. “Anyway, it’s all over now.”
“So he succumbed to your pressure in the end?”
The chief inspector pondered on that for a while.
“Precisely,” he said. “You couldn’t put it more poetically than that.”
XIII
44
In the churchyard at Kaustin there were lime trees and elms, and a few horse chestnut trees, whose extensive root systems had many a time caused the verger, Maertens, to swear out loud when he encountered them with his spade. On
this summer Sunday, however, he had every reason to think otherwise-as did the rest of the group standing around the newly opened family grave. They were grateful for the dense network of branches that provided shade and a degree of coolness during the simple burial ceremony.
If they had been forced to stand in the scorching sun, you could bet your life that some of them would have fainted.
There were only six of them, to be precise. And three of those were part of the team, you might say: Maertens himself, Wolff, the choirmaster and organist, and Pastor Kretsche, who conducted the service. The rest were Mrs. Hoegstraa, the deceased’s ancient sister who evidently didn’t have many years left herself, and two of the Maardam police force. They had been here sniffing around a month or so ago, but needless to say, they hadn’t achieved anything.
But that’s the way it goes. Leopold Verhaven had been buried. Well, most of him; needless to say, they hadn’t succeeded in finding the missing body parts. They would have to slot them in later, if they ever turned up. Sometimes you had to ask yourself what on earth the police did with their time.
And what they were being paid for.
But that’s the way it goes. He had no desire to ask them about it. He was just waiting for Kretsche to finish so that he could fill in the grave and go home to watch the international soccer match on the box.
The vicar was going on about inscrutability. The all-consuming love and mercy of our Lord God. Forgiveness.
Well, what the hell could he say? Maertens sighed and leaned discreetly against the trunk of an elm tree. Closed his eyes and felt a faint breeze creeping in over the churchyard, barely discernible, and not really providing any cooling effect at all. In his mind’s eye he could see a large, misty beer glass in his own hand, in front of the television screen.
Ah well, would but that we were there, he thought, and wondered where on earth that expression came from. Something biblical, presumably; given the way he earned his daily bread, it was inevitable that he would pick up the odd phrase here and there.
He opened his eyes and looked at the group. Mrs. Hoegstraa was wearing a veil; she looked dogged, and hadn’t shed a single tear. Kretsche was going on and on as usual. Wolff was half asleep. The elder of the two police officers was sweating profusely and occasionally wiped his face with a bright-colored handkerchief. The younger one seemed to be brooding over something or other, goodness only knows what.
Were they actually getting paid for standing here?! That wouldn’t surprise him in the least.
“. . on the Day of Judgment, Amen!” said the vicar, and it was all over.
Rest in peace, Leopold Verhaven, Maertens thought, and looked around for his spade.
“I’ve been thinking about a few things,” said Munster as they came to the parking lot.
“Let’s hear about them,” said Van Veeteren.
“Well,” said Munster, “in the first place, how did you come to think that he was the guilty party? Jahrens, that is.”
“Hmm,” said Van Veeteren. “The wheelchair ramp at the Czermaks’ house, of course. And that woman at the prison with the walking stick. Maybe I didn’t catch on right away, but there was a link, in any case. A little bell ringing somewhere in the background. .”
“But Mrs. Jahrens was an invalid. She couldn’t walk, not even with walking sticks.”
Van Veeteren fanned himself with a newspaper.
“Not everything is as it seems, Munster. I thought we’d agreed on that?”
“And what might that mean?” asked Munster.
“Oh, various things,” said the chief inspector, gazing out over the churchyard. “That the root, or source, of evil isn’t always where we expect to find it, for instance. Leopold Verhaven’s fate-and I really do hope we shall be able to restore his reputation one of these days-has hardly anything to do with him. Like it or not, he becomes the unwilling main character in a silent and bitter and pointless drama fought between Mr. and Mrs. Jahrens. He’s totally innocent, but he is cast as the scapegoat and gets to spend a quarter of a century in jail.
