The Man in the Window (27 page)

    They exchanged glances and smiled. 'That's what we're doing now,' she said. 'We're waiting.'

    'How long are you prepared to wait?'

    They eyed each other for a long time before Iselin turned to Frølich with a resigned expression on her face. 'That's precisely what we've been discussing,' she said. 'And I don't think it's going to be very much longer.'

Chapter 35

Cherchez la Femme

    Emmanuel Folke Jespersen was thinking. Gunnarstranda endured the long silence by gazing out of the window. His thoughts drifted to Tove while his eyes rested on the view from Jespersen's terrace. The rime frost lay like a layer of melted sugar over the roofs and the veranda railings. The low winter sun hit the window at an angle and showed up grease stains and fingerprints on the glass. Emmanuel fidgeted with the photograph between his fingers, rubbed his eyes, laboriously raised one leg and tried to cross it over the other, but then gave up.

    Gunnarstranda let his mind wander. A few hours earlier he had woken up in the same bed as a woman for the first time in ages. He leaned back and gazed at the rays of sun hitting the opposite side of the room. The light appeared to shimmer; the heat radiating from the fireplace made the sunlight restless.

    There was no doubt that Emmanuel had seen the woman in the photgraph before, but Gunnarstranda recognized that it would take time to elicit an admission. At first Jespersen took a deep breath as he spread his lips into a melancholy acknowledgement, an expression which he allowed to subside before it had fully developed, and with his face set in a weird grimace, he met the Police Inspector's eyes for two long seconds. Then his lower lip shot forward and with a shake of the head he announced that the photograph of the woman with the mole on the cheek meant nothing to him at all.

    'I've been talking to Arvid,' Jespersen said at last. 'He said you police were keen to find out why Reidar became an antique dealer…'

    The table was awash with weeklies and other magazines. In the middle towered a pile of books including a large crossword dictionary and Aschehoug & Gyldendal's one-volume encyclopaedia. A third book was so creased it was impossible to read the title on the spine. The man's black and white cat had curled up on a cushion on the sofa between them.

    Emmanuel took another look at the photograph, shook his head and placed it on the pile of books on the table with care. 'No,' he said with a deep sigh and stroked his chin. 'Such a good-looking lady would have stuck in my memory.'

    Gunnarstranda gave a weary smile. 'Perhaps you know why your brother became an antique dealer?' he asked without bothering to conceal a certain forbearance.

    After grabbing a good wedge of his trousers, Jespersen finally succeeded in crossing his legs. With one hand resting on his knee, he stole a furtive glance at the picture.

    Gunnarstranda bent forward across the table and played with the photograph.

    'I think Reidar was carrying around a great void inside himself. Perhaps that was why - he went for antiques. If he didn't own things he was… he was nothing.' Jespersen threw out his arms as if to emphasize: 'A void. Reidar was obsessed with collecting.'

    'Trophies?'

    'Yes, I suppose you can call them trophies. I think he almost lived through objects; he was the objects he owned.' Jespersen glanced down at the picture and said: 'I think it was Reidar's greatest nightmare - almost as though he was trying to justify his existence through possessions. I think that deep down there was a forbidden area, perhaps a wound from some blow, event or experience - at any rate something which caused his life to take the course it did.' Emmanuel closed his eyes and went quiet, as though deep in reflection, then went on: 'On the other hand, Reidar may not have been unique in this respect. I've often thought that we're all like that, that we all have a
fundamental suspicion of ourselves.
Do you understand? If we dare to put morning routines and work to one side - in other words, the
ritual
side of life: cleaning teeth, job, meals, celebrating Christmas and Easter, and as far as I am concerned, the time we spend in the freemasons' lodge, conversations with other people too - we probably all find ourselves being brought up short at some point, don't we? Wherever - in a shop or at home in an armchair. We may hear something said or recognize something from our childhood, a smell or a sound or an atmosphere - and we stop and realize - or can see at a deep level what we have become - the unvarnished truth - and we have to close our eyes and repress the realization - because we can see right through the shield we hide behind, the bonds of friendship, our social life. We stand there with closed eyes and want to flee, perhaps because it is painful to come to a halt, to turn round or to get a grip on this hurt. We soldier on with life as it is, without brooding any further - without - without grabbing the chance we have to make a change there and then. Do you think I'm waffling?'

    'Not at all,' Gunnarstranda said. 'I think you're right. Many people will have to confront their dreams sooner or later - hold an annual general assembly on themselves, if we can put it like that. But I suppose some get round to it quicker than others. Many may never experience it.' He straightened the photograph and brushed down his trousers. 'Go on.'

    'Well, watching your brother like this - as a
victim…
you have to remember that Reidar was my big brother, my model, a person with an aura of irrefutable authority - watching him like this…'

    Police Inspector Gunnarstranda waited politely as Jespersen searched for words.

