Having given it some thought for a good ten minutes, there was really only one person who I could not imagine had written the letter on a typewriter in the course of the past few days, and that was Konrad Jensen. The realization that he had not shot himself dug deeper and deeper into my conscience. And my desire to find the cold-blooded man or woman who had weaselled his or her way in to this lonely man’s flat to kill him grew ever stronger.
At a quarter past eleven, my impatience drove me to call the fingerprint expert, who had just returned from Konrad Jensen’s flat. He had found my own prints on the door, as well as those of the caretaker’s wife and Konrad Jensen, but that was all. I thanked him for his work, and made a mental note that technical evidence would not be enough to catch the murderer in this case.
II
A tense atmosphere already prevailed when I arrived at the conference room of the law firm Rønning, Rønning & Rønning in Idun Street fifteen minutes before the will was due to be read. Neither Rønning Junior nor the will was to be seen in the room, which held six rows of chairs with table arms, as well as a small podium with a lectern. A good number of the deceased’s neighbours and relatives were already present. Mr and Mrs Lund were sitting on their own to the far left of the front row, and Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew were sitting in the third row. The caretaker’s wife had just pushed in Andreas Gullestad in his wheelchair and seated herself considerately behind him in the fourth row. She swiftly packed her worn winter coat away in a nylon net bag.
All of the residents who were present nodded or waved to me when I came into the room. I did a quiet tour and shook them all by the hand. The caretaker’s wife was excited but controlled. Andreas Gullestad was as calm and smiling as ever: he did not have anything to get excited about. Mrs Lund seemed a little uneasy about the situation and kept looking around the room, whereas Kristian Lund kept a stiff upper lip. I found myself admiring his stoicism, which quickly broke when Sara Sundqvist came in at ten minutes to twelve. She sat down demonstratively on her own to the right of the back row and seemed to avoid looking at the Lunds.
At four minutes to midday, the doorway was suddenly filled with the handsome figure of Darrell Williams. He arrived at full speed, wearing a fur coat, and sat down without any pleasantries in the back row, on the chair nearest the door. All of those there turned round instinctively when they heard the door, and the other neighbours gave him a brief nod. I noticed that the Olesen siblings positively stared at him, and that the niece in particular looked at him for a long time before turning back round. I did not find this in the slightest bit strange, as they were unlikely to have seen him before. Furthermore, the arrival of Darrell Williams was shortly overshadowed by the arrival of a slightly smaller, much thinner man, who three minutes later stepped up onto the podium with a large sealed envelope in his hands.
It had already occurred to me that Mr Rønning Junior was likely to milk the situation for all it was worth. He did not disappoint. At exactly one minute to midday, the young man had entered the room with a pince-nez, an unusually self-conscious expression and an undoubtedly extremely expensive suit. He would have fitted into 1920s Norway without raising any eyebrows, and this impression was reinforced when he then opened his mouth, as his language was extremely conservative and precise. However, the man’s immaculate and irritating image was upstaged by the large sealed envelope he held in his hand, which he opened with deliberate, slow movements as soon as the clock started to strike twelve. A profound silence reigned in the room until the twelve chimes were over.
‘On behalf of the deceased Harald Olesen’s estate, I would firstly like to thank you all for taking the time to be here, as requested in an appendix to the aforementioned will. Furthermore, we can confirm that all those invited are present, with the exception of Mr Konrad Jensen, who is unable to attend as he died yesterday, as I am sure you are all aware.’
The room was so still you could hear a pin drop. I stared at the lawyer with horrified fascination.
‘Harald Olesen died a widower with no living parents or known heirs. In this situation, he was legally free to divide his estate and assets as desired in a will. These comprise his flat in 25 Krebs’ Street and contents, with an estimated value of 70,000 kroner, and a cabin outside Stokke in Horten, which his nephew has used for the past few years, with an estimated value of 40,000 kroner. He also had cash holdings in a bank account that amount to 1,122,434 kroner, when the lawyer’s fee and other fees and taxes have been deducted. And finally, the sum of 263 kroner and 75 øre was found in cash in his wallet.’
The lawyer took the first opportunity for a dramatic pause and solemnly looked around the room. This did not increase his already tepid popularity with the audience. He carried on unperturbed.
‘Only days before his death, Harald Olesen expressed the explicit wish that his will should be read as now, six days after his death. It was somewhat more unusual that he requested that earlier versions of the will should also be made known to those present.’
With this detail, the atmosphere in the room suddenly changed. Harald Olesen’s niece and nephew looked at each other anxiously. I thought I saw a fleeting and triumphant smile play on Kristian Lund’s lips, which was echoed by a more guarded smile from his wife. Rather distastefully, both couples brought me in mind of vultures.
‘The will has undergone several changes, but has nonetheless always remained relatively simple, with a main heir who will essentially inherit all of Olesen’s estate and assets. One not so insignificant exception has been made, in favour of Mrs Randi Hansen, the wife of the caretaker in the building where Harald Olesen had his residence.’
For a moment all eyes turned to the caretaker’s wife, who sat alone and silent on her seat. She was sitting on the edge of the chair with trembling lips. A single tear ran down her cheek as she waited to hear the amount.
‘For many years Harald Olesen had left a sum of thirty thousand kroner to Mrs Hansen in his will.’
There was a quiet gasp from the audience. I thought I could detect disapproval in the faces of the niece and nephew, and Kristian Lund. The caretaker’s wife, on the other hand, looked as if she was about to faint on her chair. She instinctively hid her face in her hands, but still could not stop the tears that now flowed down both cheeks.
‘However…’
As if at the stroke of a wand, there was silence in the room again.
‘However, a few days before his death, Harald Olesen requested that the amount left to Mrs Hansen be changed substantially. The final amount that she will inherit from his estate is now…’
The man must have been a born sadist and then honed his craft carefully. There was a full ten seconds of breathless silence before he completed his sentence. I seriously feared that the caretaker’s wife, who was still sitting with her face hidden beneath her hands, would die of a heart attack in the meantime.
‘… one hundred thousand kroner.’
This time there were several gasps and a couple of loud groans of disappointment. I did not manage to locate where they came from, but then it was doubtful that anyone else did either. Rønning Junior was not affected in the slightest by this and stuck to his planned staging. He took three steps forward across the floor and informed Mrs Hansen that the money would be deposited in her account as soon as she came to the office with her bank book. Mrs Hansen did not answer. She had more or less collapsed in a heap on her chair, her eyes wide open, unable to say a word. Rønning Junior seemed somewhat put out not to receive a reply, but continued nevertheless after another dramatic pause.