Faringer hesitated.

“The same day we went to Freddy's, I think. When he was shot. Or maybe the day before.”

“And this call was repeated several times?”

“Yes, it seems so.”

“Did he try to do anything about it?”

“I don't know.”

“And he didn't know who it was behind it?”

“I don't think so. No, he was angry, mainly because he'd no idea what it was all about.”

Van Veeteren thought again.

“Mr. Faringer,” he said eventually. “Are you sure you remember this correctly? You're sure you haven't got hold of the wrong end of the stick?”

He could hear some coughing at the other end of the line, and when the little German teacher's voice returned, there was no doubt that he was rather offended.

“I know I was slightly drunk, but I can remember this as clear as day.”

“I understand,” said Van Veeteren. “Is there anything else you remember?”

“Not yet,” said Faringer. “But if I do, I'll be in touch again.”

“I'll probably be in touch again as well,” said the chief inspector before hanging up.

Well, what the devil does this mean? he wondered as he poured the liquid from the footbath and the concoction of herbs down the sink.

And what was it he almost remembered that somebody had said a few weeks ago?

It was late on Tuesday afternoon before they succeeded in tracking down all the remaining thirty-three staff NCOs (which was their official military status) of the 1965 vintage. Thirty-one of the group were still alive, the youngest of them now fifty the eldest fifty-six. Five of them turned out to be resident abroad (three in other European countries, one in the United States, one in South Africa), fourteen were still in the Maardam police district, and the remaining twelve in other parts of the country.

Heinemann was in charge of this side of the investigation and kept a register of all those concerned. He also made an effort to systematize the results of the interrogations, without finding an entirely successful method. When he handed the documentation over to Van Veeteren at about half past six in the evening, he devoted some considerable time to an attempt to enlighten his boss about all the cryptic signs and abbreviations, but in the end they both realized that it was a waste of time.

“You can explain it orally instead when we meet tomorrow to run through the current situation,” Van Veeteren decided. “It'll be just as well for everybody to get the information at the same time.”

There had been a rumor to the effect that the chief of police himself intended to turn up for this meeting, which was due to take place at ten a.m. on Wednesday; but when the time came he was unable to attend. Whether this was due to something important that had cropped up, or the desire to repot some plants in his office, was something nobody was in a position to say-but the fact that February is the most sensitive month for all plants was something that Reinhart at least was fully conversant with.

“Eight wise heads is a good score,” he said. “If we had Hiller's as well, that would reduce the number to seven. Let's get started.”

Heinemann's summary-with questions and interruptions and comments-took almost an hour, despite the fact that there were no real links or justifiable suspicions to report.

Opinions of Ryszard Malik had been more or less unanimous. A rather reticent, somewhat reserved person; friendly, reliable, without any striking characteristics or interests-that seemed to be the general impression. His social intercourse with his fellow students had been restricted to a group of four or five, generally speaking; but even among those there was nobody able to give any interesting tips of use to the investigation.

Needless to say, it was not easy to have any idea about what any such tips might have constituted; but without denigrating anybody's efforts, it would be fair to say that comments made about Malik failed to bring the question of who murdered him a single centimeter closer to a solution.

The same could probably also be said of Maasleitner. The perception of him as a somewhat overbearing, self-centered, and not very likeable young man was universal. He had belonged to a group of eight to ten people who frequently went around together, in their free time as well as during duty hours. Quite an active group, it seems, with a few questionable escapades on the program for some evenings, not to say nights, as Heinemann put it.

“Questionable evening and night escapades?” said Reinhart, raising his eyebrows. “Is that a formulation you made up yourself?”

“No,” said Heinemann unexpectedly. “It's a quotation from the Koran.”

“I don't believe that for a moment,” said Rooth.

“Go on,” said Van Veeteren, clearly irritated.

“It must also be pointed out,” said Heinemann, “that not a single one of those questioned managed to think of any links at all between Malik and Maasleitner, which surely undermines our hypotheses to some extent. We need to ask ourselves two questions. First: Is this really the background to the murders? Were Ryszard Malik and Rickard Maasleitner really murdered because they were on the same course when they did their National Ser vice thirty years ago?”

He paused. Van Veeteren blew his nose into a paper tissue, which he then dropped on the floor under his desk.

“Second: If we say yes to the first question, what form does that connection take? There are two possibilities. Either the murderer is one of the others in the photo”-he tapped on the photograph with the frame of his spectacles-“or there is an outsider who has some kind of relationship with the group.”

“Who intends to murder all thirty-five of them,” said Rooth.

“There are only thirty-one left,” deBries pointed out.

“Great,” said Rooth.

Heinemann looked around, waiting for comments.

“Okay, we've made a note of that,” said Reinhart, clasping his hands behind his head. “Where do we go from here, then?”

Van Veeteren cleared his throat and leaned forward over the table, resting his head on his clenched hands.

“We have an extremely important question to ask ourselves,” he said, speaking slowly to emphasize the significance. “I know it's a bit of hocus-pocus, but never mind. Anyway, did any of you smell a rat when you spoke to these people? Something they weren't telling us about? Just a little trace of a suspicion, you know what I mean… No matter how illogical or irrational it might seem. If so, speak up now!”

He looked around the table. Nobody spoke. Jung looked as if he were about to, but changed his mind. DeBries might also have been on the way to saying something, but decided to hold back. Moreno shook her head.

“No,” said Reinhart in the end. “I usually recognize murderers, but this time I saw no trace of one.”

“There were several of them we interviewed over the phone,” said Münster. “It's almost impossible to get the kind of impression we're talking about if we don't have them sitting in front of us.”

Van Veeteren nodded.

“Perhaps we should have another chat with the lads who were a bit familiar with Maasleitner. It couldn't do any harm. If the murderer is an outsider who nevertheless has some sort of link with that group… well, there are all kinds of possibilities, needless to say. I think we should try to find out if there was something that happened… something that could have been traumatic, somehow or other.”

“Traumatic?” said Rooth.

“It ought to have cropped up during our interviews, if there had been anything like that,” said deBries.

“Possibly,” said Van Veeteren. “But you never know. We have a few more interviews to conduct, in any case. I have an old colonel and a couple of company commanders in store.”