Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 137, No. 2. Whole No. 834, February 2011

Signed “Mutual Trust” by Richard Macker

In the spring of 2010, a new short story collection by Reider Thomassen, a.k.a. Richard Macker, entitled Djevelpakten, was published by the Norwegian publisher Kolofon. It included some new stories, and some published in magazines as far back as the 1970s. This month’s Passport to Crime selection from Richard Macker won first prize in the Scandinavian crime short story competition sponsored by Aftenposten, one of the largest newspapers in Norway, in 1975. This is the first time the story has been translated and published in English.

Translated from the Norwegian by Runar Fergus

She stood on the busy street corner close to the Tellus cinema. The buttonhole of her pale blue suit held a yellow Ladies’-delight, as they had agreed upon. She was blond and far too plump, her nose was disproportionately large, and her round face was characterized by naive expectation. She is punctual, he thought. And she has expensive jewelry, elegant clothes. He watched for a while, in seclusion, with a satisfied grin. Then he pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and stepped forward.

“Johanne, here I am.”

She jumped, then smiled to-wards him. Her teeth were too large as well.

“Kristian?”

“Yes”

They shook hands. Then he pulled her towards him and kissed her on the cheek. “You look wonderful, Johanne. Just as I had expected.”

He heard how she drew her breath, relieved and contented, noted how her heavy frame still shook with excitement.

“You...” she spoke softly, eyes shining with emotion, “you’re so tall, so handsome. I can’t really believe that... that...”

My God, he thought. She resembles a deranged, engorged cow. Obviously, he didn’t mind being told that he looked great. But somehow the praise had lost its value, he had heard it so often before, at least from naive, lovesick women.

“Oh no,” he said, flicking her lightly on her large nose, “...don’t exaggerate, now. As I mentioned in one of the letters, I have always been ashamed of my receding hairline. I hope you don’t think...”

Her calf’s eyes blinked at him, blanker than ever. He knew exactly what she was about to say.

“But Kristian, you have beautiful, shiny hair. A bit thin at the edges perhaps. It suits you, makes you look intellectual.”

He stroked her cheek while thinking to himself: Intellectual, where did you learn that word, you flat-footed goose?

He took her arm and guided her down the street. The first act is over, he thought, now for the second act.

“Come on, dear, I know of a nice little place where we can chat without being disturbed.”

The places he chose were always in different parts of the city. He didn’t want to be recognized at the same place with new women all the time. He was very meticulous with details. Without intelligent planning he would have been out of the game a long time ago — he would have lost his livelihood.

He took aim for a small restaurant just outside the center of town and they were soon seated in a peaceful corner of the cavern-like premises. A candle fluttered on the table. He ordered a bottle of fortified wine to loosen her tongue. A dark-skinned violinist was doing the rounds playing sentimental gypsy music. Her eyes were shinier than ever, and he knew she wouldn’t be able to hold back the tears.

“Oh, Kristian, imagine us sitting here together, you and I. It’s wonderful. I can hardly believe it.”

She stroked his hand. He put on his slanted, slightly melancholy charmer’s smile.

He had got in touch with her through the newspaper. She was the “disappointed and disillusioned with love” type, had a broken marriage behind her, and “bore a great sorrow in her heart.” Furthermore, she was from a wealthy family, “but money isn’t everything.” She was looking for someone to confide in, a safe shoulder to cry on, someone to hold her hand, to walk down quiet wooded paths with, someone with whom to experience the heights of passion. In short, she was a rare find, and he put all his experience and routine into his first letter to her. But he was fairly sure of himself, as she had concluded her letter by saying “Your looks are quite important.” Now he was sitting there with the golden goose, and she cackled willingly away:

“I want to tell of my great sorrow, Kristian. I believe I can do so now, you will get to know everything about me, darling.”

He did get to know everything, and then some. About her ailments as a child, her complexes during puberty, about her failed marriage with a Spaniard named Barca, about her child, whom she loved above everything on earth, but who had died at merely five weeks old. That was the great sorrow she carried, and he had to struggle to lay his expression in the requisite compassionate folds.

