James Benn - Billy Boyle

Then I saw it. On the desk, on top of a piece of writing paper, sat a single gold coin. A Hungarian gold piece, just like those in the Norwegian gold shipment. Even in the dimly lit room, it gleamed, shining brightly like the devil’s left eye. I almost ran the few steps to the desk, with Harding, Jens, and Kaz following me. I nearly fell over when I read the note beneath the coin. I know this is a great disappointment. I have always tried to serve Norway and my king as best I could. This final step is unfortunately necessary given the current situation.

The gold coin was carefully placed just below these lines. The paper was small, of a high quality, and there was a stack more of it at the side of the desk. A closed fountain pen was carefully positioned at the top of the blotter. I turned to Jens.

“Is this Birkeland’s handwriting?” He stepped closer and reached for the note.

“Don’t touch it,” I said, “please.”

Jens halted his movement, nodded his head, stood, and studied the note for a few seconds.

“Yes, absolutely. I see his handwriting nearly every day. This is it.”

I walked around the room and looked on top of the bureau, the nightstand, felt in the pockets of the coat hanging on the coatrack near the door. I thought about Knut Birkeland sitting at that desk, writing that note. I thought about him down below, dressed for a date with the daisies. Something was wrong. I scanned the room again.

“What are you looking for, Billy?” asked Kaz.

“Tell me what’s missing from this room.”

Kaz looked around, shrugged. “Nothing obvious.”

I walked over to the bureau, where some coins sat in a ceramic ashtray, a penknife on top of the pile. His billfold was next to the ashtray.

“What else belongs right here?” I asked. “If this were your room, what would be lying next to coins and a pocketknife?”

I saw the lightbulb go on.

“The key! The key to this room, of course.”

“Yes, good! It wasn’t in any of his pockets, and the door was locked when we got here, so it has to be in this room.” We began a thorough search. We looked in the obvious places again, then everywhere else. Lifted the mattress, moved the desk. Nothing.

“What’s so important about the key?” Harding looked irritated at what he obviously thought was a waste of time.

“Sir, if the door was locked, and Birkeland didn’t have the key on him, then it must be outside the room. Which is really important. It means someone else took it out, after Birkeland was dead, and locked the door from the outside.”

“After they threw Knut Birkeland out the window,” Kaz added.

“He catches on fast,” I said to Harding, jerking my thumb in Kaz’s direction.

“There’s just one problem with your theory,” Jens interrupted.

“What?” Harding growled. His temper wasn’t improving any.

“Look at this room.” Jens gestured with open arms at the order around us. “What do you think a room would look like if someone tried to throw Knut out this window? He was a very large man. It would not have been easy.”

“Maybe he was killed first,” Kaz suggested halfheartedly.

“Once again, it would not be easy to kill such a man without a struggle.” Jens looked smug. I looked down at my shoes. Kaz gave it another shot.

“Maybe he was poisoned? Last night at dinner?”

“What, a delayed-action poison?” Jens laughed. “He obviously got up this morning early, as was his habit, bathed, dressed, wrote that note, and committed suicide. Skak must’ve been right about the stolen gold…”

His voice trailed off as he looked at the gold coin. “I wonder where the rest of it is?”

“Why would anyone bother taking a bath and getting dressed if they were going to kill themselves anyway?” Harding asked. I could tell he hadn’t been around dead bodies a lot, or at least not after the fact.

“Actually, sir, suicides are pretty careful about their appearance, in their own way. I found a guy once who had shot himself in the heart. He took his shirt off before he did it. I guess it made sense to him, although he still left a bloody mess.”

“So the bath and good suit make sense to you?”

“I’d say it’s consistent with suicide, but the missing key bothers me.”

“What about the suicide note?” Jens asked. “Isn’t that clear proof that he took his own life?”

“It seems so, Jens, I have to admit. But, still, where is the key, and who has it?” He seemed to have an answer for everything, except that.

Harding did, though.

“Well, find the damn key, Boyle! It’s probably just been an hour or so since Birkeland went out that window. No one’s been allowed off the premises, so get cracking!” He turned to Jens.

“Captain Iversen, we should find the king and report to him now.”

“Very well. Would you like some of my men to assist in the search? It is a very large building.” Harding glanced at me and I gave a slight shake of the head.

“No, thank you, Captain. Lieutenant Boyle will take care of it.” He shot me a look as they left the room. I knew he understood we didn’t want any possible suspects in on the search, and that right now anyone with the slightest Norwegian accent was a suspect.

I sent Kaz to fetch Daphne. We’d make better time in the search if we split up, and I figured a rookie like him could use an extra pair of eyes. First, I went outside and searched the flower bed again, in case the key had been in Birkeland’s pocket and bounced out. No dice. I didn’t think it would be there anyway. He had nothing else on him, so why should he put a key in his pocket?

I found the housekeeper and got the spare keys. There was a metal ring of keys for each floor, each one marked with a room number on a small metal tag. I sounded like sleigh bells a-jingling as I trotted up the stairs. Reindeer came from Norway, didn’t they? For the first time I wondered if I’d be going to Norway after the invasion, or maybe as part of it. It then quickly occurred to me that I had just about had my fill of Norwegians, and that they couldn’t take back their country soon enough for me.

By lunchtime I had rummaged through more Norwegian underwear drawers than I ever thought I’d see in my life, which, if I had really thought about such things, would have been zero. I had learned a few choice Norwegian curses based on comments made by the occupants of rooms as I searched them. I didn’t know if they were referring to me, or my mother, but they weren’t happy with either of us.

Vidar Skak was unexpectedly cordial. He was on his way out, but he offered to let me search him for the key. I realized that word of our search was spreading faster than we could possible conduct it, and that if someone had the key he or she would have to be a complete idiot to be found with it. I patted him down anyway. He must’ve been in a good mood with his rival for senior adviser dead, because he smiled when he left, and probably would’ve whistled if he were a whistling sort of guy.

His room was about the same size as Birkeland’s, but at the other end of the building, maybe so they wouldn’t have to bump in to each other in the hall. His bathroom was even larger, but no marble finishes. His fix-tures were pretty new, probably installed by the government. He had a fireplace, and I poked around the ashes for anything incriminating, getting nothing but soot for my troubles. I went through the motions in the rest of his room, feeling that the search was increasingly useless. Searching a room can actually be interesting, if there’s only one room or even just one house to search. But a repetitive search of a whole bunch of small rooms is very, very boring. What is personal and sacrosanct individually, like family pictures, old photos, and letters, becomes mind-numbingly more and more like the debris of everyday life, devalued a little bit every time you see it again with only the faces changed. I longed to find the room of a monk, someone who had renounced the world and all connections with it. No such luck. Even Vidar Skak kept a picture of his mother or grandmother on the mantel. I hoped to God it wasn’t his wife.