‘I’ve heard about that,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘I’ve read about it. I’ve even studied a game played on that basis — it seemed barmy. It never occurred to me that I’d have to play a game like that… Do you really analyse everything as far ahead as the twentieth move?’
‘Always,’ said Mahler. ‘Well?’
‘If you insist,’ said Van Veeteren.
‘I do insist,’ said Mahler. ‘Cheers.’
He closed his eyes and dug into the box.
‘File?’
‘C,’ said Van Veeteren.
Mahler placed his white rook on c1.
‘Good Lord,’ said Van Veeteren, staring at it.
They continued with the whole back line: only one of the bishops landed in its right place. The kings were on the e file, the queens on g.
‘Fascinating to see the knight in the corner,’ said Mahler. ‘Shall we begin?’
He skipped his usual long session of introductory concentration, and played e2 to e3.
Van Veeteren rested his head on his hands, and stared at the board. Sat there for two minutes without moving a muscle. Then he slammed his fist down on the table and stood up.
‘Bloody hell! I’ll be damned if… Excuse me a moment.’
He wriggled his way out of the booth.
‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ said Mahler, but he received no answer. The Chief Inspector had already elbowed his way to the telephone in the foyer.
The conversation with Reinhart took almost twenty minutes, and when he came back Mahler had already taken out his notebook again.
‘Sonnets,’ he explained, contemplating his cigar that had gone out. ‘Words and form! We have a totally clear view of the world when we’re fourteen years old, maybe sooner. But then we need another fifty years in order to create a language that can express those impressions. And in the mean time, of course, they’ve faded away… What the hell got into you?’
‘Please excuse me,’ said Van Veeteren. ‘You sometimes get a flash of inspiration even in the autumn of your life. It must have been this daft set-up that sparked it off.’
He gestured towards the board. Mahler peered at him over his half-empty glass.
‘You’re talking in riddles,’ he said.
But enlightenment had not yet dawned. Van Veeteren took a swig of beer, moved his knight out of the corner and lit a cigarette.
‘Your move, Mr Poet,’ he said.
SIX
36
Chief Inspector Reinhart landed at Kennedy airport at 14.30 on Friday, 18 December. He was met by Chief Lieutenant Bloomguard, with whom he had spoken on the telephone and exchanged half a dozen faxes over the last twenty-four hours.
Bloomguard was about thirty-five, a stocky, close-cropped and energetic man whose very handshake seemed to indicate the abundant generosity, open-heartedness and warmth of American culture. Reinhart had already declined his invitation to stay in his home in Queens during his New York visit, and had several opportunities to do so again in the car on the way to and through the increasingly dense traffic in Manhattan.
Reinhart checked into Trump Tower in Columbus Circle. Bloomguard gave him a pat on the back and three hours to wash away all the dust accrued during his travels: then he was required to be on parade outside the entrance in order to be conveyed out to Queens for a slap-up dinner with the family. Yes sir.
When Reinhart was alone he stood by the window of his room and looked out — the twenty-fourth floor with a view to the north and east of Manhattan. Especially Central Park, which was spread out like a frosty miniature landscape diagonally below him. Dusk was closing in, but as yet the skyline was grey and drab. As they waited for night to fall the skyscrapers seemed to be hiding away in an anonymity that could hardly be ascribed to Reinhart’s lack of knowledge about their names and functions. Not entirely, at least, he told himself. He could identify the Metropolitan and Guggenheim towers in Fifth Avenue on the other side of the park, but then he was uncertain. In any case, it didn’t seem particularly hospitable. Positively hostile, in fact. The temperature was a degree or so below freezing, Bloomguard had told him, and the forecast was that it would become colder during the night. No snow so far this year, but maybe they could hope for some soon.
It was fifteen years since Reinhart was last in New York. The only time he’d been there, in fact. It had been a holiday visit, in August. As hot as a baking oven: he recalled having drunk four litres of water a day, and that his feet had ached. Recalled also that what he’d liked best were walks along the river promenade, and the tumbledown state of Coney Island. And Barnes amp; Noble, of course, especially the premises on Eighth Street. The world’s best bookshop, open more or less all day and night long, where you could read as much as you liked for free in the cafeteria.
It had been a pleasure trip that time. He sighed, and left the window. Now he was on duty. He took a shower, slept for an hour, then had another shower.
Lieutenant Bloomguard was married to a woman called Veronique who did her best to look like Jacqueline Kennedy.
With a degree of success. They had a daughter two weeks older than Reinhart’s Joanna, and lived in a low hacienda-inspired house in north-west Queens which looked exactly like what he had always imagined an American middle-class home ought to look like. During the meal his host recounted selected tales from the family history (with occasional contributions by his hostess). His father, who had fought in both Africa and Korea and had half a dozen medals and a wooden leg for his troubles, had just undergone a triple heart bypass operation, and looked as if he was going to survive. Veronique had just celebrated her thirtieth birthday and came originally from Montana, where they used to spend long vacations enjoying the clear mountain air. Bloomguard’s younger sister had been raped in Far Rockaway just over two years ago, but had found a good therapist who seemed able to get her back on her feet again; and they had switched to decaffeinated coffee, but were thinking of going back to the normal stuff. Etcetera. Reinhart recounted a similar tenth or so of his own journey through the vale of tears, and by the time they came to the ice cream he realized that he knew more about Lieutenant Bloomguard and his family than he knew about any of his colleagues in the Maardam CID.
When Veronique withdrew with Quincey (which Reinhart had always thought was a boy’s name) after doing her duty most efficiently, the gentlemen detectives sat down in front of the fire, each with a brandy, and started serious discussions.
By half past ten Reinhart began to feel the effects of jet lag. Bloomguard laughed and slapped him on the back once again. Put him into a taxi and sent him back to Manhattan.
Apart from having been obliged to stand outside on the terrace to smoke his pipe, Reinhart thought it had been a pleasant enough evening.
He would probably have fallen asleep in the taxi had it not been for the fact that the driver was a gigantic, singing Puerto Rican (Reinhart had always thought that Puerto Ricans were small), who insisted on wearing sunglasses although it was the middle of the night. Reinhart remembered a line in a film he’d seen — ‘Are you blind or just stupid?’ — but although it was on the edge of his tongue all the way, he couldn’t summon up the courage to say it.
Once in his room he telephoned Winnifred, and was informed that it was a quarter to six in the morning in Europe. He undressed, crept into bed and fell asleep.
There were five days to go to Christmas Eve.
It was Lieutenant Bloomguard himself who drove him to Brooklyn on the Saturday morning. They turned off Fifth Avenue after Sunset Park, and parked a short way up 44th Street. Only a few houses away from the premises
