Felix had made an excellent impression on him. The young man radiated self-confidence and was extremely polite and cultivated. A born salesman. Shortly afterwards he had set off on his first trip and the results had exceeded all expectations. Once he joined the company, sales had taken a big leap and the goods flew out of the warehouse. Everything from protective clothing to overcoats, as well as a range of cosmetics for the ladies. Felix had a certain quality that people trusted: it was there in his smile, his firm handshake, his infectious laugh. He knew how to take advantage of the various situations a commercial traveller might find himself in, and, perhaps most valuable of all, he knew how to talk to people on their level.
Having said that, the wholesaler hadn’t got to know Felix particularly well; he had no reason to, didn’t make a habit of socialising with the men who worked for him. It was evident to Flóvent that Felix had been quite reticent when he applied for the job. He hadn’t mentioned, for example, that he had studied briefly at Reykjavík College or that he had been in Denmark when it fell to the Germans. As far as the wholesaler was aware, Felix didn’t have any strong views on the war, the Nazis, the Allies, Hitler or Churchill. Flóvent had asked Ebeneser the same questions but had learnt nothing of any value. He asked specifically whether Felix had said anything about the British prime minister, but neither the headmaster nor the wholesaler could recall his views on current affairs: he didn’t seem to have aired them at all, or not in their hearing anyway.
‘Do you know why he was so keen to work in sales, sir?’ asked Flóvent. ‘Why he was so determined to secure a job with you?’
‘No. He just said he’d like to try his hand at selling, and I seem to remember he also wanted a chance to travel around the country. But he didn’t mention anything else. The men who go into this business are often single. Bachelors. Some have had enough of being cooped up in town and are looking for a change of scene.’
‘Were there any particular places he was keen to visit? Did he go to some areas more than others?’
‘Felix was free to decide his own itinerary, within reason. He often took the western route, covering the west coast and the West Fjords. He covered the south-west as well, from fishing villages on the Reykjanes Peninsula to the inland districts around Selfoss. He was a hard worker, I’ll give him that. No sooner back in town than he was dashing off again. Made an effort to cover even the least rewarding places.’
‘The least rewarding?’
‘Yes, places where there wasn’t much hope of any orders. That’s especially true of the West Fjords. He went to every last backwater, every isolated farm. He was very conscientious.’
When asked about Eyvindur Ragnarsson, the wholesaler said he didn’t know him. He’d never employed anyone by that name, and he wasn’t aware that Felix and Eyvindur were acquainted. Felix had never spoken of him.
‘It’s a bit of an odd coincidence that they should both be salesmen, don’t you think?’ the man said. ‘Doesn’t it suggest a connection to their work? Some kind of falling out?’
‘Can you imagine what it might have been about?’ asked Flóvent, keeping quiet about the fact that the two men had attended the same school as boys.
‘Well, money, I suppose. Or women, maybe? Or perhaps they quarrelled about the territories they were covering. It’s always tough when there are a lot of salesmen working the same patch, though it would be absurd to murder someone over something like that. Quite absurd.’
‘You’re not aware of anything like that? Of fights between salesmen?’
‘No, certainly not.’
Flóvent asked him more about how Felix’s trips were organised and how often he took them, where he put up in the countryside, and where he would get on and off the coasters. He also asked about all the characters who worked in the commercial travelling business and if any of them, including Felix himself, displayed any noticeably eccentric behaviour.
‘Well, now you come to mention it, I’ve been wondering a bit about a name Felix was using recently,’ said the wholesaler. ‘Perhaps it’s nothing new. I wouldn’t know.’
‘Oh?’ said Flóvent, making a move to leave. He glanced at the clock, reluctant to detain the man any longer.
‘I don’t know if it was something he used often.’
‘The name he was using?’ Flóvent didn’t quite follow. ‘You know his surname’s Lunden, sir? His full name’s Felix Lunden. Did that strike you as odd?’
‘No, of course not. That’s his name, but I don’t think Felix always used that surname. I’m not sure he always called himself Lunden.’
‘What did he call himself then?’
‘Rúdólfsson.’
‘Felix Rúdólfsson?’
‘Yes. Goodness knows why. I didn’t ask him. Didn’t feel it was any of my business.’
‘How did it come to your attention?’
‘I needed to get hold of Felix recently and rang a guesthouse I knew he always patronised. But when I asked to speak to him, they said did I mean Felix Rúdólfsson? I wasn’t quite sure what to say. I’d asked for Felix Lunden but the woman on the phone said they only had one Felix staying with them, a Felix Rúdólfsson. So I asked to speak to him and shortly afterwards Felix came on the line.’
‘So Felix was using a false name on his travels around the country. Any idea why?’
‘Well, I don’t know if you can go as far as that,’ said the wholesaler. ‘On this particular occasion he was calling himself Rúdólfsson. That’s not in doubt. But I can’t speak for the rest of the time. I was a little taken aback, but I didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t interfere. As far as I was concerned it was his business.’
‘Where was he at the time?’
‘The West Fjords. In Ísafjördur. As a matter of fact, that was his last trip for us. He came home, delivered his orders and settled up. The next time I heard of him was when I read in the papers that he was suspected of murder.’
‘So he was going by the name of Felix Rúdólfsson?’
‘If he didn’t want to use the surname Lunden, that was his affair, of course, but it did strike me as a little odd, especially after that poor man was found dead in his flat.’
‘Of course, Lunden’s a German name,’ pointed out Flóvent. ‘That wouldn’t necessarily go down well with people nowadays.’
‘No, of course, that would be understandable. But it occurred to me to wonder if... if there could be another reason. If he was travelling incognito or something.’
25
For the second day in a row Flóvent found Rudolf Lunden’s house empty. He knocked on all the doors and peered in the windows but could see no sign of life. It occurred to him that the neighbours might know where Rudolf was. He was in luck: a middle-aged housewife came to the door of her house and was able to enlighten him. In the early hours of the previous morning she had heard an ambulance in the street and watched as Rudolf Lunden was carried out on a stretcher and driven away. She didn’t know what was wrong but said this wasn’t the first time it had happened; he was in poor health and had to be admitted to hospital from time to time. She’d heard somewhere that he had a weak heart but couldn’t guarantee that this was true. The woman turned out to be quite chatty. She stood on her doorstep, wearing a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and an apron over her day dress, and told Flóvent she was fairly sure it was because of his heart problems that Rudolf hadn’t been deported like so many other members of the German community. Her husband worked for one of the ministries and he’d heard it said that the British thought it unlikely Rudolf would survive the journey. ‘Humanitarian considerations,’ said the woman, her tone indicating that she didn’t think these should be wasted on the likes of Rudolf Lunden.