Sohlberg and the White Death Read Online Free PDF Page A

interpreter who was murdered. . . . Write this down . . . investigate it carefully . . . Harald Sohlberg was having an affair with the woman. She was pregnant with their love child. That’s why he killed her.
    “How do I know? . . . That’s confidential!”
    The Turk slammed the phone down. He briefly grimaced before lapsing into his career of inertia.
     
    ~ ~ ~
     
    At noon Sohlberg met Bruno de Laprade at Cafe de la Bibliothèque. The men sat outside to take in the lovely views and warm sunshine and cool breezes by the Saône River.
    “I’m starving,” said Laprade. The shorter and barrel-chested commissaire looked more like an anti-social menace than a police detective. Violence always seemed imminent with Laprade thanks to his thick neck, ham fists, and bulging eyes of blue ice. “I could eat a horse. Have you ever tried horsemeat?”
    “No thanks,” replied Sohlberg. He noticed that three well-dressed and good-looking women a few tables away were ogling his table companion. The Norwegian disliked any attention since he preferred to conceal himself under a clever facade of cheap and ill-fitting clothes that literally became a cloak of invisibility. Sohlberg worked hard at fading from plain sight as a faceless and timid and dumb bureaucrat of no account. He resented how easily Laprade attracted inquiring looks with his shaved head, bristling black moustache, and brusque manners.
    “Bah . . . This is an outrage!” Laprade reviewed the menu one more time. He shot a piercing glare at the waiter who hesitated before setting a basket of bread and butter on the table.
    “But monsieur—”
    “Enough,” growled Laprade. “This rip-off joint has jacked up the prices again. We’ll have the bouillabaisse.”
    The waiter hastily retreated into the kitchen.
    The two detectives often gathered for a quick lunch at the convenient restaurant on Avenue Adolphe Max in Lyon’s Fifth Arrondissement . The small café had fantastic views of Notre-Dame de Fourvière. Sohlberg never tired of looking at the cathedral and its four towers high atop Fourvière hill. He loved the city and its glorious architecture and food and was secretly glad that Interpol had ordered him back to headquarters as Norway’s official Advisor to the General Secretary.
    Sohlberg looked around to make sure that no one was within earshot. “Where were you when I called you from Azra Korbal’s home? . . . Why didn’t you take my call?”
    “First of all . . . it’s none of your business where I was. Second . . . I didn’t take your call because I was busy. You’re not my boss . . . so stop asking dumb questions. Or are you questioning me because I’m a suspect in your mind?” Laprade leaned forward and let his malignant glare finish the talking for him.
    “Look . . . I’m sorry. I’m not implying anything . . . it’s just that I really needed you there. . . . I’m not French. I don’t speak the language that well.”
    Laprade ripped the bread apart and smothered it with butter. “Tell me something I don’t know.”
    “I’ve kept calling Azra Korbal’s parents during the past four weeks. I enlisted her boss at Interpol and he’s been calling them at their Istanbul number. But no luck. Seems it’s a wrong number.”
    “Interesting,” said Laprade while he chewed away at the bread. “But why did you call her parents? Was it to get information about Azra?”
    “I did it because my wife and I liked Azra a lot . . . she was intelligent and personable and one of the best translators I ever came across. . . . She spoke excellent if not perfect Arabic . . . Bulgarian . . . English . . . Italian . . . and Russian. . . . I just wanted to reach the Korbal family first and let them know what happened to their daughter before some journalist called them for a comment.”
    “Well,” said Laprade, “Colonel Daudet hasn’t been able to reach the next-of-kin either. Imagine what would’ve happened if you had quit after no one answered the