Down for the Count

by Martin Holmén

  ‘Eighteen months at Långholmen. Intimidation, wasn’t it?’

  ‘All in the line of duty.’

  Hessler sits back down behind his imposing desk and drums his fingertips together. Elin chooses the chair on the right.

  ‘The plaintiff was only twelve years old.’

  ‘Old enough to hear the truth. And see his old man escape through the kitchen window.’

  ‘And may I ask who the lady accompanying you is?’

  With a nod at Elin, Hessler straightens his back in his chair and folds his hands. The smile is beginning to sag, like a pair of old braces.

  ‘Miss Johansson. A client.’

  Elin’s chair scrapes. Hessler leans towards me.

  ‘Harry, it’s bad enough just my talking to you.’

  ‘It’s all in order.’

  ‘But mightn’t it be better if Miss Johansson waited outside?’

  ‘You have my word that you can speak in front of her.’

  ‘This is men’s business.’

  ‘Damn it, Hessler!’

  I take the cigar out of my mouth and raise my voice. Hessler averts his eyes and adjusts one of the paper piles in front of him. Elin’s chair scrapes again. I daren’t look at her. Maybe by now she has unpicked the truth about who I am, maybe it’s quite clear that Hessler and I have a past.

  I rifle through my notebook and clear my throat: ‘It’s about a car with a Stockholm registration, a Rolls. Ten fifty-eight.’

  Hessler nods stiffly: ‘One moment.’

  He stands up, slides his hands over his uniform trousers and leaves the room. I look around for an ashtray but can’t find one. I hold the cigar vertically to balance the tower of ash. Carefully I drop the notebook back into my inside pocket.

  ‘What a bloody stuffed shirt!’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ll be in his debt for this, not you.’

  I sigh when I think of it, then strike the ash off into the cupped palm of my hand.

  ‘Ask him about the pillow when he comes back.’

  ‘The pillow?’

  ‘If a pillow can smother the sound of a shot. Like in that serial.’

  ‘Ask someone else.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He who has no debts is a rich man.’

  ‘A bit late for that. You said so yourself just now.’

  She’s getting on my nerves, and I’m about to reply when the door behind us creaks. I sit there with the ash in my hand. I feel Hessler’s weak fingers on my shoulder. He leans forward next to my ear, smelling faintly of hair tonic and flat pilsner.

  ‘Nothing, Harry.’

  Hessler squeezes my shoulder, then takes his hand away. He goes around the desk, pinches the creases of his trousers and sits down again with a smile on his face.

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘The number plate in question doesn’t exist. These things happen.’

  I close my fist around the pile of ash in my hand.

  ‘What about checking for similar plates on a Rolls?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I don’t have that much time.’

  Surreptitiously I let the ash sprinkle over the rug between my fingers.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  I stand up and put my cigar in my mouth. Elin moves forward in her chair, her hands on her handbag.

  I button up my coat and I’m just about to leave when she stops me with one hand on my lower arm.

  Hessler twists slightly in his seat: ‘I’ll be here till late. If you come by in a couple of hours, I may have something for you, Harry.’

  ‘I’ll see.’

  ‘Our informers are going on about some kind of comeback for you. A series of illegal matches arranged by Lindkvist at the Toad?’

  ‘Not worth your while thinking about it.’

  ‘Is it possible to silence a gun by using a pillow?’

  Hessler recoils at the sound of Elin’s voice. His little moustache trembles, a fleeting smile. He stands up for the second time, comes round the desk and holds out his arm towards the door. He doesn’t even look in her direction.

  ‘To some degree, but it’s not as effective as with a Maxim silencer.’

  Elin stands up and buttons her own coat. She takes her leather gloves in her right hand.

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘Miss is obviously not very familiar with firearms. A Maxim silencer is a device that’s screwed onto the barrel of the weapon. It makes the sound of a shot no louder than, for instance, the pop of a champagne cork.’

  ‘A champagne cork?’

  ‘Ah, there’s a phrase that Miss understands. Watch out for that one, Harry. She seems to have expensive tastes.’

