‘I do not know where he is.’
‘Do you know the identity of the man found shot in the head in his flat?’
Rudolf shook his head.
‘Does Felix own a gun?’
‘He has never, to my knowledge, owned a firearm.’
‘Do you think his life could be in danger?’
‘Why should you think that?’ asked Rudolf, and for the first time Flóvent detected a flicker of interest.
‘We found something among his belongings that I’d like to ask you about,’ said Flóvent.
‘Among his belongings? What do you mean? What did you find?’
‘A pill,’ said Flóvent. ‘A capsule, in fact.’
‘A pill? What nonsense is this? What kind of pill?’
‘No ordinary pill,’ said Flóvent. ‘It has a very specific purpose. We believe it originated in Germany, that it’s what’s known as a suicide pill.’
‘A suicide…?’
‘It was hidden in a suitcase that your son uses for his samples, so he would have had it close to hand. A tiny capsule filled with cyanide. There are three questions I would like to put to you.’
‘What … what questions?’
‘Did you know about the cyanide pill?’ Flóvent saw that Rudolf was looking badly shaken, but he pressed on remorselessly. ‘Was it you who procured it for him? And was it agreed between you that he should use it in an emergency?’
12
Rudolf stared at Flóvent, his expression of astonishment slowly giving way to silent fury. The doctor had invited a tough response, and he had got one. It had proved so difficult to extract any information from him, about his son or himself, that the only tactic Flóvent could think of was to put pressure on him, shock him, knock him off balance. He had succeeded. Rudolf’s knuckles whitened on the arms of his chair.
‘Have you lost your mind?’ he snarled, drawing himself up as best he could. ‘How dare you ask such a question? Are you implying that I want my son dead? Is that what you think?’
‘Were you aware of the cyanide pill?’ asked Flóvent, feigning indifference to the rage he had provoked.
‘No,’ Rudolf exploded, then slumped in his chair again. ‘I had no idea. Not the faintest idea.’
‘Did you provide it?’
‘No!’
‘Did you urge Felix to use it if he was arrested?’
‘I refuse to answer that.’
‘Felix apparently thought it wise to keep the pill within reach. Do you have any idea why that might have been?’
‘I refuse to answer that.’
‘Did you acquire the pill from the consulate during Gerlach’s time in office? Did you pass it on to your son?’
Rudolf clamped his lips shut.
‘The British and Americans believe that enemy agents are active here in Iceland,’ said Flóvent. ‘That there are German spies transmitting reports on the build-up of forces and other Allied operations. Is your son one of these spies?’
Rudolf glared at Flóvent in stubborn silence.
‘Are you a spy yourself?’
‘I was compelled to answer all kinds of absurd questions when I was detained by the British,’ Rudolf said at last. ‘But they had to let me go because there was no evidence against me. And they were far better at this than you are. They were not amateurs who tried to wring sympathy from me by telling me self-pitying stories about themselves. They were professionals. You have a lot to learn.’
‘Does Felix use his salesman’s job as a cover?’ Flóvent persisted. ‘How did he come to be a travelling salesman in the first place?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Has he been doing the job for long?’
‘How should I know? He does not need a cover. He is not a spy. Try to understand that.’
‘Does he travel to far-flung parts of the country on his sales trips? Or does he stay in and around Reykjavík?’
‘I know nothing about that,’ said Rudolf. ‘You disgust me. Everything you say disgusts me.’
Flóvent halted his barrage of questions and sat there studying Rudolf. Eventually he continued: ‘According to a list in the possession of the police, you were a member of the Icelandic fascist movement, the Nationalist Party. Is that correct?’
‘I am not obliged to answer your questions.’
‘What was your role in the party?’
‘You will have to either arrest me or let me go. I refuse to answer any further questions. If you intend to arrest me, I insist on my right to a lawyer.’
‘Was Felix a party member too?’
Rudolf didn’t answer.
‘What kind of relationship do you have with your son? Were you brought closer by the fact that he grew up without a mother? Or did that put a strain on your relationship? Are you close?’
Rudolf merely shook his head.
‘Did he receive a normal upbringing? Was he a happy child? Did he have plenty of friends or did he spend a lot of time alone? What was he like as a boy?’
‘I cannot begin to imagine what you are insinuating. Of course he had a normal upbringing. A respectable upbringing.’
‘Does he stay in touch with his childhood friends?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Did he attend his uncle’s school? Your brother-in-law’s school?’
Rudolf bestowed a withering look on Flóvent.
‘You live close by, so I assume Felix must have been a pupil at his school. Did he get on well at school? Was he a good pupil? Obedient? How were his marks? I suppose it didn’t hurt that his uncle was the headmaster? Was he in the top form? He can hardly have been in with the dunces.’
‘The dunces? I should think not. He … What a load of nonsense. What kind of questions are these? I refuse to respond to such absurd questions.’
‘No change there then,’ said Flóvent. ‘Are you and your brother-in-law on friendly terms? Do you have a good relationship with him?’
‘I fail to understand what that has to do with you,’ said Rudolf. ‘I fail to understand these questions. They are nonsensical. Utterly absurd.’
