Borkmann's Point: An Inspector Van Veeteren Mystery Read online

  The name of the witness was Vincent Peerhoovens, and unfortunately he had been somewhat inebriated at the time of his observation and hence not entirely reliable—a fact he freely admitted and one that was confirmed by several of the other witnesses. Nevertheless, his account must naturally be regarded as extremely interesting with regard to further investigations.

  9) Perhaps the most significant piece of evidence to emerge on this Sunday—which had been Chief Inspector Bausen’s view, at least, when he passed comment on the material summarized by Kropke—came from four young people in their early teens who had been strolling through the woods from the harbor toward Rikken—in other words, the very path the investigation was concerned with. They appeared to have passed by the scene of the murder shortly after 2340. Since Ernst Simmel had been smoking a cigarette down by the marina about ten minutes earlier, according to witness number six, and since none of the young people appeared to have seen him, it could be concluded that when they passed the scene of the crime, the murderer had just struck and was presumably crouching over his victim in the bushes, waiting for them to go away. (On realizing this, one of the girls had burst into a fit of hysterical sobs—the very girl, incidentally, for whose sake they had avoided contacting the police sooner. Her father was the pastor at the local Assembly of God; and at the time in question, she ought to have been at home in bed at her friend’s house [another of the girls in the party of young people] instead of wandering about in the woods with a group of boys.) Whatever, this piece of evidence suggested that the time of the murder could most probably be fixed at 2340— give or take a minute or so.

  “That’s about it, more or less,” said Kropke, closing his notebook.

  “We ought to give Meuritz a cigar,” said Van Veeteren. “It looks as if he was spot-on regarding the time of death. What I want to know is how the murderer managed to cross the square. I mean, there were—let me see—six or seven people there at the critical moment.”

  “Eight,” said Kropke. “At least eight. He probably walked along the arcade. There’s a line of columns along the western side of the square, the Waalska Building—I don’t know if you’ve noticed them, Chief Inspector. The lighting is pretty bad there. None of our witnesses went that way.”

  “As if built for a murderer,” sighed Bausen. “Well, gentlemen, what do you think? A good day?”

  Mooser scratched himself behind the ear with a pencil and yawned. Kropke studied his notes. Van Veeteren drained the last drops from his cardboard cup and registered that there was a world of difference between stale, lukewarm coffee and white Meursault.

  “Hard to say,” he said. “At least we’ve acquired a great deal of information. And tomorrow is another day.”

  “Monday,” Mooser made so bold as to point out.

  “He could have been waiting there in the woods,” said Kropke, who had evidently been following his own line of thought. “We shouldn’t dismiss that possibility out of hand.”

  “Nevertheless,” said Van Veeteren, “I think I’d like to conduct a series of little interviews now. Unless our leader has other tasks lined up for me, of course?”

  “None at all,” said Bausen. “Good police officers know how to keep themselves usefully occupied.”

  Mooser yawned again.

  12

  “You were his legal adviser, is that right?” asked Van Veeteren, taking a toothpick out of his breast pocket.

  “More a good friend of the family,” smiled the lawyer.

  “One doesn’t exclude the other, does it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Eugen Klingfort’s office had the touch of a luxury cabin about it. Bright teak panels with heavy brass fittings here and there. Built-in bookcases with rows of leather-bound volumes, every one of them unopened since they’d left the printer’s. A leather-covered filing cabinet, a bar counter that could fold into the desk, a Wassermann/Frisch safe.

  The incarnation of bad taste, thought Van Veeteren. The more money they have to satisfy it with, the more ghastly it gets.

  “And for how long?” he asked.

  “How long? Oh, you mean... let’s see, twenty-five or thirty years, something like that. Ever since I established myself in Kaalbringen, I think it’s fair to say. Would you like a cigar, Chief Inspector?”

  “No, thank you,” said Van Veeteren. “What state were his affairs in?”

  “His affairs? What do you mean?”

  “I want to know what state Ernst Simmel’s affairs were in.

  You were his financial adviser, after all; I thought we’d agreed on that.”

  Klingfort lay back in his chair and let his chins rest on his chest. A bit on the corpulent side, thought Van Veeteren.

  “His affairs were in perfectly good shape.”

  “And his will?”

  “There is no will. He didn’t need one. Grete and the children will each get a share of his estate; there are no unusual circumstances.”

  “How much are we talking about?”

  “Now, listen here, Mr. Veeteren—”

  “Van Veeteren.”

  “—Van Veeteren. I’ve already wasted enough time on that with Inspector Kropke. If you imagine that I have any intention of going through everything once again just because you are a rank higher, well . . .”

  “Well what?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Well, you’re deluding yourself.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Klingfort. I gather there must be something fishy hidden away, but we’ll no doubt be able to track it down without your help.”

  Eugen Klingfort snorted and lit a cigar.

  “Let me make one thing crystal clear to you,” he said after creating a few thick clouds of smoke. “There isn’t the slightest trace of any irregularity with regard to Ernst’s affairs or his estate.”

