House of Evidence(102)

Anticipating a dirty job, Jóhann had brought his tools and a pair of coveralls from the car. He changed into the work clothes and then lay on his back, squirming his way into the fireplace until he was able to shine his flashlight up the flue.

“Can you see anything?” Hrefna asked.

“There’s some sort of grill shutting it off up here,” Jóhann called. He tried to reach up, but the flue was too narrow for him. “Looks like something’s lying on top of the grill. At any rate, my flashlight doesn’t seem to shine beyond it.”

He wriggled back out again and said, “We’ll have to break up the chimney to get a better look at what’s up there.”

“Let me try,” Hrefna offered.

She was about to clamber straight into the fireplace, but changed her mind, realizing how filthy it was. “Give me your coveralls,” she demanded.

She pulled them on, then rolled up the sleeves, and crawled into the hearth. She was able to squeeze her head and one shoulder up into the flue.

“Can you reach it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied, her voice strangely distorted inside the chimney. “I can get my fingers through. There’s something lying on top of the grill.”

All of a sudden there was a deafening explosion. Hrefna shot from the fireplace and rolled out onto the floor, where she lay curled up, her hands covering her ears.

Jóhann was badly shaken as well. “Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

“Shit, that was loud,” Hrefna said. “It’s still ringing in my ears.”

“What was it?” he asked.

“The bloody gun, of course. I must have hooked my finger around the trigger.”

“In that case, it was lucky you didn’t shoot yourself.”

“Yes.” Hrefna sat up, regarding the fireplace angrily.

“Why don’t we come back tomorrow and knock a hole in the chimney?” Jóhann suggested.

“No, we are going to sort this out right now,” she declared.

“All right then.” Jóhann crawled back into the fireplace and shone the flashlight up the chimney again. This time he took a closer look: The grill, made of steel, seemed comparatively new; it fitted closely inside the flue and was held in place by wedges pushed up between it and the sides of the flue.

“This’ll be easy,” he said, crawling out again. In the laundry room he found an old wooden pole that had been used to stir the washtubs, and he shoved it up the chimney and banged vigorously at the grill several times until the wedges gave way and the whole setup came crashing down onto the bed of the fireplace.

Jóhann jumped out of the way, in case the gun should go off as it fell; fortunately, it didn’t. Once the dust had settled, they both focused their flashlights on what had fallen: there was the steel grill; on top of it, a heavy weight covered by a large tangle of cord; and crowning the whole pile, a gleaming revolver.

Jóhann took a screwdriver out of his bag and poked it into the barrel of the gun so that he could pick it up without handling it. He recognized the Smith & Wesson 38/200 from the picture in his manual; the cord was tied with a rough knot to the lanyard loop on its butt, and when he laid the gun down and unraveled the cord, he found that the other end was attached to the weight.

“Looks like this is the weight that was missing from the box with the distance-measuring equipment,” Jóhann said.

Hrefna considered what they had found, and said, “I have a feeling that Jacob Junior was somehow responsible for his own murder. But I’m not exactly sure how yet.”

“Ah, but I think I know,” Jóhann said. “Father and son both shot themselves. How brilliantly clever!”

“How did they do it?”

“They stood by the fireplace in the parlor, holding the gun. The cord was threaded into the hearth and up the chimney, then over into the top of this flue, where the weight hung, pulling the cord taut. When the shot is fired, they drop the gun and the weight falls down the chimney, pulling the gun into the fireplace, up that flue, then over into this one, where it falls to the bottom here, never to be found again.”

“So Jacob Senior prepared for his suicide by having this basement fireplace bricked up,” Hrefna said. “Then, when the time came, he took the family to the summer house, gave the servants leave, and staged the burglary.”

Jóhann nodded in agreement, adding, “His son must have worked this out when he found the gun. Then he repeated the performance.”

“But why, in heaven’s name?” Hrefna asked.

“Let’s get Halldór here before we begin to puzzle over that one,” Jóhann said. “He’s going to be so relieved that we’re about to solve this case.”