‘He came round to see you recently, didn’t he? At your home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He visited you, didn’t he?’
‘Are you watching my house?’
Flóvent implied as much by his silence. Better for Rudolf to believe that than for him to suspect his maid of betraying his trust. Flóvent had been puzzling over her reference to boys. As far as he knew, Felix was an only child, so the boys in question could hardly have been Rudolf’s sons. So who were they? And why had the brothers-in-law been quarrelling about them? He had tried unsuccessfully to get hold of the headmaster. When he phoned his house, he was told that the man was away in the countryside as it was the school holidays. He was due back in a few days.
‘May I ask what you two were discussing?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Rudolf. ‘Where did you get this information from? Why is my house being watched? I thought all that was over.’
‘What happened at your meeting?’
‘Meeting…? Nothing at all,’ said Rudolf. ‘I have no idea what you are talking about. We are … my brother-in-law and I are on perfectly good terms. I do not understand why you are implying that there was something suspicious about our meeting. I … I simply cannot understand the nonsensical direction this conversation is taking.’
Flóvent hardly understood himself. He had leafed through the membership list for the Nationalist Party, a copy of which was held in the CID offices. There, the brother-in-law, whose name was Ebeneser Egilsson, was listed as an ordinary member. ‘Was it about the Nationalist Party? Is it still in existence? Was that what you were discussing?’
‘Of course not,’ said Rudolf. ‘What you are implying?’
‘Did you discuss Felix?’
‘No … Why do you keep harping on about this visit? What are you driving at? Would it not be simpler to ask me a straight question?’
‘We
re you discussing family matters, then?’ Flóvent persevered.
‘His family is none of my concern.’
‘Or your brother-in-law’s position at the school?’
‘Why should we discuss that?’
‘I wonder … was it something to do with the teachers perhaps? Or the boys at the school?’
Rudolf sat there without speaking, absently rubbing his chest, until at last he seemed to lose all patience with Flóvent’s questions about himself, about Felix and, not least, about the headmaster’s visit. ‘Either arrest me or let me go,’ he said, no longer sounding as sure of himself. There was a note of defeat in his voice. ‘Do what you like. It is a matter of indifference to me. I will not answer any more of your questions.’
‘I’ve probably taken up enough of your time. I only hope your brother-in-law Ebeneser will prove a little more cooperative,’ said Flóvent, rising to his feet. ‘I’m due to meet him shortly, which should clarify things.’ He sensed that, beneath his fury and contempt, Rudolf was not in fact indifferent to the direction their conversation had taken. ‘Would you like us to drive you home?’
‘No, I would rather take a taxi.’
‘Does your son know or associate with any American servicemen?’ asked Flóvent casually.
The question seemed to take Rudolf by surprise. ‘What do you mean?’
‘It’s a simple question: is Felix friendly with American servicemen?’
‘No, not that I am aware.’
‘What about you yourself?’
‘What? Friendly with American soldiers? I should think not!’
‘Then can you imagine how Felix might have got hold of a Colt .45 pistol of the type used by the US Marines?’
‘I believe you are mistaken in suspecting him, and that this will soon become clear. So these … your foolish questions are completely irrelevant.’
‘Yes, well, that remains to be seen. Before we finish, there was one rather odd detail about the body in your son’s flat.’ Flóvent paused to help Rudolf manoeuvre his wheelchair into the corridor. Getting it into the cramped interview room in the first place had proved quite a palaver. Rudolf curtly rejected his help and ordered him to summon a prison guard instead. ‘We didn’t get a proper look at it until the post-mortem,’ Flóvent continued. ‘We could easily have missed it altogether.’
‘Missed what?’
‘The swastika.’
‘Swastika?’
‘The killer took the time to draw a swastika on the victim’s forehead, in blood. I have no idea what that means, why he should have done it, what message it’s intended to convey. But it enables us to draw a few conclusions: that the killer’s pretty ruthless, for example. Consumed with hatred perhaps. Or rage. The killing was more like an execution than an ordinary murder, which points to an unnerving singleness of purpose. No hesitation. No regrets. No mercy.’
Rudolf was staring at Flóvent in bewilderment.
‘Does that sound like your son?’ Flóvent asked. ‘Would he be capable of such an act? Is he that sort of man?’
‘My son … he would never do anything … Felix would never do anything like that.’ For the first time in this gruelling encounter, Rudolf’s manner betrayed anxiety, even alarm. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘Never, under any circumstances would my son do anything like that.’
13
Salesmen came and went. The wholesaler had been a commercial traveller himself, so he knew first-hand how taxing the job could be and how meagre the rewards were at times. And for men who were engaged to be married or had a family, the long absences were no joke either.
Men from all walks of life ended up in the job. Some came to him as a last resort after circumstances forced them out of other professions. Drink was a common factor. Then there were the young poets and writers who were perpetually out of pocket. He welcomed them, despite knowing from experience that they wouldn’t last. They had their uses and could generally be trusted – with a few notable exceptions – to be entertaining. They were always trying to scrape a bit of money together to bring out a volume of poetry or take some time off to write the novel that would make their name. Over the years he had employed teachers and lorry drivers, failed farmers and wastrels, and knew only too well that no one lasted long as a travelling salesman.