    'It was very difficult because he understood what I was thinking. Perhaps he didn't notice the concern behind it, but he noticed the
change.
He understood intuitively that he had been seen through, that he had been
unmasked.
But I'm not sure that he understood what I had found out in specific terms. He just noticed the change in the atmosphere between us - he noticed that I felt sorry for him. Which he was incapable of forgiving.'

    'Forgiving?'

    Jespersen nodded. 'Forgiving.'

    'Why couldn't he forgive?'

    'Perhaps it was something to do with his internal void, whatever it was he was fleeing from by building this armour around himself. But also because the balance between us had been upset. When he was
unmasked -
the word is appropriate here - I saw through this somewhat abnormal urge to be fit and active, to own - to build a fortress of
objects
around himself, he was unable to maintain the same hold over me as a brother, of course. He just did not like dealing with me.'

    Gunnarstranda supported his chin on his bony index finger and said: 'You must have had your own ideas about what this collecting of objects and feverish hyperactivity was meant to redress, I suppose. Was there some ulterior ideology? Was it trauma as a result of horrendous experiences? Was it repressed memories of some kind?'

    'Well, yes, I have thought about it a bit…'

    Gunnarstranda bent forward in his chair. The cat, sitting on the sofa next to Emmanuel Folke Jespersen, twitched its head. It purred softly, stretched its rear legs and reposed on the cushion like an Egyptian queen. Its eyes were open but it wasn't awake; it blinked and slowly lowered its head onto its front paws. 'Tell me,' Gunnarstranda whispered in his excitement.

    'At first I thought he was tormented by memories of people who were asleep when he blew them into smithereens.'

    'Sabotage missions?'

    Jespersen stared into the distance without speaking. 'God knows, he must have had a lot of terrible things on his conscience. Death and…' He faltered. 'But I found out it couldn't be anything like that.'

    On tenterhooks, the policeman cleared his throat.

    Jespersen was breathing heavily and leaned his head back. The cat blinked again - and Jespersen gazed at the ceiling and stroked his chin with a low rasping sound. 'What is it they say…?'

    'Who says?'

    'The French. What is it they say when they're looking for the key to a mystery…?'

    Gunnarstranda looked down at the photograph on the blue encyclopaedia. The winter sun, shining through the window onto the table, fell onto the picture and made it gleam like an old, matt mirror.
'Cherchez la
femme,
^,
he whispered.

    Emmanuel, his eyes still on a point on the ceiling, drew a deep sigh and repeated:
Cherchez la femme.'

    Gunnarstranda swallowed, took the photograph and held it up. 'OK.' He sighed and took the plunge: 'What's her name?'

Chapter 36

The Sauna

    The most knowledgeable person in Police Inspector Gunnarstranda's circle of acquaintances was his brother- in-law. The problem was that it was getting more and more difficult to talk to the man as the years went by. For one thing, it was difficult to meet him without thinking about Edel. And for another, the conversation dragged for both of them as it seemed the distress of meeting was mutual. It always cost the Inspector quite some effort to get in touch. But now he had an excuse. Shortly after lunch he picked up the receiver and dialled the number.

    His brother-in-law asked for time to think. For some unknown reason he seemed to be in a positive frame of mind; he almost seemed glad to hear the policeman's voice.

    They arranged to meet after work.

    At half past three the Inspector took his swimming things from the cupboard by the door, went out and caught the tram to the pool in Oslo West. Gunnarstranda always wore a bathing cap in public baths. If he didn't, his hair would trail after him like a wet sail after a boat. Tove Granaas had not yet commented on the way he combed his hair. But he knew a comment was not far off. He had bought his swimming trunks fifteen years ago, on Fuerteventura. He bought new goggles and a new nose-clip every year.

    He stood for a few seconds looking at the green surface before bending his knees and diving in. He glided through without moving his legs - and noted with surprise that the water was not so cold - until his bathing cap, goggles and nose-clip emerged into the air. Then he swam 2.5 lengths, backwards and forwards, breast stroke, concentrating on his breathing and every single turn. Once that was completed, swimming leisurely on his back, he looked up at the clock to check his time. Two minutes faster than the previous swim, but still four minutes slower than his personal best.

