Murder on the Thirty-First Floor

by Per Wahlöö

  ‘Which stories?’

  ‘Well, whatever it is you’ve heard.’

  Jensen kept his eyes fixed on the man. There wasn’t a sound in the room. The smell of the factory was as pungent inside the house as it had been on the terrace.

  ‘What post did you hold within the group?’

  ‘Oh, a bit of everything. Sports reporter first. Then I was editor in chief of a few papers. Then I got into the advertising side. Travelled a lot, mostly sports features from all over the world. Then I was at various branch offices abroad, and then … well, I went on study trips.’

  ‘What did you study?’

  ‘A bit of everything. Public relations and that kind of thing.’

  ‘What does it involve, public relations?’

  ‘That’s not very easy to explain.’

  ‘So you’ve travelled a lot?’

  ‘I’ve been almost everywhere.’

  ‘Do you speak many foreign languages?’

  ‘No, I’m not much good at languages.’

  Inspector Jensen sat for a moment, saying nothing. He did not take his eyes off the man in the dressing gown. Finally he said:

  ‘Do the magazines and papers publish many sports features?’

  ‘No.’

  The man was looking more and more miserable.

  ‘Nobody’s interested in sport these days, except on TV.’

  ‘And yet you travelled all over the world writing sports features?’

  ‘I’ve never been able to write anything else. I tried, but I couldn’t.’

  ‘Why did you stop?’

  ‘It got too expensive, I think.’

  The man thought for a few seconds.

  ‘They’re pretty mean, when all’s said and done,’ he said, mournfully contemplating the furniture.

  ‘What postal district are we in here?’

  The man looked at Jensen, nonplussed. Then he gestured towards the window. Above the woods on the other side of the lake hung the cloud of yellow smoke from the factory.

  ‘The same as over there. The postman comes from there, at any rate.’

  ‘Is there a collection every day?’

  ‘Not on Sundays.’

  The only sounds to be heard were the man’s breathing and the distant roar of the cars on the motorway.

  ‘Do you have to carry on tormenting me like this? It serves no purpose.’

  ‘Do you know why I’ve come here?’

  ‘No idea.’

  The man in the dressing gown shifted uneasily. The silence seemed to trouble him.

  ‘I’m just a plain, ordinary bloke who ran into bad luck,’ he said.

  ‘Bad luck?’

  ‘Yes, bad luck. Everyone says the opposite, thinks I got lucky. But you can see for yourself, sitting here mouldering away all on my own, what sort of good luck is that?’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Nothing. I don’t want to be a bother to anyone.’

  The silence grew long and oppressive. A couple of times the man in the dressing gown gave Jensen a faintly desperate look, but each time he immediately looked away.

  ‘Please go now,’ he said in an undertone. ‘I swear the diploma’s in town. In my wife’s flat.’

  ‘You don’t seem happy here.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’

  ‘Were you unhappy at work?’

  ‘No, no, not at all. Why should I have been? I mean to say, I got whatever I wanted.’

  He seemed to drift off into vague brooding. Eventually he said: ‘You’re misunderstanding everything. You’ve heard those stories and you think something, I don’t know what. And anyhow, it’s not at all like people say. It simply isn’t true. Not all of it, at any rate.’

  ‘So the claims that are made about you aren’t true?’

  ‘Okay, if you bloody well insist, the boss did get petrified and jump overboard. But that was hardly my fault, was it?’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘During the regatta, you know that as well as I do. It wasn’t anything particularly remarkable. He took me along because he thought I knew how to sail. I suppose he wanted to win. And when we had that sudden squall and I got up on to the rail to hang out, I suppose he thought we were going to capsize, and he gave a howl and jumped in the sea. And as for me, all I could do was carry on.’

  He gave Jensen a gloomy look.

  ‘If I’d only been able to keep quiet about it, nothing would’ve happened. But I thought it was a funny story. And then I was so fed up when I realised I only got the plum jobs because they wanted to keep me well out of the way. And I couldn’t keep quiet about that, either, but what …’

  He gave a start, and rubbed his nose.

  ‘Take no notice of those stories. It’s all just talk. My wife cashed in on it, but then she does as she likes, doesn’t she? We’re divorced now, anyway. I’m not complaining. Don’t think that, whatever you do.’

  After a short pause he said:

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  ‘Show me the telegram.’

  The man in the dressing gown gave Jensen a frightened stare. ‘What telegram? I haven’t …’

  ‘Don’t lie.’

  The man stood up violently and went over to the window. He clenched his fists and beat them against each other.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, you’re not going to trick me. I’m saying no more.’

  ‘Show me the telegram.’

  The man turned. He still had his hands clenched into fists.

  ‘I can’t. There is no telegram.’

