‘But I have managed to scrape together every single payment. And I have not touched a drop of alcohol or filled in a betting slip since 14 February 1949. I have managed to keep the whole thing hidden from everyone, including my son. He thinks that I am just extremely thrifty with my daily outgoings and that I actually have a lot of money deposited in the bank. And I tell my neighbours that I am careful with my money and happy with the car I’ve got. But the reality is that I can barely afford a new bicycle.’
‘So, 95,000 plus 10 per cent interest a year, less annual down payments of 10,000 from 1949, leaves…’
He nodded gloomily.
‘I’m afraid there’s still 66,361 kroner outstanding. My crime is now legally time-barred, so there is no risk in talking to the police about it. But I am still indebted to the Schelderup family. If the story of my embezzlement gets out, I might as well forget trying to get another job. I have saved nearly enough for this year’s payment and have 8,212 kroner in the bank. But I have nothing more than that, so if they got wind of my debt and demanded that I pay up now, I would lose my house and all my assets, and my son’s family and I would once again be on the street. My suit is deceptive: I could be forced to sell it too. However, the worst thing is still the shame and grief it will cause my son.’
Hans Herlofsen looked at me with a pained expression on his face, and added: ‘And I guess that is what is going to happen now.’
I made a feeble attempt to comfort the poor manager, but it was not easy. He told me he had no idea where the confession and the promissory note might be, or who else might know about them. But he should at least reckon that the promissory note and outstanding debt had been registered. If the company was broken up and dissolved, not only would all outstanding debts be collected, but his position might disappear. And if the company was not broken up and dissolved, the only possible solution would be for the daughter and wife to take control. And in the best-case scenario, there was a slim hope that he might be able to continue the current arrangement, albeit with higher interest rates and larger payments, he added with a bitter smile. His only hope was that there would be some kind of clemency in the will or some other papers left by Magdalon Schelderup. But in a whisper, he estimated this possibility to be ‘under 15 per cent’.
I let Herlofsen go at half past midday. He apologized once again for not having told me everything yesterday. He said that it had felt as if the ground was opening up under his feet following the events of the past twenty-four hours, and I believed him. Hans Herlofsen steadied himself on the doorframe as he left my office, and I do not believe he would normally have done that.
VI
At one o’clock, an important part of the puzzle was solved when I received a verbal report regarding Magdalon Schelderup’s metal box and the letters inside. It was in part good news for Synnøve Jensen. Her fingerprints had naturally been found on the outside of the box, but they were old and unclear. The only fingerprints on the letters contained therein were those of Magdalon Schelderup. These technical findings did not prove Synnøve Jensen’s statement to be true, but neither did they prove it to be false, and that was what was most important here and now. The arrest warrant I had optimistically put on the desk stayed where it was, incomplete.
The greatest surprise at the police station, however, came at a quarter past one. A breathless constable knocked on the door when a letter arrived with the day’s post.
The address was in itself striking, the constable said. And I immediately understood what he meant.
The letter was addressed to ‘The head of the investigation into the murder of Magdalon Schelderup’. Of course, this was not so sensational in itself today, but became more so when it was established that the postmark on the letter was from Oslo on the day before Magdalon Schelderup was murdered.
The content was no less sensational. A simple folded sheet, with the following typewritten text:
Here, Saturday 10 May 1969
So the old dictator at the head of the table is dead.
Even the little miss to his right scarcely shed a tear when his life was snuffed out.
How soon, I wonder, will you manage to work out who put the powdered nuts on the roast?
If you do not soon raise that toast, there may be more deaths and fewer witnesses to boast…
I looked up at the constable, who looked even paler than normal. He rolled his eyes and said that I should just say if I needed any help. Then he beat a hasty retreat.
The letter was obviously written by someone who was familiar with the seating arrangements and menu at Schelderup Hall. As far as I could see, the letter had been posted the day before the murder – by a confident murderer who had laid a plan and felt sure of the outcome. I had every reason to take very seriously indeed the threat that more of the guests from Magdalon Schelderup’s last meal might be murdered. I sat and thought for a few minutes, in part about who the murderer might have in mind and in part about why the murderer had gone to the bother of sending the police a written warning.
I made a photostat copy of the letter and sent the original to be checked, without any great hope that it would help. No matter who had posted this letter, he or she was not very likely to have left any fingerprints or other clues. So I reported orally to my boss that several of those who witnessed Magdalon Schelderup’s death might be under threat and asked if the evening shift could be incremented should the need arise.
Then I rang Magdalena Schelderup and said that I needed to speak to her as soon as possible. She did not sound overly enthusiastic at the prospect. I heard a quiet ‘Oh, no’ when I asked if she could come by the police station. When I then offered to drive over to her, she asked if we could not meet somewhere in between. I conceded to this and we agreed to meet in a cafe on Bogstad Road at a quarter past two.
VII
The cafe was nice and the coffee was good. As we sat undisturbed in a corner with a piece of chocolate cake each, I decided that our surroundings were far preferable to the study at Schelderup Hall. But Magdalena Schelderup’s face was definitely less relaxed and more aggressive than it had been during our first interview. She leant forwards in her chair, almost angry, as soon as I started to ask about her situation and stance during the war.
‘Have the Wendelboes been wagging their poisonous tongues again? They have hated and scorned me for nearly thirty years now. I am sure that Herlofsen and many others do too, but those two are malicious through and through. I should, of course, have told you myself rather than allowing others the chance to say it for me.’
She took a breath and then pressed on.
‘I was, like my late younger brother, a member of the NS from autumn 1940 to autumn 1942. My younger brother and I saw it simply as a practical means to safeguard the family fortune. I left the party when they started deporting the Jews and never took part in any NS events of any sort. After the war, I was given a suspended sentence of sixty days or the option to pay a fine of 1,000 kroner, which I paid in order to put the whole thing behind me and cause as little damage to the family and business as possible. The case was closed a long time ago now and really should be a thing of the past. And it is for everyone else except those hypocrites from the Resistance. Does someone really want to make it look like I murdered my brother because I was a member of the NS in the first two years of the war?’
After this outburst she quite literally sat in silence for a few moments, stewing. The first cigarette was lit, which had a calming effect.
‘Apologies if I appear to be over the top, but I have been hounded by whispering voices ever since the war. It is of course a source of immense frustration to me that I could be so stupid as to get involved in all that to start with. But one,I have never been a Nazi and, two,I most certainly did not kill my brother.’