“When he dropped me off here, he saw how. . distressed. . I am, after everything that happened. . with Richard. And then he said, ‘Valle, I’ll take care of the business. Take the day off and rest.’ That’s what Mats told me.”
Andersson saw Birgitta discreetly jotting something on her notepad. Cautiously, she coaxed Valle to go on.
“Tell me about Tuesday, Valle.”
“What about it?”
“Your lunch last Tuesday.”
“We’ve been doing that for more than twenty years. Every Tuesday we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his. . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.
Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”
“The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”
“I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”
“He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.
Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”
“We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”
“What time were you there?”
“Where?”
“At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”
“Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”
Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.
“I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”
Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.
“So what did you have to eat?”
“Oh,
“The entree, Valle. Tell us about the entree.”
“Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed. . they were. . now, what’s it called?. . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer. . oh yes, of course. . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”
Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.
Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”
“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”
Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”
Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.
“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”
Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.
“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.
This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.
“Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”
“Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.
“Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”
“We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”
“Did you see him, or speak to him later?”
“No. That was the last time I saw Richard.”
Andersson was afraid that Reuter was going to start crying again. But he didn’t. He sat slumped in the chair like a punctured balloon, gave a big yawn, and blinked his red eyes. Andersson realized that he had to hurry up and ask his question. He stood and walked slowly toward Valle, who started and said in surprise, “Are you still here? What was your name again?”
“Sven Andersson. One last question before we call you a cab. Where were you last Tuesday evening and night? We knocked on your door, but you weren’t home.”
Valle pressed his lips together firmly. It was obvious that he had no intention of answering.
Patiently the superintendent continued, “It would be good if you would answer the question. You’d save us a lot of work. You were the last one to see Richard von Knecht alive. Besides the murderer.” He put special emphasis on the last word.
Valle was on the same page, and he leaned forward and said conspiratorially, “The murderess! Sylvia.”
“Don’t you understand? You’re a prime suspect!” Andersson exclaimed.
Valle looked deeply wounded. “Me? Kill my best friend? Never!”
“Then where were you?”
Birgitta had an idea. She played along with the conspiratorial mood by leaning over the desk and saying, in a slightly teasing tone, “Tell the truth, Valle-there’s a woman involved, right?”
The little man fairly shone with joviality. “But of course, my dear. A woman’s honor.”
“You’ve known each other a long time, isn’t that so?”
“Absolutely, three years. . If you already know about her, why are you asking me?”
“I don’t know her name.” Again Valle looked displeased. He stared at Birgitta gloomily.
She challenged him. “Valle, you have to have an alibi.”
“She doesn’t want me to tell. She’ll get mad at me.”
“I’m sure she’ll understand that since you have become involved in a homicide investigation through no fault of your own, you need an alibi. And she’s the only one who can give you one.”
Valle slumped down a bit more. After a long silence he muttered, “Gunnel. . Gunnel Forsell.”
“Where does she live?”
“Now listen, my dear, she doesn’t want cops running around her place. Don’t tell her I said anything or I’ll never be able to go there again.”
His tone of voice, along with the anxiety in his wide eyes, said it all. In his loneliness he’d found comfort with a prostitute.
Quietly Birgitta asked, “When did you leave for her place?”
“The usual time.” He stopped and gave Birgitta an apologetic look. “I usually go visit her on Tuesday. At five- thirty. But I was a little early … she had a guest. . but he left after a while, and then I could go in.”
“At five-thirty?”
“A little before that, I think.”
