The Man In The Window [Mannen i vinduet - no]

Gunnarstrandaand Frølich had never worked in that way. The reason, Gunnarstranda thought,was that they were on the same wavelength. Now and then, though, he and Frølichwere way off beam. At that moment he was trying to make sense of somethingwhich he knew his younger colleague would overlook, on purpose or otherwise.Police Inspector Gunnarstranda took the view that people built up the armourthat would benefit them most at all times. He was very conscious that thistheory of a self-serving morality had its weaknesses, and so he was constantlytrying to test and refine his own conclusions by adopting new angles. The problemhere, standing outside Karsten Jespersen's house, was that he could not makesense of one single signal. He knew that a detached house in the west of Osloat today's prices would be unaffordable for many. On the other hand, hecouldn't begin to guess how Karsten and Susanne had acquired this house. Forall he knew, it could be the house where Susanne had grown up. Nevertheless,for the time being, the house's geographical location was quite irrelevant. Hestudied the house front. The steps by the main door were made of brick, but thefoundations were poor. Many years of ground frost had caused the steps to moveand introduced cracks which had been forced open by snow and ice. But thecracked brickwork showed no signs of collapse. As the house was among the oldeston this road, there were none of the fake status symbols the newer buildingscame with: rough wood cladding, grass roofs or Dutch glass tiles. Since therewasn't a car in the drive either, the façade of Karsten Jespersen's residencewas as plain and impenetrable as the man himself. He wondered then if this wasan important conclusion, whether Jespersen's anonymity was conspicuous andtherefore genuinely worthy of his fuller attention.

Whenat last he rang the bell, it was a long time before the door was answered.

'Idropped by on the off-chance that you were at home,' Gunnarstranda said withgood grace. 'As we've closed your shop.'

Fromthe hallway they went straight into Karsten Jespersen's workroom. Veryappropriate, Gunnarstranda thought wryly. But the room seemed pleasant. Therewere full shelves of books reaching up to the ceiling. An old brown writingdesk stood in front of the window. On it an old-fashioned, black typewriter, aRoyal, a sharp contrast to two enormous loudspeaker columns on the oppositewall. Gunnarstranda turned with satisfaction to the immense hi-fi system, andthought that there he might find an expression of this man's deeper emotions.The low but very wide amplifier rested on a slab of polished marble-like stone.The speaker columns were triangular and almost touched the ceiling. In front ofthe speakers were two modern designer chairs with adjustable backs.

'I'vecome by to ask what you discussed with your father on the evening before he waskilled,' Gunnarstranda explained, after taking a seat in one of the recliningchairs.

Jespersensat at the desk. 'Did I talk to my father that evening?' he asked tentatively.

'Whenyou went to your father's house for dinner.'

'Oh… well,just chat, general chitter-chatter – over the meal. We talked about food andwhether children should eat everything on the plate – that sort of thing.'

'Andafterwards? I was told you and your father had a cognac on your own.'

'That'sright, we did. For the most part we talked about the shop – I wondered aboutprices for various items and we discussed them.'

'Whatsort of items?'

Jespersenpulled out a drawer from the desk and rested one foot on it. 'A table, an olduniform, two glasses from Nastetangen. They were new acquisitions and – they'reall down in the office.'

'Whichoffice?'

'Myoffice. In the shop.'

'Andthis was the only thing you talked about?'

'Thiswasn't such a little thing. You don't price antiques in two minutes. Isuggested we took our drinks down to the shop so that he could see the thingsfor himself, but he wasn't in the mood. And that was not so strange. After all,it was a Friday. He said he would have a look in the morning, the day after,that is, Saturday…'

'Couldthat be why he went downstairs after you and your family had left that evening?Might he have gone to the shop to look at these items?'

'Possible,'Jespersen said. 'I don't know.'

'Whydo you think he went downstairs?' Gunnarstranda asked.

'Hemust have wanted to check the items – since they had just arrived…'

'Buthe didn't want to go down with you when you suggested, did he?'

'True,so it is perhaps a little odd that he went downstairs later that evening. Idon't know. He was always so unpredictable.'

'Butwhat did you think when you first heard he had been found dead in the shop?What did you think he had been doing there?'

'Isuppose I thought he'd been checking everything was all right, that the doors werelocked, or he just wanted to get something. I didn't give it a lot of thought.'

'Butif we were to work on the reason why he went downstairs, how many options arethere?'

'Ireckon he must have gone to check the doors. I cannot imagine he was so keen toinspect the few items I had been talking about. After all, he'd said he woulddo that the following day.'

'Doyou think he might have arranged a meeting with his killer?' Gunnarstrandaasked.

Jespersenstared back.

'Doesthat sound bizarre?'

'No,but it means that it wasn't a burglary, doesn't it?'

'There'sno sign of a break-in anywhere, but we don't know yet if anything has beentaken.'

'Ifyou would let me in, I could tell you on the spot whether anything has beenstolen or not.'

Gunnarstrandastretched out his legs and adjusted the back of the chair. It was verycomfortable. 'We can't do things in that way. Not yet at any rate. We have tofinish the forensic examination of the room. You'll get a list of the objectswe log in the shop, then you can have a look.'

'Butwhy…?'

Gunnarstrandainterrupted him. 'Because the shop is a crime scene. There is nothing todiscuss.'

Jespersenwent silent.

'You usea typewriter?' the policeman asked, pointing to the black machine on the table.'Not a computer?'

Jespersenshook his head. 'Typewriter and fountain pen. They have style. I couldn'timagine writing in any other way.'

'Butit's ancient.' The policeman nodded towards the machine. 'No correction key,nothing.'

'That'show Hemingway wrote,' Jespersen said.

Gunnarstrandaconsidered this riposte and made a mental note of a new crack in the man's greyfaçade. 'What else did your father talk about?' he asked.

'Otherwise?'Jespersen shrugged. 'I don't actually remember.'

'Didhe mention a meeting he had with his two brothers?' 'Yes, he did mention it.That's right.'

'Whatdid he say?'

'Almostnothing. He said he had turned up at Arvid's and had put an end to the sale ofthe shop.'

'Andyou'd forgotten that?'

Jespersengrimaced. His chin quivered with tiny tics. 'No,' he said. 'I hadn't forgotten,but it… well…'

Gunnarstrandasaid nothing and waited.

KarstenJespersen rested his head in the palm of his hand, as though pondering how hecould express what he had on his mind. 'If you had met my father when he wasalive,' he began, peering at the ceiling. 'You see I knew about these… these…'He waved his hand in the air while searching for words; '… these salenegotiations. Arvid had talked to me. I suppose he and Emmanuel were frightenedI would be against selling since I run the shop…'