“Britt, will you serve the coffee now, please. And bring out the best cognac for Kristian.”
The girl disappeared, and Nadja Kram offered him a cigarette from a silver case. Then she took one herself, inserted it into an ivory holder, and smoked with lazy deliberation, while asking him the questions a mother asks on behalf of her daughter in such circumstances. He was well-prepared, and his modest, emotional answers appeared to deeply move her.
Later on, a delightful evening meal was served. He had rarely felt so comfortable, and confirmation that everything was going according to plan came when Nadja drew him aside and said:
“Dear Kristian, I can see that you are an honorable fellow. I am so happy for Johanne. You have no idea what she has been through. But now she is over the moon. Poor little Johanne, things haven’t always been easy for her. She is—well, I hope you’ll forgive me for saying so—so hopelessly naive. Stupid, some might say. I believe it comes from her grandfather on her father’s side. He studied for the priesthood. But she has a heart of gold, and she will always love you. I trust you feel the same way?”
“Yes,” he said, his eyes fixed on a shimmering candlestick. “I love Johanne just the way she is.”
Nadja Kram smiled and patted his hand.
“Do you like the candlestick, Kristian? Pick it up, feel its weight.”
He did as she said.
“Is it . . . gold?”
She smiled even wider.
“Yes, gold. Old family inheritance. I would like to present it to you as a wedding present. Well, in addition to certain other things, of course.”
A week later, he and Johanne once again visited Nadja Kram. She seemed efficient and determined, and asked to speak with him privately.
“I have been in touch with my husband concerning the plans for the wedding and for your and Johanne’s future. He was very happy, and sends his regards. He would like a simple ceremony, but we agreed to give you Strandheim as a wedding gift.”
“Strandheim?”
“Our former property in Sandby, Johanne’s beloved childhood home. We made the mistake of selling it when she married José Barca and moved abroad. But now she wants to live there with you. My husband can arrange for a job at his factory in Sandby, if you are interested. Don’t worry about being overtaxed. The most important thing for us is that you take care of Johanne. She desperately wants a new child, you know.”
His heart was thumping in his chest. This exceeded all his expectations. First a few months, perhaps a year of marital bliss, then a small “accident,” a fall from a cliff or the cabin cruiser. Then everything would be his.
“But perhaps you would prefer to live in the city, Kristian?”
“My primary concern is to ensure Johanne’s happiness.”
She caressed his hand. Her eyes were glassy.
“Thank you, Kristian. Thank you so much.”
She returned to her normal, businesslike self.
“The valuation of Strandheim is one and a quarter million. I have spoken with our business lawyer today. It’s slightly difficult to arrange immediately, due to my husband being in Rio. I only have just over a million in my account, and the sellers want the money immediately. I’m not quite sure how to handle the situation. Excuse me for inquiring, but could you possibly manage the small remainder, one hundred and fifty thousand? Then we can complete the deal today.”
He smiled casually.
“I’ll take care of it immediately, dear Nadja.”
He was back an hour later with the money. It had cleared out his account, everything he had worked and struggled for was there. But so what? He would receive tenfold in return.
Nadja Kram retreated into her office. She smiled contentedly at him and Johanne when she returned.
“Everything’s in order, dear, it’s all sorted out. But I would like you to drive down to Sandby immediately to look over the house. The former owner would like to show you around and sort out certain formalities.”
“Oh,” said Johanne, putting her hand to her stomach, “. . . I’m so dreadfully nauseous. Do we have to go straightaway?”
“Yes dear, it’s very important. Kristian, could you go alone? I’ll let them know that you’re on your way.”
“Of course, Nadja. I’ll take care of it.”
“Fine. I’m happy you sold your car, by the way. It wouldn’t look right turning up in that ancient thing. Take mine, won’t you?”
Nothing could have suited him better. He got into the luxurious car and drove the one hundred miles to Sandby in record time. He had finally achieved what he had always wanted.