  ‘Did you tear it up?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘What did it say?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Why did you leave your job?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where does your former wife live?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Where were you at this time a week ago?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Were you here?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  The man in the dressing gown was still standing with his back to the window and his fists clenched. His face was sweating and he looked frightened and childishly defiant. Jensen regarded him expressionlessly. After a good minute, he put his spiral-bound notepad away, took his hat and moved towards the door. Before leaving the house he said:

  ‘Where’s Department 31?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  As he drove into the built-up area where the factory was, it was a quarter past eleven. He stopped at the police station and rang the head of the plainclothes patrol.

  ‘Yes, they’re divorced. Find out her address. Get round there and look at the diploma. If it isn’t intact, bring it back with you.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘And be quick about it. I’ll wait here.’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘One more thing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He received a telegram yesterday or this morning. Put a man on to locating the copy.’

  ‘Understood.’

  The reception area was large and dreary, with yellow brick walls and plastic curtains at the windows. In the inner section there was a counter, and beyond it a series of arrest cells with shiny, barred doors. Some of them were already occupied. At the counter sat a policeman in green uniform, leafing through a report file.

  Inspector Jensen sat down by the window and looked out over the square, which was empty and silent. The yellow smoke seemed to filter all the warmth out of the sun’s rays and the light was flat and lifeless. The stench of the factory was awful.

  ‘Does it always smell this bad?’

  ‘It’s even worse on weekdays,’ said the constable.

  Jensen nodded.

  ‘You get used to it. They say the fumes aren’t a health risk, but my theory is, they make people depressed. Loads of them kill themselves.’

  ‘I see.’

  Fifty minutes passed, and
then the phone rang.

  ‘She was very accommodating,’ said the head of the plainclothes patrol. ‘Showed it to me right away.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘It was completely undamaged. All the sheets were there.’

  ‘Was there anything to indicate that they might have been renewed or replaced?’

  ‘The signatures weren’t new, at any rate. The ink wasn’t fresh.’

  ‘Did you go inside the flat?’

  ‘No, she went and fetched the diploma. Accommodating, as I say; she almost seemed to be expecting me. And a very elegant young lady, I might add.’

  ‘And the telegram.’

  ‘I’ve sent a man to the telegraph office.’

  ‘Call him back.’

  ‘You don’t need the copy?’

  ‘No.’

  Inspector Jensen did not respond for a moment. Then he said:

  ‘It appears to have nothing to do with the case.’

  ‘Inspector?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘There was one little thing that baffled me. One of my men was posted outside the building where she lives.’

  ‘I see. Anything else?’

  ‘The police chief’s been trying to get hold of you.’

  ‘Did he leave a message?’

  ‘No.’

  The motorway was busier, and there were cars parked along the lay-bys at many points. Most of the owners were polishing the bodywork, but many had taken out the seats and were sitting on them at small folding tables beside their vehicles. On the tables they had portable TV sets and pre-packed plastic picnic baskets of the kind available from the snack vending machines. Closer to the city, the traffic queues intensified, and when Inspector Jensen reached the central district it was already ten to five.

  The city was still empty of people. The football was in full swing, and those who weren’t busy with their cars were indoors. The football matches were intended exclusively for broadcasting nowadays. They were played without a crowd in big, heated television studios. The teams were made up of players employed on full-time contracts, among them many foreign players, but despite the high standard, interest for the matches was said to be waning. Inspector Jensen rarely watched them, but he nearly always had the television turned on when he was at home. He guessed many other people did the same.

  Over the last half-hour he had been feeling increasingly light-headed, as if he was going to faint. He knew that hunger was the cause, and pulled in at a snack bar, where he purchased a cup of hot water, a small plastic sachet of instant broth mix and a portion of cheese.

  While he was waiting for the soup powder to dissolve, he got out his notebook and wrote: Number 7, journalist, unmarried, age 58, left at his own request.

  Even though he drank the clear soup scalding hot, it was half past five before he was back in the car, and dusk was falling as he drove west.

  There were six hours left before midnight.

  CHAPTER 25

  It was a narrow street, and sparsely lit. It was lined with an avenue of trees and there were rows of terraced houses and bungalows down either side. He was in a district not far from the city centre. It had been built about forty years before and was inhabited mainly by civil servants, which was presumably what had saved it from being rebuilt as a standard housing estate at the time of the housing shortage.

  Inspector Jensen parked the car, crossed the street and rang the bell. There was no light to be seen in the windows, and his ringing remained unanswered.

  He went back to the car, sat behind the steering wheel and studied his list and notebook. Then he put them away, looked at his watch again, switched off the internal light in the car and waited.

  After fifteen minutes, a short man in a velour hat and a speckled grey overcoat came along the pavement. He unlocked the front door and went in. Jensen waited until he could see light behind the blinds. Then he went over again and rang the bell.

  The man opened the door at once. He was simply and correctly dressed and his appearance was in keeping with his age. His face was thin, and his eyes behind the glasses were kindly and quizzical.

  Jensen showed his police ID.

  ‘Inspector Jensen from the Sixteenth District,’ he said. ‘I’m conducting an investigation that has to do with your former employment and place of work.’

