Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 135, No. 1. Whole No. 821, January 2010

The Fifth Guest by Richard Macker

The following tale by Norway’s Reidar Thomassen, writing as Richard Macker, was originally published in Norwegian in the crime-fiction anthology I sakens anledning (Aschehoug 1997). “The story takes place,” Mr. Macker’s son told EQMM, “at a cabin much like the one my father owned in the north of Norway. Norway is a country of cabin owners; there are cabins by the sea, by lakes, and in the mountains.”

Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus

The cabin had a turf roof and walls of grey stone and dark timber. It was positioned on a wooded plateau next to the inlet to a small oval lake that was caressed by the gentle June breeze. Two rowboats were drawn up on the stony beach. The birch wood was close by, leaves not yet sprung. Higher up was the mountain plateau, the glacier, and the snow-capped peaks.

Robert Odden sat against the cabin’s southern wall. He was a dark-haired, stocky man, aged forty-five. He meticulously fastened a wet fly to a thin nylon line. He put down the rod, lit his pipe, and leaned back in his chair.

His wife Linda appeared carrying a tray, which she placed on a solid wooden table in the shadow of the birch tree in the yard. She was a few years younger than her husband, with a well-maintained figure and an attractive face colored by the sun and discreet makeup.

“Do you need a hand?” he inquired.

“No, I’ll let you know when I do. Do you know what? In the kitchen I put four cups and plates on the tray without even thinking. Then I realized. But I’ll never get used to Father being gone. I often feel that he’ll reappear. That everything will be the same as this time last year.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “It’s a natural reaction. Birger will be a part of us for as long as we live. There’s Marta, by the way.”

A tall woman in green-speckled sportswear approached them from a copse. She was sixty-seven, but bore her age well. A melancholy shadow lay over the thin brown face.

“Did you go far?” her daughter asked.

“To the beacon on Stolshogda.”

“Oh. The same walk you and Father took so many times. I should have known you went there today.”

“I know. I had to. And do you know what? It was as though Birger followed me the whole way. I didn’t see him, and I didn’t hear him. Yet he was there, like a detached part of myself. Isn’t that strange?”

The daughter hugged her mother, eyes blank.

“Well, you must be tired now. Would you like to sit down? The table is set, as you can see.”

“I need to freshen up first. It’s only eleven-thirty. At twelve o’clock exactly we drink a toast to Birger, as we agreed. The guests arrive at one o’clock. If anyone turns up, that is. We can’t expect it, now that Birger is no more. But we must be prepared.”

“I’m pretty sure Arne Midtli will turn up,” said Robert Odden. “He mentioned he had made something Birger was supposed to have had.”

“Well, I never. If he turns up, his brother Erik is sure to be along, too. The more the merrier. I know they’re fond of whisky. We do have soda, Robert?”

“Don’t worry, we have everything we need.”

“Fine, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Marta Lindbo disappeared into the spacious cabin. When she reappeared fifteen minutes later, she was wearing a green skirt and yellow blouse. With her brown skin and her blond, newly brushed hair, she looked almost youthful.

“How pretty you are, Mother!” exclaimed Linda Odden.

She had also freshened up. She looked good in a green pantsuit and yellow silk blouse. Her brows above her shiny eyes were replenished with dark make-up. Robert Odden had donned a pair of black trousers, a white shirt, and a blue striped tie. He smiled self-consciously and said:

“Birger would make a fuss could he see me now. I can practically hear his voice: ‘A tie on at the cabin! That’s like wearing a swimsuit to church, dear boy!’”

The two women smiled. Marta Lindbo said:

“Yes, he would have said something like that. He always had a clever tongue. But I appreciate that you have dressed for the occasion, Robert.”

She suddenly became quiet. She sat down at the table with a hand covering her face. Robert and Linda Odden glanced at each other. She made a small gesture and he bent over to bring out a bottle of Champagne from a cooler. A few seconds later, an explosion sounded. The cork was launched high into the air. Then he poured the glasses that Linda Odden had set out. She raised her voice. It was shaking slightly.

“It’s noon. Today, on the twentieth of June, Father would have turned eighty. This was not to be, but he is with us all the same. He always will be. A toast to Father!”

