When Civil Servants Fail

by John Schou

Just after we had started, we heard the news on the radio: a young couple had been murdered in a suburb to Copenhagen. There were no further details given, but we had a feeling that we knew who they might be, in my case the man I had talked with and the woman I had seen. Nothing doing, it was almost as expected, and I had a clean consciousness – or at least I tried to imagine so.

  Alice added, “Kind of a dirty job you have.”

  “I agree. Bogarth was not better off. I even thought about warning the young man, but Mr. Smith and some others were listening to our communication. I better get a new job.”

  Alice had still sensed the importance of luxury. “Perhaps not, but if our young couple have really been hurt, you must refuse to participate in such deals anymore.”

  I thought that it had perhaps not happened. Should it ever occur again, I would prefer a cosy evening at home, perhaps even with some ordered pizzas, as an alternative. In a way, I should be grateful to Mr. Smith that he had made such elaborate work for my alibi, but first of all for keeping me out of any dirty job. After a while, where none of us spoke, I said to Alice: “Should the police ask, stick to the truth as far as it is innocent. It is most easy to reproduce, then you must just know what not to tell. We agreed that I pick you up at the Central Station. What were you doing there?

  “Nothing. I came a bit early and had a cup of coffee – I even have the receipt.”

  “Keep it, it is perhaps valuable.”

  “Do you really think the police might come?”

  “Be prepared for many events, including the one that happens,” I said thoughtfully.

  “Why the Central Station”

  “You said so. You must find a reason for that.”

  “OK, I am going to my uncle Egon in Esbjerg and just wanted to deposit my suitcase. But Mrs. – what was the name, Gusto? – we have a witness who saw you being picked up at your work.”

  Alice laughed. “I am Alice Jørgensen. Yes, my friend picked me up there and drove me home.”

  “Correct, Mrs. Gusto, then I must find an excuse for the trip in-between.”

  “And don’t call me this terrible name. How did you get it?”

  “My father is to blame. He changed his name from Hansen or something like that.”

  “Should we ever marry, you’ll be a Hansen again. But only if we can celebrate such an evening each week. My parents warned me to marry under my social level.”

  We reached Copenhagen in due time to go to Alice’s apartment first to drop her luggage. Then she took place behind – she said that she wanted the pleasure of ‘sending the driver away’ but refused my offer to open her the door and bow as an obvious exaggeration, or perhaps in the absence of a proper cap. Fortunately for her, two of her colleagues arrived at work simultaneously, in order to create the envy women so appreciate. Otherwise, Cinderella was back at work and had this time lost no glass shoe. The police would go for other clues.

  I also went to my home to drop my dinner jacket, before proceeding to Hellerup. Then my part of the dream had definitely ended: the police was already there. Juanita had let them in and they were now waiting in the music room.

  “Mr. Erlandsson,” I said in sham surprise. “What brings you here?”

  “You and Mr. Smith,” he answered. “Where were you with the immodest car of Mr. Smith yesterday afternoon?” This very precise question warned of trouble ahead.

  “I have been in Fredensborg with my girlfriend. I have just returned from there. Would you like a cup of coffee? I can ask Juanita to bring some for us.”

  I took them to Mr. Smith’s office, from where it is possible to activate a listening device to the kitchen, where my boss had now returned in the old style (including the old appetite) since 9 o’clock.

  Mr. Erlandsson, a Swede of firm principles, wanted to reject the offer but his college, Olsen, a Dane without such obstacles, nodded fiercely, giving me the chance. I went to the morning room and sent Juanita ahead with cups while I told about the intruders and rapidly briefed Mr. Smith about the necessity of now, in violation of his principles, to listen to the business talk during his breakfast. I turned on the surveillance device, which in the office would ignite a red lamp, though visible only from Mr. Smith’s seat, and I hoped the officers would not show the inappropriate behaviour in crossing the table.

  Juanita returned with coffee and I with the sugar-pot, which Juanita could also have held in the other hand. “Mr. Smith will come as soon he gets up,” I stated.

  “He better get up right away,” Olsen said. “After all, I have been up nearly four hours now.”

  “We’ve got the wrong job,” Gösta Erlandsson said. “Mr. Smith will come when he comes, nothing can get him up earlier. I have known him for years. In the meantime, we may find out what Mr. Gusto will hide for us.”

  “It may be a bit less hideous if you tell me, why you are here,” I said.

  “Yesterday evening, around 22:30, a young couple were murdered in Ishøj [a suburb in Southern Copenhagen],” Erlandsson said.

  “At that time, I had been in the opposite direction for 6 hours, staying in Fredensborg for another 10 hours. I have a perfect alibi. Except for that, I was too drunk to drive so far.”

  “What do you mean with ‘too drunk to drive so far?’ Either you are too drunk to drive at all or you are not,” Olsen argued.

  “Safety is per mille alcohol multiplied with distance. Both were too high, so I would never have got there,” I responded.

  Erlandsson smiled, off the record, of course. “So you felt you needed an alibi?”

  “Is it also wrong to have one?”

  “Maybe – at least if you delivered a suitcase to the murdered man just before.”

  “I did nothing of the kind!”

  “Why were you at the Central Station shortly after three?” Olsen seconded.

