Sara Sundqvist hesitantly opened the door a crack with the safety chain to begin with, but then lit up when she saw that it was me. She had also received a telegram and was not sure whether to attend or not, but promised that she would when I told her that the others were probably going. I jokingly added that I would be there myself, so she would be perfectly safe. She immediately gave me a charming smile and leaned forward in her chair. I understood why Kristian Lund was so attracted to her and caught myself wondering whether perhaps she should concentrate more on the theatre.
Sara Sundqvist gave a start when I mentioned Deerfoot, but quickly regained her composure and said that she did not associate anything with the name. In her softest voice, she asked where the mysterious name came from, and nodded with understanding when I said that I could not reveal that at present. I thought it a suitable moment to take my leave.
Konrad Jensen opened the door as cautiously as before, but seemed to be slightly calmer. He had come to terms with the loss of his car, but the future still looked bleak without it. When the telegram boy had showed up at the door, he had thought that it was someone trying to deceive him, but had opened the door when the caretaker’s wife came and told him that she had received a similar telegram. He still did not see the point of it all. The very idea that Harald Olesen would leave something to him was ridiculous, and why the old Resistance hero wanted him to be there was a mystery. The whole thing might be a plot to lure him out onto the open street. He had no plans of going, and in fact had no plans of going out at all.
The name Deerfoot spawned a new sceptical sneer, but nothing more. Konrad Jensen thought he had heard the name in a story or a book when he was young, but it could equally have been a film. He was not aware of any association with Harald Olesen or the building. I gave him a clue and mentioned the war, but he continued to shake his head uncomprehendingly. With a hint of optimism, I also intimated that we had found some new clues and hoped that the case would soon be solved. He smiled gingerly at this and wished me luck before hastily closing and locking the door.
Andreas Gullestad nodded with recognition as soon as he heard the name Deerfoot, even though he quite ‘decidedly’ remembered that the books were written by Ellis and not by Cooper. But he had no further association with the name, either from the war or after. He had also received a telegram and equally could not understand why, but would of course be there if that was what the deceased wanted. The caretaker’s wife had already promised to help him with the wheelchair, and had explained to him that she and the other neighbours had also been notified of the reading of the will.
The contrast between Konrad Jensen pacing nervously around in the neighbouring flat and Andreas Gullestad, who sat here completely relaxed in his wheelchair, was striking. However, he had little of any interest to tell. At ten to seven, I extracted myself from the flat, muttering something about an ‘important meeting’. Which was a small white lie. I reluctantly had to acknowledge that the many meetings I had had that day had provided plenty of new information, but very few conclusions as to the way forward.
As I walked down the street, I looked back at 25 Krebs’ Street. I felt a warm rush in my chest. The reward was just as I would have wished, had I had the choice. Harald Olesen’s windows were of course dark and empty, as were Darrell Williams’s. Konrad Jensen had the light on, but the curtains were firmly closed. Mrs Lund was to be seen moving around in the Lunds’ flat with the baby in her arms. Andreas Gullestad’s window was lit but empty. But in the sixth window stood the tall and beautiful silhouette of a woman, unmoving. However it was to be interpreted, Sara Sundqvist was watching me with increasing interest.
VI
Patricia’s large desk was set for two when I was ushered in by the maid, five minutes late. Not unexpectedly, a ‘light supper’ proved to be a rather sophisticated affair in the Borchmann household. The first course – a beautifully prepared asparagus soup – was already on the table when I arrived. I complimented Benedikte on the soup and Patricia of course had to correct me straightaway.
‘First of all, the maids do not make the food in this house. The cook has to do something to earn her salary. And second, that is not Benedikte.’
I looked at the maid, bewildered, as she was in every way identical to the girl I had met on my previous visits. The maid smiled timidly at my confusion, until Patricia’s voice rang out once more.
‘That is her twin sister; this one is called Beate. They each work for two days at a time and then have two days off. It is a practical arrangement, as I can basically have the same maid with more or less the same good and bad habits all the time, and they have a manageable working week. That way, both girls also have time to enjoy the company of some relatively intelligent and not-too-bad-looking young men.’
Beate’s mouth held a brave smile, which understandably did not reach her eyes. I refrained from saying anything, but my thoughts were so loud that I was afraid she might hear; the way in which Patricia used her intellectual capacity was not always entirely engaging.
Once the mystery of the maids had been cleared up, we proceeded to eat slowly. I told Patricia in detail about the lives of Bjørn Erik Svendsen and the caretaker, as well as about the discovery of the diary and its contents. This time she was an impatient listener and constantly interrupted me with astute, detailed questions.
After the soup, Patricia cheerfully refused to let the main course be served until she had seen the diary. This did not involve any great delay. Patricia truly devoured the pages with her eyes and was done with the entire book within five minutes or so. Safely locked away in her own small kingdom and away from the dark streets of Oslo, Patricia appeared to experience none of the alarm that both Bjørn Erik Svendsen and I had felt regarding the diary in Harald Olesen’s flat. But her fascination with it was no less. A few minutes of thoughtful silence followed while we tucked into the superb tenderloin, served with vegetables and roast potatoes. Patricia chewed slowly, but undoubtedly thought fast. The minutes of silence were at irregular intervals interspersed with frantic blinking.
‘Rather a good day’s work,’ she said finally, when the dessert was on the table and the loyal Beate had left the room. ‘We have made some great strides in the investigation and have gathered what is surely very important information.’
I nodded smugly.
‘Yes, thank you. It does feel like that. But I still do not see any obvious way to resolve the case.’
Patricia gave one of her mischievous smiles.
‘That is not so strange – I can scarcely see it myself. We still lack some key information, which means that we cannot have a clear picture of the murderer. But both the diary and the caretaker’s story have contributed some new details to this picture.’
Patricia paused for thought before she continued.
‘The letters in the diary must have a meaning and could be of crucial importance. Harald Olesen is not likely to have chosen letters from a known letter system, as he would in that case have started with A or X. He has used letters that have an immediate association for him, with either a name or title that he might associate with the person in question. That way, they would be instantly recognizable for him, but are an extremely difficult crossword puzzle for the rest of us. He seems to have made it deliberately difficult for his biographer, relatives or anyone else who might get hold of his diary later. I am fairly certain that he has not used names for the key people, D, J, N or O, but rather titles or words that he associates with those people. O seems to operate alone and is seen to be less of a problem, even though he and Harald Olesen have obviously had secrets and conflicts in the past. D, J, and N, on the other hand, seem to be connected in some way.’