  The joke tumbles out stillborn from Hessler’s pilsner-stinking gob. He isn’t even smiling about it himself as he ushers us towards the door with outstretched arms. Elin slaps her gloves into her left palm.

  ‘The cheek!’ she hisses.

  ‘Yes, quite incredible, isn’t it? Apparently the American secret police have been using them for ten years,’ says Hessler.

  ‘The chief constable should watch his behaviour,’ Elin goes on.

  Hessler reaches the door. He turns to me and looks into my eyes: ‘I’ll be staying here till eight or nine tonight. Ten if I have to. If you telephone me I’ll make sure they let you in.’

  The door creaks and Hessler strokes his ridiculous moustache. He smiles foolishly at me. I let Elin out first.

  We pass through the hall full of the blank-faced coppers and then the second room, the typewriters chattering louder than a shoot-out in the gangland war of ’23. I lead the way, sticking my cigar in my mouth and buttoning up my coat on the way out.

  At the desk nearest the far door, a brunette stands up abruptly when she catches sight of me. She must be a bit over twenty. Her thick woollen dress is dark green. From her left shoulder some five white buttons seek their way diagonally across her modest-sized bust, down towards her slender waist. She’s slightly under medium length, possibly about one metre seventy. For a moment she looks as if she’s prepared to run out of the door, but she stays at her post, her eyes gazing down at her desk. Maybe I had to rough her up at some point in the past? I rarely have to work over women, though, and I think I’d have remembered it.

  I slow down. She runs her hands over her skirt and takes a breath so deep that I can hear it over the chattering typewriters. Full lips, broad hips. The sort of filly that sometimes makes me want to reconsider my ways.

  I touch the brim of my hat as I pass. She meets my gaze with her brown eyes and smiles stiffly. The scent of a musky perfume finds its way into my many-times broken nose, and then the door shuts behind me and Elin.

  Still thinking about that typist, I wander back to the car with Elin clattering along behind me on her heels. The hearse is parked by a run-down building on Bergsgatan. The car seats are ice cold.

  ‘Loathsome person, that Hessler.’

  I stifle a yawn in the driver’s seat: ‘So we’ve come to the end of the road.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘That was the last lead. Time to let this thing go.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘The day after tomorrow I’ll be the owner of a cigar shop. I also plan to train a couple of lads to box, if I have the time.’

  ‘The day’s not done yet.’

  ‘We have nothing else to go on.’

  Elin frowns, then comes to life suddenly and slaps me hard on the thigh. I jump in my seat.

  ‘Petrus’s school!’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Asplunden Institute for the Deaf, Mute and Blind. So you’re forgetful and dozy, it seems! It’s just around the corner.’

  Why the hell doesn’t that woman give it a rest? I grip the steering wheel, and snap: ‘I’m tired and I’ve a lot to get done by Wednesday. There’s a funeral tomorrow.’

  ‘Do me this last favour. Then you will have more than kept your promise to Mum.’

  I grunt in response. Darkness fal
ls as a polluted rain comes down over the city, already overflowing with water. A gang of sparrows mob a radio aerial on the building above.

  ‘This’ll be the last thing I do. After that you’ll have to go on alone, if you have anything else to work with, which I doubt.’

  The smell of herring and perfume washes over me as Elin leans forward and pinches my cheek, like I was some lad in short trousers. My knuckles turn white around the steering wheel, my scars glowing red against the white. Elin warbles: ‘You’ll see, Kvist. I have good instincts and, as the last few days have proved, I’m usually right.’

  MONDAY 25 NOVEMBER

  The gravel groans under the tyres of the hearse as we drive into the Institute’s courtyard. The school lies hidden in the park behind the Garnison Hospital with its green-coloured roof; not far at all from the stiff-house where I picked up that boy last Friday. The main building measures some forty metres across the walls covered in decorative curls. The wings are simpler in style and seem to have been built much later.

  I turn the crate around, reverse and park with my nose facing the exit beside some old red-painted sheds. Quite honestly, I can’t wait to knock off for the evening.