    Finally he hoisted himself out of the water, had a quick shower and went into the sauna. If there was room he always lay on the top bench. On this occasion there was room. The hot, dry air burned his palate. So as not to scorch himself on the wood he was careful to spread out his towel. But first of all he nodded to the others sitting there, then bent down for the ladle in a bucket on the floor and poured water on the stove. Four other men were there. A young, vulnerable-looking man in his early twenties, gawping at the others' sexual organs, was most interested in an athlete in his early forties - Will W - whom Gunnarstranda had arrested three times for GBH and extortion. Will gave the policeman a measured nod and continued to stroke his muscles with circumspection and wipe the sweat off his forehead with a towel. The other two men were elderly, part of a crowd which had been larger, and they often talked about their late companions. Today their attentions were turned to someone called Per who, according to them, had won the war single-handedly. They talked about Ronny, who was bullied when they went to Lakkegata School because he had gone to bed with his sister. They talked about Francis who had worked all his life in the Norwegian Parliament and had even disciplined the Prime Minister. Gunnarstranda lay back on the bench listening and waiting for his brother-in-law.

    It was just after seven in the evening when he wandered back through his office door. He had been given three names to choose from. The first was a journalist in Trondheim who had written a number of popular science books about the area. The second a knowledgeable layman who could produce the most astonishing new facts from subjects which most considered exhausted long ago. According to his brother-in-law the snag here was that the man had links with neo-Nazi groups. Gunnarstranda opted to take his chances with the third name on the pad - a retired history professor.

    He sat down on his office chair and drank a cup of coffee which his stomach told him he ought not to drink. He pulled out the lowest drawer with his foot. With the phone to his ear and his foot on the drawer, he listened to the phone ringing and contemplated the point where his black sock met his blue long johns.

    'Yes,' said a woman's reedy voice.

    'My name is Gunnarstranda,' the policeman said. 'I work for the Oslo police authorities. Have I got through to Professor Engelschøn?'

    'Yes… Roar!' the voice shouted after a brief pause, and the policeman heard the receiver being put down on a table. 'Roar! A call from the police!'

    It was quiet and Gunnarstranda could hear heavy footsteps running over creaking parquet flooring.

    'Engelschøn,' said a hoarse voice.

    Gunnarstranda introduced himself.

    'Delighted to meet you,' Engelschøn said expectantly.

    'I've been told you are the person in Norway who knows most about the resistance movement during the German Occupation,' Gunnarstranda said, looking at the old photograph on the desk.

    'By no means,' Engelschøn said, and repeated himself: 'By no means.'

    'I'm trying to trace a woman,' the police officer said.

    'Well, you police should be in a better position to do that than me.'

    'This is connected with the period of the Occupation,' Gunnarstranda explained. 'The woman is Norwegian, but was supposed to be married to a gentleman of some prominence during the war. She was christened Amalie and her maiden name was Bruun with two 'u's, Amalie Bruun.'

    Professor Engelschøn's house was the type of residence estate agents splash money on to advertise in newspapers. The house was in Snarøya. The roof ridge which towered over the trees bore two chimneys and overlooked a 1930s tarred, wooden house with intricately worked windows and pillars by the front door. The building reminded Gunnarstranda of Frognerseteren Restaurant and large farms in Gudbrandsdal valley.

    Yet the house was different from most others in the district. There were no low-slung Italian cars next to it. There were no sleek setters running around in the garden, and there were no security company signs hanging over the entrance issuing dire warnings. In general there were no signs of the vulgar nouveau-riche culture which was hemming in the few remaining habitations with soul in and around the capital. The drive was covered with snow. Just one narrow, winding path had been cleared through the carpet of snow, stretching from the broad doorsteps to a rusty post box. The latter was secured with wire to a fence post which had been cemented in a long time ago. The steps were snow-free. A snow shovel and a piassava broom stood against the wall. The dry stems of a creeper clung tight to the round wooden pillars, waiting for the chance to transform the entrance into a green portal in the summer.

    He was shown in by a stooped elderly lady with her hair in a bun who peered at him through two thick lenses.

    The first thing that met Gunnarstranda when he entered was an aroma of green soap, lavender and lightly salted cod. It was a smell that took him back to his youth. At once he could see before him his mother's fat legs beneath her apron as she melted egg butter for the fish, and he saw the quiet nook in the flat where the black oak dining table was placed, between the stove and his father's bookshelf. As he stood there, struck by his confrontation with a smell from his childhood years, his eyes wandered around the house interior.

    Two armchairs had pride of place in front of an old

    TV. Some knitting had been casually discarded on one of the chairs. A pair of glasses with a broad black frame lay on the coffee table. Beside them an ashtray emblazoned with the design belonging to a long since forgotten brand of cigarette - Abdullah. A curved briar pipe with a chipped mouthpiece rested against the rim of the ashtray. On the wall, family pictures in oval frames hung around an embroidered motif of Norwegian nature: two elk drinking water from a pool in the wood. A wall clock struck a muffled chime to indicate that it was half past eight as Professor Engelschøn lumbered towards him.

    The professor took him into a study in which every single square centimetre of wall space was covered with books. A computer with a flickering screensaver shone on to a desk awash with paper. Engelschøn's hair was grey and bristly and combed up rather than back. His complexion was pale and marked with deep furrows. The heavy chin hung like a digger's bucket under the sullen mouth. From behind his desk, his glasses down his nose, he resembled a protrudent bloodhound guarding a consignment of bones and meat from the slaughterhouse.

