by Ulf Durling
‘I put it back where it belonged.’
‘You put it back?’
‘Stop repeating what I say. It was cold and there was a cutting wind in the backyard. I put my hands into my trouser pockets and there, of course, was the key. I threw it through Nilsson’s open window.’
So this was the solution to the riddle of the locked room. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. For a moment I thought of getting angry, but I couldn’t think of a fitting scapegoat. Wait, there was one: Blom. How the hell could he maintain that he’d seen the key through the keyhole in the morning? The man told us nothing but lies. He is totally unreliable.
Perhaps he had been too lazy even to bend down and look through the key-hole, and therefore gave his false evidence in this matter when the key was found on the doormat, presumably having fallen down when Ivehed forced the door open and….
Well, we will never know for certain and, frankly, I don’t give a damn. The less I think about Blom, the better I feel.
‘But how did you manage to close the window?’
‘If you’re asking me,’ Crona replied pitifully, ‘then you must be tolerant with a man with such a difficult handicap. I mean my amnesia, of course. In any case, I don’t understand what you mean. What window should I have shut?’
‘Nilsson’s!’
‘It was open. Nobody could have shut it from the yard, if that’s what you mean.’
All the same, the confounded window was locked in the morning.
‘Chief,’ said Gustavsson, ‘isn’t it possible that the wind slammed the window shut? It seems to have been open during the night. Isn’t that so, Crona?’
‘That’s right. In any case, one half of the window was open when I woke up. I remember it well, since I was near it when I threw the bottle out. There were also a few very nice fancy goods on the window-sill.’
I lit a cigarette and recalled in my mind the window as it had looked that morning. The left half of the window had not been fixed with the window-latch. Regarding the bric-a-brac, I didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye with Crona. I remember a small Ölandish windmill made of birch bark, a miniature of a sailing boat with the word Smögen painted on it and an ashtray with a dreadful Dalecarlian picture and a crude inscription, obviously put there for the purpose of deterring tourists from ever visiting Tällberg.
‘Why didn’t you shut the window while you were in the room?’
‘I don’t know. Should I have done?’
‘No, perhaps not. Did you want to let the smoke out?’
‘Neither of us had been smoking. Tobacco is unhygienic and unhealthy. Just think of the risk of getting cancer!’
It was true. Neither ashes nor fag-ends had been found in the room. The ashtray had been stowed away in a drawer of the bedside-table, together with the Bible.
I stubbed my cigarette out discreetly.
Regarding the window, it’s certainly not impossible that the wind might have slammed it shut. It was blowing hard that night, but Crona had obviously been both blind and deaf to the outer world when he slept leaning against the table-top. After the wind’s assault on the window just before two o’clock—when Johanson had been woken up by the creaking—it had probably died down for a while, and when it rose again the window had been slammed shut. By that time Crona had gone, and the key had been tossed in through it and landed on the doormat.
I couldn’t understand why Renqvist, who made a point of insisting that the sound was heard exactly at one thirty, hadn’t been awakened when the squeaking concerto came to an end half an hour later. Neither did I understand why the school mistresses said that they hadn’t heard anything.
Or had the wind somehow pushed the window shut without making much noise?
Nevertheless, whatever had happened had apparently occurred soon after Crona had left.
‘Then you disappeared. Which way did you go?’
‘Through a passage leading to Björkstigen.’
‘You returned the same way you came?’
He looked at me reproachfully and rubbed his nose, where an angry web of blood-vessels had appeared during the last hour as a result of the alcohol. Then wagged a finger in a roguish and admonishing way.
‘Now, you know I can’t answer that last question. It’s beyond my power to judge.’
‘Well, you said that you locked the door in the usual way and went out into the backyard, from whence you threw the key through the window, which the wind then banged shut. Okay, let’s suppose all that to be true. We found the key in the morning. It was on the doormat inside the room. But how did you get out through the back door? Blom had locked that door one hour earlier and the chamber-maid, who arrived in the morning, found it still locked. She had her own key and the other key was hanging inside the door on a nail. How did you do it?’
Crona’s expression showed that he definitely considered me to be an idiot. That may well be true, but I don’t like it to be public knowledge. I want it kept in the family.
‘The door was wide open and I didn’t shut it either.’
There were no two ways about it: either Crona was kidding or someone else was. Maybe, for the sake of uniformity, I should start to play jokes. Did you know, for example, that Stationsgatan isn’t really a one-way street? It’s just a farce on the part of the police. We put up the signs for fun and we collect the fines so as to inflate the crime statistics.
How can you conduct a serious investigation in a place like this where nobody takes you seriously? With this kind of an attitude, maybe all the police constables should start wearing red noses, starting next week.
‘And then,’ I said wearily, ‘you made off, stealing a bike?’
‘I confess. And I’m prepared to accept the consequences.’
I got to my feet and Gustavsson followed my example. The only thing we had found out during the long interrogation was that people are not to be trusted. Which we already knew.
Crona obediently got to his feet as well, and we found that he was more unsteady on his legs and more inebriated than we had realised.
Maybe the lingering faintness after the days and nights in the cottage without food had affected him. Be that as it may, we couldn’t let him go home in that condition.
