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

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.”