We shook hands by the front door. His handshake was warm, but I was also surprised by its strength. He said once again how grateful he was that it had not been necessary to disturb his wife and added that he hoped that what he had told me would be of some help.
Just as Wendelboe was about to unlock the door, I asked one final question that might be of significance.
‘Do you happen to know the name of the man Magdalena Schelderup was engaged to, the one who broke off the engagement in autumn 1940?’
He stopped mid-movement and stood stock-still looking at me fora moment.
‘Yes. There was a time when I knew Magdalena Schelderup’s fiancé well. He died many years ago now.’
I nodded, but still did not understand the connection.
‘I would still like to know his name before I go.’
He nodded, and it struck me that he seemed almost relieved.
‘Magdalena Schelderup’s fiancé was called Hans Petter Nilsen. He was an unusually good man, who deserved someone better,’ was Petter Johannes Wendelboe’s curt reply.
Then he opened the door for me. Outside, on the front step, I commented that it might perhaps be worth my while to speak to Mona Varden. He answered swiftly that it might be a good idea, but that I should also perhaps consider talking more to Magdalena Schelderup first.
I had to concede this point, but did not mention that there was in fact a third woman I definitely had to talk to first. I was very interested to find out what Patricia would make of all of this.
Back at the office, I looked through the preliminary findings from Leonard Schelderup’s flat. The pathologist was confident that the cause of death was a bullet to the head, fired at close range. The time of death was less certain, but he could say with 90 per cent certainty that the shot was not fired before half past twelve and with 100 per cent certainty that it was not fired before midnight. The ballistics expert could add that the bullet in Leonard Schelderup’s head definitely came from the revolver that had been found lying on the floor in the hallway.
The report from the flat was hardly sensational and not particularly uplifting. There were no fingerprints on the gun. This fact, and the position of the gun in a different room from the body, precluded all theories of suicide.
An examination of the living room and bedroom had thus far produced traces of only two sets of fingerprints. One naturally belonged to the deceased, Leonard Schelderup. The other, which was found on both the bed and the sofa, did not belong to any of the nine living suspects.