Gustavsson made a suggestion.
‘Should we put Crona in the clink straight away, or wait a while?’
The question was primarily aimed at Crona. He looked quite thankful and then he nodded.
‘Yes, please, if it’s not too much trouble. May I have my usual room?’
We’re never difficult at the constabulary, and cell No. 3 is more or less reserved for him. The two other cells are booked for Olle Asp, Vilhelmsson, Tinsmith, Stolt at the Old People’s Home and other less frequent guests.
Gustavsson whispered a few words in my ear.
‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And another thing, Crona. You did switch off the radio in Nilsson’s room before you left, didn’t you?’
As soon as the question had crossed my lips I realised that, based on recent experience, we could expect anything. For example, a statement that the radio had not been on.
‘It was not switched on. The only thing I switched off was the light.’
‘You say that it was not on, but we have several witnesses who are prepared to swear that it was heard through the door both before and after midnight. You have nothing to lose by telling the truth.’
Crona leaned heavily against the doorpost in order not to fall to the floor. He blinked in a friendly way with his best functioning eyelid.
‘It wasn’t on, Detective Sergeant. That’s why I said it. Otherwise I would have said something else. Now may I leave? Good evening.’
After a courteous bow he meandered out into the corridor followed by Gustavsson. I hear that he made a great fuss about this being his last visit to the station. His new life would begin the next day.
I called Kerstin and told her that we had finished our work. The case was solved and I would be home on the dot. On my way ou
t I heard indignant voices from No. 3, where Gustavsson was in the process of calming down Crona, who had dropped onto a bunk.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Well, chief, Crona disapproves of us. He says that he can’t trust anyone in the whole world and he threatens to begin drinking again.’
‘Why is that?’
Crona got to his feet, his face white with wrath and disappointment. He stood in front of me, trembling and slobbering, eyes red and swollen with weeping.
‘I thought that I knew where I had you, but what happens if I, sick and wretched, perhaps drunk and extremely unhappy, had needed lodging for a few hours? What if it had happened the other night and you had let someone else trespass on my room? Then, without a spot in the shelter, I would have been abandoned to get frost-bitten in the wilderness, at the mercy of my painful amnesia, left to ruin and destruction.’
He was, of course, practically paralytic. The next day he would clasp Gustavsson’s hand on his way out and donate a twenty-five öre coin to the kitty.
‘Why do you think that of us, Crona?’
‘Look there,’ he said dramatically and pointed at a note scribbled on the stucco wall.
“Magnus 1969.”
I walked home through the nasty damp autumn weather. Next week Bengtsson would be back and I would resume my usual lousy job.
At home everything was peaceful, for a change.
Kerstin insisted on me having a bath while she cleaned the shrimps.
Of course I should have expected I would have a reason to become angry at least once more this evening. It happened when I was in the bath and found that my hair smelled of Kalles kaviar after a while. Kalles kaviar does not lather very well. Furthermore, it has no effect on dandruff.
9
The children woke us up at seven o’clock this morning. It seems that Mister Hedgehog had got himself into trouble yesterday and things had become critical. I pretended to be asleep and after a while the door closed.
Then Kerstin told me that she had reread the protocol from the last meeting of the Sunday Club during the week. Now she was beginning to wonder if the old men really were all that wrong. After all, what was so wrong about the doctor’s theory?
I was a bit irritable that early in the morning and not in the mood to discuss their theory. I’d briefed her every evening since Sunday. Did I really have to wake up to it? Before I went back to sleep, I think I managed to say that everything that they could have misconstrued, they had misconstrued. We would draw up a report when we got the results of the post mortem and she could read it if she wanted.
At ten o’clock, Vivianne at the switchboard put a brown official envelope from the Institution of Forensic Medicine on my desk. The report was written in the usual incomprehensible gibberish. “The body was of a 52 years old man, height 179 cm, weight 63 kg. Normal post mortem phenomena. Besides a hematoma the size of a coin in the scalp over the right ear, there are no signs of external injury.”
From then on it was mostly written in Latin, with the occasional word that was actually intelligible, such as prepositions and some minor conjunctions. Since I know that fracture means broken bone, I deduced that there was no fracture of the skull-cap, which probably has something to do with the scalp or the base of the skull.
The writer gave me to understand that the immediate cause of death had been haemorrhagia cerebri invet. et recens, but that Nilsson suffered additionally from both hypertrofia cordis and cardionephroarteriosclerosis generalisata. For this information I would like to thank him cordially. Fortunately, there was a summary:
“As is evident from the foregoing, death occurred as a consequence of cerebral haemorrhage, situated in such a way and of such proportions that vital parts of the brain were immediately affected, with instantaneous lethal outcome. The insignificant trauma we have established in the scalp probably ensued when the body fell, and it is impossible that deliberate external damage could have led to a secondary cerebral haemorrhage. From a medico-legal point of view there is thus nothing to lead to a conclusion of death caused by a criminal activity.’