The three of them lifted their glasses. Marta Lindbo’s eyes were blank. When she had drunk, she said:

“Excuse me, I can’t help being moved. But it’s so... so pointless... that Birger is no longer amongst us. Here, at this cabin that he built with his own hands. At this place, which he loved so dearly. To me, it’s just...”

She sniffled and couldn’t go on. Robert Odden started to speak, calmly and quietly.

“We are all moved today, all three of us, Marta. Both Linda and I feel exactly as you do. I believe that there always is meaning in things that appear to be meaningless. Birger disappeared on that hunting trip on the twenty-ninth of October last year. He was never found despite an exhaustive search. I don’t want to reopen old wounds, but I would just like to repeat what Birger said to me some years ago. ‘When I feel that my time has come,’ he said, ‘I would just like to disappear in the mountains up here. Return to nature, so to speak.’ And Birger’s wish was heeded. That’s why I have a strong sense that he is still amongst us. In the fresh air, in the pure water, in the wildflowers, the heather, and the birdsong in the hillsides.”

A prolonged silence followed these words. Then Marta Lindbo leaned forward and patted her son-in-law on the hand, and said quietly:

“Thank you, Robert, that was beautiful. It was just what I needed to hear today.”

“Let’s drink another toast,” said Linda Odden. “Let us be merry. For what would Father have wanted more on this day than for us to enjoy ourselves. Death is part of life. I feel that even more now. Birger is amongst us. I can see him clearly. The warm smile, the cheery glint in his eye, the quick retort. Another toast to Father.”

They lifted their glasses once more. When they had drunk, Linda Odden disappeared into the kitchen. She soon returned with a pot of coffee and a tray of smoked trout sandwiches, scrambled eggs, and finely cut vegetables.

“My, my, how delightful!” exclaimed Marta Lindbo, “you really made an effort, dear.”

“It’s the trout Birger caught in the Heivatnet Lake last summer,” said Robert Odden. “He wanted to save it for his eightieth birthday. It has been in the freezer all this time. And as you will notice, it is of excellent quality.”

Linda Odden poured coffee. They ate piously at the solid wooden table that Birger Lindbo had once built with his own hands. The sun was warm. Bright yellow flowers and grass swayed in the gentle breeze. A brownish-red butterfly fluttered across the fields.

“Memories come flowing back on days like these,” said Marta Lindbo. “I remember the night I met Birger as if it were yesterday. I was only twenty, and he was thirty-three. But I can assure you that it was love at first sight. He was so grown-up, so handsome, so sure of himself. I fell for his blue, honest eyes. And for the good strong hands. Yes, I was young back then, but love matured me. Youthful nonsense became a thing of the past.”

The conversation flowed along, almost exclusively about Birger Lindbo. If he had been present, he would have sat at his customary place at the north end of the table. Now Robert Odden was sitting there, because his mother-in-law had wanted it so.

“It’s a man’s place,” she said, “And I don’t want it be empty.”

Robert Odden had hesitated to begin with. Then he moved, with the slightly self-conscious smile that made him so boyish. Linda Odden fetched a plate of waffles and a bowl of cloudberry jam.

“The berries we picked at Bjornemyra bog last autumn,” she explained. “Father was with us. He probably picked more than his share.”

They ate in silence once more. Linda Odden poured Birger Lindbo’s favorite liqueur. Everything was well planned and stylishly executed. The mild intoxication and the warm summer breeze had put them all in an elevated, slightly emotional state.

Everything seems so right, Linda Odden thought to herself. She no longer had any sense of self-reproach. After almost eight months of varying degrees of regret and frustration she had found spiritual equilibrium. As soon as she felt a hint of a bad conscience, it was countered by a feeling of objection. Herself as a little girl, on her father’s lap. No, it was hardly incestuous. But she seemed to recall that he had felt her up a few times. And in recent years he had been difficult. A real stubborn miser. Why had he insisted on living in the huge villa when Marta preferred the Canaries during the winter and beyond? Particularly when he knew that Robert and she could use the space.

She had prepared the packed lunch that day her father and mother had set out on what was to be his final hunting trip. She knew what they would want. Egg sandwiches for her mother, whole wheat bread and salami for her father. He always preferred strong, hot coffee for his thermos, while she preferred sweet tea. A few sleeping pills in his coffee, well, that could only be construed as mischief. How he had completely vanished, she just couldn’t fathom. It had to be providence. It was only later that she contemplated the intimidating term autopsy. She hadn’t thought far ahead, but things had turned out well.