  ‘Good instincts,’ she said. Walking across the gravelled courtyard, my instinct is that we’re wasting our time.

  Elin’s shoes clatter up the broad front steps and the doorbell buzzes.

  ‘I’m afraid I have to ask you to put out your cigar,’ says the superintendent, when the door opens.

  He smiles broadly, holding out a damp hand for me to shake. His sensual, feminine lips would not look out of place on a fat cherub in an Italian painting from long ago. He wears a daringly cut wool suit in black, which hugs his narrow shoulders. The perky, bright tie matches the silk handkerchief in his top pocket. No waistcoat. This bloke knows how to dress. I feel a pinprick of jealousy. I push the door open and flick my cigar down the steps.

  ‘Not a problem.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  The superintendent’s smile gets even more effusive as he claps his hands together in front of his chest, showing off the watch from under his shirt cuff. Gold: this sod makes money. He has weak wrists. I’ll wager they’ve never done any real work, but I suppose they’ll do for giving some blind lad or other a beating. Like Petrus I only had two years of schooling. All I ever learned was the feeling of an iron ruler across my fingers.

  I look at the superintendent again. The skin of his face is smooth. There are countless grey wisps in his carefully coiffured dark hair. I wonder who cuts his hair. I wonder what it costs.

  We’re standing in a palatial lobby with a high ceiling. From a large portrait to the left of the reception desk, Gustaf V gazes down on us through his rounded spectacles. He’s wearing a dark-blue suit with a high collar. Under the painting is a brass plate, but I can’t see what’s written on it. There are staircases on both sides of the room.

  Dead ahead runs a corridor with a cross-vaulted ceiling and globe lamps lining the walls.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?’

  ‘Kvist,’ says Elin, tucking her arm under mine. ‘Harry and Elin Kvist. We’d like to take a look around if that’s quite all right with you. Our daughter is deaf and we’ve heard such good things about your school.’

  I glance at Elin out of the corner of my eye.

  ‘The Kvists. Excellent. Of course I would be happy to show you around.’

  ‘I hope you’ll excuse us coming unannounced like this, but we were in the area. My mother owns a haberdashery on Hantverkargatan. She asked me to keep an eye on it while she went to the doctor. She’s tormented by gout in her toe, I’m afraid.’

  I glance at Elin again. Her bright-red lips shine as she smiles; her eyes sparkle.

  Lying comes easily when you’re a survivor. I should know that better than anyone.

  ‘That’s no problem at all, Mrs Kvist.’

  The superintendent babbles on about the merits of the school as he takes us up the stairs on the left-hand side. His compact little buttocks move in front of me, at eye-level. Two apples wrapped in a snuff handkerchief with a walnut in between.

  It must be bloody Christmas.

  ‘We’re very proud of what we do here at our school.’ The superintendent’s voice rings out in the stairwell. ‘Currently we have ninety-eight students in three separate streams. Our work is supervised by six teachers in academic subjects, two in workshop activities and two female teachers in sewing. Including our support and service staff, there’s a grand total of nearly a hundred and thirty people here during the day.’

  We walk down a corridor where there’s such a crossfire of whining, screeching and banging that the superintendent has to raise his voice to make himself heard.

  ‘On this level we have the shoemaking workshop, the tailoring class and the woodwork room, but let’s go to a quieter part of the building.’

  The superintendent throws out his arm and takes the lead. Elin looks at me, rolling her eyes, nodding at his back, but I don’t understand what she’s driving at. We’re hardly in a position to interrogate the bloke in the middle of the corridor.

  ‘Naturally all our members of staff are well versed in sign language. Here we are now.’

  The superintendent puts his ear to the door and listens. He pushes it open and we walk into a gym with a scratched floor. Along the short wall runs a line of wall bars, the lacquer worn from years of use. Six ropes hang down like lianas from the ceiling. There’s a heavenly smell of sweat and Sloan’s liniment. I breathe in deeply through my nose. The rhythmic sound of swinging skipping ropes and the thumping of sandbags echoes in my mind. I’m tired and my thoughts are wandering, but the silly fop interrupts my musings.

