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week or two from now, all we have to do is nail him. There s
1 4 7
nothing like a murderer who s been kept on tenterhooks for a
while.
Münster nodded.
 Back to that letter, said Van Veeteren.  Let s assume it is
in fact a letter to inform the murderer about something. Ques-
tions, Münster!
 Well, the address, of course. Could somebody have
checked the address? But I don t suppose so . . .
 Absolutely right! Those blind idiots who run Majorna
haven t seen a thing! Not a single letter! Even though some-
body was standing over Mitter as he wrote, watching him.
 Why?
 I don t know. Either they keep a check on letters written
for reasons of security, or there s some weirdo writing a
dissertation the link between schizophrenia and left-
handedness, who cares! The important thing and listen care-
fully to this, Inspector, because it s crucial Mitter is given
paper, pen, envelope, and stamp by a nurse, he sits down in the
assembly hall yes, that s what they call it and writes his let-
ter. It takes no more than ten minutes; he hands it to the nurse
who posts it in the box outside the entrance when he goes
home two hours later. Until then, he s been carrying it around
in the pocket of his working jacket. Is that all clear?
 Of course.
 What strikes you about it?
Münster closed his eyes. Leaned his head against the wall
and thought about it.
 I don t know . . .
 The address.
 What do you mean?
 Think, Münster, for Christ s sake! If you can t work this
one out, I ll never support your application for promotion!
 Of course: How did he know the address?
m i n d  s e y e
 Of the murderer, yes.
 Address book?
 No. He didn t have one with him. Not anywhere in the
hospital.
 Telephone directory?
 There isn t one in the assembly hall.
 And he stayed in there all the time?
 The nurse was standing outside, keeping an eye on him.
Never let Mitter out of his sight don t ask me why. There are
glass doors between the rooms. He smoked two cigarettes, he
said. Evidently a five-minute brand . . .
 If the nurse was being that careful, surely he could have
taken a look at the letter as well.
Van Veeteren grunted.
 Do you think I haven t explained that to him? Mind you,
it s by no means sure that that would have helped us: he didn t
seem all that good at reading. He s the sort of he-man who
can overturn a locomotive, but doesn t know which end of a
pen to hold downward.
Münster smiled dutifully.
 Enough of that, said Van Veeteren.  Nobody has seen
what Mitter wrote on the envelope. He had no help from an
address book or a telephone directory or anything else. So that
means . . .
 That he knew the address by heart. Oh, shit . . .
 I m coming to the same point, though I have to say I get
there a bit faster. How many addresses do you know by heart,
Münster?
Münster pondered that one.
 Count them! said Van Veeteren.
 My own, said Münster.
 Bravo, said Van Veeteren.
 My parents . . .
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 And?
 My childhood address in Willby . . .
 Too old.
Münster hesitated.
 My sister s in Hessen I think.
He paused.
 Oh, and police HQ, of course, said Münster eventually.
Van Veeteren felt for a new toothpick, but he d evidently
run out.
 Finished? he asked.
Münster nodded.
 You re forty-two years old and have learned four
addresses by heart. Well done, Inspector. I could only manage
three. What conclusion do you draw from that?
 He wrote to somebody . . . very close to him.
 Or?
 To himself ?
 Idiot, said Van Veeteren.  Or?
 Or to his workplace.
Van Veeteren clasped his hands behind his head and
stretched himself out on his desk chair.
 Bunge High School, he said.  Fancy a beer?
Münster nodded again. Van Veeteren looked at the clock.
 If you give me a lift home, you can buy me a glass of beer
on the way. I think Kraus s place will be best.
Münster wriggled into his jacket.
I suppose he s doing me a favor, he thought.
 It s Friday already, dammit! Van Veeteren announced as they
elbowed their way through to the bar.
Carrying two foaming tankards, he wriggled into an
almost nonexistent space between two young women on a
m i n d  s e y e
bench. He lit a cigarillo, and after a couple of minutes there
was room for Münster as well.
 Bunge or a good friend, said Van Veeteren.  And we can
no doubt forget about the good friends. Any snags?
 Yes, said Münster.  At least one. An unusual name.
 What do you mean?
 If you have an unusual name, letters get through to you
no matter what. Dalmatinenwinckel, or something like that . . .
 What the hell are you on about?
 Dalmatinenwinckel. I once had a girlfriend called that. It
was enough to write her name and the town; a street address
wasn t necessary.
 A good job you didn t marry her, said Van Veeteren.  But
I expect you re right. We d better send somebody to check at
the post office.
He drank deeply and smacked his lips in appreciation.
 How are we going to go about it? Münster asked. He
suddenly felt exhausted again. He was slumped down in a cor-
ner of the bench, and the smoke was making his eyes hurt. It [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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