Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.
Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”
“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”
Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”
Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.
“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”
Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.
“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.
This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.
“Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”
“Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.
“Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”
“We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”
“Did you see him, or speak to him later?”
“No. That was the last time I saw Richard.”
Andersson was afraid that Reuter was going to start crying again. But he didn’t. He sat slumped in the chair like a punctured balloon, gave a big yawn, and blinked his red eyes. Andersson realized that he had to hurry up and ask his question. He stood and walked slowly toward Valle, who started and said in surprise, “Are you still here? What was your name again?”
“Sven Andersson. One last question before we call you a cab. Where were you last Tuesday evening and night? We knocked on your door, but you weren’t home.”
Valle pressed his lips together firmly. It was obvious that he had no intention of answering.
Patiently the superintendent continued, “It would be good if you would answer the question. You’d save us a lot of work. You were the last one to see Richard von Knecht alive. Besides the murderer.” He put special emphasis on the last word.
Valle was on the same page, and he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “The murderess! Sylvia.”
“Don’t you understand? You’re a prime suspect!” Andersson exclaimed.
Valle looked deeply wounded. “Me? Kill my best friend? Never!”
“Then where were you?”
Birgitta had an idea. She played along with the conspiratorial mood by leaning over the desk and saying, in a slightly teasing tone, “Tell the truth, Valle-there’s a woman involved, right?”
The little man fairly shone with joviality. “But of course, my dear. A woman’s honor.”
“You’ve known each other a long time, isn’t that so?”
“Absolutely, three years. . If you already know about her, why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know her name.” Again Valle looked displeased. He stared at Birgitta gloomily.
She challenged him. “Valle, you have to have an alibi.”
“She doesn’t want me to tell. She’ll get mad at me.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand that since you have become involved in a homicide investigation through no fault of your own, you need an alibi. And she’s the only one who can give you one.”
Valle slumped down a bit more. After a long silence he muttered, “Gunnel. . Gunnel Forsell.”
“Where does she live?”
“Now listen, my dear, she doesn’t want cops running around her place. Don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never be able to go there again.”
His tone of voice, along with the anxiety in his wide eyes, said it all. In his loneliness he’d found comfort with a prostitute.
Quietly Birgitta asked, “When did you leave for her place?”
“The usual time.” He stopped and gave Birgitta an apologetic look. “I usually go visit her on Tuesday. At five-thirty. But I was a little early … she had a guest. . but he left after a while, and then I could go in.”
“At five-thirty?”
“A little before that, I think.”
“How did you get there?”
“Taxi.”
“When did you get home?”
Again he hesitated with his reply. “I usually spend the whole night.” He gave Birgitta a defiant look.
“Where does she live?”
“On Stampgatan.”
“When did you get back home?”
“Around ten. In the morning. Then I went down to the office.”
A hooker who fixed breakfast. Neither of the officers had ever heard of such a thing. This had to be a very special arrangement. Something told Andersson that it was costing Reuter a small fortune. With great effort the stockbroker tried to get up. Finally he was on his feet, wobbling unsteadily. He gave a big yawn and said, “All right, now I want to go home. Thanks for the pleasant company, my dear. Don’t forget to try Neil Ellis sometime. Perhaps we could. .?”
Birgitta smiled sweetly and picked up the phone to call a cab.
“BIRGITTA, CAN you go to the Johanneshus restaurant to verify the times? And to our pretty chicken on Stampgatan? Check if she’s got a rap sheet,” said Andersson.
“Hardly. I can smell a high-priced call girl a mile away. Fixing breakfast after a whole night’s sleep! Small, loyal, wealthy clientele. No walking the streets. I’ll try to get hold of her this morning; there’s a better chance she won’t be with a john so early,” replied Birgitta.
“Ask her if she knew Richard von Knecht. Who knows? Maybe they were both clients of hers.”
Reluctantly he went into the corridor. He had two meetings set up. The first was with Police Commissioner Bengt Bergström. The second was with the people assigned to take measurements for the new police uniforms. Everyone in the building had already been there, except Andersson. Would Reuter have babbled just as openly if he and Birgitta had been in uniform? Doubtful. After working plainclothes for thirty years, he was going to be forced to sign up for a uniform in his final years of service despite the fact that he had no intention of putting it on. But it wouldn’t do any good, no matter what he said. Orders from on high. “The public must know that they are talking to a police officer”-that was the argument. No dispensations had been granted. His only means of protesting had been to avoid going to the fittings. But there was no longer any excuse.
Chapter Seven
IRENE HUSS ONLY HAD time to skim through the faxes from Swedish Ladies’ Journal. She jotted down a few important dates and events on her notepad. The rest of the investigative group needed a report on the von Knecht family’s past at five o’clock.
It was interesting to read old gossip now that she had personally met those involved. Her picture of Richard von Knecht had to be constructed solely from the clippings and from what she had seen and heard during the course of the investigation.