Read The Murder of Harriet Krohn for Free Online

thought, she tells herself. He’s a deeply disturbed man, and soon he’ll explain. But he explains nothing. He gets up suddenly and composes himself, looking at her with tear-filled eyes, and Harriet thinks, he’ll go now. Go now!
    But he doesn’t go. He opens his parka and begins to fumble around underneath it. His hand comes out holding a revolver.
    She doesn’t understand about the revolver. Parts of her consciousness are no longer working. Everything turns black at the sight of the weapon, so she turns away and collapses over the counter, letting go of everything, wet and warm down her thighs.
    “Where’s your silver? Jewelry? Cash? Quick!”
    His voice barely holds. He feels like some farcical amateur and curses his cracking voice. He’s squeaking like a mouse, as he waves his revolver angrily. Harriet shakes her head distractedly. She doesn’t want to part with anything; she doesn’t want to move.
    “Money,” he says again. “Have you got any money?”
    She makes no answer. She’s standing with her back to him, pretending that none of this is happening. Charlo goes into the living room. There’s a large dark sideboard along the wall, and he opens the drawers. They’re full of silverware. He puts down his gun and begins to root around in the drawers. Harriet has turned now and can see him rummaging through her things, her family heirlooms. She can’t bear it. Something starts smoldering deep within her: a prodigious feeling of injustice, because it’s
her
silver. She’s fond of it and it’s worth a lot of money. Rage replaces fear. She follows him into the room and tugs at his shoulders, screaming hoarsely, her fury giving her unguessed-at strength. Charlo is thoroughly distracted. It’s so quiet outside that people may hear. He hates being disturbed and this old woman is completely deranged. He pushes her away, but she doesn’t stop. She charges at him again, her face blotched with red. Charlo loses all reason. He’s got to stop this screaming. He can’t do anything or think clearly while she’s standing there shrieking like this. He grabs his revolver by the barrel and lifts it like a hammer. Just one smack in the face and she’ll huddle into a corner and shut up. So that he can get on with what he’s come for. Harriet sees the raised arm and shuffles out to the kitchen, back to the counter, still screeching—a long drawn-out wail of lament. He runs after her and hits her hard with the stock. The first blow finds a neck vertebra and it breaks with a dry click. He thinks, Julie! Help me! Harriet sinks to the floor. Horrified, he sees that her body is jerking in appalling, cramp-like spasms. He can’t bear her being like this, so he strikes again as hard as he can, striking her head repeatedly. Suddenly a stream of blood wells up from her skull. He backs away in horror, gasping for air, looking at the thing lying on the floor. He thinks she’s still moaning and there are still spasms in her legs, so he lashes out again with even more force.
    Then, suddenly, weakness comes over him. The hand clutching the weapon is lowered. He wipes his forehead and gazes at the bloody butt. He gives his head a hard shake so that he can think. Because he knows that he must think now; he can’t just let himself go. Deep down he realized this would happen. People don’t part with their things without a struggle. She might be as greedy as him, mightn’t she? He turns his back to the object on the floor, puts the weapon on the counter, and feels in the pocket of his parka. He pulls out a cotton bag with a string closure. It’s Julie’s old gym bag that Inga Lill made. He returns to the sideboard in the living room. Now that all is quiet he works quickly and efficiently. He places knives and forks and spoons in the bag. There’s a lot of silver of considerable value. He opens a cupboard next to the sideboard and pulls out the contents, searching for money. When the sideboard is empty, he turns and looks