we’ve had lunch together. It started when Richard sold the shipping company. He was clairvoyant when it came to economic trends. If I’d dared to believe in his . . . then I’d be a very rich man today. But I’ve done all right for myself.” He paused and stared blankly into space.
Birgitta prodded him with another question. “Which shipping company was it that he sold?”
“The one he inherited, of course! The family company! He got a good price. He invested in real estate, together with Peder Wahl. Do you know Peder?”
“I’ve spoken with him on the phone.”
“He’s a great guy. It’s a shame that they live down south in Provence most of the time. I miss Peder. Tell him that next time you talk to him,” Reuter said.
Birgitta glanced at Andersson and rolled her eyes. He made an encouraging gesture. It always helps to interview someone with a loose tongue. Birgitta continued valiantly. “Where did you eat last Tuesday?”
“We took a cab out to Johanneshus. An excellent inn out in Billdal. We wanted to go before the Christmas hysteria sets in. Then it gets too crowded.”
“What time were you there?”
“Where?”
“At Johanneshus out in Billdal. The lunch with Richard.”
“Oh, right, of course. The lunch.”
Valle Reuter tried hard to concentrate.
“I think the cab must have arrived out there by one or one-thirty. Somewhere thereabouts. Ask Peter, the innkeeper.”
Birgitta made another note. She certainly would inquire.
“So what did you have to eat?”
“Oh, frutti di mare! The appetizer was ice-cold oysters with lime. A not entirely compatible wine with it, from . . . let me see . . . from the States. Golden Hind Sauvignon Blanc. Not good with oysters. A blunder. An excellent wine with oysters is—”
“The entrée, Valle. Tell us about the entrée.”
“Poached halibut with grated horseradish and melted butter. The potatoes weren’t mashed . . . they were . . . now, what’s it called? . . . Pressed! Pressed potatoes. We decided on the South African wine. Did I mention the wine we drank last Saturday? The white with the appetizer . . . oh yes, of course . . . it was from there too. A splendid wine. Bouchard Finlayson, Chardonnay. It was just fantastic. We ordered two bottles. With dessert, which was an ice cream mousse with Arctic raspberries, we snubbed the sweet wines of the Old World. Ordered a bottle of Mike Mossison Liqueur Muscat. An Australian. Very good choice. Very good.”
Andersson was starting to get royally tired of goofy wines and weird food. Still, when she caught his eye appealing for help, he motioned to Birgitta to continue.
Her sigh was barely audible as she went on. “When did you finish the meal?”
“We rushed a bit. We left at three-thirty. By cab, of course. Sylvia was coming home that night, and Richard wanted to get back and check on things. And he had a slight cold. He was going to have a little whiskey and sit in the sauna. I like to do that too when I feel a cold coming on. But I say to hell with the sauna!”
Valle Reuter found this extraordinarily funny, and he began chuckling and wheezing in amusement. Neither Andersson nor Birgitta Moberg felt like laughing along with him. There was something sad and depressing about the little round man. Birgitta leaned across the desk and shouted, “Valle. Hello? Valle!”
Reuter wiped his eyes with the soggy tissue. But he managed to calm down.
“As you know, Richard was murdered. Who do you think did it? And why?”
Reuter straightened up and gave Birgitta a sharp look, which made her wonder for a moment whether he was more sober than he let on. Caustically he said, “Sylvia! It has to be Sylvia. She inherits the money. She’s crazy about money. Miserly. And spiteful. If you only knew what she said to me.” He put on a deeply injured expression.
“According to several witnesses she was down on the street just as he hit the ground,” Birgitta stated dryly.
This brought back the worried furrows to Reuter’s brow. But he said nothing, merely mumbled inaudibly.
“Is it the inheritance, all that money, that you think is the motive?”
“Sylvia. The money.” He nodded to himself, looking extremely pleased with his own perspicacity.
“Valle, what did you and Richard do after you got out of the taxi?”
“We took the elevator upstairs. I got off on the second floor and Richard continued up to his place.”
“Did you see him, or speak to him later?”
“No. That was the last time I saw