Murder on the Thirty-First Floor (5 page)

He let himself slump a little, putting his left elbow on the arm of the chair and resting his cheek in the palm of his hand as he looked through the magazines.

He had read nothing that was of any interest to him, but neither had he read anything at all that was nasty, troubling or disagreeable. Nor anything that had made him happy, angry, sad or surprised. He had accessed a series of pieces of information, mainly about cars and a variety of people in prominent positions, but none of it was of a kind that might be expected to influence anyone’s behaviour or attitude. There was
criticism, but it was directed almost exclusively at notorious psychopaths of history, and very occasionally at the situation in some distant country, always expressed in vague and very moderate terms.

Questions were debated, generally things that had happened in television shows, like someone swearing, or appearing with a beard or untidy hair. Stories such as these were often quite prominent, but they were always dealt with in a spirit of conciliation and understanding, clearly demonstrating that there was no call for criticism. It was an assumption that generally seemed very ready to hand.

A large part of the content was made up of fiction, presented as such, with colourful, quite lifelike illustrations. Like the factual content, the stories were always about people who achieved success, emotionally or financially. They were of different kinds, but as far as he could see, they were no more or less complicated in the big, glossy magazines than in the more comic-like publications.

It did not escape him that the magazines were aimed at different social classes, but the content remained basically the same. The same people had their praises sung; the same stories were told; and although the style varied, his concerted trawl through them left the distinct impression that everything was written by a single hand. This was naturally an absurd thought.

It also seemed absurd to imagine anyone taking exception to, or being deeply upset by, anything written in these magazines. Certainly the contributors didn’t baulk at getting personal, but the splendid qualities and impeccable moral values of the personalities discussed were never questioned. Now of course it was not unthinkable that some people who
had enjoyed success were left out, or not mentioned as often as others, but there was no way of establishing that, and it seemed unlikely in any case.

Inspector Jensen fished the little white card out of his breast pocket and wrote in small, neat handwriting: 144 magazines. No clues.

On the way home he felt hungry and stopped at a vending machine. He bought two plastic-wrapped sandwiches and ate them as he drove along.

By the time he got back, he already had a severe pain in the right side of his diaphragm.

He undressed in the dark and went to get the bottle and glass. He turned down the cover and sheet and sat on the bed.

‘I want a report by nine every morning. In writing. Anything they consider relevant.’

The chief of the plainclothes patrol nodded and left.

It was Wednesday and the time was two minutes past nine. Inspector Jensen went over to the window and looked down on the men in overalls, busy with their hoses and buckets of disinfectant.

He went back to his desk, sat down and read the reports. Two of them were extremely brief.

The man at the post office reported that the letter was posted in the western part of the city, no earlier than 21.00 on Sunday evening, no later than 10.00 on Monday morning.

The lab reported:

The psychologist:

The report was typed in an uneven and slapdash way, with many mistakes and crossings out.

Inspector Jensen carefully put the three reports in his hole punch, made the necessary perforations in the margin and inserted them in a green file on the left-hand side of his desk.

Then he stood up, took his hat and coat and left the room.

The weather was still fine. The sunlight was sharp and white but shed no warmth; the sky was a cold blue, and despite the petrol fumes, the air felt clear and pure. On the pavements there were people who had temporarily left their cars. As ever, they were well-dressed and looked very much alike. They moved quickly and nervously, as if they couldn’t wait to get back to their cars. Once inside their vehicles, their sense of integrity was intensified. Since the cars were different in size, colour, shape and horsepower, they lent their owner an identity. What was more, they brought about a sense of group identity. People
with the same cars unconsciously felt that they belonged to a peer group that was easier to grasp than society under the Accord in general.

Jensen had read this in a study commissioned by the Ministry for Social Affairs. It had been carried out by some state psychologists and had circulated to the top echelons of the police. Then it had been classified.

When he was on the south side of the square, just opposite the workers’ monument, he spotted a police car exactly like his own in his rearview mirror. He was pretty sure it belonged to an inspector from one of the neighbouring districts, most likely the fifteenth or seventeenth.

As he drove up to the Skyscraper he was half listening to the short-wave radio, which was issuing brief, cryptic messages at regular intervals from the radio control room to police vans and patrol cars. He knew the daily papers’ police correspondents had permission to listen to all this radio traffic. Apart from road accidents, however, there was hardly ever anything sensational or exciting to be snapped up.

He drove up to the forecourt and parked in the space between the bosses’ black cars and the director of publishing’s white one.

A guard in a white uniform with a red peaked cap came over at once. Inspector Jensen showed his ID and went into the building.

The high-speed lift stopped automatically on the eighteenth floor and nowhere else on the way, but it was almost twenty minutes before he was admitted. He whiled away the time studying the models of the two passenger liners, named after the Prime Minister and His Majesty the King.

He was shown in by a secretary in a green suit, her eyes dull
and lifeless. The room was identical to the one he had visited two days before, apart from the fact that the cups and trophies in the glass-fronted cabinet were rather smaller and the view from the window was different.

The head of publishing stopped buffing his cuticles for a moment and invited him to sit down.

‘Has the matter been dealt with?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘To the extent that you may require assistance or additional information, I have been asked to give you all possible assistance. I am therefore at your disposal.’

