“Certainly, certainly,” said Forselius. Downed a substantial gulp and wiped away the remaining drops with the back of his hand. “But how the hell do I get hold of that damn person, for I’m guessing he doesn’t have a telephone at that damn place he’s living in?”
“We’ll have to write a letter,” said Waltin.
So they had written a letter in which Forselius invited Krassner to his apartment, at nineteen hundred hours on Friday the twenty-second of November. Forselius had gone through old files since meeting Krassner the last time and he had found some that might possibly be of value to his work and that he actually thought his uncle should have received if he’d still been alive, but if Krassner himself was interested, then …
“Then we just have to hope that piece of shit replies,” said Forselius.
“I’m sure he will,” said Waltin warmly.
“And if he doesn’t, then you’ll have to think of something else instead,” said Forselius slyly.
“I’m sure it will work out,” said Waltin, getting up.
“I remember there was a Pole. It was right after the war. We were short on time then too. And it was important as hell.”
“Yes,” said Waltin amiably. “I’m listening.”
“It’s not important,” said Forselius, shaking his head. “It was right after the war and we were playing by different rules at that time, but we sure did get him out of the way. That we did.” Forselius sighed heavily.
Wonder if they killed that Pole the old geezer was mumbling about? thought Waltin when he’d come down onto the street. In that case it had probably been quite practical, but because times were different nowadays he’d decided on a different alternative. To his surprise Berg had bought it as well. Even more surprising, he’d suddenly appeared to lose interest in the entire business.
“If there is no other solution,” said Berg, holding his palms out at an angle. “I’m assuming it’s one of our own that will take care of it.”
“Yes,” said Waltin. “I think we arrest him, and then the narcotics investigators can handle the rest without revealing the sender. I have an old contact I can discuss it with.”
Then he’d spoken with Göransson and Martinsson. No problems whatsoever, since they would only be doing what he told them. Post themselves outside the student dormitory, and if Krassner came out before nineteen hundred hours on Friday evening they were to follow him and see to it that he made his way to old man Forselius. Watch him while he was there and warn if anything went awry. And when everything was over and Krassner was on his way home, they could call it a day.
If he didn’t come out they were to go up and arrest him. Take him to the police station on Kungsholmen and put him in jail, suspected of narcotics offenses or, alternatively, aggravated narcotics offenses. As little paperwork as possible and a quick turnover to the guys on the narc squad, and they definitely didn’t need to think about a search of the premises, for others would take care of that.
“Are we clear with one another?” asked Waltin.
“Sure,” said Martinsson, surreptitiously flexing his biceps in the mirror behind Waltin’s back.
Göransson had been content to nod, but on the other hand he’d been around considerably longer than Martinsson.
Can’t forget to take care of Forselius’s letter, thought Waltin.
. . .
True, Waltin hadn’t said very much to Assistant Detective Jeanette Eriksson, but because she was twenty-seven years old and far from being a numbskull she could figure out the rest herself.
Clearly there’s going to be a search of the premises, she thought. The kind that doesn’t usually get talked about. But then she hadn’t thought about it any further, for she had other things to think about that she felt were more urgent and more worrisome. The tickets that she’d arranged for the pop concert on Friday evening had been the least of her problems and easy enough to take care of. It was actually Waltin who’d arranged the tickets, but it was her idea.
She and Daniel had been sitting in the kitchen, drinking coffee, when Tobbe and Patrik had come in to keep them company. They’d known each other since high school and played in the same band, which was several years before they’d managed to end up in the same student corridor. Now they were sour as vinegar, for despite the fact that they’d taken turns standing in line for hours, they hadn’t gotten hold of any tickets to the concert by their favorite band next Friday. She’d never heard of this band, but she grasped the opportunity in flight.
“I’m sure I can arrange that,” she said, nodding at them.
“Forget it,” said Tobbe, shaking his head and swilling a few generous gulps from the bottle of strong beer he had with him.
“For real?” asked Patrik doubtfully.
“I have an ex who works for a record company,” Jeanette lied. “He always used to be able to arrange tickets.”
Krassner himself was a considerably greater problem. One day when she was sitting in the common kitchen, reading, Krassner had suddenly come in and sat down right across from her. And despite the fact that he was smiling at her, she understood at once that it wasn’t going to be especially pleasant.
“What’s that you’re reading?” he said, grasping the cover of her book.
“It is a book about criminality,” Jeanette said in her best schoolbook English, at the same time trying to appear appropriately offended by his pushiness.
“Criminology is a required subject at the Swedish police academy,” said Krassner, and it was more of a statement than a question.
Watch out, you little shit, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson while trying to appear only seventeen years old.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t believe so, but they have it at the university in Stockholm. I’m in my second year.”
Krassner sneered like someone who knew better than to let himself be fooled by someone like her.
“You mostly sit out here in the kitchen,” he said.
“It’s so Daniel and I will be able to study better,” Jeanette said innocently. “I hope it doesn’t disturb you?”
Krassner shook his head, got up, stood in the doorway, and looked at her with his unpleasantly insinuating smile.