In Sandby he had no trouble finding Strandheim. Friendly souls gave him directions, they had obviously heard of the place since childhood. And it didn’t surprise him, as the huge white villa was beautifully located by the sea, surrounded by acres of costly real estate. He almost broke into a triumphant laugh. This was to be his. He had reached his goal.
A feisty and wizened old man opened when he rang the bell.
“What is it? If you’re selling something, I would recommend you to leave immediately. Business is not carried out at the door around here.”
“I’m Kristian Grossman, the new owner. Mr. Ladvik is expecting me.”
The wizened one raised his eyebrows and stood like that for some time, as if perplexed by the news.
“The new owner. I see, I understand. One moment, please.”
He disappeared, and returned awhile later, accompanied by a sturdy, severe man in his sixties. It was Ludvig Ladvik, the country’s most feared public prosecutor. Kristian Grossman recognized him from newspaper pictures and television interviews, and pangs of anxiety swept through his body.
“Listen here,” said Ladvik, with the voice that had caused so many defendants to give up their last hopes, “. . . what is this cock-and-bull story I’m hearing? I own this place, and I intend to do so until the day I die. Who are you, anyway? Some kind of crook? A con artist? I don’t like the look of you. Remove yourself immediately. You are disturbing me in my writing on harsher sentences for tax evasion. Get lost! Now!”
Kristian Grossman attempted some feeble protestations, but they died out before he could utter them. A terrible suspicion struck him, and he got into the car and drove back to the capital at a speed a rally driver would have envied. “I’ll wring that swindling Nadja Kram’s neck,” he thought to himself, his knuckles white as he gripped the steering wheel.
He was soon face-to-face with Nadja Kram. But he didn’t attack her, he just stood there gasping. The Nadja Kram he was staring at now wasn’t dark, slim, and elegant. She was blond, somewhat overweight, and had a sharp, piercing voice:
“A different Nadja Kram? What on earth are you on about? I am Nadja Kram! I, and no one else! My husband and I returned from holiday a few hours ago. We don’t have a daughter named Johanne. We have a son, and I’ll let you meet him. Per, come here for a moment!”
A young, blond giant appeared. He looked agitated.
“Mother, someone has been in the house while you were gone. Some things have disappeared, remember that golden candlestick you inherited from Auntie Malla?”
The red-faced woman let out a high-pitched scream and rolled her eyes. Then she pointed to Kristian Grossman with a trembling finger.
“It’s him. It has to be him! He said he had been here when we were away. He’s a thief, a crook! Do something! Call the police! Grab him!”
Kristian Grossman escaped through the garden as fast as his legs could carry him, cleared the fence in one bound, and jumped into the car. He was soaked with sweat and anger, and swore to himself as he made his way through traffic. He had been fooled, but he would have his revenge by bashing Johanne Kram’s head in if it was the last thing he did.
However, there was no opportunity for revenge. He stood paralyzed on the threshold of the apartment where he had laid down so many hours of work towards his goal. The woman in the doorway wasn’t Johanne, she was far younger and prettier, and she gig
gled as he completed his stuttering explanation.
“Come here, girls!” she cried over her shoulder to a couple of other girls of the same age. “We have a gentleman caller. He’s quite good-looking, but I think he has sunstroke. He claims that someone named Johanne Kram lives here and refuses to believe that the flat belongs to me, Tina Hoff. Isn’t he exciting? But then, maybe it’s his way of picking up women. Nothing would surprise me about men.”
Confronted with the laughing, mocking women, he lost his capacity for speech. He snarled at them like an animal, then got into the car, trembling with anger. “I have to get home,” he thought in a panic, “home to calm down with a stiff drink.”
He returned to his own flat, but the sight that met him there was not very inspiring with respect to calming him down. Two stocky men were going through his belongings. They didn’t seem at all perturbed when he appeared.
“What on earth is this supposed to mean?” said Kristian Grossman with a feeble voice.
The elder of them, a short, stocky man in his mid forties, smiled coolly.
“Police, Grossman. Inspector Lien here. We have a search warrant.”
He wafted a piece of paper under Grossman’s nose.
