Free Murder on the Thirty-First Floor by Per Wahlöö

trust. At the very least, anyone receiving it must have carried out their duties as required, and been a worthy ambassador for the company.’
    ‘How many have been handed out?’
    ‘Only a few. This particular kind is pretty new. We’ve only been using it for six months or so.’
    ‘Where are the diplomas kept?’
    ‘With my secretary.’
    ‘Are they easily accessible?’
    The head of personnel pressed a button on his intercom. A young woman came into the room.
    ‘Is form PR–8 kept where outsiders could get their hands on it?’
    The woman looked horrified.
    ‘No, certainly not. It’s kept in the big steel filing cabinet. I lock it every time I leave the room.’
    He waved her out and said:
    ‘She’s a reliable girl, very thorough. She wouldn’t be here otherwise.’
    ‘I need a list of all the people who have received diplomas of this type.’
    ‘Of course. That can be arranged.’
    They sat in silence for quite a time, waiting while the list was drawn up. At length, Inspector Jensen asked:
    ‘What are your main functions in this job?’
    ‘Hiring editorial and administrative staff. And ensuring that everything possible is done to promote the well-being of the staff, and …’
    He paused and smiled a broad smile with his frog mouth. It was hard and cold and appeared entirely genuine.
    ‘And freeing the publishing house from those who abuse our trust,’ he said. ‘Dealing with staff who’ve neglected their duties.’
    A few seconds later, he added:
    ‘Well, it rarely comes to that, of course, and such cases are handled in the most humane way possible, like everything else here.’
    Silence descended on the room again. Inspector Jensen sat entirely still, listening to the throbbing rhythm of the Skyscraper.
    The secretary came in with two copies of a list. There were twelve names on it.
    The head of personnel read it through.
    ‘Two of these people have actually died since they took retirement,’ he said. ‘And one has moved abroad, I know that for a fact.’
    He took his fountain pen from his breast pocket and put neat little ticks by three of the names. Then he passed the sheet of paper to his visitor.
    Inspector Jensen glanced quickly through the list. Each name was followed by a date of birth and some brief details such as ‘early retirement’ or ‘left at his own request’. He folded the list carefully and put it in his pocket.
    Before he left, there were two more exchanges between them.
    ‘May I ask the reason for your interest in this particular detail?’
    ‘An official matter that I am not at liberty to discuss.’
    ‘Have any of our farewell letters fallen into the wrong hands?’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    There were already two men in the lift Inspector Jensen took back down. They were fairly young, and smoked cigarettes while chatting about the weather. They had a nervous, slangy, staccato way of talking that seemed to consist of a series of keywords. It was not at all easy for an outsider to understand.
    When the lift stopped on the eighteenth floor, the boss, the chairman of the group, stepped in. He gave an absent nod and stood facing the wall. The two journalists extinguished their cigarettes and took off their hats.
    ‘Just fancy it snowing,’ one of them said softly.
    ‘I feel so sorry for all the little flowers,’ said the boss in his attractive, deep voice.
    He said it without a single glance at the man who had spoken. He stood immobile with his face turned to the aluminium wall. Nothing more was said for the rest of the journey.
    In the lobby, Inspector Jensen borrowed a telephone and rang the lab.
    ‘Well?’
    ‘You were right. There are traces of gold dust. In the glue under the letters. Strange that we missed it.’
    ‘You think so?’

CHAPTER 15
    ‘Find out this person’s address. And be quick about it.’
    The head of the plainclothes patrol stood to attention and went out.
    Inspector Jensen studied the list on the desk in front of him. He opened one of