Murder on the Thirty-First Floor (2 page)

The other man, who looked somewhat younger, was wearing yellow-and-white-striped socks, light brown trousers and a loose white shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. He was kneeling on a chair over by one of the windows with his chin in his hand and his elbows resting on the white marble sill. He was blond and blue-eyed and had no shoes on.

Jensen showed his ID and took a step towards the desk.

‘Are you in charge here, sir?’

The man in the silk tie shook his head deprecatingly and
backed away from the desk with slight bowing movements and vague but eager gestures towards the window. His smile defied analysis.

The blond man slid from the chair and came padding across the floor. He gave Jensen a short, hearty shake of the hand. Then he indicated the desk.

‘There,’ he said.

The envelope was white, and very ordinary. It had three stamps on it and, in the bottom left hand corner, the red special delivery sticker. Inside the envelope was a sheet of paper, folded in four. Both the address and the message itself were composed of individual letters of the alphabet, obviously cut out of a newspaper or magazine. The paper seemed to be of extremely good quality and the size looked rather unusual. Jensen held the sheet between the tips of his fingers and read:

‘She’s mad, of course,’ said the blond-haired man. ‘Mentally ill, that’s all there is to it.’

‘Yes, that’s the conclusion we’ve reached,’ said the man in the silk tie.

‘Either that or it’s a very bad joke,’ said the blond man.

‘And in unusually poor taste.’

‘Well yes, that could be the case, of course,’ said the man in the silk tie.

The blond-haired man gave him an apathetic look. Then
he said, ‘This is one of our directors. Head of publishing …’ He hesitated momentarily and then added,

‘My right-hand man.’

The other man’s smile widened and he inclined his head. It might have been a greeting, or perhaps he was lowering his head for some other reason. Shame, for example, or deference, or pride.

‘We have ninety-eight other directors,’ said the blond man.

Inspector Jensen looked at his watch. It showed 13.19.

‘I thought I heard you say “she”, Director. Do you have reason to suspect the sender is a woman?’

‘I’m usually referred to simply as publisher,’ said the blond man.

He ambled round the desk, sat down and put his right leg over the arm of the chair.

‘No,’ he said, ‘Of course not. I must have just happened to phrase it that way. Someone must have put together that letter.’

‘Just so,’ said the head of publishing.

‘I wonder who?’ said the blond man.

‘Yes,’ said the head of publishing.

His smile had vanished and been replaced by a deep, pensive frown.

The publisher swung his left leg, too, over the arm of his chair.

Jensen looked at his watch again. 13.21.

‘The premises must be evacuated,’ he said.

‘Evacuated? That won’t be possible. It would mean stopping the whole production line. Maybe for several hours. Do you have any idea what that would cost?’

He spun the revolving chair round with a kick and fixed his right-hand man with a challenging look. The head of
publishing instantly furrowed his brow still further and started a mumbled calculation on his fingers. The man who wanted to be referred to as a publisher regarded him coldly and swung himself back.

‘At least three-quarters of a million,’ he said. ‘Have you got that? Three-quarters of a million. At least. Maybe twice that.’

Jensen read the letter through again. Looked at his watch. 13.23.

The publisher went on:

‘We publish one hundred and forty-four magazines. They’re all produced in this building. Their joint print run comes to more than twenty-one million copies. A week. There’s nothing more important than getting them printed and distributed on time.’

His face changed. The blue eyes seemed to grow clearer.

‘In every home in the land, people are waiting for their magazines. It’s the same for everyone, from princesses at court to farmers’ wives, from the top men and women in society to the down-and-outs, if there are any; it applies to them all.’

He paused briefly. Then went on. ‘And the little children. All the little children.’

‘The little children?’

‘Yes, ninety-eight of our magazines are for children, for the little ones.’

‘Comics,’ clarified the head of publishing.

The blond man gave him an ungrateful look, and his face changed again. He kicked his chair round irritably and glared at Jensen.

