June 6, 1925. I met with the minister today to discuss the railroad. I showed him the new costings and he was quite impressed with them. I reminded him that it was now 20 years since the telephone first arrived in Iceland, and that we now have 190 telephone exchanges in the country and more than 3,000 telephone apparatuses. In earlier days the telephone and the railroad were mentioned in the same breath, and many considered that the railroad was a greater necessity than the telephone…
July 10, 1925. There are reports from neighboring countries that motorized railcars are becoming more and more common on their railroads. They are of many different types, and use either gasoline or diesel oil for fuel. Their main disadvantage is the rather poor uphill traction. I can also foresee the viability of electric railcars, as it is not unlikely that the Sog waterfalls will be harnessed before long…
August 18, 1925. There was a report in Ísafold about a railroad accident in France. I do not like this reportage. I hear the opponents of the railroad use this in the presentation of their case; they say that railroads are dangerous. They ought to report all the accidents caused by automobiles worldwide. I also hear that many people think that motorcars are better equipped to get about in heavy snow, because it is reported in foreign news if a train is delayed by snowfall for a few hours; nobody thinks it newsworthy if cars get stuck in snowdrifts for days on end…
August 27, 1925. Cannot see that there will be many engineering projects to be had this fall, so I am going to do some part-time teaching in English, Danish, and mathematics…
October 12, 1925. At about half past three last night, Elizabeth was delivered of our perfect, beautiful son. She had been in labor since yesterday, under the care of Dr. Eiríkur and an experienced midwife. I was allowed into their room after Elizabeth had had a short while to recover after the birth. He is a very bonny baby. I sat and watched him well into the morning as he slept in his crib…
At four o’clock that afternoon four men gathered in Jacob Kieler’s office at Birkihlíd to open the safe: Halldór and Jóhann joined Matthías Kieler and a marshal from the civil court. An empty cardboard box sat on the desk, awaiting the contents of the safe.
The only person missing was the locksmith.
Halldór glanced at his wristwatch. “He promised to come at four o’clock.”
The marshal checked his watch, too. “In that case, I’ll read out the warrant while we wait.”
Jóhann paced the floor while the man recited the terms of the warrant, stating that the detective division had permission to open up and investigate the contents of a locked receptacle belonging to the estate of Jacob Kieler, born October 12, 1925, died January 18, 1973.
Meanwhile Jóhann couldn’t help but wonder where Jacob Junior had kept the key. Why hadn’t they found it during the house search? All the keys they had found had been tried, and none had fit the lock. Jacob Junior must have had a good hiding place for it, presumably somewhere close at hand, and perhaps close at heart. And that’s when the idea struck him: the elaborate model of the railroad station Jacob Kieler kept right here in his office.
He tried lifting the roof off the station building, which proved detachable, but found no key there. The roofs of the other buildings also came off, but none hid a key either.
“I shall have to cancel this meeting if he doesn’t turn up soon,” the marshal said impatiently.
Matthías had been standing there silently, still wearing his overcoat and hat; now he sat down, sighing. “Is this Icelandic punctuality?”
Halldór smiled apologetically.
The model station had a complex system of tracks and sidings, including a turntable onto which rolling stock could be moved and turned round; Jóhann first tried making it turn, which it did easily, and then found he could lift it completely off its base, revealing, in a compartment beneath, a large key.
Jóhann walked past the three men and fit the key into the lock; it turned, and the safe door popped open. The atmosphere in the room lightened immediately as Jóhann withdrew the contents of the safe and placed them on the desk. The marshal pulled out his notebook and began recording each item as he did so.
Twelve packets of ammunition, various sizes.
Seven hardback books, handwritten, labeled as engineer Jacob Kieler’s diaries.
Old documents parceled together with string.
A framed photograph.
A key on a string.
Jóhann straightened up. “That’s all.”
The four men examined the photograph first; it was a black-and-white of a gleaming new railway train, its locomotive in the foreground, probably painted black, bearing the inscription in Gothic lettering on its side: Iceland Railroad Company Ltd.