He calmed down when my first questions were about Magdalon Schelderup’s company. Herlofsen quickly proved to have an exceptional head for figures. He could reel off turnover and market shares from the 1940s, the 1950s and the 1960s without any pause for thought. His conclusion was that the Schelderup business empire was going from strength to strength. According to Herlofsen’s calculations, the recent estimate of Schelderup’s worth at 100 million was in fact too low rather than too high. He himself reckoned it to be somewhere between 125 and 130 million, taking into account various estimated fees and charges and the possibility that the value of the company might fall if the company and property portfolio were to be divided up.
With regard to himself, Hans Herlofsen told me in a succinct and practised manner that he was a widower and lived on his own on the first floor of his childhood home in Lysaker. His only son was now a grown man, who lived with his wife and two children on the ground floor. Hans Herlofsen had always devoted himself to his work, and other than his son and his family the greater part of his social life was linked to work. Magdalon Schelderup had been a friend of his father’s, so they had known each other since Herlofsen was a youth. Herlofsen had been employed by the company since the autumn of 1944 and been the manager since 1946.
When asked who he thought might have killed Magdalon Schelderup, Hans Herlofsen replied that the only thing he could say with 100 per cent certainty was that it was not he who had done it. As for the others, he would rather not hazard a guess. With a slightly self-deprecating smile, he added that with eleven others round the table, minus himself and the deceased, there was only an 11.1 per cent chance of getting it right.
I saw no reason, for the moment, to add to his burden by saying that I personally was operating on the assumption of a 10 per cent chance. I had not got any further and did not dare strike Hans Herlofsen from the list of suspects until I knew what was in the will.
As Hans Herlofsen stood up to leave, I realized that I should ask whether he had worked together with Magdalon Schelderup when they were in the Resistance. His answer was another surprise.
‘Yes, of course. But I was more of an assistant to the senior members of the Resistance and was not there when it happened. If you think it might have anything to do with that strange episode from 8 May 1945, you will have to ask the Wendelboes or even Magdalena Schelderup.’
I nodded to show that I understood. Then made a note that I had to ask the Wendelboes about the strange episode that took place on Liberation Day in 1945.
XI
My conversation with the deceased’s ex-wife was brief and without any great surprises. She had a slim body and her neck was almost perilously thin. Her hair, on the other hand, was raven black and her voice was spirited. She seemed far younger in body and mind than her actual sixty years of age.
Ingrid Schelderup was also visibly shaken by the death of her former husband, but her predominant focus was the situation of her son Leonard. She assured me repeatedly that she could guarantee he had nothing to do with his father’s death, and expressed her concern that he would take this very badly, given his sense of duty and responsibility. His relationship with his father was not the best, but it was far better than it had been. And Leonard was the world’s sweetest boy, who would never wish to hurt anyone. It was completely incomprehensible that his father had asked him, of all people, to try his food and then later pointed at him. The only explanation she could think of was that Magdalon Schelderup was no longer the man he had once been, even though that might seem strange to all who knew him.
The conversation dwelled on this theme for a few minutes without going anywhere. She then sat up abruptly in her chair and raised her voice: ‘You must forgive me if I am repeating myself and talking too much about my son. It is all too easy when you are a divorced woman who has only one child. And even though it is now many years since our divorce, Magdalon’s death today was a great shock.’
I immediately felt that she was opening up and assured her that I had the utmost sympathy for her situation. Then I expressed my surprise at the fact that she still regularly visited her ex-husband’s home, so many years after the divorce. She gave a sad shrug.
‘That’s what happened and how I am, unfortunately. I am still Magdalon Schelderup’s wife – even though he threw me out over twenty years ago, and is now dead. I have never got over the divorce. Latterly my life has solely been about the son of the man who threw me out.’
I started to understand the lie of the land and took a small chance: ‘So you never got over the divorce – and never stopped hoping that he would ask you to come back again one day?’
She gave a brief and serious nod.
‘Yes, terrible, but true. Winters passed and summers passed, year after year, and nothing happened. And yet I could never give up hope. I continued to live in Gulleråsen, only minutes away. That was partly so that I could see my son as often as possible, but mostly so that I could be here quickly if ever asked. For ten years, I hoped that it was Magdalon whenever the phone rang. Every time I was invited here I dyed my hair, put on my make-up and arrived dressed up and on time. And every time Magdalon asked me to do something, I said yes and smiled as beautifully as I could. In some strange way, I thought that if I could only do as he wished and come whenever he invited me, the day would then come when he would ask me to stay. And so I hoped, year in and year out, that one day he would throw her out in order to take me back – just as he had thrown me out on 12 April 1949, so that she could move in. But neither God nor life is fair.’
Any discussion of how fair God may or may not be was beyond my competence, so I said that it must have felt very odd for her to prepare the food together with Sandra Schelderup.
