The Lion's Mouth Read Online Free Page A

with grapes, and placed the item behind the table linen, underneath a tablecloth his great-great-grandmother had woven in the 1840s. He closed the door again and brushed his hands on his flannel trousers before striding out to see who was ringing the doorbell.
    “Benjamin Grinde?”
    It was the woman who asked. She was in her forties, had three stripes on her shoulders and looked as though she enjoyed beingin uniform; it fitted well and suited the matronly bust he could discern underneath her buttoned jacket. However, it appeared that she was far from happy about the business in hand. Avoiding his gaze, she instead stared at a point ten centimeters above his head. At her side stood a somewhat younger man with glasses and a bushy, well-kept beard.
    “Yes,” answered Benjamin Grinde, stepping aside as he held the door open in invitation to the two police officers.
    They exchanged fleeting glances before deciding to follow the Supreme Court judge as he headed toward the living room.
    “I expect you’ll tell me what this is about,” he said, using his palms to indicate the settee.
    He himself sat down in a deep winged armchair. The police officers remained on their feet: the man stood behind the settee and fiddled in embarrassment with a seam in the leather, without raising his eyes.
    “We would like you to accompany us to the police station,” the woman said, clearing her throat, obviously feeling increasingly ill at ease. “We, that is to say the attorneys at headquarters, would really appreciate it if you could come down for a … a chat, you might say.”
    “A chat?”
    “An interview.”
    The voice emanated from the beard; the man straightened up now as he continued. “We would like to interview you.”
    “Interview me? About what?”
    “You’ll find that out when we get there. To the police station, I mean.”
    Supreme Court Judge Benjamin Grinde gazed first at the woman and then at the man, before bursting into laughter. Muted, pleasant laughter. The situation seemed to amuse him enormously.
    “I expect you know that I’m familiar with the rules here,” he chortled. “Strictly speaking, I don’t need to come with you at all. Of course I’m happy to be of service, but I do need to know what this is about.”
    Then he stood up, and as if to emphasize his nonchalance, left them and disappeared into the kitchen. He returned immediately, carrying his cognac glass, and raised his glass to them with an elegant movement, as though he had already embarked on his birthday celebrations.
    “I expect you probably don’t drink while on duty.” He smiled, sitting down slowly in his chair again after picking up a newspaper from the floor.
    The female officer sneezed.
    “ Prosit ,” mumbled Benjamin Grinde, fumbling with the financial newspaper, Dagens Nœringsliv , in his hand. Oddly, its pink paper matched the room’s furnishings.
    “I think you ought to come with us,” the woman said, clearing her throat again, this time with more assurance. “We have a warrant for your arrest, just in case.”
    “ An arrest warrant? For what, if I may be so bold?”
    The newspaper was now back on the floor, and Grinde leaned forward in his seat.
    “Honestly,” the female officer said, moving round to the front of the settee in order to sit down, “wouldn’t it be better if you just came with us? You said so yourself: you know how things work, and it will be such a shambles if we arrest you. The press, for example. Much better to come with us.”
    “Let me see that warrant.”
    His voice was cold, hard and incontestable.
    The younger man fiddled with his jacket zipper and eventually withdrew a blue sheet from his inside pocket. Hesitant, he remained where he was as he glanced at his older colleague to findout what he should do. She nodded faintly, and Benjamin Grinde was handed the form. He unfolded it, laid it on his knee and stroked the paper several times.
    To top it all, they had used his full title: “Doctor of