‘Well, Inspector?’

‘With all due respect for what you’ve just told me, I still think the premises should be evacuated,’ Jensen said.

‘Is that all you’ve got to say? What are your people doing, by the way?’

‘Searching.’

‘If there’s a bomb, then presumably they’ll find it?’

‘They’re extremely competent, but they’ve very little time at their disposal. An explosive charge can be very difficult to locate. It could be hidden practically anywhere. The instant my men find anything they will report directly to me here.’

‘They’ve still got three-quarters of an hour.’

Jensen looked at his watch.

‘Thirty-five minutes. But even if the charge is found, disarming it can take some time.’

‘And if there isn’t a bomb?’

‘I must still advise evacuation.’

‘Even if the risk is assessed as small?’

‘Yes. It may be that the threat won’t be carried out, that nothing will happen. But there are unfortunately instances where the opposite has occurred.’

‘Where?’

‘In the history of crime.’

Jensen clasped his hands behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet.

‘That’s my professional assessment, anyway,’ he said.

The publisher gave him a long look.

‘How much would it cost us for your assessment to turn out to be a different one?’ he said.

Jensen regarded him stonily.

The man at the desk appeared to resign himself.

‘Only joking, of course,’ he said grimly.

He put his feet down, turned the chair to face the right way, rested his arms on the desktop in front of him and crumpled
forward, his forehead slumping on to his clenched left hand. He pulled himself upright with a jerk.

‘We’ll have to confer with my cousin,’ he said, pressing a button on the intercom.

Jensen checked the time. 13.27.

The man in the silk tie had moved, silently, and was standing close beside him. He whispered:

‘With the boss, the top man, the head of the whole trust, the chairman of the board of the entire group.’

The publisher had been mumbling a few quick words into the intercom. But his attention was back on them now, and he gave them a cold look. He pressed another button, leaned towards the microphone and spoke, in a rapid, businesslike fashion.

‘Site manager? Make the calculations for a fire drill. High-speed evacuation. We need the timings within three minutes. Report directly to me.’

The chairman came into the room. He was blond, like his cousin, and about ten years his senior. His face was calm and handsome and earnest, his shoulders broad and his posture very upright. He wore a brown suit, and appeared simple and dignified. When he spoke, his voice was deep and its tone muted.

‘The new one, how old is she?’ he asked absent-mindedly, with the faintest of nods towards the door.

‘Sixteen,’ said his cousin.

‘Wow.’

The director of publishing had drawn back towards the glass-fronted cabinet and looked as though he were standing on tiptoe, though he wasn’t.

‘This man’s a police officer,’ said the publisher. ‘His people
are carrying out a search but not finding anything. He says we’ve got to evacuate.’

The chairman went over to the window and stood motionless, looking out.

‘Spring’s here already,’ he said. ‘How beautiful it is.’

You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Jensen looked at his watch. 13.29.

‘Move our cars,’ said the chairman out of the corner of his mouth.

The director of publishing made for the door at a run.

‘They’re right beside the building,’ the chairman said softly. ‘How beautiful it is,’ he repeated.

Thirty seconds of silence elapsed.

There was a buzz, and a light flashed on the intercom.

‘Yes,’ said the publisher.

‘Eighteen to twenty minutes using all sets of stairs, the paternoster lift system and the automatic high-speed elevators.’

‘All floors?’

‘Not the thirty-first.’

‘So the … Special Department?’

‘Would take considerably longer.’

The voice from the machine lost something of its efficient tone.

‘The spiral staircases are narrow,’ it said.

‘I know.’

Click. Silence. 13.31.

Jensen went over to one of the windows. Way below him he could see the parking area and the wide, six-lane road, now a deserted strip. He could also see that his men had blocked off the carriageway with bright yellow barriers about four hundred metres from the Skyscraper and one of the officers was busy
diverting the traffic down a side street. In spite of the distance, he could clearly see the policemen’s green uniforms and the traffic constable’s white armbands.