‘She is a good cook, I will give her that. But yes, it was a rather bizarre and uncomfortable situation. It was Magdalon’s idea and neither of us dared to ask why. So we just made the food together as best we could and talked as little as possible while we did it. And I can guarantee that there were no powdered nuts or any other form of poison in the food when it left the kitchen. We both kept a close eye on each other the whole time.’
I did not doubt that. But I did comment that she herself had usurped the place of an older woman here at Schelderup Hall. Her sigh was heavy.
‘That was different. Magdalon and I were happy until the day she turned up here like a snake in paradise. His first wife was unhappy here, though she may not have recognized that herself, and they should never have got married. But of course it was not very nice then and it still is not nice now. Her fate was even more tragic than my own. No woman has a child with Magdalon Schelderup without the rest of her life being marred by it. And apparently no one is thrown out of Schelderup Hall without wanting to come back. It is strange, the power he holds over us. In that way he was a true sorcerer.’
Irene Schelderup cheered up unexpectedly when I asked if she knew that Magdalon Schelderup had a new lover.
‘The illiterate secretary?’ she said, with an almost joking expression on her face.
I looked at her questioningly. She blushed a touch and cleared her throat before carrying on.
‘It was Magdalena who asked me if the illiterate secretary had moved in now, and I knew immediately what she meant. The secretary is no doubt well above the average literacy in her own family, but still well below the average in ours. So I thought perhaps he wanted something else from her and am only too happy to admit that I hoped that was the case. It certainly would have been a twist of fate and only fair if Sandra was also thrown out on the rubbish pile in favour of a younger, more attractive secretary. He once joked to me that he believed that any marriage was doomed when the average age of the partners was over fifty. And his new marriage had certainly crossed that line by a good margin.’
The corners of her mouth twitched for a moment as she said this, but it was a bitter smile that did not reach her eyes.
Ingrid Schelderup also denied any knowledge of the contents of the deceased’s will
. She had received less financially after the divorce than she had hoped, but had sufficient to live without any worries when she added the inheritance from her parents.
Magdalena, the sister, had come to visit regularly in all the years that Ingrid Schelderup had lived here. And yet she had the impression that the relationship between the two siblings was formal rather than heartfelt. Others who appeared to be close to him in the time that she lived here were the three guests seated at the table today: Herlofsen, the manager, and the Wendelboes. Apparently after she left the neighbours had started to say: ‘The only thing that changes at Schelderup Hall is the name of the wife and the number of children.’ She thought that the relationship with Herlofsen had been close, almost friendly, in the years immediately after the war, but Magdalon had later treated him with sarcasm and scorn.
Ingrid Schelderup stopped suddenly and sat deep in thought after having spoken about her former husband and his manager. I eventually realized that she was sitting like this with her brow furrowed so that I would ask her a question. Which I then did: I asked her to tell me what she was wondering whether she should tell me.
She smiled with relief, but it felt slightly forced.
‘I must say you really are very observant and quick, Detective Inspector. Yes, in the years just after the war, I once had a very odd experience with the manager, Hans Herlofsen, which I still can scarcely believe happened . . . I was passing my husband’s office when the door opened, but no one came out. Then I tripped over something on the floor. Which turned out to be Hans Herlofsen. He stood up immediately and apologized profusely, but offered me no explanation. He was so pale and so frightened, I would almost say terrified, that I only recognized him because of his suit. I could feel his entire body trembling when I put my hand on his shoulder. I carried on without saying anything, and never mentioned the episode to either my husband or Herlofsen. It all seemed so very unreal, and yet I am still certain that it did actually happen.’
My interest was of course piqued and I immediately asked when this had happened. She shrugged apologetically, but thought it must have been shortly before she was forced to leave the house in spring 1949.
I was not quite sure what to think, but noted down the story with interest. Ingrid Schelderup herself seemed quite upset by the memory, and repeated a couple of times that she was quite certain that it was as she remembered. She then calmed down again when we started to talk about the others who were present.
Magdalon Schelderup’s relationship with the Wendelboes seemed to be more balanced, and if there was a man he respected other than himself, it was Petter Johannes Wendelboe, she thought. But still she found herself wondering why the Wendelboes were such frequent visitors to the house, as they seldom said very much or made their presence known. But then there was hardly a relaxed social atmosphere at Magdalon Schelderup’s gatherings. Laughter and jokes were not encouraged among the younger members of the family, either, with Magadalon Schelderup at one end of the table and Petter Johannes Wendelboe at the other. She had never asked about any details from the war, but had always assumed that they had both seen and done difficult things. Neither of them became any less serious or authoritarian as they got older. But whereas Wendelboe appeared to be utterly unchanged, she had the impression that Magdalon’s moods had become even darker in recent years.
‘There were two Magdalons: the one who was all seriousness and work, and the one who was the world’s most charming man. Unfortunately, I have not seen the latter for many years now,’ Ingrid Schelderup added in a quiet voice. She had had no idea, however, that her former husband felt that he was now in danger.
When I asked her who she thought might have killed Magdalon Schelderup, she became grave and thoughtful.
