Agaton Sax and the Criminal Doubles

By Nils-Olof Franzén

Agaton Sax is Sweden's greatest detective and has solved more than his fair share of difficult cases. But when two men arrive at his office asking for help, Agaton knows that he'll really have his work cut out - particularly because they appear to be identical doubles for two of the world's greatest criminal masterminds. When it turns out the real masterminds are also in the area, things get interesting.
Will Agaton Sax be able to tell the criminals from their doubles? And will he get to the bottom of this curious mystery? He hasn't failed to crack a case yet, but there's always a first time...
The Agaton Sax series of books were first published in Sweden, later being translated into English and printed with illustrations by much-loved artist Quentin Blake (perhaps best known for his work on the books of Roald Dahl). The English translations became immensely popular, achieving the status of the most re-issued mystery & detective series in the history of Nordic children's literature.
Now, after many years out of print, Oak Tree Books is proud to publish the entire Agaton Sax series, newly translated and illustrated for the next generation. This new collection includes the eleventh book which has never before been released in English.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Oak Tree Books
• Release date: Nov 18, 2021
• ISBN: 9781789827316

Book preview

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The Unwelcome Visitors

I don’t know if you have ever been to Sweden.

This is partly because we haven’t yet been properly introduced and I am equally unclear as to whether you have been to Barcelona, Weston-super-Mare or even out to the shops to pick up some sugar. But, as our story is about Sweden (and, more specifically, about one of its most marvellous and surprising residents) I felt I ought to ask.

If you have been, you will immediately recognise the beautiful scenery. If you have not, you will need to use your imagination.

Either way, our story opens during a crisp September, on as fine a morning as anyone in the little Swedish town of Byköping could remember. The sun was shining without a single cloud to trouble its joy. It was warm, but not too warm. Calm, but not too dull.

Everything was as it should be.

Well, almost as it should be.

If you would follow me to the centre of the town, just past the offices of Byköping’s superb newspaper the Byköping Post (to which we will shortly be returning), you’ll find a charming railway station with a single line connecting the town to the rest of Sweden.

It’s not a busy place and seldom welcomes enough visitors to warrant any more than a single station master. There’s also Mrs Nilsson who runs the station restaurant single-handedly, serving lukewarm tea from an enormous urn to travellers, reminding them how much better the refreshments will be when they reach their destination.

The station master is a man called Mr Trainsley. Due to his unusual name, it had been assumed since he was a child that he would end up working for absolutely anyone except the railway. Yet he had stubbornly insisted that he actually rather liked trains and if people wished to pass comment, that was their problem, not his.

One of the many reasons Mr Trainsley enjoyed his job as station master was that, being in charge, he was within his rights to wait for the few trains that passed through in his favourite green rocking chair, in which he was comfortable… and, often, in blissful slumber.

When he heard the familiar sound of train wheels creaking to a halt, he would leap to his feet, pretend to have been merely resting his eyes, and rush out onto the platform to look official. Until then, he would dream of other trains, in more exotic locations.

He was indeed, snoring happily one day as the 3745 from Stockholm approached. Had he known of the two men who were about to disembark and shatter the easy, peaceful existence of the town, he might well have remained asleep.

If you had seen the two men, dear reader, you would have woken him yourself… and with some urgency. For one look would have told you as plainly as nametags pinned to their chests that these two men could only be international criminal masterminds. So much so, that in order to make the journey without being disturbed by the guard – or the assistant guard, or the engine driver, or the person who inevitably sits at the back of a railway carriage and says ‘tut’ towards anything or anyone that irritates them – they had been forced to don false moustaches.

The two men soon regretted this once aboard however, as the heat slowly caused their disguises to droop and glisten until they looked less like moustaches and more like slugs. One man’s had already fallen off and (they assumed) had made a new life for itself beneath the seats. The other man was desperately looking forward to removing his, though he was as yet unsure as to when he might do so without suspicion… especially as it was covering an actual moustache of approximately the same size.

In retrospect, false moustaches had perhaps not been the best choice of disguise.

They sat tucked away in a pair of corner seats, looking rather nervous for international criminal masterminds. Which is why I invite you to take a second look, as I’m not convinced your first told you everything you need to know at this point.

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One of the men lifted his coat from the seat beside him and pulled a map from one of its pockets. Unfolding the document on his lap, he studied it for a moment and then pointed out the duo’s destination. He then spoke:

‘We are approaching Byköping now.’

‘How much longer?’ asked his companion, whose moustache had now decided that it was in fact a slug, had no business lazing about on upper lips, and had begun to make an escape.

‘Seven minutes.’

The other man simply nodded and turned back towards the window. He looked out at the scenery, but it was clear from his expression that he didn’t really see it. Something was weighing on his mind and he could think of little else.

In fact, both men seemed far more thoughtful and… well… (take a third look now) afraid than might have been expected of crooks on their way to cause mayhem. There was a sense that these two were on a mission of some importance, perhaps even the most fateful of their lives.

‘Next stop, Byköping!’ called out the guard, sticking his head into their compartment and only blinking slightly at the sight of the moustachioed travellers within.

Both men jumped. Guilty consciences, perhaps?

Or was it something else?

In any case, they stood, took their battered and travel-worn suitcases from the luggage racks above their heads, and headed into the corridor.

They were the only passengers who left the train at Byköping, to the great relief of Mr Trainsley, who stood stifling a yawn and preparing to wave the train back on its way again. If he were sharp about it, he thought, he could get back to his dream before the train had even passed the end of the platform.

The two men lugged their suitcases into Mrs Nilsson’s restaurant and sat at the single table therein. Behind the counter, Mrs Nilsson unplugged the urn to allow it to cool down to her preferred temperature. Then she gave a cheery wave to her new and only customers, who nodded briefly in response.

The man with the map unfolded it once again and laid it out on the table.

‘Where are we again?’ asked the other.

‘Byköping. In Sweden.’

But his companion seemed suddenly less interested in the answer he received than in attracting Mrs Nilsson’s attention. He had realised that one of the many things bothering him was that neither he nor his colleague had eaten even a single morsel since leaving London nearly forty-seven hours prior. He produced a small dictionary from his innermost pocket and when