“The day before we received the tip,” said Münster.

“Interesting,” said Rooth. “But it could mean that she's finished what she set out to do, of course.”

“A possibility,” said Van Veeteren, contemplating a toothpick bitten away beyond recognition. “Her task might have been to kill these three, and she's done just that.”

“Has anybody checked her alibi?” Rooth asked. “Just in case. Might she have been away at precisely these times?”

“We've started,” said Van Veeteren. “We'll let the artist finish his drawings first, then we'll have another go at these ladies. But I don't really think they are going to be of much help. They don't seem to have any idea of what the rest of them in that house are up to. The landlady reads two novels per day, and Maria Adler didn't mix with the others. If anybody were to bump into her at the relevant time, it would be pure coincidence. Or an unfortunate happening, one should perhaps say.”

“I get you,” said Rooth.

“How much longer does that artist need?” asked Reinhart. “Surely he doesn't need half a day to create a face? Is there any more coffee?”

“Rooth,” said the chief inspector. “For Christ's sake, go and find out what's happening. Tell him we have to have a picture soon if we're going to be able to place it in the newspapers.”

“Okay,” said Rooth, rising to his feet. “Wanted, dead or alive.”

“Preferably alive,” said the chief inspector.

“That was the last one,” said Jung, looking at the list. “What do you think?”

“I suppose we'll have to hope it was Klumm's Cellar,” said Moreno. “If not, he must have been in Maardam.”

“Good God,” said Jung. “How many restaurants are there in Maardam? Two hundred?”

“If you include pubs and cafés, it's probably twice as many as that,” said Moreno. “It's a great task, this one. It was such fun talking to all his workmates before we were given it. Why did you join the police?”

“People who are no good at anything become police officers,” said Jung. “Anyway shall we see if we can find this waiter? We might just get lucky. Then we'd better ring round and see if we can find somebody who was with him… Before we start on Maardam, that is. Or what do you think?”

Moreno nodded and consulted her notebook.

“Ibrahim Jebardahaddan,” she read. “Erwinstraat 16… That's just before you come to that sports field, I think.”

Fifteen minutes later Jung rang the doorbell of an apartment on the first floor of a rather shabby three-story block. Fifties, or early sixties. Crumbling plaster and mainly foreign names on the list in the entrance. A bronze-skinned woman on the far side of middle age opened the door.

“Hello… who are you looking for?” she said with a timid smile and a pronounced foreign accent.

“Ibrahim Jebardahaddan,” said Jung, who had been practicing both in the car and on the stairs.

“Please come in,” she said, ushering them into a large room containing about a dozen people of various ages, sitting on chairs and sofas. Some children were playing on the floor. Faint music in a minor key played by stringed instruments was coming from hidden stereo speakers. A low, square table was laden with bowls of exotic-looking food emitting warm, aromatic fragrances that seemed almost tangible.

“Smells good,” said Jung.

“Perhaps we ought to mention that we are police officers,” said Moreno.

“Police officers?” said the woman, but there was no trace of fear in her voice. Only surprise. “Why?”

“Routine inquiries,” said Jung. “We're trying to find out about a certain person who might have had a meal at the restaurant Ibrahim evidently works at…”

A young man had stood up and was listening.

“That's me,” he said. “I work at Klumm's Cellar. What's it all about? Perhaps we should go to my room?”

His accent was less pronounced than the woman's. He led them through the hall and into a small room containing not much more than a bed, a low chest of drawers, and some large cushions. Jung showed him the photograph of Innings.

“Can you say if this person visited your restaurant last week, on Friday evening?”

The young man cast a quick glance at the photograph.

“Is that Innings?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, he did. He had a meal at our place last Friday. I saw on TV that he'd been killed. And in the newspapers. I recognize him.”

“Are you sure?” asked Moreno.

“A hundred percent. I've already told my friends that I saw him there. I was the one who served him as well. A few days before he was shot. Yes, Friday it was.”

“Good,” said Moreno. “Do you know who was with him?”

Jebardahaddan shook his head.

“No, I didn't see him so clearly. It was a man, but he had his back toward me, if you see what I mean… I don't know if I'd recognize him again.”

Jung nodded.

“It doesn't matter. Presumably it was one of his friends-we can check on that in other ways. Anyway thank you very much.”

The woman who had let them in appeared in the doorway with the same timid smile.

“Have you finished? Then you must come and eat with us. This way please.”

Moreno looked at the clock. Then at Jung.

“Why not?” she said. “Thank you very much. We'd love to.”

“We certainly would,” said Jung.

Van Veeteren stared at the picture. Reinhart, Münster, and deBries were crowded behind him.

“So this is what she looks like?” said the chief inspector.

It was a very well-drawn portrait, no question about it. A woman somewhere between thirty-five and forty it seemed. Quite short, straight hair. Thin lips and a somewhat bitter expression around her mouth. Round glasses, a slightly introverted look. Straight nose. Quite a few wrinkles and marks on her skin.

“He says the eyes were the most difficult,” said Rooth. “So much depends on the moment. Her hair is brown… mousy, if you like.”

“She looks a bit haggard,” said Reinhart. “With a bit of luck we might find her in police records.”

“Have they finished fingerprinting?” Heinemann asked.

“I think so,” said Münster. “There must be masses of them; she's been living there for a month, after all. I suppose it'll be best if deBries takes care of that, as usual?”

DeBries nodded. Van Veeteren picked up the picture and scrutinized it from close quarters.

“I wonder…,” he muttered. “Manon's spring… yes, why not?”

“What are you on about?” Reinhart wondered.

“Nothing,” said Van Veeteren. “Just thinking aloud. Anyway, Münster: make sure this picture goes out to every damned newspaper in the land.”

He rummaged around among the papers on his desk.

“Together with this communiqué,” he added. “Apart from that, I think the best thing we can do now is to go home and get some sleep. I want you all back here tomorrow morning at ten o'clock. We'll be swamped with tips and speculations. With a bit of luck, we'll get her tomorrow.”

“I wonder,” said Reinhart.

“So do I,” said the chief inspector. “I'm just trying to spread a little optimism and a belief in the future. Good night, gentlemen.”