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were rolling…. Or whatever the presses did nowadays. What was the name of the victim? Malik?
    What had Reinhart said? Leufwens Allé? He had a good mind to phone the inspector and ask a few questions, but pricks of conscience from his better self, or whatever it might have been, got the upper hand, and he refrained. He would find out all he needed to know soon enough. No need to hurry. Better to make the most of the hours remaining before the whole thing got under way, perhaps. There hadn't been a murder since the beginning of December, despite all the holidays, and if it really was as Reinhart said, an awkward-looking case, no doubt they would have their hands full for some time to come. Reinhart generally knew what he was talking about. More so than most of them.
    He poured himself another cup of coffee, and started studying the weeks chess problem. Mate in three moves, which would presumably involve a few complications.
    ·  ·  ·
    “All right,” said Reinhart, putting down his pipe. “The facts of the case. At six minutes past one this morning, an ambulance driver, Felix Hald, reported that there was a dead body at Leufwens Allé 14. They'd gone there because the woman of the house, Ilse Malik, had phoned for an ambulance. She was extremely confused, and had failed to contact the police even though her husband was as dead as a statue…. Four bullet wounds, two in his chest, two below the belt.”
    “Below the belt?” wondered Inspector Rooth, his mouth full of sandwich.
    “Below the belt,” said Reinhart. “Through his willy, if you prefer. She'd come home from the theater, it seems, at about midnight or shortly before, and found him lying in the hall, just inside the door. The weapon seems to be a Berenger-75; all four bullets have been recovered. It seems reasonable to suspect that a silencer was used, since nobody heard anything. The victim is fifty-two years old, one Ryszard Malik. Part owner of a firm selling equipment for industrial kitchens and restaurants, or something of the sort. Not in our records, unknown to us, no shady dealing as far as we are aware. Nothing at all. Hmm, is that it, Heinemann, more or less?”
    Inspector Heinemann took off his glasses and started rubbing them on his tie.
    “Nobody noticed a thing,” he said. “We've spoken to the neighbors, but the house is pretty well protected. Hedges, big yards, that sort of thing. It looks as if somebody simply walked up to the door, rang the bell, and shot him when he opened up. There's no sign of a struggle or anything. Malik was alone at home, solving a crossword and sipping a glass of whiskey while his wife was at the theater. And then, it seems the murderer justclosed the door and strolled off. Quite straightforward, if you want to look at it from that point of view.”
    “Sound method,” said Rooth.
    “That's for sure,” said Van Veeteren. “What does his wife have to say?”
    Heinemann sighed. Nodded toward Jung, who gave every sign of finding it difficult to stay awake.
    “Not a lot,” Jung said. “It's almost impossible to get through to her. One of the ambulance men gave her an injection, and that was probably just as well. She woke up briefly this morning. Went on about Ibsen—I gather that's a writer. She'd been to the theater, we managed to get that confirmed by a woman she'd been with … a Bernadette Kooning. In any case, she can't seem to grasp that her husband is dead.”
    “You don't seem to be quite with it either,” said Van Veeteren. “How long have you been awake?”
    Jung counted on his fingers.
    “A few days, I suppose.”
    “Go home and go to bed,” said Reinhart.
    Jung stood up.
    “Is it okay if I take a taxi? I can't tell the difference between right and left.”
    “Of course,” said Reinhart. “Take two if you need them. Or ask one of the duty officers to drive you.”
    “Two?” said Jung as he staggered to the door. “No, one should do.”
    Nobody spoke for a while. Heinemann tried to