Her mother had come home in the afternoon. She had said that she didn’t have the energy to follow Birger any further, as he had wanted to hunt all the way up to the top of Vestfjellet mountain. She had brought the pack back with her. No coffee remained in the thermos. Linda Odden quickly cleaned it thoroughly. That was that. And now everything felt easy and right. Yes, it had to be providence.

“Another toast to Father,” she proposed and raised her glass once more.

“A toast to Birger.”

Marta Lindbo was also in a pleasantly animated state. This celebration was indeed a worthy celebration. She really felt that Birger was invisibly present. Birger as he was before he became so single-minded, stubborn, and difficult. Over the years there was more and more hunting and fishing, less and less time for her. More and more often she had traveled alone to their holiday retreat in the Canaries. And the inevitable had happened. She had known Jan Tydell for three years. He was a Swedish widower who owned a picturesque restaurant in a small coastal village on the south coast of Gran Canaria. He was five years her junior, and so fresh, so spontaneous, so different. His tender attention had awakened her dormant urges. Eventually they had become dependent on each other. At home in the grand villa in Norway, Birger sat with his fly-tying and his books on hunting and fishing. Unless he was at the cabin with his unavoidable hunting buddies. Or at the factory he owned. The one producing Lindbo’s Outdoor Gear. Initially it was just tents, sleeping bags and fishing equipment. Later on, there were backpacks, clothes, skis, canoes, and whatnot. The enterprise he had established had become a gold mine he was reluctant to relinquish. Over the years he had become an old, impotent man who couldn’t acknowledge that time had passed, and who watched over the family with the suspicious eye of a miser. No, why should she feel regret?

“Birger was so virtuous that I often felt unworthy of him,” she said with a shy smile.

“Mother! How could you be unworthy of him? You, of such high morals. You, who shared his interests and stood loyally by his side.”

Her daughter’s indignation touched Marta Lindbo. And so did her son-in-law’s unfailing interest in whatever she had to say. It was indeed a day of celebration. Linda had become more lively and youthful after she and Robert had moved into the villa. Now she could finally host the grand dinner parties she had always dreamed of. She was an excellent hostess, just as Marta Lindbo once had been. But Marta had felt no desire to live in the villa by herself, so she had exchanged dwellings with her daughter and son-in-law. In any case, she spent so many months of the year abroad. It was a beneficial arrangement for all parties. Robert had also shed that slightly insecure and humbled attitude once he became director at the factory. Everything was indeed harmonious.

She really wasn’t to blame for the events that had unfolded. She had told a white lie, and that was it. She had accompanied Birger on the hunting trip. Following several hours of fruitless hiking they had stopped for a break. She unpacked the delicious lunch that Linda had prepared. Then they had eaten. And drunk coffee and tea. In a short while Birger had become very tired. He must be ill, she had thought. Good God, he’s falling asleep. Here, way up in the mountains in the cold and rain. What am I to do?

Then she had the idea. Not a sudden impulse, but rather a logical and natural conclusion. There had to be a purpose to the situation. She had been given a chance that perhaps would never return. When she confirmed that he was fast asleep, she packed the lunch and removed all traces of herself. Before she left her husband, she bent over him, kissed his cheek, and whispered, “Goodbye Birger, and thank you.” Then she left, sure that he wouldn’t suffer. He would sleep until death caught up with him. Perhaps he had suffered heart failure, in such a quiet and peaceful manner. Perhaps it was fate that had determined that he should die up in the mountains. And that she should be financially independent. She had taken the shortest route back to the cabin. She said that she had had to part ways with her husband, that she just didn’t have the energy to follow him up the mountain as she wasn’t as fit as she used to be.

That was it. And now she sat there in the warmth of June, youthful, well-kept, eyes blank with intoxicating drink and a torrent of memories from her long marriage.

“Excuse my sentimentality,” she said with a melancholy smile.

“You have every right to be sentimental,” exclaimed Linda.

“We are all sentimental at moments such as these,” said Robert Odden. “Mournful, too. We have every reason to be. Another toast to Birger.”