Not everyone had what it took. You had your chaps who were so cocky and bursting with self-confidence that it hardly mattered what goods they had to shift: they could sell almost anything to anyone. It wasn’t the product they were selling so much as themselves: their confidence and their company, their friendship even, at least for a while. The best of them didn’t even mention business until they were on the point of walking out of the door, when all of a sudden they would slap their foreheads and pretend to remember why they were there. By the way – they were almost embarrassed to mention it – but they had these coats and dresses for sale, hot off the boat. Almost as if it were a matter of indifference to them and they only opened their cases as a special favour to the present company. At this stage they would have had their coffee, complimented the shopkeeper or housewife on the refreshments and repeated the latest news from Reykjavík: the scandal, the amusing anecdotes, the gossip about politicians and other prominent figures about town. Tales of drunkenness and loose morals were always popular. In the case of farms that lay a little off the beaten track and received few visitors, this worked especially well, since the household was often starved of news and positively grateful for a visit from such an entertaining chap.
At the other end of the scale you had your non-starters who never managed to shift a thing. He knew even before he dispatched them on their travels that they would have an uphill struggle. They tended to be the gawky, timid ones, who had no faith in their own abilities. They doubted from the first that they would be able to sell anything but thought it wouldn’t hurt to try. He did his best to give them a boost. Despite their lack of promise, he knew that anything was possible and no one should be written off out of hand. These chaps usually made the mistake of starting with an apology when they knocked on a door, be it in a fishing village or on a farm, and no sooner had they finished stammering out their errand than they would find the door closing in their face. It wasn’t that people weren’t interested in the products they were selling; they weren’t interested in them.
‘That’s the category this fellow falls into,’ the wholesaler said, after regaling the policeman with his theory of the two different breeds of salesman. ‘Though I’m not denying that he’s secured some decent orders from time to time.’
They were sitting in the police station on Pósthússtræti, the duty officer listening patiently to the prattle of the wholesaler who evidently enjoyed the sound of his own voice. One of his salesmen had failed to return with the samples and proceeds from his trip. The wholesaler had tried to track him down, but he was nowhere to be found. The man looked worried as he said this. He took the matter seriously, though it wasn’t the first time it had happened. His salesmen had tried to cheat him before. Yes, experience had taught him to keep a close eye on them and make sure they paid up.
‘I sometimes ask them to collect payments for older orders and the odd outstanding debt,’ he said, ‘and the temptation can – well, it can prove too much for them.’
The wholesaler seemed eager to convey that he was a man of the world. He was overweight, with plump cheeks and heavy jowls, and reminded the policeman, to a distracting degree, of the caricatures of capitalists in Spegillinn magazine. To complete the picture, he was sucking on a cheap cigar that wreathed him in a cloud of thick grey smoke, and he held himself like a man of influence. Yet he displayed a sympathetic understanding of human frailty and a willingness to help ‘those who are never going to conquer the world’, as he put it. The implication being that he himself had achieved this in style.
‘So you’d like us to find this man for you, sir?’ said the policeman, who was young and inexperienced. He was eager to do anything in his power to help those who came
into the station, whether they were wealthy wholesalers or down-and-outs.
‘Yes,’ said the wholesaler, ‘that’s exactly what I’d like. Before this gets out of hand, if you see what I mean.’
‘By out of hand, you mean…?’
‘You obviously haven’t been listening, my boy. Theft, of course,’ said the wholesaler. ‘I’d rather not have to accuse the man of being careless with my money.’
‘You say you can’t find him anywhere?’ said the policeman.
‘I’ve searched high and low,’ said the wholesaler. ‘He was supposed to report to my office as soon as he got back from his trip but he failed to do so. I drove round to his place the following day but it was locked up, there was nobody home and the neighbours hadn’t seen him or the woman he lives with. She seems to have vanished off the face of the earth as well. I’ve been over there three times now but no one ever answers the door. He sometimes eats at Hressingarskálinn when he’s in town, but the staff there haven’t seen or heard from him lately. I have to admit, I’m worried.’
‘Has he shown any sign of dishonesty before?’
‘No, he hasn’t, and I don’t want to jump the gun and start accusing him of anything at this stage. But it’s not like him to fail to get in touch. Not like him at all.’
‘Are you concerned that something might have happened to him?’
‘Well, I can’t imagine what,’ said the wholesaler, tapping his cigar in the ashtray on the policeman’s desk. ‘He’s a harmless fellow. But I was wondering if you could perhaps enter his flat. On the grounds that he’s missing. Disappeared. Vanished into thin air. He could be lying dead in there for all I know.’
‘Has he worked for you long?’
‘Yes, nearly a year,’ said the wholesaler. ‘His political views stop him from taking a job with the army. He’s always ranting on about profiteering and capital and girls fraternising with the soldiers. He thinks everything’s going to hell.’
‘Really, does he support the Germans, then?’
The Shadow Killer Page 6