“Is that Innings?”
“Yes.”
“Yes, he did. He had a meal at our place last Friday. I saw on TV that he'd been killed. And in the newspapers. I recognize him.”
“Are you sure?” asked Moreno.
“A hundred percent. I've already told my friends that I saw him there. I was the one who served him as well. A few days before he was shot. Yes, Friday it was.”
“Good,” said Moreno. “Do you know who was with him?”
Jebardahaddan shook his head.
“No, I didn't see him so clearly. It was a man, but he had his back toward me, if you see what I mean… I don't know if I'd recognize him again.”
Jung nodded.
“It doesn't matter. Presumably it was one of his friends-we can check on that in other ways. Anyway thank you very much.”
The woman who had let them in appeared in the doorway with the same timid smile.
“Have you finished? Then you must come and eat with us. This way please.”
Moreno looked at the clock. Then at Jung.
“Why not?” she said. “Thank you very much. We'd love to.”
“We certainly would,” said Jung.
Van Veeteren stared at the picture. Reinhart, Munster, and deBries were crowded behind him.
“So this is what she looks like?” said the chief inspector.
It was a very well-drawn portrait, no question about it. A woman somewhere between thirty-five and forty it seemed. Quite short, straight hair. Thin lips and a somewhat bitter expression around her mouth. Round glasses, a slightly introverted look. Straight nose. Quite a few wrinkles and marks on her skin.
“He says the eyes were the most difficult,” said Rooth. “So much depends on the moment. Her hair is brown… mousy, if you like.”
“She looks a bit haggard,” said Reinhart. “With a bit of luck we might find her in police records.”
“Have they finished fingerprinting?” Heinemann asked.
“I think so,” said Munster. “There must be masses of them; she's been living there for a month, after all. I suppose it'll be best if deBries takes care of that, as usual?”
DeBries nodded. Van Veeteren picked up the picture and scrutinized it from close quarters.
“I wonder…,” he muttered. “Manon's spring… yes, why not?”
“What are you on about?” Reinhart wondered.
“Nothing,” said Van Veeteren. “Just thinking aloud. Anyway, Munster: make sure this picture goes out to every damned newspaper in the land.”
He rummaged around among the papers on his desk.
“Together with this communique,” he added. “Apart from that, I think the best thing we can do now is to go home and get some sleep. I want you all back here tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. We'll be swamped with tips and speculations. With a bit of luck, we'll get her tomorrow.”
“I wonder,” said Reinhart.
“So do I,” said the chief inspector. “I'm just trying to spread a little optimism and a belief in the future. Good night, gentlemen.”
30
Sunday, February 18, announced itself with warm breezes and a vague promise of spring. For anybody who had time to detect promises.
Van Veeteren got up at six, despite the fact that he had been listening to Sibelius and Kuryakin until late into the night. He fetched the
That it would be long-another in a succession of long days-was beyond all doubt, of course; but he also knew there was a little chance. A possibility that it might be the last day of this investigation. Regarding the arrest, that is. Actually capturing the murderer. Then other things would kick in, other wheels would begin to turn- interrogation, charging, custody, and all the other formal procedures of the legal process, but that was a different matter. The hunt would be over. It would mean that his own role had come to an end, somebody else would take over ultimate responsibility Other officers, better equipped for such a role. Was that really what it was all about? he wondered. Was it really just those ingredients that drove him-getting his teeth into the prey and placing it at the feet of the red-jacketed hunter, black-robed judge? The bloodhound instinct?
Nonsense! he decided, and had a final rinse in icy cold water. These arbitrary analogies.
He left the shower and turned his attention to breakfast instead. Freshly brewed coffee, yogurt, and four slices of toast with butter and strong cheese. He had always found it difficult to feel really hungry in the morning, but today he forced himself. He knew he shouldn't begin today with coffee and a cigarette, as had been his custom for many years when forced to get to grips with the world and life at daybreak.
But on the other hand, he thought as he studied the picture in the newspaper, this chance, this suspicion he had that today might be crowned with success was not particularly strong. Perhaps no more than a pious hope, a chimera, something he needed in order to raise the strength to go to work on a Sunday morning in February.
Who the hell wouldn't need such a stimulus?
In any case, the woman he knew so far only as Maria Adler aroused his respect. If “respect” was the right word to use in the context.
There was something impressive about her. And frightening, of course. The feeling that she had full control over what she was doing was incontestable. Her way of striking and then withdrawing, over and over again, suggested both coldness and decisiveness. She had remained concealed in Mrs. Klausner's house for a month, had carried out her operations with unerring precision, and now she had disappeared. And as he stared at her everyday, slightly enigmatic face, he tried to analyze what this disappearance might imply.
Perhaps-as somebody had pointed out-it simply meant that she had finished. Her intention had been to murder just these three persons, for some reason the police as yet had not the slightest idea of, and since the task was accomplished, she had chosen to leave the stage.
Or-he thought as he scattered a generous amount of muesli over his yogurt-she realized it would be too risky to stay in the house. She knew (how?) that it was time to leave her hiding place.
Or-a thought one couldn't dismiss out of hand-she had chosen to move a little closer to her next victim. Take up a better striking position, as it were. Malik and Maasleitner and Innings had all been within easy distance of Deijkstraa-the first two in Maardam itself, the third only a few miles away. If it was in fact the case that Miss Adler had several more people on her list, and they belonged to the group who lived in different parts of the country (or even abroad), well, there was naturally a good reason for finding a new base from which to operate.
Van Veeteren started on the toast. If there were any other possibilities in addition to those three, he hadn't been able to think of them. He realized that number two did not necessarily exclude numbers one or three, of course; none of them seemed to him any more probable than the others.
Perhaps she had finished murdering.
Perhaps she had sensed the closing in of her pursuers.
Perhaps she was on her way to victim number four.
By a quarter past eight he had finished both his breakfast and his newspaper. When he contemplated the pale and by no means especially threatening sky through the balcony door, he decided to walk to the police station for a change.
His cold seemed to have given up the ghost, and he thought he had good reason to extend the good start to this day of rest-especially as he was unlikely to get much of that.
Things turned out to be rather worse than he had feared.