‘If things are as you say with the secretary, well then there is an obvious motive for his current wife, in terms of both jealousy and money. But that is, of course, simply something I hope, not something I know. I can give you my word with regard to myself and my son. And as for the others, I suspect all and none of them.’
I was starting to realize that this would be a long and difficult investigation. But for the present, I had no more questions for Ingrid Schelderup. She also asked for permission to leave, and was granted this once she had given me a telephone number and a promise to stay in town.
XII
I had initially thought of calling in the Wendelboes separately. However, when he then came marching in with her in tow and seemed so determined, I did not dare protest.
Petter Johannes Wendelboe said that he was sixty-seven years old, and despite his white hair he was still a straight-backed and solid man with lithe, dynamic movements. Else Wendelboe was sixty-three, petite, and still a natural blonde. It struck me that she must have been extremely beautiful in her youth. I noted down that her maiden name was Wiig.
They said almost in one voice that they had been married since 1932, had three grown children and five grandchildren, and lived in a large house in Ski. Petter Johannes Wendelboe was a trained officer, but had changed career to become a businessman at an early age. He had held a number of different shareholder and board positions, but had now retired and left the business to his eldest son.
In terms of their relationship with the Schelderup family, he told me that it was the war that had brought Magdalon Schelderup and Petter Johannes Wendelboe together. They had continued to meet regularly through the years since the war, but were not necessarily what one might call close friends. In recent years, in fact, any contact had been entirely social and routine. Wendelboe had had shares in Schelderup’s company for a while, but had cashed them in without it leading to any conflict when the company had become firmly established in the mid-1950s, following an optimistic expansion.
The Wendelboes had been in Bergen visiting their daughter for the past few days, but had flown back today and driven out here in order to make the supper. They hesitated in response to my question as to whether the Schelderups were as keen to visit them, but then answered that they had had very few social gatherings at home with people other than the closest family in recent years. But when they did have parties, the Schelderups were of course invited, and as far as they could remember had always come. And so they felt that it was perfectly natural to visit an old war comrade whenever he had invited them.
I tried to ease the atmosphere a bit by asking what they could remember of Magdalon Schelderup’s dead brother from the 1930s and 1940s. They both started. Mr Wendelboe replied that they certainly could remember him, but it did not give them much pleasure. The first time they had met Magdalon Schelderup, he had confided in them how ashamed he was to have a brother who traded with the Germans and earned money from it. Thanks to Magdalon Schelderup’s record in the Resistance movement, nothing more was ever really made of this. He had, however, on several occasions expressed sorrow over his brother’s failings, and had, when he inherited his brother’s wealth, given a sum of several hundred thousand kroner to a charity for those bereaved by the war.
The rumours rumbled on for several years, and when Magdalon Schelderup started his political career in the Conservative Party there were some who opposed it and had tried to use this against him. They had, however, not succeeded. He had been elected to the Storting in 1949 as he had hoped and had pulled out again four years later, even though he could have been re-elected.
‘But something unexpected happened on Liberation Day itself, in which Magdalon Schelderup was involved,’ I probed. The Wendelboes exchanged fleeting glances before they nodded. But Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s voice was still calm when he continued.
‘It promises well for the investigation that you have already managed to unearth the story, though it can hardly have any connection to the murder today. It was a strange and tragic incident, but did not seem to cause Magdalon much concern afterwards. His explanation was reasonable enough and the guilty party was a mentally disturbed man, who gave an insane statement. So there was little doubt as to the outcome. But things l
ike that are often a burden. And though I never heard Magdalon mention it later, I do think that it plagued him.’
I gave him a quizzical look, but he said nothing until I asked for further details.
‘Our group in the Resistance was small, but still had a dramatic and important history. We never had any more than six or seven members, and now that Magdalon is gone, my wife and I and Herlofsen are the only ones left alive. The group was established as early as winter 1940–41 and managed to carry on operating without being caught until Norway was liberated. Magdalon joined in summer 1941. He contacted me himself. It was a very difficult year. We lost a member in the spring and another in early autumn. Both were found shot dead in their own homes. The murderer was never found, either during or after the war. We have to this day simply called him the Dark Prince. He was given the name because he only fired in the dark of night, and no one ever saw him in daylight.’
I was fascinated, in part by the story and in part by the expressionless face and controlled voice with which Wendelboe told it.
‘For the remainder of the war, Magdalon and I and the other members of the group slept in rooms without windows, with the door locked. As I understood it, he continued to do this for many years, even though he was not a man who was easily scared. The Dark Prince never made another appearance after 1941 and we never found out whether he was a German or a Norwegian defector. During the war we believed and hoped that he was a German who had either been killed or left Norway, but afterwards we thought it was perhaps more likely that he had been a Norwegian. The modus operandi was not German. They generally came in uniform with dogs in the early morning. We hoped that maybe the Dark Prince was one of the Nasjonal Samling members we liquidated later. We suspected one of them. But we still do not even know if it was a man. I would dearly like to know for certain before I die who the Dark Prince was.’
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