Murder on the Thirty-First Floor Read Free

beautiful it is.’
    You could have heard a pin drop in the room. Jensen looked at his watch. 13.29.
    ‘Move our cars,’ said the chairman out of the corner of his mouth.
    The director of publishing made for the door at a run.
    ‘They’re right beside the building,’ the chairman said softly. ‘How beautiful it is,’ he repeated.
    Thirty seconds of silence elapsed.
    There was a buzz, and a light flashed on the intercom.
    ‘Yes,’ said the publisher.
    ‘Eighteen to twenty minutes using all sets of stairs, the paternoster lift system and the automatic high-speed elevators.’
    ‘All floors?’
    ‘Not the thirty-first.’
    ‘So the … Special Department?’
    ‘Would take considerably longer.’
    The voice from the machine lost something of its efficient tone.
    ‘The spiral staircases are narrow,’ it said.
    ‘I know.’
    Click. Silence. 13.31.
    Jensen went over to one of the windows. Way below him he could see the parking area and the wide, six-lane road, now a deserted strip. He could also see that his men had blocked off the carriageway with bright yellow barriers about four hundred metres from the Skyscraper and one of the officers was busydiverting the traffic down a side street. In spite of the distance, he could clearly see the policemen’s green uniforms and the traffic constable’s white armbands.
    Two extremely large black cars were pulling out of the parking area. They were driven away, heading south, and followed by another one, which was white and presumably belonged to the director of publishing.
    The man had slipped back into the room and was standing by the wall. His smile was an anxious one and his head was drooping under the weight of his thoughts.
    ‘How many floors does this building have?’ said Jensen.
    ‘Thirty above ground,’ said the publisher. ‘Plus four below. We usually count it as thirty.’
    ‘I thought you mentioned a thirty-first?’
    ‘Well if I did, it must have been absent-mindedness.’
    ‘How many staff are there?’
    ‘Here? In the Skyscraper?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Four thousand one hundred in the main building. About two thousand in the annexe.’
    ‘So over six thousand in total?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘I must insist they are evacuated.’
    Silence. The publisher spun once round on his desk chair.
    The chairman stood with his hands in his pockets, looking out. He turned slowly to Jensen. His regular-featured face wore a grave expression.
    ‘Do you really consider it likely that there’s a bomb in the building?’
    ‘We have to allow for the possibility, at any rate.’
    ‘You’re a police inspector, aren’t you?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘And have you ever come across a case like this before?’
    Jensen thought for a moment.
    ‘This is a very special case. But experience tells us that the claims made in anonymous letters do correspond with reality in eighty per cent of all known cases or are at the very least based on facts.’
    ‘That’s been statistically proven?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Do you know what an evacuation would cost us?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Our company has been wrestling with financial difficulties for the last thirty years. Our losses are increasing year on year. That is unfortunately also a statistical fact. We have only been able to continue publishing our titles at the cost of great personal sacrifice.’
    His voice had taken on a new ring, bitter and complaining.
    Jensen did not reply. 13.34.
    ‘Our operations here are entirely non-profit-making. We’re not businessmen. We’re book publishers.’
    ‘Book publishers?’
    ‘We view our magazines as books. They answer the need that the books of earlier times never succeeded in fulfilling.’
    He looked out of the window.
    ‘Beautiful,’ he mumbled. ‘When I walked through the park today, the first flowers were already in bloom. Snowdrops and winter aconites. Are you an outdoor person?’
    ‘Not particularly.’
    ‘Everyone should be an outdoor person. It would make life richer. Richer