When he put down his glass, he thought that if he hadn’t acted as he did, he would still be at the foot of the table. His father-in-law would have him under surveillance with his hawkish eye, and he would append his inevitable “boy” to every second sentence directed at him. “You must understand, boy.” “You must get it into your head that it’s as I say it is, boy.” He used the same figure of speech when they spoke confidentially at the factory. The old man is unreasonably hard and difficult, Robert Odden had thought. But he had been patient and polite enough to avoid giving him a piece of his mind, as he was brought up in a home where manners were instilled in him in daily doses, much like cod liver oil.

No, he wasn’t a criminal, by any means. What had happened was chance and a chance he couldn’t let pass. His mother-in-law had returned from the walk and said that she couldn’t keep up with her husband. The hours went by, and when the old man didn’t return, he had gone out to search for him. He brought a tent and a sleeping bag, as it was late autumn and darkness would come early. He couldn’t find his father-in-law that evening. The morning after, he was up early and continued the search. He found him below the peak of Vestfjellet, lying next to an extinguished fire with his shotgun and backpack. He’s dead, was Robert’s first thought. But he soon discovered that there was some life in him, despite hypothermia and a slow pulse. It was testimony to his unique toughness. He would live to be a hundred if he had the chance.

Robert Odden had summed up his options. The old man would undoubtedly die if he was left in this condition. However, he was on a well-used path up the mountain. If he returned with news that he hadn’t found him, it would seem strange that he hadn’t looked there. In other words, his father-in-law had to be moved to a more inaccessible location. But that would also seem suspicious if he were to be found later on.

It was then the idea came to him, but at the same moment his father-in-law moved and opened his eyes. For a few fateful seconds the two men had stared each other in the eye. Then panic gripped Robert Odden, he felt that the chance of a lifetime was about to be torn from his grasp. He grabbed a rock, bent over his father-in-law, and hit him on the head so that he fell calm once more. The blow may indeed have been fatal, but this was no time for regrets. Birger Lindbo had to disappear for good.

His panic passed, and he once more felt in command of himself and capable of logical thought. He had made a huge mistake, but it was not to seal his fate. He took his father-in-law’s backpack and gun on his back. Then he lifted the frail old body over his shoulders. Robert Odden had always been as strong as an ox, and he maintained his shape through regular visits to the gym.

Nevertheless, it took him three-quarters of an hour to carry his father-in-law up to the glacier. He made numerous stops under way. He put on his special spiked shoes for glacier climbing and continued on his way with his burden, now on hard, slippery ice. Half an hour later he had arrived at a narrow, bottomless crevasse. First he got rid of the gun and the backpack, but as he was about to topple his father-in-law over the edge, he noticed signs of life — a gurgling rattle, a leg twitching. Robert Odden pulled the belt from his jacket, tied it around the wrinkled neck, and pulled it tight. Imagine regaining consciousness at the bottom of a crevasse. He shuddered. No, his father-in-law didn’t deserve it.

He shoved the limp body into the depths, and all was done. In more ways than one he felt like a weight had been lifted from his shoulders as he returned to where he had found his father-in-law. He carefully checked that no trace remained before picking up his own backpack and heading towards the cabin. He arrived in late afternoon, tired and despondent.

“I couldn’t find him. We need help to search for him. Give me some food and a short rest, then I’ll head down to the village to organize a search party.”

He had done everything humanly possible, and no one would doubt his genuine concern. He was a permanent fixture of the search party, but not a trace of the missing man was to be found. Torrential rain made things worse. The glacier was not searched, as it was a well-known fact that Birger Lindbo detested the cold and ice.

The days passed, and the old man remained missing, and the three remaining occupants of the cabin became closer while discussing the dreadful events.

A new year came around, a new summer. Robert Odden adjusted his position, full of well-being and pleasant thoughts.

“I have a great debt of gratitude to Birger,” he said. “He taught me everything I know about good management. He was an indispensable mentor. I hope you have no objections to my plan of having a bust made. By a renowned sculptor, obviously. The bust will have a place of honor at the factory.”

“Of course we don’t mind,” said Marta Lindbo.

“Of course not,” her daughter concurred.

They raised their glasses for another toast. Then Robert Odden set his sights on the edge of the wood down the hill.

“There come Else and Torstein Moen,” he declared.