“We’ve been busy while you were away, Grossman. Look at what we’ve found.”
He held up a transparent plastic bag containing something heavy and golden. Kristian Grossman’s heart sank. It was the candlestick he had handled, the small “wedding present” promised to him by “Nadja Kram.”
“And of course you’ve never laid eyes on this before?”
“No. I mean . . . yes.”
Inspector Lien grinned.
“Aha, Mr. Grossman. You seem to be the decisive type. That makes everything so much easier. Well, well, you can decide what you want to tell managing director Gerhard Kram. He’s just as receptive to excuses as a Spanish bull is to sugar cubes.”
Kristian Grossman paled.
Lien held up another piece of paper.
“Tell me, now, have you seen this before? A copy of a receipt for a withdrawal of one hundred and fifty thousand from the Trust Bank. In an assumed name, no less. A hidden account, in other words. My, that’s quite a find for our beloved, but feared, public prosecutor Ladvik.”
The other policeman, who had been gone for a while, reappeared and spoke quietly to Lien. Lien nodded, then grinned once again at Grossman.
“Well, well, I must say. You have the nerve to drive around in the Italian ambassador’s car. Are you not aware that that could seriously harm your health? Ambassador Dampezzi is the most hot-tempered man in the country.”
Kristian Grossman swallowed. “Listen,” he said with a low voice, “I’ve been the victim of a huge scam.”
Inspector Lien laughed heartily.
“Huge scam! That’s a good one. I would rather say that it is you who is doing the scamming.”
The phone rang, and he gestured towards Grossman.
“Be my guest, pick it up. Your last act as a free man.”
Kristian Grossman picked up the phone and spoke a dejected hello. Then he pricked up his ears. There was something familiar about the jarring female voice. It was “Johanne.” But now she didn’t sound devotedly naive and prattling. Now her voice reminded him of the icy chill of the headmistress’s voice at the school he once attended—the one for difficult children.
“Kristian Grossman. You have now made the acquaintance of ‘the women’s league.’ We are an organization with thousands of members all over the country dedicated to protecting our members from types like you. The money you have lured from seven gullible women over the past four years will now be returned to them. You will probably spend a long time behind bars. But once you get out, we will be ready for you. You won’t get anywhere, Grossman. You will have to find an honest occupation, live an honest life. Good luck!”
A click sounded as the phone was hung up. Kristian Grossman stood gasping, like a fish on land.
“Well,” said Inspector Lien, “are you not feeling well? Your eyes are glazed over. Was that the devil himself you were speaking to? Anyway, none of my business. We have to go. The bars await you.”
Copyright © 1975 by Richard Macker; translation ©2010 by Runar Fergus
REVIEWS
REVIEWS
THE JURY BOX
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Though Sherlock Holmes never figured in an overtly science fictional adventure, many sf writers have contributed to the extra-canonical literature, among them Philip Jose Farmer, Isaac Asimov, Mike...
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PASSPORT TO CRIME Ellery Queen: 70 Years
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REVIEWS
THE JURY BOX
by Jon L. Breen
Though Sherlock Holmes never figured in an overtly science fictional adventure, many sf writers have contributed to the extra-canonical literature, among them Philip Jose Farmer, Isaac Asimov, Mike Resnick, and Poul Anderson. Each of the first four volumes of Anderson’s collected short works (NESFA, $29 each) has a single detective story with Holmesian associations: “The Martian Crown Jewels” in Call Me Joe (volume 1), the title story in The Queen of Air and Darkness (volume 2), plus two less widely known stories. In the current volume 3, The Saturn Game, is “Eve Times 4,” a comic space opera featuring several humans, a couple of colorful aliens, and a fair-play mystery some readers may solve; and the forthcoming volume 4, Admiralty, includes “The Adventure of the Misplaced Hound,” not quite as good a detective story but even more broadly comic and Sherlockian in its references.
