“And what are the rest of us supposed to do, then?” asked Munster.
“Jung,” said the chief inspector, when he'd finally managed to light his cigarette. “Could you go and search for Heinemann? It'll be a real mess if we can't nurse a single horse over the winning line.”
“Sure,” said Jung, rising to his feet. “Where is he?”
Van Veeteren shrugged.
“Somewhere in the building, I assume. In his office, if you're lucky.”
Ten minutes later Jung returned with Heinemann in tow.
“Sorry,” said Heinemann, flopping down onto an empty chair. “I was a bit delayed.”
“You don't say,” said Reinhart.
Heinemann put a large envelope on the table in front of him.
“What have you got there?” asked Munster.
“The connection,” said Heinemann.
“What do you mean?” wondered Rooth.
“I was supposed to look for the connection, wasn't I?”
“Well, I'll be damned!” said deBries.
Heinemann opened the envelope and took out an enlarged photograph. He handed it to Van Veeteren.
The chief inspector studied it for a few seconds, looking bewildered.
“Explain,” he said eventually.
“Of course,” said Heinemann, taking off his glasses. “The photograph is of the leaving class-that really is what they call it-from the United Services Staff College in 1965. Third from the left in the bottom row is Ryszard Malik. Second from the right in the middle row is Rickard Maasleitner.”
You could have heard a pin drop. Van Veeteren passed around the photograph of thirty-five formally dressed young men in gray-green military shirts with innocent expressions on their faces.
“Did you say 1965?” asked Munster when everybody had seen it.
“Yes,” said Heinemann. “They were called up in April ?64, and left at the end of May ?65. Anyway, that's what I've found… Apart from the fact that they have the same initials, of course, but I expect you've thought about that?”
“What?” said Rooth. “My God, you're right!”
“R.M.,” said Reinhart. “Hmm, I don't suppose it means anything.”
“Have you got the names of all of them?” asked Van Veeteren.
Heinemann dug down into the envelope and produced a sheet of paper.
“Just the names and dates of birth so far, but Krause and Willock are working on more. It'll take a while, as you'll appreciate.”
“The main thing is that it's done scrupulously,” said Reinhart.
Silence again. Munster stood up and walked over to the window, turning his back on the others. Van Veeteren leaned back and sucked in his cheeks. Moreno took another look at the photograph.
“Well,” said deBries after a while, “this is worth thinking about, I reckon.”
“Presumably,” said Van Veeteren. “We'll take a break now. I need to contemplate. Come back here half an hour from now, and then we can decide where to go from here. DeBries, can you let me have a cigarette?”
“Where exactly is this military college?” asked Moreno when they had reassembled.
“Up in Schaabe nowadays,” said Heinemann. “It was moved from here in Maardam at the beginning of the seventies-it used to be out at Lohr.”
“Did you find any other connections?” Munster wondered.
“No, not yet. But I think this one is spot-on. If there are any others, they will probably be further back in the past.”
“How should we go about this, then?” asked Rooth.
Van Veeteren looked up from the list of names.
“This is what we'll do,” he said, checking how many of them there were. “There are eight of us. Each of us will take four names and track them down over the weekend. It ought to be possible to find at least two out of four. You can check addresses and suchlike with Krause and Willock. They can distribute the names among you as well. On Monday morning I want comprehensive reports, and if you come across anything significant before then, get in touch.”
“Sound method,” said Reinhart.
“Exactly what I was going to say,” said Rooth. “When will Krause and Willock be ready?”
“They'll be working all evening,” said Van Veeteren. “Joensuu and Klempje have been roped in as well. You can all go home and then ring here and get your four names tonight, or tomorrow morning. Okay? Any questions?”
“One more thing, perhaps,” said Reinhart.
“Of course, dammit,” said Van Veeteren, tapping at the photograph with his index finger. “Tread carefully. It's by no means certain that these are the guys we're looking for. Don't forget that!”
“Should we release this information to the general public?” Munster asked.
Van Veeteren thought for three seconds.
“I think we should be extremely careful not to do that,” he said eventually. “Bear that in mind when you ask your questions as well-don't say too much about what's going on. I don't think Hiller would be too pleased if thirty- three people suddenly turned up and demanded police protection all around the clock.”
“Mind you, it would be fun to see his face if they did,” said Reinhart.
“If they did,” said Van Veeteren.
Russian roulette? Munster thought as he was sitting with the kids on his knee an hour later, watching a children's program on the TV Why do the words “Russian roulette” keep coming into my head?
It could be a coincidence, of course, Van Veeteren thought as he settled down in the bath with a burning candle on the lavatory seat and a beer within easy reach. Pure coincidence, if Reinhart hadn't already banned that expression. Two people living in the same town might well end up sooner or later in the same photograph, whether they want to or not.
Wasn't that more likely than their not doing so?
God only knows, Van Veeteren thought. In any case, we'll find out eventually.
16
Saturday, February 3, began with warm southwesterly winds and a misleadingly high and bright sky. Van Veeteren had already made up his mind in principle to attend Ryszard Malik's funeral, but when he stood in the balcony doorway to check the weather situation at about nine o'clock, he realized that he also had the gods on his side.
Still standing there, he tried to establish what had led him to make that decision. Why he felt it was so necessary for him to be present at the burial ceremony in the Eastern Cemetery, that is. And, to his horror, it dawned on him that it was because of an old movie. Or several movies, rather. More specifically that classic introductory scene with a group of people dressed in black around a coffin being lowered slowly into a grave. And then, a short distance away, two detectives in their crumpled trench coats observing the mourners. They turn up their collars and begin a whispered conversation about who's who… Who is that lady with the veil, half-turned away from the grave; why isn't the widow crying, and which of the bastards is it who pumped a bullet into the head of the stinking-rich Lord Ffolliot-Pym?
What reasoning! Van Veeteren thought as he closed the balcony door. Downright perverse! But then, there's nothing one won't do…
Out in the windswept cemetery later that day there seemed to be a distinct shortage of possible murderers. The one who behaved most oddly was without doubt a large man in a green raincoat and red rubber boots; but he
