The psychologist Ernesto Madsen’s assessment was that Andreas Falkenborg would benefit from stewing behind bars for a few hours before questioning began. Simonsen followed the advice and therefore had plenty of time to accompany the Countess to a further meeting with the Oracle from K?bmagergade. They walked there together, she half a step ahead of him on the pavement as if she wanted to lead the way now that she had convinced him to go along. A sultry high-pressure system hung over the city. Streets and people sweated, while the liberating thunderstorm that the weather prophets had promised still bided its time. Simonsen said, “I hope he doesn’t think we’re going into the greenhouse itself, because then we’ll melt. This is bad enough.”
The Countess had been asked to meet the Oracle in front of the Palm House in the Botanical Gardens. She had accepted without question; one place was as good as another.
“I doubt he does.”
Simonsen’s legs were tingling and itching; he felt clumsy. On top of that he was panting from the heat.
“We should have taken the car.”
“And driven around half an hour looking for a parking place? It’s good for you to walk a little. We can take a taxi back, if this drags on.”
“It won’t drag on. I have other things to get done, you know.”
The reproach was subtle, but it was there. She said, “I’m glad you came along.”
“I’ll be glad to get this over with.”
They went in at the gate to the Botanical Gardens; she held it open for him and closed it behind them. Soon the urban noise faded out to a background hum, and the Countess took Simonsen’s arm as if the calm legitimised intimacy. She said, “It’s pleasant in here, don’t you think? All the lovely plants . . . it’s almost semi-Mediterranean, and all so well tended.”
“Yes, it’s a nice place.”
Simonsen’s knowledge of field biology was limited to his ability to identify a dandelion with great certainty and a few other plants with a degree of difficulty. He stopped and scratched one ankle, then the other while he was at it.
“Tell me one thing, Simon. Your clairvoyant friend in H?je Taastrup, whom you consult now and then, how often is she actually right, if I may ask?”
“Why are you speculating about that now?”
“Oh, general interest.”
“She gets it right occasionally, mostly she’s not that useful. But don’t ask how she does it, because I’ve given up trying to figure that out.”
“But sometimes she helps?”
“As I said, yes.”
“Can you give me an example?”
“Many years ago I had a case where a lunatic had stretched a thin wire across the street in a small provincial town. The purpose was to stop a handful of local moped drivers once and for all. They used to tear through the town on Saturday night, to the detriment of ordinary people’s sleep. Fortunately the lead driver was leaning down over the steering wheel, so he hit the wire with his forehead. Obviously he fell over and got some nasty scrapes, but the driver behind him was less fortunate. The wire broke, and the recoil tore the boy’s eye out.”
“Nasty.”
“Yes, not good, but the worst thing of all was that if the boys had been driving normally, they would probably have been decapitated, which was the intention. Well, in solving that case I was guided by my clairvoyant woman in H?je Taastrup, as you call her. She gave me a rather unusual name that proved to belong to the owner of a hardware store several hundred kilometres from the town. It was there the guilty party turned out to have bought his wire. He was a seventy-eight-year-old man, by the way, who had become sick and tired of the noise. Enough was enough, as he said. And now it’s your turn, Countess. Why are you suddenly so interested in clairvoyance? Spit it out.”
She told him about her brief but thought-provoking telephone conversation and noticed, when she was done, that she felt relieved. He walked for a bit in silence and then muttered, “Yes, she can be somewhat manic when it hits her. Well, we’re just about here.”
The Palm House towered before them, shining in all its glory in the hazy sunlight. The Countess searched in vain for her oracle, until a familiar voice made them both turn. Behind them, on the small patch of grass in the shadow of a “Water Lily” magnolia, sat Helmer Hammer.