  “So you exclude the possibility that the murderer could have had financial motives?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “Yes.”

  “But were there not people who owed him money?”

  “Of course he had debtors. But not the kind of debts you are implying.”

  “What am I implying?” asked Van Veeteren, placing his toothpick on the arm of his chair. “Tell me!”

  Klingfort didn’t answer, but his face had started to turn somewhat redder.

  “What do you think about the murder?” asked Van Veeteren.

  “A lunatic,” replied Klingfort without hesitation. “I’ve said that right from the start. Make sure you catch him, so that law-abiding citizens can wander about the streets at night without fear of assault.”

  “Did you go to prostitutes with him?” asked Van Veeteren.

  The question came just as Klingfort was inhaling, and the lawyer had a coughing fit that Van Veeteren realized must have been quite painful. Klingfort stood up as quickly as his massive frame allowed, and staggered over to the window. When he came back, he took a swig of soda water from the bar shelf.

  “What the hell do you mean by that?” he said when he had recovered, trying to bellow. “This is clearly nothing short of abuse of power.”

  “It’s public knowledge that Simmel used prostitutes,” said Van Veeteren, unconcerned. “I just wondered if you could give me any names.”

  “Would you please get out now and leave me in peace.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it. Sit down and answer my questions. This is a murder inquiry and I have the authority to take you to the station if I want to. Don’t get so high and mighty, Mr. Klingfort. I’m used to shooting down much higher fliers than I’ve noticed around here.”

  Eugen Klingfort remained standing in the middle of the room with his chins on his chest. He looks like a sick walrus, thought Van Veeteren.

  “You’re spilling ash on the carpet,” he said. “Well? I’m waiting for some names of those women.”

  “I have... I have nothing to do with that side of Ernst’s life,” said Klingfort, going back to his desk chair. “Nothing! I suppose h
e might have gone off with the odd one of... the usual ones... occasionally. I have no doubt the chief of police has their names.”

  “I want the ones who are not known to the police,” said Van Veeteren. “You are comfortably married, Mr. Klingfort. Wife, children, your own house—don’t you realize that I can make things very difficult for you if you insist on being willful?”

  The solicitor rummaged in his desk drawer. He produced a scrap of paper and scribbled down something, then slid it over to Van Veeteren.

  “But I can assure you that this has nothing at all to do with the murder.” He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. “Absolutely nothing.”

  I didn’t think for a moment it had, thought Van Veeteren when he emerged into the street. But a shit needs to be reminded that he’s a shit now and then.

  “Are you sober today?” asked Bausen, putting the coffee tray on the table and sitting down.

  “I’m alluss sober on a Monday,” said Peerhovens. “I have a job to do, haven’t I?”

  “Looking after the grocery carts at Maerck’s?”

  “That’s it. You have to take what you can get nowadays.”

  Bausen held out a packet of cigarettes and Peerhovens took what he could get.

  “Coffee and a cigarette—it’s like I alluss said. It pays to stay on good terms with the cops.”

  “I hope you haven’t made this up in order to get the occasional... favor?” said Bausen, leaning forward over the table.

  Peerhovens jumped and started to look nervous.

  “No, no, for Chrissake, Chief Inspector! I’d never dream of lying to the cops! I saw him just as clear as I can see you now... coming from Klaarmann’s... me, that is. I’d been talking with Wauters and Egon Schmidt, if you know—”

  Bausen nodded.

  “I’d just passed the bookstore, on the way home. I live in Pampas, if you know—”

  “I know,” said Bausen.

  “Anyway, just as I come around the corner, into Hoistraat, that is, I turn left, of course, and I see a figure hurrying down the steps. He’d come from, well, from The Blue Ship, if you like, and he seemed to be in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry?”

  “Yeah, he was more or less running down the steps, sort of—”

  “Describe him!” said Bausen.

  “Well, it all happened a bit quick, but he was wearing one of those thin overcoats that was flapping a bit. And a hat, yeah, a floppy hat, sort of, and it was pulled down so I couldn’t see a fuck... er, sorry... any detail of his face.”

  “What color was his coat?”

  “Color? Well, brown. Or blue, sort of. Pretty dark anyway.”

  “And his hat?”

  “Even darker. But not black. It all happened very quick, like I said. And I didn’t really think about it then, like... not until Kovvy told me somebody had killed Simmel.”

  “Kovvy?”

  “Kowalski... Radon Kowalski. The guy that lives underneath me. Good solid guy.”

  “When did you hear about it?”

  “When? Well, I guess it must have been the next day...

  Yes, that’s it... late afternoon. We bumped into each other on the stairs, and that’s when he told me. ‘Have you heard that the Axman’s killed Ernst Simmel?’ he said.”

  “And even so you waited until yesterday before you went to the police,” said Bausen sternly. “Why?”

  Peerhovens stared down at his coffee cup.

  “Well... I . . .” he said. “I don’t know, really. I suppose I thought it wasn’t anything important. And I’d been a bit under the weather, but then I heard on the radio—”

  “How much had you drunk last Tuesday evening?”

