Read Murder on the Thirty-First Floor for Free Online Page B

reasoning is?’
    ‘Which line of reasoning?’
    The man in the silk tie looked at his visitor in confusion.
    ‘One more question,’ said Inspector Jensen. ‘If we assume that the aim of the letter was harassment of the management or one of their number, in which category do you think we should be looking for the guilty party?’
    ‘It ought to be the police’s job to decide that. Anyway, I’ve already made my own view plain: among the mentally ill.’
    ‘Are there no individuals or particular groups who might feasibly feel antipathy towards the group of companies or its leadership?’
    ‘Do you know our magazines?’
    ‘I’ve read them.’
    ‘Then you ought to be aware that the aim of our entire policy is precisely that: not to generate antipathy, aggression or differences of opinion. Our magazines are healthy and pleasurable. The very last thing they aim to do is to complicate the readers’ lives or feelings.’
    The man paused briefly. Then summarised:
    ‘The publishing house has no enemies. The same goes for its management. The very idea is absurd.’
    Inspector Jensen sat upright and immobile in the visitor’s chair. His face was entirely without expression.
    ‘It’s possible I may be obliged to make certain enquiries here in the building.’
    ‘If so, your discretion must be complete,’ the head of publishing responded instantly. ‘Only the group chairman, the publisher and myself are aware of your task here. We will naturally do all we can to help you, but I have to emphasise one thing: it must not get out that the police are taking an interest in the company, particularly not to the employees.’
    ‘My investigation is going to require some freedom of movement.’
    The man appeared to consider this. Then he said:
    ‘I can give you a master key and a pass granting you permission to visit the various departments.’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘It would, as it were, provide a justification for your presence.’
    The head of publishing drummed his fingers on the edge of the table. Then he gave a smile, secretive yet courteous, and said:
    ‘I shall make out the pass myself; that would probably be best.’
    He casually pressed a button beside the intercom, and a unit with a typewriter folded up from the side of the desk. It was a gleaming, streamlined machine, all chrome and impact-resistant enamel paint, and there was nothing to indicate it had ever been used.
    The head of publishing opened a drawer and took out a small blue card. Then he swivelled the desk chair round, lightly tweaked the cuffs of his jacket, and carefully wound the piece of card into the typewriter. He took a while adjusting the settings, ran his index finger thoughtfully over the bridge of his nose, hit a few keys, pushed his glasses up on to his foreheadand looked at what he had written, pulled the card out of the machine, crumpled it up, threw it into the bin and took another one out of the drawer.
    He wound it in and typed slowly and painstakingly. After every keystroke, he pushed his glasses up and surveyed what he had produced.
    As he crumpled up the card, his smile was no longer so courteous.
    He took another one out of the drawer. The next time, he took five.
    Inspector Jensen sat straight and unmoving, and appeared to be looking straight past him, at the glass-fronted cabinet with the cups and the miniature flag.
    After the seventh card, the publishing director had stopped smiling. He undid his collar and loosened his tie, took a black fountain pen with a silver monogram out of his breast pocket and began writing a draft on a sheet of white writing paper, discreetly headed with the company name.
    Inspector Jensen said nothing and kept his eyes focused on the cabinet.
    A drop of sweat rolled down the bridge of the head of publishing’s nose and fell on to the sheet of paper.
    The man appeared to give a start, and scribbled something rapidly, his pen scratching. Then he screwed up the paper in a temper and slung it under the desk. It