Two extremely large black cars were pulling out of the parking area. They were driven away, heading south, and followed by another one, which was white and presumably belonged to the director of publishing.

The man had slipped back into the room and was standing by the wall. His smile was an anxious one and his head was drooping under the weight of his thoughts.

‘How many floors does this building have?’ said Jensen.

‘Thirty above ground,’ said the publisher. ‘Plus four below. We usually count it as thirty.’

‘I thought you mentioned a thirty-first?’

‘Well if I did, it must have been absent-mindedness.’

‘How many staff are there?’

‘Here? In the Skyscraper?’

‘Yes.’

‘Four thousand one hundred in the main building. About two thousand in the annexe.’

‘So over six thousand in total?’

‘Yes.’

‘I must insist they are evacuated.’

Silence. The publisher spun once round on his desk chair.

The chairman stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out. He turned slowly to Jensen. His regular-featured face wore a grave expression.

‘Do you really consider it likely that there’s a bomb in the building?’

‘We have to allow for the possibility, at any rate.’

‘You’re a police inspector, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And have you ever come across a case like this before?’

Jensen thought for a moment.

‘This is a very special case. But experience tells us that the claims made in anonymous letters do correspond with reality in eighty per cent of all known cases or are at the very least based on facts.’

‘That’s been statistically proven?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you know what an evacuation would cost us?’

‘Yes.’

‘Our company has been wrestling with financial difficulties for the last thirty years. Our losses are increasing year on year. That is unfortunately also a statistical fact. We have only been able to continue publishing our titles at the cost of great personal sacrifice.’

His voice had taken on a new ring, bitter and complaining.

Jensen did not reply. 13.34.

‘Our operations here are entirely non-profit-making. We’re not businessmen. We’re book publishers.’

‘Book publishers?’

‘We view our magazines as books. They answer the need that the books of earlier times never succeeded in fulfilling.’

He looked out of the window.

‘Beautiful,’ he mumbled. ‘When I walked through the park today, the first flowers were already in bloom. Snowdrops and winter aconites. Are you an outdoor person?’

‘Not particularly.’

‘Everyone should be an outdoor person. It would make life richer. Richer still.’

He turned back to Jensen.

‘Do you realise what you’re asking of us? The cost will be enormous. We’re under a lot of pressure. Even in our private lives. Since last year’s results were announced, we only use large boxes of matches at home. I mention that as just one little example.’

‘Large boxes of matches?’

‘Yes. We’re having to make savings wherever we can. Larger boxes work out considerably cheaper. It makes good economic sense.’

The publisher was now sitting on the desk with his feet on the armrests of the chair. He looked at his cousin.

‘Maybe it would make good economic sense if there really were a bomb. We’re growing out of the Skyscraper.’

The chairman regarded him with a mournful expression.

‘The insurance will cover us,’ said the publisher.

‘And who’s going to cover the insurance company?’

‘The banks.’

‘And the banks?’

The publisher said nothing.

The chairman turned his attention back to Jensen.

‘I assume you’re bound by official secrecy?’

‘Of course.’

‘The chief of police recommended you. I hope he knew what he was doing.’

Jensen had no answer to that.

‘Presumably you haven’t got any uniformed officers inside the building?’

‘No.’

The publisher pulled his legs up on to the desk and sat cross-legged, like a tailor.

Jensen took a surreptitious look at his watch. 13.36.

‘If there really is a bomb here,’ said the publisher. ‘Six thousand people … Tell me, Mr Jensen, what would the percentage loss be?’

‘The percentage loss?’

‘Yes, of staff.’

‘That’s impossible to predict.’

The publisher muttered something, apparently to himself.

‘We might be accused of blowing them sky high on purpose. It’s a question of prestige. Have you thought of the loss of prestige?’ he asked his cousin.

The chairman’s veiled, blue-grey eyes looked out over the city, which was white and clean and cubic. Jet planes drew linear patterns in the spring sky.