  “Hard to say... not easy to say,” said Peerhovens. “I mean, I’d been at Klaarmann’s for a few hours, so I suppose I’d had quite a bit. Wauters had brought a bottle of his own as well.”

  “I’m with you,” said Bausen. “And you wouldn’t recognize this person if you were to see him again?”

  Peerhovens shook his head.

  “What did he look like, by the way? Big or small... well built or thin?”

  “No, no, I didn’t have chance to ob... observe that. Somewhere in between, I suppose. No, I wouldn’t recognize him.”

  Bausen nodded.

  “What about his hat and coat? Not them either?”

  Peerhovens hesitated and was given a cigarette.

  “Thanks. No,” he said eventually. “I can’t really say I would.”

  Bausen sighed. He stood up and left Vincent Peerhovens to his fate. At least he’s bright enough to see that he’d be running a risk, he thought.

  Having seen the Axman, that is.

  “Marie Zelnik?” asked Beate Moerk.

  She could see that the woman on the red sofa must actually be several years younger than she was herself, and that gave her a dubious feeling of insecurity. On the one hand, it aroused a sort of dormant protective urge; but on the other, she was forced to restrain her antipathy and distaste. Repress her repugnance.

  The animosity seemed to be mutual. Marie Zelnik leaned back with one leg crossed over the other in such a way that her leather skirt pointedly revealed most of her thigh. She was smoking, and examining her nails.

  “I’d just like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Go ahead.”

  “You earn you living as a prostitute, is that right?”

  “Among other things, yes.”

  “What else do you do?”

  No answer.

  “I’d like you to tell me a bit about Ernst Simmel. I understand he was one of your clients, wasn’t he?”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything that might be of use to the investigation. How long have you... been in contact with him, for instance?”

  “About six months, roughly... since he came back.”

  “How often?”

  She shrugged.

  “Not all that often. Once a month, or even less. He went more often with Katja.”

  “Katja Simone?”

  “Yes.”

  “We know about that. Inspector Kropke has spoken to her already.”

  “So I heard.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another one immediately. Disgusting, thought Beate Moerk.

  “What was he like?”

  “Simmel? Your average sort of John.”

  Beate Moerk made a note.

  “How did he usually make contact?”

  Marie Zelnik thought that one over.

  “Most times the same day,” she said. “Never made an appointment... phoned from the pub and asked if he could come around.”

  “And could he?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Beate Moerk was searching for questions to ask. She realized that for once, she could have been better prepared and wondered what she was really trying to find out.

  “When did you last meet?”

  “A week before he died, or thereabouts.”

  “How did he seem?”

  “As usual... horny as hell, not much staying power.”

  To her surprise, Beate Moerk realized she was blushing.

  “Did he used to tell you things?”

  “What kind of things?”

  “About his life—his family, for instance? His wife?”

  “Never.”

  “You didn’t ask?”

  “Why should I?”

  “And he... paid with no problems?”

  What an idiotic question! Beate Moerk could feel herself losing control now. She’d better make sure she got out of here without doing anything rash.

  “Of course he paid.”

  Marie Zelnik looked at her with some amusement. Beate Moerk had another go.

  “And there was nothing special about him? Anything you think... might have been connected with his murder? That we ought to know about?”

  “Such as?”
/>
  “I don’t know,” Beate Moerk admitted. “How much do you charge?” The question slipped out before she could stop herself.

  “That depends,” said Marie Zelnik.

  “Depends on what?”

  “How they fuck me, of course. There are all kinds of varia-tions, but maybe you don’t know about that, Inspector. I only take men, by the way.”

  You disgusting little bitch! thought Beate Moerk. Thank your lucky stars that I didn’t set Bausen onto you! She sat for a while trying to think of more questions to put to this arrogant hussy, but nothing came to mind.

  “Many thanks,” she said, getting to her feet. “This has been a most interesting conversation. Most interesting. If I weren’t on duty, I’d probably throw up all over your fake carpet.”

  At least that had gone some way toward restoring the balance, she told herself.

  13

  He had slept late on Tuesday.

  He deserved it. A week had passed since he’d put an end to Ernst Simmel in the woods, and there was no sign that the police were onto his trail. No sign at all.

  He’d never thought they would be. He’d known from the beginning that the first two murders would cause him relatively few problems. Number three was a different matter altogether, however. People had realized what was happening. It wasn’t simply a one-off, as they’d imagined when they found Eggers. Not some impulsive murderer who went after just one unfortunate victim, but one with several names on his list.

  Several would have to have their heads cut off before justice was done.

  The images still came to him in his dreams, and just as he had expected, it was number three who stood out now—the man who was still alive and whose turn it was next. It wasn’t a very clear image, however: There weren’t such strong memories of him, no on-the-spot snapshot. Perhaps that corner of the sofa, though, when he’d sat there with his cool, somewhat superior air—the young, well-dressed, upper-class puppy who always got by, thanks to his breeding and social status. Who floated up to the surface when others were dragged down. Dry shod and hair neatly combed.