VI
All alone in the middle of my desk lay a simple small white envelope, addressed with a neat hand and a stamp. The letter was brief.
7 April 1968
To Detective Inspector Kolbjørn Kristiansen,
The only person in 25 Krebs’ Street who has told you the truth is Konrad Jensen.
Patricia Louise I. E. Borchmann
It was impossible not to burst into laughter at the short, solemn text. I had forgotten young Miss Patricia in all the excitement following Konrad Jensen’s death and the happy resolution of the murder mystery. I quickly recognized that she should be informed that the case was closed, out of respect, before hearing about it on the television and reading about it in the papers. And I would also have to point out that her more circumstantial explanations were redundant. With a considerably lighter heart than on previous days, I lifted the receiver and dialled her number, which I now knew by heart. I saw no reason whatsoever to ration the good news when she answered the phone.
‘I have just found Konrad Jensen dead. He was locked in his flat with a bullet wound to his head and a.45-calibre gun on the floor beside him. On the table in front of him was a suicide note in which he confessed to the murder of Harald Olesen.’
Patricia’s reaction was intense, but not at all the positive one that I had hoped for.
Her ‘Damnation!’ exploded in my ear.
Then there was silence for a few seconds. When she spoke again, it was more muted.
‘Excuse my French. I am not angry with you, but furious with myself. Because exactly what I feared would happen has happened: the murderer felt pushed into a corner and struck again. And I had reason to believe that Konrad Jensen would be the one, but did not want to say anything for fear of being wrong. Damn, damn – but we will solve both the murders!’
I smiled smugly to myself and spoke in a patronizingly kind voice: ‘But my dear Patricia, there was only ever one murder and it has now been solved. Konrad Jensen shot Harald Olesen and then himself. We have his written and signed confession, and there is no evidence of anyone else having been in his flat.’
There was silence for a few moments again; then Patricia’s sharp voice returned.
‘I agree that we are dealing with a particularly cunning murderer and another exceedingly sophisticated murder. But with all due respect, do you really believe what you just said?’
I was starting to get irritated now and fell for the temptation of an arrogant answer.
‘Of course I believe what I just said, and so does everyone else here. You see, we are police officers – and live in the real world.’
More silence, but Patricia obviously still had no intention of giving up.
‘In which case, there are certain simple things from the real world that you might simply be able to explain to silly little me, who sits locked away in my ivory tower. Number one: what about the blue raincoat? Who wore it, and why was it thrown away on the night of the murder? Number two: what about the diary? Who are the J and O that Harald Olesen writes about, not to speak of D, of whom he was so frightened?’
It was only when she fired these questions at me that I, for the first time, got the uncomfortable feeling that there was indeed something amiss and that perhaps our conclusion was wrong.
‘I am aware that there are still things that we have not cleared up, but there are many possible explanations. D, J and O could be half the town, as could the man in the blue raincoat, and do not necessarily need to be involved in the murder in any way. “J” may even stand for “Jensen”, as I suggested. But now we have the murder weapon and a confession from a previously convicted Nazi who was in the same building on the night of the murder and has since committed suicide. That seems clear enough to me.’
Patricia said nothing; for a moment she seemed to be in doubt, but then her voice returned.
‘I admit that it is all extremely clever, but that is exactly what makes it so odd. Just think of Konrad Jensen – a small-time Nazi of average intelligence who never really used it to any success and was weak and self-centred by nature. It is unthinkable that he could devise such a sophisticated plot for murdering an old Resistance hero like Harald Olesen. What makes it even more absurd is that he so obviously would be the first person to be suspected and the target of any reactions. Can you imagine Konrad Jensen thinking up the clever plan with the stereo player and then shooting Harald Olesen in cold blood? I obviously do not have enough imagination.’
And neither did I, truth be told. I felt I was on shifting ground, but defended my triumph resolutely.
‘It is not easy to imagine, no. I also doubted that it could be him, but the combination of the murder weapon and a typewritten confession are pretty persuasive.’
The voice at the other end of the line was silent for nearly half a minute. Then it came back – echoing more disbelief than before.
‘Typewritten? Did you really say that his confession was typewritten?’
When I heard the depth of scepticism in Patricia’s voice, I got that extremely frustrating feeling one gets when one realizes that something is far from right – without knowing exactly what.
‘Yes. The body of Konrad Jensen’s suicide note was typewritten, but the handwritten signature underneath is definitely his!’
Silence again. Patricia’s voice was steely when she replied.
‘But surely Konrad Jensen barely knew his way around the alphabet, let alone the keys of a typewriter. And you have never mentioned that he had a typewriter in his flat. Does he?’
The question hit me like a boxing glove in the stomach. I myself had gone through the few things in Konrad Jensen’s flat after the murder of Harald Olesen, and I had gone through all the rooms again today and there was not a typewriter to be seen anywhere.
‘If there is no typewriter in the flat, how on earth could Konrad Jensen type the suicide note himself when he has not dared set foot outside the door for days? Let us hope you have a good answer to that, in the event that a journalist with even a below-average IQ should show up – out there in the real world.’
This time it was a knockout. I allowed myself to be swallowed by my swivel chair and was suddenly very glad that I was alone in my office.
When Patricia eventually asked if I was still there, I answered that I was, but that I would very shortly be on my way over to see her. She said she would be waiting for me, and reminded me to bring both the murder weapon and the suicide note, and then put down the phone. I took the hint and more or less ran along the corridors out into the real world.
VII
Patricia was obviously both piqued and motivated by the news of Konrad Jensen’s death. She sat leaning across the table, impatient, while I told her about the day’s meetings and the events leading up to the discovery of Konrad Jensen’s body. To my relief, she just shook her head and waved me on when I tentatively indicated that I perhaps had been a bit harsh on the embassy counsellor regarding Darrell Williams. My narrative consumed us both. The coffee cups that Beate had put out were still untouched when I finished and leaned back in my chair.
‘I agree that the question of the typewriter is an important argument and that he probably did not commit suicide, but surely it is not absolutely impossible?’ I ventured, once I had finished my update.
She shook her head, but did try to humour me.
‘I believe that it is out of the question, but agree that in theory it is a possibility that we do have to take into account. Konrad Jensen may have typed the suicide note before murdering Harald Olesen, or may in some way have managed to get it in at some later point. But that seems to be as unlikely and absurd as me being selected by a football team. Nevertheless, the combination of the gun and a signed suicide note is of course impossible to ignore. Konrad Jensen must have been extremely willing to cooperate if he signed a suicide note before he was shot. Typewritten suicide notes are not uncommon, as such. Would it be possible to see this remarkable document?’