    'In fact the woman you are searching for is rather interesting,' he growled in his hoarse voice and cleared his throat. 'I have found several pictures of her. Bruun was indeed her maiden name, Amalie Bruun. It was no easy task, but you put me on the trail. In 1944 she married Klaus Fromm, who was, as you pointed out, German. But not just any German. He was a judge, stationed here in Norway during the war.'

    Gunnarstranda whistled softly.

    'Klaus Fromm's details in the NSDAP and SS go back to 1934 when he was twenty-four years old.'

    Gunnarstranda frowned as he did the arithmetic and said: 'And you're sure of this?'

    Engelschøn lowered his glasses. The look he sent was cool and judgemental. 'Who recommended me, did you say?'

    Gunnarstranda dismissed this question with a wave. 'What you've told me is something of a surprise, but we can come back to that. If this man Fromm was twenty- four in 1934, he would be ninety now - assuming he's alive.'

    'Well, that's possible. I haven't been able to find that out. Do you smoke?'

    Gunnarstranda nodded.

    'Thank God,' the professor said and clamped his teeth round the mouthpiece of a Ronson pipe he produced from a drawer in the desk. He talked out of the corner of his mouth as he attempted to light up: 'Klaus Fromm had military and legal training, and in the late 1930s was appointed judge at the SS courts in Berlin. He came to Oslo in May 1940 where he took up a higher position in what was known as the SS und Polizeigericht Nord - which was a court that was in fact meant for Germans, but also sentenced Norwegian resistance fighters.' Engelschøn spread a sweet aroma of pipe tobacco around the room.

    'Judge,' Gunnarstranda mumbled, lost in thought. 'What sort of rank would that be - in German?'

    'He was an SS Obersturmbannführer.'

    Gunnarstranda nodded. Encouraged, he lit his roll-up and inhaled greedily. The atmosphere of this room was one of the most appealing he had come across for a long time.

    'An Obersturmbannführer corresponds to a lieu- tenant-colonel,' Engelschøn explained.

    'A high rank, in other words.'

    'Indeed.'

    'But the title of judge sounds somehow civilian. How high-ranking was he in practical terms?'

    'How much do you know about the SS?' Engelschøn asked from his desk.

    'Elite soldiers. And I suppose the story of Hitler's paranoia. The Night of the Long Knives.'

    Engelschøn nodded. 'The SS was founded as a reaction to the growth of the SA, the Sturmabteilung. Röhm was the man in charge of the SA. And the more it grew, the greater the danger that it would challenge Hitler's authority - at least that was what he thought. In 1933 there had been 300,000 Brown Shirts under Röhm. That was why Hitler ordered the murders of a large number of SA officers in 1934 - the Night of the Long Knives, as you said. Thereafter, the SA was finished and the SS grew exponentially. The name Waffen-SS first came into official use in March 1940. Then this police division that Fromm worked in was established - along with a Totenkopfdivision which was responsible for guard duties and the administration of the concentration camps.'

    'But until then hadn't the SS consisted of policemen?'

    'Yes, indeed,' Engelschøn confirmed. He rummaged around the table, stood up and took a sheet of white paper from the printer on a stool beneath the window.

    He sketched out a little organizational diagram on the sheet. 'The SS was administered by Himmler,' he explained. 'Himmler was the Minister of Internal Affairs in 1936 and the police were incorporated into the SS. The police had two sections: the Ordnungspolizei and the Sicherheitspolizei. This last-mentioned security organization was sub-divided into two further sections: the criminal police department, Kriminalpolizei or Kripo, and a secret state police, Gestapo. However, in addition to these there was a special police force - the SS Verfügungstruppe - which was closely linked with Hitler himself. You may have heard of Hitler's bodyguards - the Stabwache; they were subsumed under this Verfügungstruppe. Afterwards Hitler's bodyguards were re-named Leibstandarte SS Adolf Hitler. The difference between the Leibstandarte and the rest of the SS was that the soldiers had sworn personal allegiance to Hitler, which of course was done because direct allegiance to the Führer weakened Himmler's influence and power within the SS.'

    'So Hitler didn't trust Himmler?'

    'Shall we say that Hitler was aware that his authority could be swayed? As I'm certain you know, he was the victim of several assassination attempts. At any rate he made sure that the Verfügungstruppe constituted the cornerstone of every division that carried the name Waffen-SS. But the reorganization of 1940 was implemented first and foremost with the growth rate of the organization in mind. In total the Waffen-SS consisted of thirty-eight divisions. Can you imagine that? Hm? Of course, you know the Germans were dab hands at organization.'