Satellite People - [28]

My head was spinning. The situation was easy enough to understand, but not the profundity of it. Among Magdalon Schelderup’s ten guests, there were already so many tragic fates and possible motives for murder.

‘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.