“Take care, officer,” he said. Turned around and disappeared into his room.
Jeanette had not replied. Only looked at him surprised, like someone who didn’t understand. What was he driving at? she wondered. Does he know something? Scarcely possible—in fact, highly improbable. Does he suspect something? Surely, for he’s that type. What does he want? He wants to test me, she thought.
“He seems completely screwy. I promise you, the man’s not healthy, you can see it in his eyes,” Eriksson summarized when she met Waltin that same evening.
“He can’t know anything,” said Waltin.
“No,” said Jeanette, “but I think that’s completely uninteresting to him.”
“You don’t look like a typical police officer, exactly,” said Waltin, smiling paternally. “He’s trying to test you.”
“Sure. He’s trying to test me, despite the fact that I look like I do. That says a great deal about him, doesn’t it?”
“You have to sit in the kitchen? There’s no other option?”
“No.” Jeanette shook her head. “Not if I’m going to be able to pass his door and try to hear what he’s up to.”
“It’ll be over soon,” said Waltin and smiled consolingly with all his white teeth. “And there isn’t anyone else who could manage it better than you.”
Then there’s one more reason to sit in the kitchen, thought Assistant Detective Eriksson, but you certainly don’t want to hear about that, and because it will soon be over I guess I’ll have to live with it.
The essential reason that she always sat in the kitchen was Daniel, or M’Boye, as she called him when she was talking with Waltin and her colleagues. Regardless of the fact that it would soon be over, she and Daniel were in their sixth week now, and he was a completely normal you
ng man to whom she at most had given a light kiss and an occasional hug, in spite of the fact that they had gotten together more than twenty times and spent numerous hours in his room, where they had been occupied with everything between heaven and earth except what they ought to have been devoting themselves to.
He must think I’m completely nutty, thought Eriksson. Good thing he’s the way he is.
Daniel was not only big, strong, handsome, and talented. He was also both kind and well brought up, and as soon as he understood that Jeanette was not the usual “Swedish girl” he had also mobilized an attentive and patient side of his personality. Regardless of that, to put it simply, Assistant Detective Eriksson had still had to work like a beaver to avoid making use of that part of the body that Daniel—in a Freudian moment when even he had lost his footing—called her “little beaver.” Jeanette didn’t like what she was doing. She was exploiting a decent person who liked her. When the air in Daniel’s room got thick as mayonnaise, she used to rescue herself by fleeing out to the student corridor’s common kitchen. Her pretexts for doing so were no longer even far-fetched, they were worse than that, but fortunately it would all soon be over. Then she would disappear from his life, he would go home to South Africa and continue to live his life, and hopefully the marks that she left would not be all that deep.
. . .
Forselius had not phoned Waltin until late Thursday evening, and when he’d finally done so Waltin had already started planning his alternative in detail. Berg had called him that afternoon and at that time he’d said that it was probably leaning toward being a narcotics arrest in any event because Forselius had not been heard from. Berg seemed to have reconciled himself to the thought. “Yes, yes,” he had declared simply, “perhaps it’s just as well.”
But then Forselius called, and he sounded both energetic and conspiratorial.
“Yes, it’s me here,” said Forselius on Waltin’s secure line.
Hello to you, you old bastard, thought Waltin. And here you are calling in the middle of the night and sounding like the Third Man.
“Nice to hear from you,” Waltin said politely.
“I just called to say that everything will go off as planned,” said Forselius. “We’ve just spoken on the phone.”
“How nice,” Waltin said cordially. “I’ll be in touch.”
Wonder if I ought to phone Berg and tell him we’re back to Plan A, Waltin thought. It can wait, he decided, and instead he decided to call up Hedberg and give the all clear. He, after all, would be pulling the heavy load, and Waltin didn’t want to let him wait for word unnecessarily.
My best coworker, thought Waltin with warmth. Hedberg, who never said a word but always did exactly what he should. Sometimes it almost felt as if they were brothers. Imagine how many bad things his colleagues have said about that man, thought Waltin.
CHAPTER XI
Between Summer’s Longing and Winter’s End
Albany, New York, in December
[MONDAY, DECEMBER 9]
The local weather report promised milder weather after the weekend, but forgot to mention the snow. When Johansson woke up on Monday morning, it was coming down heavily outside the window of the professor’s bedroom, and, Norrlander that he was, he realized that there could be problems driving. Sarah seemed to have drawn the same conclusion, even though she was born in Manhattan.
“Jesus,” she said. “Have you seen the kind of weather we’re having? Now we’ve got to get a move on so you don’t miss your train.”
Johansson had showered, gotten dressed, and packed his few belongings in the practical shoulder bag he’d bought cheaply in the gift shop at the FBI. It took a quarter of an hour, and when he came down to the kitchen he was met by his hostess, who was busy with breakfast. Newly showered, fresh, and energetic judging by her appearance, she had apparently dressed in a shorter time than Johansson, for when she’d come in to wake him she was still in a nightgown.
