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the shiny, varnished floor. While the furniture was clearly all quite old, it was remarkably unworn. One of the dining chairs lay on its side between the leather sofas, and it was there that the trail of blood ended.
    He turned back to the body. There was blood on the knees of the trousers and the toes of the slippers, and the trail on the floor showed signs of smudging.
    “Looks like he crawled here himself,” Halldór said. “I doubt he’s been dragged here.”
    Egill returned to the lobby, where there was a low table made of dark wood. An old black telephone with a steel dial rested on it, and underneath it had a shelf containing some newspapers and a telephone directory. Beside the table was a matching chair with an embroidered cushion and an upholstered back.
    “This is odd. It looks as if he’s tried to get help, but gave up just before reaching the phone,” Egill said, coming back into the parlor.
    “That’s true,” Halldór replied. “Maybe he just couldn’t manage to get any farther.”
    Egill was not satisfied with this explanation.
    “But he could have written some clue on the floor, in blood. There’s plenty of it.”
    “He was probably thinking about something else,” Halldór answered, looking at the chair lying on the parlor floor. It had been removed from the dining room and placed there. That must mean something. The chair was the only thing out of place in the room. “It’s not easy to pin down the direction of the shot,” he continued. “It looks as if he was by the chair, probably sitting on it, and then knocked it over when he was hit.”
    Halldór removed a small flashlight from his coat pocket and knelt down, shining the light underneath the chair.
    “Well, there’s no gun here,” he said. “So he didn’t shoot himself.”
    He examined the dining chair a bit more carefully. Based on its current position, it had most likely been facing into the parlor, in which case the shot would have come from the bay window. It could, of course, have come from a different direction, but nevertheless he checked the thick drapes that covered the windows. They seemed intact. He drew them slightly apart, letting daylight into the room.
    The windows were also undamaged. Halldór could see the street from where he now stood, and he noticed that Jóhann from forensics had just arrived.
    “Go and tell Jóhann to start by checking the footprints in the snow,” he told Egill, before turning his attention back to the chair. Why had it been moved over there? Maybe the housekeeper could explain it. He hoped that Hrefna and Erlendur would arrive soon.

    Diary I
    October 24, 1910. My studies are progressing well and I lead an orderly life. Not something that can be said of all my fellow students. Minerva, goddess of wisdom, and Bacchus, god of wine, fight for their souls. It is mainly my visits to the train station that affect my studies. I was tested in front of the class today and gained a “meget godt,” a merit grade…
    November 2, 1910. I and seven of my fellow students have established a Rise-and-Shine Club among ourselves. Members of the club are obligated to meet at seven o’clock each morning except Sundays. I wasvoted treasurer, and have to note down the names of those who do not attend, and they must pay a fine. The funds thus accrued are to be used to pay for a celebration for the club members. This is an attempt to keep us comrades focused on our studies…
    November 4, 1910. I like the mathematics and physics very much. Philosophy, however, I find tedious, though I do try to pay just as much attention to it as to the other subjects, in order to get good marks. I am now convinced that I have chosen the right course of study, and am very happy to have followed my instinct. In my work as an engineer I shall have to deal with a great number of problems posed for me by life and nature. These I shall solve with a scientifically disciplined mind…
    December 5, 1910. The Rise-and-Shine Club has