Free Borkmann's Point by Håkan Nesser Page B

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.
“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