Wendelboe looked at me, his eyes even more alert. I also thought I caught a glimpse of respect there.
‘You went there to listen. And whatever it was that you hoped to hear was about the war, was it not?’
To my surprise, my strategy still worked. He nodded again.
‘The mystery of our friends who were killed in 1941 was still unexplained and unsolved. But even more, it was the other incident that spurred me to go, the one from Liberation Day.’
I asked him to tell me some more about the alleged murder. A fleeting shadow crossed his face before he answered.
‘Arild Bratberg was a well-meaning, if weak, man. We should never have taken him on. I can never forgive myself for letting us make that mistake. It would not have been easy to predict such a tragedy, but the link seemed to be clear enough. After all, he was caught with a smoking gun in his hand and a totally insane explanation of what had happened. So, in the end, I could live with it.’
‘But your wife…’
He nodded and gave a quiet sigh. His gaze suddenly left me and moved over to the wall.
‘I hoped that time would help to heal the wounds. But instead it seemed to get worse when the children left home and she had more time to dwell on the difficult memories. I could well have done without Magdalon Schelderup’s parties. But my wife continued to hope, so I sat there with her and listened for anything that might provide an answer. For him to say something about Ole Kristian’s death, or for her to say something about the others.’
I had to think for a moment before I understood what he meant.
‘And by her, you mean Magdalena?’
He nodded again.
‘She might know something about them?’
He coughed. ‘This may sound strange. At first we all thought that the Dark Prince had to be a man. But if the Dark Prince was in fact a woman, then it was not unthinkable that…’
I gave Petter Johannes Wendelboe a sharp look. He looked directly at me and his eyes did not waver. And in that moment I felt a peculiar fearful admiration for him.
‘We have for all these years hoped and believed that the member of the NS whom we shot in the spring of 1942 was the Dark Prince. There were no further murders later. Magdalena Schelderup was one of the few people who might have known enough about us to be the Dark Prince. Or she may have known who it was. Whatever the case, we listened well to what she said. But there was nothing new to be learnt there, certainly not as long as we or Hans Herlofsen were close by. Magdalon, on the other hand, said something very interesting during the previous meal…’