Below that was a handwritten note:
“Because of the failure to notify us immediately, a preliminary post -mortem could not be performed within reasonable time and because of that, the moment of death has not been possible to establish. After four days it is meaningless to analyse contents of the stomach. From the information about fully developed rigor mortis and the extension of livor mortis when the body was found, one could guess that between ten to twelve hours may have passed from the death until your grand intervention. But, considering the natural cause of death, these speculations are probably of no interest when it comes to the criminal investigation, which you will no doubt now wish to discontinue.”
At the bottom of the page there was another addition, written with lead pencil: “When is Bengtsson back? That’s what I really want to know.”
The report was signed on Thursday, yesterday that is, by Dr. Mogens Nyegaard, docent.
With that the case was brought to an end, apart from some paper-work. We needed to produce an investigation report with a few official stamps here and there, so I instructed Gustavsson to write a short formal statement, which I would sign later on.
He was not at all happy with the assignment because he has no stylistic talent. Which means, as I pointed out, that he’s in need of all the training he can get.
When I was alone again I made some calls. The first was to Göran Eriksson. I told him that the investigation had been wrapped up. I next called Nylander, who muttered something inaudible when I told him about the diagnoses. Then I called the office of the Public Prosecutor and reported the result of the last days’ activities.
Gustavsson would take care of the remaining formalities.
There had been nothing in the newspapers, at least according to Ivehed. I strongly suspect that he had concentrated on the sport pages and they had not mentioned the case. I’d given him the chore of reading all the press reports as punishment for losing the picklock. It had been missing for months but he had not dared to tell me about it. No wonder he hadn’t been able to open Nilsson’s door. Maybe I’ll report him for breach of duty.
In the end I asked for the pictures Gustavsson’s photographer took at The Little Boarding-House on Sunday. I got them after many ifs and buts. The visual artist is a student living in the same house as Gustavsson, who has talked a lot in the neighborhood about objectives and perspectives and God knows what.
There were five pictures in total.
Two showed a vague and underexposed bundle on a floor.
They were supposed to be of the stiff itself, from different angles.
Another showed Ivehed in front of the rose bed. He was balancing his baton on his forefinger.
Then there was a group picture of all the guests, gathered on the front door steps of the hotel. They were arranged like a soccer team around Blom, who was waving at the camera. He was flanked by the schoolmistresses. Ivar Johanson was embracing Miss Hurtig-Olofsson from behind and Renqvist was standing in a stiff position at arm’s length from Miss Söderström. Melin and Ivehed, the latter still with his baton, had been able to squeeze themselves through the doorway.
The last photograph was of a totally unknown girl on a sailing boat. As far as I could see, she wasn’t wearing a bra.
The station has been calm the whole day. Crona left in an orderly way at eight o’clock this morning.
It began to drizzle after lunch, which was a hamburger from Rådhusbaren. Having nothing specific to do, I went to check on Gustavsson’s progress and helped him to find “x” on the typewriter.
Then I sat down with our tape recorder for interrogations. Nobody has been able to get it to work. After juggling with it for a while I heard a click. At that I began to sing the song about the chimney-sweep, if you know that one. I rewound the tape, and, would you believe it, I heard the sound of my own voice!
I was just recording “You are my sunshin
e” when Vivianne came in. I barely managed to stop the recording. She asked what I was doing and I muttered something about summing up the Nilsson case. Then she said she was interested in learning how to transcribe from recorded dictation, and she promised to produce the material during Saturday, tomorrow in other words. There was nothing else to do but say thank you and try to look happy. Furthermore I’d promised Kerstin a report, which she needed as a counterweight to the old men’s drivel.
Now I’ve been sitting here babbling for four hours. During the breaks I had had to oil my jaws with some beer, which I have ordered Melin to bring for me.
I’ll be back for a while tomorrow afternoon to see if everything is completed. Then Kerstin can take over the whole mess. I hope that she’ll give it to my old man the day after tomorrow. It should bring him down to earth. We’re invited there on Sunday.
Because everything had been piling up, I was late for dinner. I called home and there was pork to fry and brown beans that could be warmed up. The kids had been somewhat uneasy. The boy had got wind of that thing about the Chinese: that one yellow one dies every time a certain button is pressed. He’d been secretly pressing the electric button in the living room most of the afternoon. At some point it had dawned on him that some Chinaman might do the same thing in return, so by the time I got home both kids were screaming with fear. I told them that they haven’t got electricity in the Far East, they only use candles. Then they calmed down.
When Bengtsson returns I’ll ask for a few weeks’ leave of absence, so we can go to Mallorca. It would be great rolling over on the playa, leaving the trench coat at home and walking around in bathing-trunks. When Kerstin puts on her bikini the Spaniards will get misty-eyed, I shouldn’t wonder. By the way, have you heard the story about Lundgren travelling to Spain last year? He returned home complaining loudly about the inedible food on the charter flight. It turned out that he hadn’t realised he was supposed to remove the plastic wrapper. I think I’ve mentioned before that he’s an idiot.
We just have to call the travel agency and make a reservation, take the kids and that wretched Mister Hedgehog to their paternal grandmother and board the flight. (I wrote the last part for Kerstin’s sake. It’ll be a surprise when she reads it. She’ll never get permission from the school to take the time off, but that’s not my fault… I may go fishing for a week instead.)
