Free Murder on the Thirty-First Floor by Per Wahlöö Page B

stretched out in front of him, staring apathetically straight ahead.
    The man Jensen had come to see was a suntanned, blue-eyed individual with a thick neck, signs of encroaching corpulence, and a supercilious expression on his face. He was wearing casual trousers, sandals and a short, elegant smoking jacket of some woolly sort of fabric.
    ‘What’s this about?’ he said brusquely. ‘I must point out that I’m extremely short of time.’
    Jensen took a step into the hall and showed his ID.
    ‘My name’s Inspector Jensen, from the Sixteenth District,’ he said, ‘I’m conducting an investigation that has to do with your former employment and place of work.’
    The man’s posture and expression changed. He shuffled his feet uneasily and appeared to shrink. He looked scared and shifty.
    ‘For God’s sake,’ he muttered, ‘not here. Not here, in front of … Come into my … or the library … yes, the library would be better.’
    He gestured vaguely, seemed to be searching for something to divert their attention, and said:
    ‘This is my son.’
    The young man in the armchair gave them a look of utter boredom.
    ‘Aren’t you going to take your new car out for a spin?’ said the man in the smoking jacket.
    ‘Why would I want to?’
    ‘Well, girls and that sort of …’
    ‘Huh,’ said the youth.
    His look clouded over once more.
    ‘I don’t understand young people nowadays,’ the man said with an embarrassed smile.
    Inspector Jensen did not respond, and the smile immediately died away.
    There were no books in the library, which was a big, light room with some cupboard units and several groups of low sofas and chairs. There were magazines lying on the tables.
    The man in the smoking jacket carefully closed the doors and cast an imploring look at his visitor, whose face remained grave and set. He shuddered and went over to one of the cupboards, got out a tumbler, filled it with spirits almost to the brim and drained it in a single draught. He refilled the glass, looked at Inspector Jensen again and mumbled:
    ‘Well, it probably makes no difference now. Presumably I can’t offer you … no, of course not … sorry. It’s the shock, you see.’
    The man collapsed on to one of the chairs. Jensen just stood there. He got out his notebook. The other man’s face was already shiny with sweat. He kept mopping it with a crumpled handkerchief.
    ‘Good God,’ he said, ‘I knew it. I’ve known it all along. That those devils would put the knife in as soon as the election was over.’
    ‘But I shall fight it,’ he said vehemently. ‘They’ll take the whole lot away from me, of course. But there are things I know, this and that, and they wouldn’t …’
    Jensen observed him intently.
    ‘There are quite a few things,’ the man said. ‘Like figures that they’d find very hard to explain. Do you know how much income they declare for tax purposes? Do you know what their tax lawyers’ salaries are? Do you know who
really
pays their tax lawyers?’
    He tugged nervously at his thinning hair and said miserably:
    ‘Sorry, sorry … I naturally don’t mean to … my case can hardly be made any worse, but …’
    His voice became suddenly insistent.
    ‘Besides, does the interrogation have to be done here, in my own home? I assume you already know everything. Must you stand there like that? Why don’t you sit down?’
    Inspector Jensen stayed where he was. He still said nothing. The man drained his tumbler and set it down with a crash. His hands were shaking.
    ‘Very well, very well, go ahead,’ he said dejectedly. ‘Let’s get it over with. So we can get away from here.’
    He stood up and went back to the cupboard, where he fumbled with the tumbler and the bottle top.
    Inspector Jensen opened his notebook and got out his pen.
    ‘When did you cease your employment?’ he asked.
    ‘Last autumn. The tenth of September. I’ll never forget that day. Nor the weeks leading up to it, they were