  “I was deposing a suitcase I need today for leaving for Jutland by train, taking advantage of a date I had with my girlfriend there. You don’t say it was stolen from the luggage safe?”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. We shall look after it; you are anyhow not allowed to leave Copenhagen today. Undoubtedly, you have the key by you,” he continued.

  “Here it is,” how practical that I had kept it.

  “Can I have it?”

  “Only upon receipt.”

  He wrote out a receipt for the key, not for the alleged content of the luggage safe. “Who is your girlfriend and where can we find her?”

  “You can’t. She is not available to you.”

  “But you need her statement to confirm your alibi,” he insisted.

  “Do I? I have enough other witnesses where we ate and slept. Perhaps a glance on that can convince you?” I showed him the receipts from the evening and the hotel. “I can make you a copy, then you don’t need to write a receipt.” Erlandsson nodded and I went to my office to make the copies including the gasoline and the speed ticket. I made also copies for us – you never know.

  Olsen went along, probably to avoid me escaping. “God gracious, how can two people spent so much money in such a short time? Does your boss pay you so well?”

  “No, but he paid for the evening, I just utilized it shamelessly.”

  “But why?”

  “Ask him! Answer refused because it bears relation to a different case.” Hopefully, Mr. Smith would say something similar.

  “I really have the wrong job.”

  “Put me to jail, then a position here will be free.”

  “It is worth considering.”

  “However, there will be many young and more qualified applicants.” I do not know if Mr. Olsen was qualified, but he was certainly not young, perhaps 10 years older than his boss Erlandsson, who had passed 45 long ago.

  The humiliation had the effect that tension immediately grew. “What are you doing with the originals?”

  “I am giving them to him who pays.”

  “Perhaps you give him the copies and I’ll keep the originals?”

  “We
can ask him.” I put the originals back to my pocket.

  We entered the office and simultaneously, noise from the electric wheelchair indicated that Mr. Smith was approaching. Erlandsson rose respectfully from his chair. The host showed a sour face. “Mr. Erlandsson, I thought you knew my visiting hours.”

  “We are searching for evidence in a murder case where your assistent may be involved.”

  “Is he indicted?”

  “Not directly. It seems he has an alibi for the time, the murder was committed, we shall check that. Why did you spent him such an expensive evening?”

  “We were celebrating the succesful ending of a previous case.”

  “Which case?”

  “None of your business.”

  “Here are the expenses for the evening,” I interrupted.

  He looked at it. “I wish I could participate in such a party, but due to circumstances beyond my control ... but the speed ticket goes for you, Eric.” At least he accepted to pay for the gasoline.

  “We made some copies. Can we have the originals?” Olsen asked.

  “No!”

  “You can have the speed ticket, if you pay it,” I suggested.

  “If it is real, there must be a copy in the custody of the police,” Erlandsson said. “Perhaps there are more tickets in the night.”

  “Are you suggesting that my assistent has been involved in murder?” Mr. Smith said in a very brusque tone.

  “The conversation so far suggests that both of you have something to hide. Mr. Gusto, in the name of the Queen I arrest you, indicted for complicacy in a murder case.”

  “All right, but I want the wedding suite, like yesterday,” I claimed.

  “You are entitled to silence, and I would appreciate if you made use of that right,” Erlandsson continued.

  “I shall call an attorney immediately,” Mr. Smith assured.

  “I should arrest you too, if I knew how to get you down the stairs,” Erlandsson added. Should I tell him that the elevator went down to the celler, and from there we had a wheelchair-suitable connection to the garage? I decided not to do so directly.

  “Do you mind that I park the car before we leave?”

  “Yes, I do mind to read about how the police allowed the suspect to enter the escape car after he was arrested – on page one in the newspapers. Besides, you cannot drive safely when handcuffed. Olsen!”

  Olsen followed his masters demand but, in a half civilized manner, used them in front while it has been common nowadays to use them on the back of the prisoner, disregarding that this practice in itself has been designed ‘torture’ by Amnesty International.

  “You can park it when you return this afternoon,” Mr. Smith added.

  “I am not certain if Mr. Gusto will reappear this year. You might as well put an announcement for a new assistant, or however you designate Mr. Gusto’s tasks. And you don’t leave the house,” Erlandsson countered, visibly aroused.

  “I have anyhow been under house arrest for years, indicted for being ill.”

  “And having eaten too much,” Olsen added, precipitating an explosion.

  “Out of my house!” screamed the Colos from Hellerup.

  “There went your application chances,” I said to Olsen as we descended the stairs.

  “Which application?” Erlandsson wanted to know.

  “Never mind,” Olsen said. That did not improve his position in the eyes of his chef.

  4 – From One Blackmail to Another

  It always makes an impression when the lawyer arrives before the prisoner. Mr. Bjørn-Hansen’s office is just near the Central Police Yard of Copenhagen, and he knows of that value. If he is in office when Mr. Smith calls, he is generally there immediately and so he was that day.

  The indictment was, in fact, advantageous to me. Thereby, I was relieved from telling more than I wanted. Even when I was acquitted a few hours later, I was still charged with complicity. I had not betrayed Alice’s identity, although I knew that they might soon find out, unless we could deliver them the real murderers before. And disregarding the possibility that they were acting – or believing they were acting – on behalf