Her story was miserable enough, but it didn’t affect him in the slightest. He had heard far too many of the same type, and the fools had only themselves to blame. He was more inclined to yawn or doze off, but he didn’t let her suspect that. He gently caressed her chubby hands, stroked her cheeks, which the wine had given color. The words spilled forth from her, and she spoke of disloyal girlfriends, malicious employers, numerous bodily ailments, and strict parents who had no understanding of her. This made him prick up his ears, and he gently probed her to expand on the issue, so that it only sounded natural when he inquired:

“Where do your parents live?”

“At Silverwood, they have a lovely villa there.”

He had to concentrate to avoid smacking his lips. Silverwood was a name that spoke more than a thousand words. She had to be far more well-to-do than he had dared to hope. And she was an only child! He listened intently as she described her mother, who was “strict, hard, but basically has a good heart.”

Finally, the bottle of wine was empty, and she grew quiet, empty of words and repressed emotions. Now it was his turn.

“And now, Kristian. I want to know everything about you.”

He had several “stories of his life” in store, and he chose the one of the orphan who went to sea at an early age but who returned ashore to get an education, about the small business he had established, but which had burnt to the ground, about his marriage to Lovise, about all the lovers she took while he rebuilt his business, about how she had revealed all of his trade secrets to one of them, his greatest competitor.

Johanne gripped his hand and squeezed it tightly.

“How could she be so mean? So vile? How do people become like that?”

She had tears in her eyes, and using an old trick, he managed to produce some of his own. They sat holding each other for a while, and he thought: Curtain call, Baby Fool, let’s proceed to the third act.

Things went exactly as predicted.

“Will you accompany me home, Kristian? For a cup of coffee and a cake I have baked... for you.”

Twenty minutes later, they were in her apartment. While she was in the kitchen, he looked around with practiced eyes. Everything exceeded his expectations: expensive furniture, paintings, and objects. Her parents may have been strict, but they were nevertheless very generous.

She served him coffee, and the cake she had baked, a sugary, sticky affair that revealed that she was as inept in the kitchen as she was at the writing desk. Finally, she fetched a bottle of liqueur, and when they had finished a couple of glasses, she leaned towards him, breathing heavily.

“Kiss me, Kristian. Kiss me hard.”

He closed his eyes and let himself go. After the embrace, he gasped for breath and loosened his tie. He had to undergo the ordeal once more, but to his relief, she suddenly tore herself away from him and said:

“No, Kristian. No! We cannot go any further. Not until... I mean, only if we were to be... married. I’ve been burned before and I just want everything to be right between us. Do you understand, Kristian?”

He understood perfectly, and sighed with relief. “The heights of passion” was what he had feared most. At least he didn’t have to worry about that.

He had to suffer an interminable and nauseating farewell ritual before they separated. They agreed to meet the next day to go to the cinema.

“Goodbye, Kristian,” she said at the door, with a low, tender voice. “I love you.”

“Goodbye,” he groaned, pale with exhaustion.

“Goodbye, you inane, marriage-crazed creature,” he mumbled to himself as he descended the stairs.

During the following weeks they met every day. He struggled along quiet paths in the woods, forced down the dreadful meals she served, and sat holding her hand on the sofa, listening to her selection of sickly love songs. (“Likes all types of music, except country and western.”) Finally he felt that he had gained her complete trust, and he popped the question he had been waiting with for so long.

“Johanne,” he said, flicking her nose playfully, “isn’t it time your parents got to meet their future son-in-law?”

She threw herself at him with full force and kissed him intensely.

“Kristian, do you really want to marry me?”

“Yes,” he whispered, his guts turning. “I finally feel sure that I have met the right one. I love you, my darling little Johanne.”

A few days later she announced, with a voice full of emotion, that her mother wanted to meet him.

“Father is in South America on some important business, so you will meet him later. He will be so happy, I know it. Mother is expecting us at seven tonight.”

He made an extra effort with his looks for this important meeting, had his hair cut at the city’s best hairdresser, donned his new, expensive suit.

Mrs. Nadja Kram — Johanne’s mother — received him in the hallway. She was slim, dark-haired, and refined, and her green eyes inspected him for a long while. However, his slanted, melancholy smile appeared to convince her of his pure intentions.

A few glances at the huge living rooms spoke of prosperity and wealth beyond his wildest imagination. They sat down to a set table, and Mrs. Kram rang a silver bell. A young, attractive maid appeared.

“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 giggled 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