Jensen nodded.

‘Though I must prepare you for the fact that I am a very busy man.’

Jensen looked at the trophies and said:

‘Were you a sportsman?’

‘I’m an outdoor person. Still active. Sailing, angling, archery, golf … Obviously not in the same class as …’

He gave a modest smile and gestured vaguely towards the door. A second or two later, the corners of his mouth fell again. He looked at his watch, which was large and elegant with a broad gold-link bracelet.

‘How can I help you?’

Inspector Jensen had long since formulated the questions he had come to ask.

‘Has anything happened that could provide a plausible explanation for the phrase “the murder committed in the building”?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You can’t explain it, link it to anything or any person?’

‘No, as I’ve told you, naturally I can’t. The imaginings of a lunatic. A lunatic, that’s the only conceivable explanation.’

‘Have there been any deaths?’

‘Not recently, at any rate. But on that point I recommend you ask the head of personnel. I’m really a journalist, responsible for the content and editorial layout of the magazines. And …’

‘Yes?’

‘And in any case, you’re on the wrong track. Can’t you see how absurd that line of reasoning is?’

‘Which line of reasoning?’

The man in the silk tie looked at his visitor in confusion.

‘One more question,’ said Inspector Jensen. ‘If we assume that the aim of the letter was harassment of the management or one of their number, in which category do you think we should be looking for the guilty party?’

‘It ought to be the police’s job to decide that. Anyway, I’ve already made my own view plain: among the mentally ill.’

‘Are there no individuals or particular groups who might feasibly feel antipathy towards the group of companies or its leadership?’

‘Do you know our magazines?’

‘I’ve read them.’

‘Then you ought to be aware that the aim of our entire policy is precisely that: not to generate antipathy, aggression or differences of opinion. Our magazines are healthy and pleasurable. The very last thing they aim to do is to complicate the readers’ lives or feelings.’

The man paused briefly. Then summarised:

‘The publishing house has no enemies. The same goes for its management. The very idea is absurd.’

Inspector Jensen sat upright and immobile in the visitor’s chair. His face was entirely without expression.

‘It’s possible I may be obliged to make certain enquiries here in the building.’

‘If so, your discretion must be complete,’ the head of publishing responded instantly. ‘Only the group chairman, the publisher and myself are aware of your task here. We will naturally do all we can to help you, but I have to emphasise one thing: it must not get out that the police are taking an interest in the company, particularly not to the employees.’

‘My investigation is going to require some freedom of movement.’

The man appeared to consider this. Then he said:

‘I can give you a master key and a pass granting you permission to visit the various departments.’

‘Yes.’

‘It would, as it were, provide a justification for your presence.’

The head of publishing drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. Then he gave a smile, secretive yet courteous, and said:

‘I shall make out the pass myself; that would probably be best.’

He casually pressed a button beside the intercom, and a unit with a typewriter folded up from the side of the desk. It was a gleaming, streamlined machine, all chrome and impact-resistant enamel paint, and there was nothing to indicate it had ever been used.

The head of publishing opened a drawer and took out a small blue card. Then he swivelled the desk chair round, lightly tweaked the cuffs of his jacket, and carefully wound the piece of card into the typewriter. He took a while adjusting the settings, ran his index finger thoughtfully over the bridge of his nose, hit a few keys, pushed his glasses up on to his forehead
and looked at what he had written, pulled the card out of the machine, crumpled it up, threw it into the bin and took another one out of the drawer.

He wound it in and typed slowly and painstakingly. After every keystroke, he pushed his glasses up and surveyed what he had produced.

As he crumpled up the card, his smile was no longer so courteous.

He took another one out of the drawer. The next time, he took five.

Inspector Jensen sat straight and unmoving, and appeared to be looking straight past him, at the glass-fronted cabinet with the cups and the miniature flag.

After the seventh card, the publishing director had stopped smiling. He undid his collar and loosened his tie, took a black fountain pen with a silver monogram out of his breast pocket and began writing a draft on a sheet of white writing paper, discreetly headed with the company name.

Inspector Jensen said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the cabinet.

A drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of the head of publishing’s nose and fell on to the sheet of paper.

The man appeared to give a start, and scribbled something rapidly, his pen scratching. Then he screwed up the paper in a temper and slung it under the desk. It missed the metal bin and fell at Inspector Jensen’s feet.

The head of publishing got up and went over to one of the picture windows; he opened it and stood there with his back to his visitor.

Inspector Jensen looked quickly at the crumpled draft, retrieved it and put it in his pocket.

The head of publishing closed the window and came back across the room, smiling. He buttoned up his shirt, adjusted his silk tie and dispatched the typewriter with another press of the button. He put his finger on the intercom and said:

‘Write out a temporary employee pass for Mr Jensen, allowing him free movement within the building. He’s from the Buildings Inspection Service. Make it valid until the end of Sunday. And bring him a master key to go with it.’

His voice was hard, cold and overbearing, but his smile stayed the same.

Exactly ninety seconds later, the woman in green came in with the document and the key. The head of publishing scrutinised the pass critically and said with a slight shrug:

‘All right, that’ll have to do.’

The secretary’s eyes wandered.