  ‘I can understand that like most any other parents you want the best for your daughter. At this school your child will not merely receive a thorough vocational training. We also attach great significance to recreation and physical activities. Strong body, strong mind, as we like to say.’

  The floor seems to flex slightly under our feet as we go into the gym. The superintendent’s voice echoes between the walls, but I’m no longer listening to him. Something has made my thoughts turn back to the port in Gothenburg, almost twelve years ago.

  It’s the last time I see my daughter.

  My work boots make a hollow ringing sound against the gangway. Flags are flapping in the breeze. My mouth tastes of salt. I have Ida on one arm and a suitcase on my shoulder. In my trouser pocket: a folded handkerchief containing tickets, food coupons, a visa and two unfolded ten-dollar bills. Ida is weeping with hunger and tiredness. The ship sounds its steam whistle. With a thump I put down the suitcase on the deck.

  Ida is wearing her golden-brown hair in pigtails. She sniffs and wipes her snotty nose. I want to hold her one last time but she reaches for her mother. I hand her over to Emma.

  ‘Give my very best to your uncle when you get there.’

  ‘Do it yourself when you come.’

  ‘Three months.’

  ‘Don’t forget we’re owed five kronor by the Svenssons.’

  The steam whistle sounds again. I take the handkerchief from my pocket. She leans towards me with Ida on her arm. Her hair smells soapy clean. I run my calloused hand over it.

  ‘Three months goes by quickly.’

  I attempt a smile and give Emma the handkerchief.

  She briefly caresses my cheek: ‘Keep yourself in order now.’

  I nod and then pull at the lapels of my coat, before I turn my back on them.

  I turn my back on them.

  ‘Sir?’

  A penetrating note in the superintendent’s voice snatches me out of my memories – I’m back in the gym. I blink.

  ‘As I have explained, smoking is not permitted on school premises.’

  I stare, first at him and then at the burning match between my thumb and index finger. I quickly blow out the flame before it burns me, then remove the unlit cigar from my mouth.

  ‘An old bad habi
t of mine. Sorry about that.’

  I shake off the memories like water from a wet dog’s coat. Elin gives me a puzzled glance. The superintendent smiles hesitantly, splashing his hands together once more. Damn how I hate this Sunday school whelp. If I didn’t have Doughboy less than two days away, I’d have crushed his hand under the heel of my boot against the floor, and got him to reel off all the information he had about Petrus, as if reciting the multiplication table or the Ten Commandments.

  That damned multiplication table.

  I tuck the cigar back into my pocket and force a smile, which rests uneasily on my lips. The beating of my heart begins to slow. A drop of sweat runs slowly down my spine. I fumble in my inside pocket to check that the letter to my daughter is still there. I must remember to pass by a postbox.

  The fop tightens his impeccable tie, a double Windsor knot, and nods to gloss over the matter. He gestures at the door and walks on ahead. Elin whacks me gently on the arm with her handbag and frowns. I shrug and shuffle along behind her.

  ‘Let’s continue into the wings now and inspect the dormitories. Since we began to admit girls we have separated them from the boys. The boys sleep in the north wing, and the girls in the south, so there’s no cause for concern there.’

  We go back down the same corridor. Elin walks arm-in-arm with me. She keeps me in a firm grip, as if she wants to stop me from putting a stop to the fop’s insistent drone with a well-aimed punch. Otherwise a few blood-spattered teeth might be just the thing for this varnished floor. I also wouldn’t mind having an expensive timepiece on my wrist.

  ‘So they find themselves good jobs after their education, then?’

  ‘Obviously it’s not something we can guarantee, but I believe that our pupils’ prospects of finding employment are considerably improved by our efforts here.’

  ‘Next time I’ll be sure to hire a blind cobbler.’

  Elin tugs on my arm as we turn left into yet another corridor.

  ‘It seems you’re a difficult gentleman to convince, but the fact is that many people, out of a sense of benevolence and goodwill, choose to give their support to more exposed groups in society.’ The superintendent stops, turns towards us and adds, with a note of seriousness in his voice: ‘I know I do.’