  ‘Please come in,’ said the man, stepping aside.

  It was quite a large room. Two walls were covered in shelves of books, newspapers and magazines. Under the window there was a desk with a telephone and a typewriter, and in the middle of the floor stood a low, round table and three armchairs. Light came from an anglepoise lamp at the desk and a large plastic globe above the easy chairs.

  The moment Inspector Jensen came into the room, his behaviour changed. His pattern of movement was different, as were his eyes. He gave the impression of being in the middle of doing something he had done countless times before.

  ‘Do sit down.’

  Jensen sat down and got out his pen and notebook.

  ‘What can I help you with?’

  ‘Some information.’

  ‘I’m at your disposal, naturally. Anything that’s within my power to answer, that is.’

  ‘When did you cease your employment?’

  ‘At the end of October last year.’

  ‘Had you worked for the group for a long time?’

  ‘Relatively. Fifteen years and four months, to be precise.’

  ‘Why did you leave?’

  ‘Let’s say I was nurturing a desire to return to private life. I left the company at my own request, by handing in my notice in the usual way.’

  The man’s demeanour was reserved, his voice muted and melodic.

  ‘Can I offer you anything, Inspector? A cup of tea, perhaps?’

  Jensen gave a faint shake of his head.

  ‘What work are you engaged on now?’

  ‘I have independent means, and therefore don’t need to earn a living.’

  ‘What do you do with your time?’

  ‘I spend most of it reading.’

  Jensen looked about him. The room was strikingly neat. Despite the large numbers of books, newspapers and other papers, everything appeared well thought out and neatly arranged, to the point of pedantry.

  ‘When you left your employment you received some kind of diploma, or rather a farewell letter?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘Have you still got it?’

  ‘I assume so. Do you want to see it?’

  Jensen did not reply. For a full minute he sat motionless, not looking at the man. Then he said:

  ‘Do you admit to sending an anonymous and threatening letter to the group management?’

  ‘When am I supposed to have done that?’

  ‘At about this time, a week ago.’

  The man had pulled up his trousers and crossed his legs. He sat with his left elbow resting on the arm of the chair, and stroked his bottom lip slowly with his index finger.

  ‘No,’ he said calmly. ‘I don’t admit to that.’

  Inspector Jensen opened his mouth to say something but appeared to change his mind. He looked at his watch instead. It said 19.11.

  ‘I assume I’m not the first one you’ve spoken to in connection with this. How many people have you … interviewed before me?’

  His tone had a bit more life in it.

  ‘About ten,’ said Inspector Jensen.

  ‘All from the publishing house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What you must have had to sit through in the way of anecdotes and scabrous tall stories. Slander. Half-truths, cantankerous grumbles, insinuations. And falsified versions of events.’

  Jensen said nothing.

  ‘The whole Skyscraper is seething with that sort of stuff, from what I’ve heard,’ said the man.

  ‘But then perhaps that’s what most places are like,’ he added pensively.

  ‘What post did you hold in your time with the group?’

&nbs
p; ‘I was employed to report on culture and the arts. I held the same post, as you put it, throughout my time there.’

  ‘Did you gain insight into the organisation and activities of the publishing house?’

  ‘To some extent. Are you thinking of anything in particular?’

  ‘Do you know of something called Department 31?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you know what they do there?’

  ‘I ought to. I spent fifteen years and four months in Department 31.’

  There was a minute or so of silence, then Jensen said almost casually:

  ‘Do you admit to sending an anonymous and threatening letter to the group management?’

  The man ignored the question.

  ‘Department 31, or the Special Department as it’s also known, is the most important in the whole publishing house.’

  ‘So I’ve heard people say. What does it do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said the man. ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘Explain.’

  The man stood up and went to get a sheet of paper and a pencil from the meticulously tidy desk. He sat down, lined the sheet of paper up exactly with the pattern on the desktop and laid the pen parallel with the top of the sheet. Then he looked enquiringly at his visitor.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I shall explain.’

  Jensen looked at his watch. 19.29. The time left to him had shrunk to four and a half hours.

  ‘Are you in a hurry, Inspector?’

  ‘Yes. Be quick.’

  ‘I’ll try to keep it brief. You asked what the Special Department did, isn’t that so?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ve already given you a comprehensive answer: nothing. The more I develop the answer, the less comprehensive it becomes. Unfortunately. Do you see?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Of course not. Hopefully you will do. If not, we’ll be at an impasse.’

  The man said nothing for half a minute, and in that time his expression went through several changes. When he started speaking again, he seemed somehow weak and uncertain, but more committed than before.

  ‘The simplest thing is probably for me to tell you about myself. I grew up in an intellectual home and was educated in the liberal tradition. My father was a university lecturer, and I spent ten terms at the Academy myself. The Academy had a humanities faculty back then, in more than name only. Do you understand fully what that meant?’