“Yes, I follow you.”
“I protested my innocence and explained the circumstances. To start with I wasn’t worried, but when the husband came home and said he could not recall anything about any telephone calls—yes, he only called the first time, later it became a fixed routine—then I got really, really scared. But he said he couldn’t be bothered to listen to me and left, after which the wife twisted the knife in the wound by telling me about the punishment for forgery. The end of it was that I had to go to my room. She said she would see if she could placate her husband, so that there would be no scandal. Or that’s what she said.”
Agnete Bahn poured herself a glass of juice and took a sip before continuing.
“So I sat there alone, shaking, and every time I heard a car on the road, I thought it was the police coming to get me. Not until a long time after that did Mrs Falkenborg ring for me, and then she told me that they would temper justice with mercy if in return I would sleep with her husband. No beating about the bush or anything, it was straight from the hip. Sunday evening, without any whining, which the factory owner didn’t like, and then in return he would forget about the cheques and cover the loss. What do you make of that? Cover the loss! They had eaten every krone of that money.”
“But you went along with the agreement?”
“What else could I do? It was terrible. I recall that I threw up afterwards, but prison would have been worse.”
“Yes, I’m sure it would.”
“Five years or spread your legs, that was the choice. Bear in mind I was no more than twenty-two, and the wife was very convincing. And the next Sunday evening he came to me, and it was revolting—he was affectionate, said sentimental things and even acted shy, while he drooled and sighed and unwrapped me like I was a Christmas present. Damn, how I hated that.”
“When was that? More or less?”
“Sunday, the fifth of December, 1964, at eleven-thirty.”
“And how long did this go on?”
“Until I left the family. I don’t believe he skipped a single Sunday, except naturally when it couldn’t be otherwise. But I couldn’t cheat, because the wife kept close track of my periods. Gradually at least I got him out of the affectionate crap, and thank God for that, because that was the worst. And then the anxiety every month about being pregnant because he didn’t use a rubber, the pig. I’ve often thought that he must have produced a few bastard children at the office. I mean, if there were many others like me. Well, finally it was all by schedule, so he came home on the hour and screwed me like I was a cylinder, then left again.”
Simonsen speculated about whether her dubious career might have a connection to Alf Falkenborg’s assaults. He did not ask, however, but said instead, “You mentioned that you knew something about a mask. What did you mean by that?”
“It was a Sunday evening and as usual he was there, but that evening it went completely wrong. Tell me, do you remember Belphégor?”
Simonsen felt a stab of anxiety when he heard that name. A long-forgotten feeling of disgust was suddenly brought back to life after lying dormant for years. Only a split second later he remembered what the name referred to.
“You mean the TV series?”
“Yes, it was broadcast in the summer of 1965 and emptied the streets, as they say. There were four episodes, and they were scheduled for Saturday evening. I got permission to watch them in the living room with the family.”
“I remember the film well, it was French. I was a little afraid of that Belphégor spirit, when he wandered around at night in the Louvre and smothered his victims.”
“She, the spirit was a woman, it turned out.”
“I didn’t remember that, but how does Belphégor come into the picture?”
“Andreas, the little idiot, loved to scare me. He did that often, and it had nothing to do with Belphégor. He hid some place or other and ran out and said ‘Boo’. A few times I got so scared I was on the verge of hitting him.”
She clenched her fist before she continued.
“After he had seen that film, he made a Belphégor mask of black cardboard and papier-maché, with fabric along the sides of the head. Well, it’s hard to explain, but maybe you remember what the spirit looked like?”
“Yes, it was Egyptian-looking, and I remember very well how scary everyone thought it was.”
Agnete Bahn confirmed that, and let out a little sigh before she continued.
“Well, one Sunday evening, when Alf Falkenborg was there to get his usual, Andreas sneaked out with the mask on and peeked in my window while shining a flashlight at himself to scare the life out of me. He succeeded. I screamed like an animal when I saw him. That is, while I was riding his father. I tell you, he froze up against the window, or to be more exact the mask did, as if he couldn’t think how to get away. And that was right when the father got going.”