Though Holmes is mentioned only in passing in Dana Martin Batory’s Dreams of Future Past: The Science Fiction Worlds of Arthur Conan Doyle & H. G. Wells (Wessex Press, $13.95), over half of this collection of previously published essays concerns the work of Dr. Watson’s agent, including the strong influence of Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein on his writing and a rather shocking account of the sexualimagery in the Professor Challenger story “When the World Screamed.” From the same publisher is Sherlock ian Heresies ($19.95), a collection of delightfully contrarian essays by the late French journalist Léo Sauvage, who will be remembered for The Oswald Affair (1966), one of first books critical of the Warren Commission’s report on the JFK assassination.While a book titled Sherlock Holmes for Dummies (Wiley, $19.99) seems of dubious necessity, the volume by Steven Doyle and David A. Crowder provides a thorough, readable, and authoritative summary of all things Sherlockian. The principal author is co-founder of Wessex Press.The outstanding item in our annual birthday round-up is the latest novel about eminent fans of the Baker Street sleuth. Though it follows fictionalizations as excellent as Anthony Boucher’s The Case of the Baker Street Irregulars (1940) and Arthur H. Lewis’s Copper Beeches (1971), this quite different novel by Jon Lellenberg may be the best of them all. **** Jon Lellenberg: Baker Street Irregular, Arkham House/Mycroft & Moran, $39.95. In an espionage saga extending from 1933 to the early years of the Cold War, New York lawyer Woody Hazelbaker helps settle the affairs of mobster Owney Madden, joins the BSI, and participates in intelligence activities before, during, and after World War II. Clearly based extensively on fact (and a whole second volume is projected to document and clarify), this extraordinary historical novel is recommended to anyone interested in the run-up to World War II in the United States and the role of code-breaking in the defeat of Germany and Japan. Excellent talk in place of physical action gives a much more authentic feel than the cinematic choreography of lesser novels. Historical characters abound, from FDR and Churchill to the founding Irregulars, many of whom (notably radio commentator Elmer Davis) had an important role in the war effort. Also appearing is prolific British thriller writer Dennis Wheatley, who would have appreciated how Lellenbe
rg draws several plot strands together for a startling ending.
*** Ann Margaret Lewis: Murder in the Vatican: The Church Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes, Gasogene, $18.95. Three of the unrecorded cases—the death of Cardinal Tosca, the Vatican cameos, and the two Coptic Patriarchs—are recounted with much Roman Catholic background. One is narrated by Pope Leo XIII himself, and two include appearances by G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown. The use of Holmes and Watson in overtly religious fiction may raise eyebrows—after all, Doyle never depicted Holmes as a convert to Spiritualism—but the stories are engagingly written. The plots have some clever elements, though short on clues.
*** Tracy Barrett: The Case That Time Forgot, Holt, $15.99. In this series for ages 8 to 11, teenager Xena Holmes and her brilliant ten-year-old brother Xander, American kids transplanted to London, endeavor to solve cases that defeated their great-great-great-grandfather Sherlock. From an unpromising beginning, their third adventure, involving a stolen Egyptian amulet said to have magical powers, gathers considerable steam, with a fair-play mystery that will both enthrall and educate young mystery lovers.
*** Victoria Thompson: Murder on Lexington Avenue, Berkley, $24.95. New York Detective Sergeant Frank Malloy and midwife Sarah Brandt investigate the murder of a wealthy businessman with a deaf daughter and a strong opinion on the still-controversial topic of deaf communication methods. The police procedure, though casual by present-day standards, seems right for around 1900, and the grasp of period attitudes and realities is impressive. Clues are fairly provided, and the main villain is one of the most unusual in recent memory.
*** Cynthia Riggs: Touch-Me-Not, Minotaur, $24.99. The ninth case for 92-year-old Victoria Trumbull, police deputy in a small Massachusetts town, involves stalking, electronic voyeurism, quilting, and a case of manslaughter that a local electrician goes through sometimes darkly comic machinations to cover up. The novel combines inverted detection and whodunit, with involving characters and a well-realized Martha’s Vineyard background.
Ellery Queen Mystery Magazine 02/01/11 Page 18
