The Man in the Window Read Online Free PDF Page A

his card from the machine and blew on his hands before hunching his shoulders and trudging across the pavement to the car door the driver was holding open from inside. He got in and shut the door after him.
        'Where?' asked the driver - a chunky Pakistani, concentrating on the traffic behind him in the mirror.
        'Ensjo,' Reidar said and took a deep breath. 'I'm freezing. Would be nice if you could put the heating up a bit.'
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Chapter 5
        
    Ghosts
        
        The anxiety that Reidar Folke Jespersen had not felt for many years lingered - in a way it made him feel restless, which also brought back feelings of youth he had not experienced for a long time either. So it was an anxiety that he both liked and disliked. But he was unsure about what to do next - and that made him annoyed with himself. He just sat at his desk making the essential telephone calls and waiting for five o'clock. As the time approached and it was as dark as night outside, he clumped down the steps from his office to the warehouse. The huge hall was full to the rafters with old furniture and artefacts waiting to be sold at the shop in Thomas Heftyes gate. He stood for a few seconds taking in the chaos of artisanship and old everyday items. For a few seconds he allowed himself to drift into a dream, as he usually did whenever he stood surveying this scene. But on this day he could not hold on to the sensation. So he forced himself to go on, down the stairs. He took a key from his trouser pocket, went to the front door and opened it. It was still icy cold outside. He opened the lid of the green post box hanging on the wall beside the door. The key fell with a faint, almost inaudible clink. Afterwards he went back in and checked that the door was locked. Then he made his way between all the antique furniture, to the very back of the room and stopped in front of a fashionable-looking wardrobe. It was covered with carved mouldings and had decorative flowers painted on the mirrors mounted on the doors. A black dinner suit hung inside. It had hardly been worn, and had an old-fashioned cut. He took off his grey trousers and blue checked flannel shirt, and put on the suit, white shirt and polished shoes.
        After changing, he went back to the office and sat smoking at his desk while contemplating the reflection of his upper body in the darkened window pane. What he saw was an elderly man with white hair and a meticulously trimmed white beard covering his chin and mouth. His eyes followed the outline of his suit; the black contrasting with the white of his shirt, and the black bow tie around his neck. To his sorrow, he was forced to accept that he could not meet his own eyes in the window. I look like my own ghost - in some English drama, he thought, and rose with apprehension to his feet. He walked over to the window and pulled down the white roller blind. Then he resumed his position at the desk. It was a heavy table and he had covered it with a smooth white cloth from which shone the faint reflection of the ceiling lamp. There were two stem glasses on the cloth. He stared at the ash on the end of his cigarette, reached out for the ashtray between the glasses and noticed how his hand was shaking. Then he flicked off the ash. He stubbed the glow on the ashtray, extinguished the cigarette and rotated his arm to check the time. With sudden impatience he stood up again and went to the mirror hanging beside the door. He adjusted his bow tie, brushed the lapels of the dinner jacket and brushed off tiny specks of dandruff from his shoulders. He studied his shoes, discovered a stain, bent down and rubbed it with his thumb. There was a grandfather clock between the mirror and the door. He opened the door of the clock and checked the time against his wristwatch. All of a sudden he inclined his head and seemed to be listening. There was the sound of a door closing.
        He switched off the ceiling light and put on the desk lamp