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m i n d  s e y e
Stared at the telephone.
Switched off the TV and grabbed one of the newspapers.
He snatched at the note he had just taped to the telephone and
started comparing, letter for letter, number for number. As if
he could barely read. Or was standing there with a lottery
ticket in his hand, one that had just won over a million and he
couldn t really believe it was true . . .
An absurd but irritating thought buzzed around inside his
head: he wasn t going to get much anatomy revision done that
night.
Then he pulled himself together and phoned the police.
The first call came just after half past nine. Münster took it, as
Van Veeteren happened to be in the bathroom.
 Excellent, said Münster.  Yes, I see. He ll get back to you
in five minutes. What s your number?
He made a note of it, then settled down again with the
evening paper. Van Veeteren returned. Münster waited for a
few seconds.
 They ve got him, up in Schaabe, he said, in the calmest
tone of voice he could manage.
 They ve what? Van Veeteren exclaimed.  About bloody
time.
 Well, nearly got him, Münster added.  You d better ring
back. It was a Detective Chief Inspector Frank. Do you know
him?
Van Veeteren nodded and dialed the number.
 Frank? Van Veeteren here. I m delighted to hear that a
blind chicken can still find a grain of corn. . . . What did you
say?
Münster observed his boss over the top of his newspaper.
Van Veeteren was hunched over the telephone and looked as if
2 5 9
he were trying to squeeze the murderer out of the receiver. All
the time he was chewing away at two toothpicks, and listen-
ing.
 I see. . . . Make sure you grab him when he comes back, or
I ll have you skinned alive. I m flying to Australia on Thursday,
and I need him before then.
Frank said something, and Van Veeteren nodded slowly.
 All right, he said.  I ll stay here. Ring the moment you ve
got him.
He hung up.
 You can go home now, he said to Münster.  They ll pick
him up as soon as he shows at the hotel. He s shaved off all his
hair, started wearing glasses and made himself up, it seems.
An ingenious bastard. Booked into the Palace Hotel for four
nights, a congress for artificial-limb salesmen. . . . Have you
ever heard anything like it, Münster? Artificial-limb salesmen!
 How did they find him?
 Parking offense, said Van Veeteren with a shrug.  The
deadly sin of our time, no doubt about it.
When Münster emerged into the raw night air, he realized to
his surprise that he wasn t dying to get home: he would have
happily stayed up there with the chief inspector and waited.
Sat reading his newspaper for a while longer, until the next call
came. . . .
The last verse.
The signal to indicate that the hunt was over.
Case closed. Murderer captured.
Time for the wheels of justice to start grinding. . . .
There were still a few loose ends, it seemed; but even so,
the basic facts appeared to be clear. The fax had explained
everything; there was no longer scope for alternative theories
m i n d  s e y e
and solutions. Van Veeteren had been right. As usual. Carl Fer-
ger was their man.
And it was, as somebody had remarked a few weeks ago, a
terrible business.
As he drove to the suburb where he lived, Münster thought
over what Van Veeteren had said about the determinant. He
couldn t quite work out if the chief inspector was being seri-
ous or not. However, it couldn t be denied that there was
some truth in it, and maybe it was yet again the same old
story: the only way of catching the big and most evil players
was by trawling with a wide-mesh net aimed at capturing both
the serious and the frivolous.
He was momentarily surprised by the wording of that
thought, but then it dawned on him that it must be something
Reinhart had said.
A wide-mesh net . . .
In any case, he made up his mind to look up  determinant
in his new and as yet incomplete twenty-four-volume encyclo-
pedia when he got home.
Van Veeteren didn t have to wait for as long as he d feared. The
call from Frank came as early as half past ten.
Ferger had been arrested.
He had strolled into the hotel without a care in the world,
and immediately been overpowered by twelve armed police
officers.
 Twelve? wondered Van Veeteren.
 Twelve, said Frank.
 Has he confessed?
 No. He s playing silly buggers.
 Okay, said Van Veeteren.  Put him in a prison van and
shunt him up here tonight. I fancy him for breakfast.
2 6 1
 Your word is my command, said Frank.  How s your
backhand nowadays? I seem to recall that you had a few prob-
lems with it when we were in Frigge. . . .
 Lethal, said Van Veeteren.  Next time you re in these
parts, call in and I ll give you a demonstration.
43
Münster would never have recognized him.
To be honest, he didn t have a clear recollection of him
from the interviews at Bunge, but this shrunken specimen of
humanity bore virtually no resemblance to the picture that had
been broadcast on television and promulgated in the press.
In a way, he looked younger. His totally bald and rounded
head gave a dubious impression of innocence. Of naïveté. Or
perhaps something quite different: advanced senility. [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]