‘As you are so tall and, what is more, able to stand, could you take down my almanac for 1967? It may actually prove to be very important to the case, and should be easy to find. It should be number eight from the right on the top left-hand shelf of the bookcase behind me.’
I got up mechanically and, as instructed, counted my way to her almanac from 1967. I was unable to resist the childish temptation of mentioning that the book was in fact number ten, not eight, from the right. I immediately regretted having said anything. Patricia’s face darkened, and as she reached for the almanac, she muttered something about Benedikte and Beate and reprimanding them for creating the confusion when spring-cleaning. She looked determined and a touch triumphant when she raised her eyes to meet mine, having quickly glanced in the book.
‘Well, the position of the book is strictly irrelevant. I was right, however, about what is now the only important thing in this almanac and that is that Whitsun fell on the weekend of 13 to 15 May last year.’
After a minute of intense thought, I had to swallow the bitter pill and admit that I had no idea why Whitsun last year was of any significance to the murder this year. Patricia replied in a saccharine voice and with a glorious smile.
‘That is perfectly understandable. There are so many unusual facts involved in this case that it requires an exceptionally good memory to see the significance of this. But it may be of great importance all the same.’
In that moment it struck me that people who appear to be very understanding may sometimes in fact instead be extremely sarcastic. Fortunately, my irritation quickly gave way to curiosity and she immediately proceeded to provide me with the explanation.
‘The first time that D is mentioned in Harald Olesen’s diary is when he wrote that D had visited him in his flat on 15 May 1967. Andreas Gullestad, who incidentally seems to have a memory that is worth noting, claims it was Whitsun last year when he saw the mysterious person in the blue raincoat in the building. In other words, we cannot know whether D was in 25 Krebs’ Street on the evening the murder took place, and thus even less whether it was D who murdered Harald Olesen. The same is true of the person in the blue raincoat. However, it is highly likely that the person in the blue raincoat is the very same D and he did visit Harald Olesen on 15 May 1967. Which then becomes of even greater interest when we consider that a blue raincoat was discovered in the rubbish bin on the evening that Harald Olesen was murdered. Or is there something elementary that I have overlooked?’
There certainly was nothing elementary she had overlooked. I, on the other hand, had overlooked much that was not entirely elementary. However, there was one simple thing that I had understood, and which I had held back.
‘In which case, what happened to D? Could D perhaps be the same as Deerfoot?’
We were definitely on to something again. Patricia gave a couple of quick nods and then continued eagerly: ‘I have given considerable thought to two obvious but important questions. D could of course stand for many more conventional names or words: Dag, Danielsen, Danger – or Deerfoot. If it stands for Deerfoot, it could fit nicely with a person who entered the building on 15 May to meet Harald Olesen and who did not want to risk being recognized. But as yet we know nothing about this Deerfoot whom Harald Olesen knew during the war. We have no suggestion of a name or face, and have no idea where he came from or what he did – in fact, we cannot even rule out that “he” might in fact be a “she”. The identity of Deerfoot and whether or not he or she is still alive may be of little relevance, but could also be the key to unlocking the mystery. Do ask Bjørn Erik Svendsen, Jesper Christopher Haraldsen and anyone else who may have heard about Deerfoot, next time you meet them. But if “D” does stand for “Deerfoot”, and the same D reappeared from the past on the night in question to murder Harald Olesen, we not only have to explain how he or she managed to escape afterwards, we also have to find out how he or she got in without being noticed in the first place. Unless…’
Patricia sat staring straight ahead, deep in thought.
‘Unless…’ I said eventually, in the hope that I might prompt her. I had come to understand that Patricia did not like to say things that might later prove to be wrong. She hesitated for half a minute, but then launched in.
‘Unless D did not need to get either in or out, because he or she lives in the building and was there all the time. In which case, D is someone you have already met. The Lunds and Sara Sundqvist were all born during the war, Ivar Storskog, aka Andreas Gullestad, was still just a boy when his father was shot during the war, and Konrad Jensen we can safely say was not active in the Resistance. But Darrell Williams was a young man, who was in Norway and did take an active part in the fight against the Germans. It does seem unlikely that an American would be used as a guide in Norway, but the circumstances surrounding all this are still unclear. Some loose circumstantial evidence might be that Darrell Williams was probably lighter on his feet back then, and Deerfoot is after all a well-known name from American children’s literature. To be more specific, from Edward S. Ellis’s books.’
‘I thought it was James Fenimore Cooper,’ I said.
Patricia shook her head firmly – with a slight blush on her cheeks.
‘It was definitely Ellis. I don’t have the books in here, of course. I read them in the lunch breaks in second or third grade. But there is no mistake about the name; the silly boys in my class certainly talked enough about his Red Indian books later.’
‘Darrell Williams thought it was Cooper,’ I argued with caution.
A sudden silence fell in the room.
‘How did you discover that Darrell Williams thought that?’ Patricia exclaimed, in an almost accusatory tone, following a minute of tense silence. Her pale face suddenly appeared to be chalk white, and something akin to a fearful wonder shone in her dark eyes.
I told her straightaway that I had already tested the name Deerfoot out on the caretaker’s wife and the other residents in the building, but without great success in terms of reaction.
On this news, Patricia’s face blanched further. It struck me that behind her self-assured demeanour and steady voice, she was after all still a young girl with nerves.
‘I understand your motives, and it was a bold move in this great chess game. You of course thought that if anyone in the building was in fact the murderer or in cahoots with him or her, which is almost certainly the case, then the pressure would mount when he or she realized that the investigation was progressing. If the mysterious Deerfoot had anything to do with the case, the pressure and likelihood of suspicious activity would also increase.’
I nodded. That was no doubt more or less what I had subconsciously thought.
‘The problem being, however, that you are absolutely right in this assumption, and therefore the risk of further dramatic events has now doubled!’
I held up my hands in defence.
‘I have posted reliable armed policemen on both sides of the building. It would be quite a feat to escape without any of them noticing.’
Patricia nodded, but did not smile.
‘Very good, but it is not the murderer making a dash for freedom that I am afraid of. In fact, we might even hope for that: it would identify the murderer without causing any of the others harm. I am far more concerned that something dramatic might happen in the building itself. We still do not know who the murderer is, but judging from what we do know, we are hunting for an unusually cunning and determined predator.’
Patricia fidgeted uneasily in her wheelchair for a couple of minutes. It was obvious that the situation had now taken an uncontrolled turn that she did not like, and was no longer simply an intellectual game to her.