The Murder of Harriet Krohn Read Online Free PDF

flowers. I know I’m a bit late,” he adds, “but I had such a long run today and I got stuck back there with the van in all that slush.”
    He rolls his eyes in exasperation.
    Harriet still holds back. It’s as if something is nagging at the corner of her consciousness. Clearly she’ll have to accept them. There must be a card inside, an explanation. But if she’s to take the flowers, she’ll have to undo the chain. She does so, her fingers clumsy, opening the door a bit wider. The man remains standing politely at the top of the steps. He doesn’t advance but is defensive, almost romantic, Harriet thinks, standing there with his flowers in the sleet. Her shoulders relax. She smiles and looks covetously at the white package.
    “Well, this is nice,” she manages to say. Again something is tugging at her, trying to hold her back. She looks searchingly at the man. His teeth in the smiling face are shining white in the lamplight. One of them is damaged, she notices, but in a strange way it suits him.
    “It is, isn’t it,” he says, and pulls something out of his pocket. A piece of folded paper.
    “I’ll have to trouble you for a signature,” he says. “You’ll have to sign for them.”
    Signing for a package sounds perfectly reasonable to her. But there’s the sleet and it’s so wet on the doorstep. She takes the flowers, presses them to the front of her dress, and steps back into the hallway.
    “We’d better go inside,” she says. “I can’t write without something to lean on. And I can’t write without my glasses, either.”
    She’s quite flustered. She gives him a smile—it’s not exactly heartfelt, but she thinks a little friendliness won’t go amiss when he has to work in this dreadful weather, while others stay at home in the warmth. He returns her smile, and again Harriet has the sensation that something is nudging her. However, her anxiety is suppressed by what is taking place. She feels the weight of the flowers in her arms. It’s a large bouquet. She feels suddenly important. It’s high time, she muses. I’ve slaved all my life; I deserve a bit of attention. Could it be from one of the men over at the shopping center, where she and Mosse have dinner occasionally? Could it be someone who frequents the café? Is it some secret admirer, dreaming his dreams? Could this be happening at her age? Her thoughts cause her to pat her hair. She turns her back on him and goes into the kitchen, and Charlo follows her. His boots will leave wet marks on the lino, she thinks. I’ll have to mop up after him or I might slip and break my hip, and that mustn’t happen. I’ve enough problems as it is. Things have been bad for a long time, but now something delightful has happened. She feels excited in a new way. How quickly and unexpectedly her ears can begin to burn. She goes to fetch her glasses in the living room on the leaf of the desk.
    “I’m sorry,” she says again, “but I’m afraid I can’t see a thing without my glasses.”
    Charlo nods. He’s silent now and there’s a sudden seriousness in his face. A paralysis, as if everything is congealing within him. He looks around the kitchen with rapid, secretive glances, but Harriet can’t see them; she’s on her way to the living room. Charlo waits with his thudding heart. It feels as if he has several hearts and that each is trying to beat faster than the next. On the floor by the kitchen unit is a bowl. It’s as hot as hell in the kitchen; the heat courses through his cheeks. He knows what he has to do, but suddenly he feels bewildered. Harriet is shuffling across the floor. He pulls himself together, gets himself back on that track. It’s important to concentrate, to follow the plan he’s worked out. Harriet returns with her glasses. She’s wearing a plain green dress and her hair is unkempt. He doesn’t want to look at her too closely; he doesn’t want to remember her face. She may be old, but her eyes are sharp. He realizes that