He fell silent.
“Have a word with whom?”
“I don't know. But you're surely not going to leave? It'll sort itself out somehow or other.”
“Don't talk rubbish. Don't try and tell me you don't know the score. It's as clear as day for Christ's sake.”
“Well…”
“I'm going to get the boot because I gave those fucking thugs what they deserved, haven't you grasped that? What the hell do you mean by sitting here mumbling on and pretending you don't know what's going on?”
His anger had spilled over much sooner than he'd expected, and he could see that Faringer was scared. He tried to smooth things over a bit.
“There must have been some sort of reaction among the staff. Are they just going to stand by and let things take their course, or… or am I going to get some sort of support? What are they saying? That's all I want to know.”
“I see.”
Faringer looked relieved.
“So if you could keep your ear to the ground… listen to what's going on. I mean, you're good at interpreting moods. You have more insight than a few of the others, there's no need to hide your light under a bushel…”
It was a very clumsily expressed compliment, but he could see that it was effective. Enso Faringer leaned back in his chair and lit another cigarette. Narrowed his eyes and tried to look like he was thinking hard.
Maybe he really is, Maasleitner thought.
“You'd like me to make a few soundings, is that it?”
Maasleitner nodded.
“Maybe start a little… campaign?”
“Well, why not?”
It was obvious that the beer was starting to affect his colleague's confused mind now, and it dawned on Maasleitner what a waste of time it all was. Needing to turn for help to the likes of Enso Faringer! Sitting here and asking for favors from this universally despised and ignored laughingstock.
Besides, he wasn't at all sure what he hoped to get out of it. Just a chance to let off steam, presumably. Give vent to his irritation and his feeling of being trampled underfoot. A stubborn old fool with a bee in his bonnet, was that what he would end up becoming? Slowly but surely he could feel exhaustion and pointlessness grasping him by the throat, and when he saw the little German teacher frown and take a ballpoint pen from his inside pocket, he had the feeling that everything was being enacted in the theater of the absurd.
A farce.
Was Faringer going to work out tactics on his paper napkin? Sketch out a manifesto, perhaps? An appeal?
Bloody hell, Maasleitner thought. Who are all these people I'm surrounded by?
Or are they all like this, if you scrape a bit at the surface?
It was not a new question. Barely even a question, come to that.
More of a statement.
More beer, he thought. Might as well blur a few edges. Inertia, come and embrace me!
When they staggered out of the little basement restaurant some considerable time later, the mood was significantly more relaxed. Maasleitner even found it necessary to place his arm over his colleague's shoulders in order to assist his attempts to negotiate the steps leading up to street level. Faringer missed one step altogether, grabbed hold of the iron rail, and roared with laughter; and when they shortly afterward managed to flag down a taxi, it transpired that he had left his wallet on the table. Maasleitner went back to retrieve it while Faringer lay slumped in the backseat, singing a rude song for the scarcely amused but decidedly unimpressed driver.
As Maasleitner watched the cab's rear lights vanish around the corner by the printing works, he wondered how on earth Enso Faringer would be able to summon up the strength to face his classes the next day.
As far as he was concerned, that was no longer a consideration that he needed to take into account, and thanks to the alcohol flowing sweetly through his veins he suddenly had the feeling that despite everything, all was well with the world. A nice, comfortable lie-in was in store for him the next morning, and then perhaps a little excursion. To Weimarn? Why not? Provided the weather turned out to be reasonable, of course.
It wasn't too bad at the moment. The rain had died away. A warm, gentle breeze caressed its way through the town, and as he slowly began to wander through the familiar, narrow alleys that would lead him home to Weijskerstraat, he had the strong impression that there was not really much point in worrying about the future.
As if to confirm this feeling, at about the same time a lone figure emerged from the dark shadows enveloping the Keymer Church a little farther down the same street.
It followed him about thirty paces behind; discreetly and silently, as Maasleitner walked over the rounded cobbles, across Wilhemsgraacht, into Weijskerstraat, and right up to the front door. Maasleitner was somewhat surprised to find that it was standing ajar, and that there appeared to be something wrong with the lock. Despite his euphoric state, he paused for a few moments to mutter away about the circumstances-while his pursuer waited patiently in another doorway diagonally across the narrow street. Then Maasleitner shrugged, stepped inside, and took the elevator up to the fourth floor.
He hadn't been home for long, hadn't even had time to get undressed, when there was a ring at the door. The clock over the stove in the kitchen said a few minutes past midnight, and as he went to open up he wondered who on earth it could be, visiting him at this time of night.
Then it dawned on him that it must be Enso Faringer, whose euphoric state had doubtless enabled him to come up with some crazy idea or other, and there was a tolerant smile on his lips as he opened the door.
Some sixteen hours later his seventeen-year-old daughter opened that same door, and if the circumstances had not been so grotesque, it would probably have still been possible to see traces of that smile on his face.
V
February 1-7
13
“So there's no doubt, then?” said Heinemann.
“Not really,” said Munster. “Same ammunition-7.65 millimeter. The technical guys were more or less certain that it was the same weapon, but we won't know that for sure until tomorrow.”
“Two bullets in the chest, two below the belt,” said Rooth, looking at the photograph lying on the table in front of him. “I'll be damned if it isn't the same thing all over again, more or less. A copy of Ryszard Malik.”
“Of course it's the same culprit,” said Moreno. “There hasn't been a word in the papers about the bullets below the belt.”
“Correct,” muttered Van Veeteren. “Sometimes the muzzle we put on journalists actually works.”
He looked up from the document he was holding and had just read. It was a very provisional medical statement Miss Katz had popped in to hand over, and it suggested that Rickard Maasleitner had probably died between eleven and twelve o'clock the previous night, and that the cause of death was a bullet that had penetrated the heart muscle. The other shots would not have brought about instant death; not taken one at a time, that is-possibly in combination, as a result of blood loss.
“A bullet in the heart,” said Van Veeteren, passing the sheet of paper on to Munster, who was sitting next to him.