The two women stared in the same direction, and Marta Lindbo exclaimed:

“Oh, how pleasant. You do have more trout sandwiches and waffles, don’t you, Linda?”

“Of course, I did take guests into account.”

“And I have some more Champagne hidden away,” said Robert Odden.

The retired district doctor was a short, cheerful man with grey hair and steel-rimmed glasses. His wife was blond, chubby, and almost as talkative as he was. She handed Marta Lindbo a beautiful flower arrangement, a bundle of dried wildflowers in a lacquered pine bowl. Her husband had brought a bottle of fine cognac.

“Oh, it’s just too much,” said Marta Lindbo emotionally.

She put the gifts on the table and asked the guests to be seated. Soon there was another toast, and chatter continued.

“We weren’t expecting guests today,” said Marta Lindbo with little conviction. The remark sparked mild indignation with Torstein Moen:

“You must have realized that we would come to celebrate Birger’s birthday. He was very important to both Else and myself.”

“There are two more guests,” said Linda Odden.

They all turned their heads in the same direction. Two aging men came walking up the slope.

“Arne and Erik Midtli,” said Robert Odden. “Two of Birger’s best hunting buddies.”

“Indeed, almost as good as me,” said the retired doctor humorously. “They are two spirited old bachelors. But I am afraid they will remain unmarried. Unless miracles happen, that is.”

The two brothers were slim, dark-skinned, and taciturn. Erik Midtli had brought a small bear carved from birchwood, while his brother presented Marta Lindbo with two fishing flies in a plastic case. She folded her hands.

“My goodness, you are true artists, I have always said so. And you, Arne, I owe you so much. You taught Birger everything he knew about tying flies. But no matter how hard he tried, he never became as good as you. What are these flies called?”

“One is called ‘Birger,’ and the other is called ‘Lindbo,’” said the old man. “I think they’ll do well in the lake here.”

“Such a shame that Father never had the opportunity to see these wonderful gifts,” said Linda Odden, tears in her eyes. “You are so wonderful, all of you!”

The brothers sat down at the table and the conversation picked up. It was all about the deceased. The four guests testingly glanced at the hosts occasionally, fearful of recalling sore memories.

The atmosphere lightened. Even the taciturn brothers became lively. However, the gathering never lost its sense of dignity. Not even when jokes and good hunting stories were told did the party surrender to unrestrained liveliness.

Later on, when Robert Odden and the retired district doctor stood admiring the fabulous view, Robert Odden said:

“It’s strange, but Marta, Linda, and I all feel that Birger is present.”

“Indeed, I feel the same way myself,” said Torstein Moen. “I’m not a superstitious man, but so-called animism has fascinated me for a long time. That everything has a soul is easy to believe when confronted by such beautiful natural surroundings.”

Robert Odden turned around and called for the attention of the others.

“Dear all of you. If Birger were amongst us today, you know he would have suggested a fishing trip. Well, the two boats are ready. Torstein, you use Birger’s favourite rod. And you two, Arne and Erik, can be the first to try the new flies with my rods.”

The suggestion was received enthusiastically. Everyone moved to where the two boats lay. The sun had become even warmer, the breeze had relented, and the mountains were mirrored in the still lake.

“It’s been a surprisingly mild winter,” said Torstein Moen. “I can’t recall anything like it for as far as I can remember.”

He looked towards the river that plummeted downwards and emptied into the lake, only a few feet from the boats. The water level was high, and in the eddies along the shore twigs and strangely shaped branches swirled around and around. Linda Odden was the first to arrive at the boat closest to the river mouth. Suddenly she froze in a strangely stiff posture. Then she screamed, loud and shrill.

The others ran towards her and surrounded her. Then there were more screams and shouts before a paralyzing silence arose.

In an eddy a small distance from the boat lay Birger Lindbo, floating on his back. The time beneath the ice and in the cold river had given his face a greenish-white tinge. He was otherwise strangely unaffected by his lengthy absence. His clothes were whole, the belt around his neck still tightly fastened. The apples of his eyes glowed a pale white in the afternoon sun. His right arm pointed upwards with fingers apart, as if in greeting. His mouth gaped at them.

As if to cry a silent hello.

©2009 by Richard Macker; translation ©2009 by Runar Fergus