A highly remarkable woman, thought Johansson, which in his native dialect was a mark of great respect.
“How would you like your eggs?” asked Sarah.
. . .
Scrambled eggs, fried ham, toast, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and a large cup of coffee while he was entertained by Sarah, who talked happily about snowstorms and other local bad weather in Albany and its vicinity that she’d experienced during her not altogether long life. And so far it had been very good, but then the subject of precipitation had come up and the misery had begun.
It was only a few miles to the bank—Sarah made use of Citibank’s local branch—but because the Volvo didn’t have snow tires and the world outside the windowpanes was white with snow, it had required a good deal of skidding and zigzagging from one side of the road to the other before they finally arrived. Inside the bank it was calm and silent, with almost no customers.
“Some weather,” said Sarah happily as she lowered the hood of her ankle-length red wool coat.
“It looks like we’ll be having a white Christmas,” the female cashier concurred, smiling amiably. “Are you going to stay home or are you driving to New York?”
Know each other from before, thought Johansson automatically. Just so they don’t start babbling a lot, he thought, nervously glancing at his watch.
The babbling had been confined to a polite minimum. Then Sarah filled out a slip of paper with her name and safe-deposit box number and shot off a big smile at an older uniformed guard who was posted at the entrance a few yards away, at the same time as she nodded toward Johansson in explanation.
“He’s with me,” said Sarah. “He’s my new assistant.”
The guard had been content to smile paternally toward Sarah and more neutrally toward Johansson, and two minutes later they were standing down in the bank vault where Sarah set the key in the lock of the largest type of safe-deposit box.
Wonder if that’s the key that was in the shoe, thought Johansson.
“Now let’s see,” said Sarah.
She winked conspiratorially at Johansson while they helped each other pull out the box and place it on a nearby table.
“Should you or I look?” Sarah asked, giggling.
“It’s your box,” said Johansson. “You look.”
Sarah shook her head and smiled.
“You get to look first,” she said. “It’s my Christmas present to you.”
Paper, nothing but paper, and considerably less than he’d imagined, but in any case a pile about eight inches high that was divided in plastic sleeves and between thin cardboard folders, at least one of which looked old.
“This is clearly the manuscript of his book,” said Sarah, who had already started rooting in the pile. “It’s actually thicker than I thought.” She handed over a bundle of more than a hundred typewritten pages encased in a plastic sleeve.
Johansson took it and quickly leafed through while he eyeballed the pages. The title and author’s name in large letters on the cover page. “The Spy Who Went East, by John P. Krassner,” Johansson read. Foreword, table of contents, and completely written out pages at the beginning. Chapter headings, typewritten outlines, and difficult-to-decipher handwritten notes on the otherwise empty pages toward the end.
He writes the way he cleans his room, thought Johansson, weighing the thin bundle of papers in his hand.
“A typical John manuscript,” said Sarah, smiling. “Exists for the most part in the author’s head. I have a suggestion,” she continued, nodding toward the pile on the table. “Put everything in that practical little bag with the fancy emblem and read it in peace and quiet when you have time. But I don’t believe you should expect too much. John was not exactly a Hemingway, to put it mildly.”
“He wanted you to have copies,” Johansson objected. So I’ll probably miss that eleven o’clock train, he thought.
“Forget it,” snorted Sarah and suddenly seemed upset for the first time since he’d met her. “Not on your life. I don’t give a hoot about his damn copies.”
; Oops, thought Johansson. She’s a redhead all right.
. . .
In the car en route to the station she explained how she viewed the matter.
“Perhaps you think I’m the surly type,” she said, shaking her head, “but for the past ten years I haven’t wanted to deal with John. For me he was a finished chapter when I broke up with him, and as I said that was more than ten years ago, but because he could never take no for an answer I’ve had to put up with him anyway. Despite the fact that I’ve been sick of him and all his fantasies the whole time, and despite the fact that I’d had it up to here with him and his old fascist uncle.” She measured a few inches over her flowing red hair with her hand.
“And yet you were his heir,” said Johansson, smiling wryly.
“Sure,” said Sarah. “He was like that. Refused to take no for an answer. But I’ve never wished him dead in earnest, and I’m truly sorry that he is dead, for I don’t wish that on anyone. Do you know what I’m thinking about doing?” she continued.
Johansson shook his head.
“I’m going to give it all away to charity.”
“You haven’t thought about seeing it as personal compensation?” Johansson suggested, for he could look out for himself when it really counted. That shack ought to be worth quite a bit, if it’s not too heavily mortgaged, he thought.
“It’s out of the question,” said Sarah. “Besides, I have enough to get by. I don’t want to have anything to do with John anymore, much less his ridiculous papers and his silly fantasies. John is dead, okay. I intend to let him rest in peace and I definitely don’t intend to contribute to his being able to continue stirring up trouble from the place where he is now. He’s certainly in heaven, after all. If you’re going to be God to Irishmen, you probably have to have a forgiving nature.”
Now she’s herself again, thought Johansson.
Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End: The Story of a Crime Page 28
