Murder on the Thirty-First Floor Read Free Page A

still.’
    He turned back to Jensen.
    ‘Do you realise what you’re asking of us? The cost will be enormous. We’re under a lot of pressure. Even in our private lives. Since last year’s results were announced, we only use large boxes of matches at home. I mention that as just one little example.’
    ‘Large boxes of matches?’
    ‘Yes. We’re having to make savings wherever we can. Larger boxes work out considerably cheaper. It makes good economic sense.’
    The publisher was now sitting on the desk with his feet on the armrests of the chair. He looked at his cousin.
    ‘Maybe it would make good economic sense if there really were a bomb. We’re growing out of the Skyscraper.’
    The chairman regarded him with a mournful expression.
    ‘The insurance will cover us,’ said the publisher.
    ‘And who’s going to cover the insurance company?’
    ‘The banks.’
    ‘And the banks?’
    The publisher said nothing.
    The chairman turned his attention back to Jensen.
    ‘I assume you’re bound by official secrecy?’
    ‘Of course.’
    ‘The chief of police recommended you. I hope he knew what he was doing.’
    Jensen had no answer to that.
    ‘Presumably you haven’t got any uniformed officers inside the building?’
    ‘No.’
    The publisher pulled his legs up on to the desk and sat cross-legged, like a tailor.
    Jensen took a surreptitious look at his watch. 13.36.
    ‘If there really is a bomb here,’ said the publisher. ‘Six thousand people … Tell me, Mr Jensen, what would the percentage loss be?’
    ‘The percentage loss?’
    ‘Yes, of staff.’
    ‘That’s impossible to predict.’
    The publisher muttered something, apparently to himself.
    ‘We might be accused of blowing them sky high on purpose. It’s a question of prestige. Have you thought of the loss of prestige?’ he asked his cousin.
    The chairman’s veiled, blue-grey eyes looked out over the city, which was white and clean and cubic. Jet planes drew linear patterns in the spring sky.
    ‘Evacuate,’ he said out of the corner of his mouth.
    Jensen noted the time. 13.38.
    The publisher stretched out a hand to the intercom and put his mouth close to the microphone. His voice was clear and distinct.
    ‘Fire drill. Implement high-speed evacuation. The building is to be empty within eighteen minutes, with the exception of the Special Department. Begin ninety seconds from now.’
    The red light went out. The publisher stood up. He clarified:
    ‘It’s better for the people on the thirty-first floor to stay safely in their department than to be marching down the stairs. The power supply’s cut the moment the last lift reaches the ground floor.’
    ‘Who can wish us such harm?’ said the chairman sadly.
    He went out.
    The publisher started putting on his sandals.
    Jensen left the room with the head of publishing.
    As the door closed behind them, the corners of the director’s mouth fell, his expression grew stony and arrogant and his eyes sharp and searching. As they walked through the office the idle young women crouched over their desks.
    It was exactly 13.40 as Inspector Jensen stepped out of the lift and emerged into the lobby. He gestured to his men to follow him and went out through the revolving doors.
    The police left the building.
    Behind them, voices from loudspeakers were echoing between the concrete walls.

CHAPTER 3
    The car was stationed right up against the wall of rock, halfway between the police roadblock and the car park.
    Inspector Jensen sat in the front seat, next to the driver. He had a stopwatch in his left hand and the radio microphone in his right. He issued an almost constant series of gruff, terse messages to the policemen in the radio patrol cars and at the roadblocks. His posture was straight-backed, the grey hair at the back of his neck neat and close-cropped.
    In the back seat sat the man with the silk tie and the variable smile. His forehead glistened with sweat and he shifted uneasily in his seat. Now, with