Between Summer's Longing and Winter's End
Page 24
So he would, thought Johansson, but he didn’t say that. He contented himself with nodding.
“That letter he sent me,” he reminded her.
“I’ll get it,” she said. “I have it in my office.”
Perhaps a bit too round, thought Johansson, looking after her back as she disappeared out into the hall. Although she moves easily. Whatever that has to do with anything, he thought.
Finally, thought Johansson when just over three minutes later he was sitting with Krassner’s letter in his hands.
A common white envelope covered with postmarks, stamps, various internal postal notations, and three handwritten addresses. In addition it was opened, neatly opened with the aid of a letter opener.
“I’m the one who opened it. We’ll discuss that later. Read.”
Judging by the first postmark it had been sent from the post office on Körsbärsvägen to Johansson’s own post office on Folkungagatan on Södermalm in Stockholm, Friday, the eighteenth of October. Poste restante Police Superintendent Lars M. Johansson. The recipient’s title and name were written in a neat female hand.
Pia Hedin, thought Johansson as his heart, for reasons which weren’t really clear to him, beat a little faster.
Monday, the eighteenth of November, it had been returned, judging by the postmark, to the post office on Körsbärsvägen. There it had remained until Thursday, the twenty-eighth of November, when the same neat female hand had taken care of forwarding it to John P. Krassner, care of Sarah J. Weissman, 222 Aiken Avenue, Rensselaer, NY 12144 USA.
You can forget about fingerprints on the envelope, thought Johansson, but nevertheless as a matter of routine he held it by its farthest left corner between the nails of his left thumb and index finger while he carefully slid out the typewritten paper that lay inside, folded in the middle.
“You’re doing it cop style,” asserted an apparently charmed Sarah.
“Yes,” said Johansson, unfolding his letter. “It’s an old occupational injury that I have.”
“I love the way you’re doing that,” said Sarah, giggling. “Are Swedish detectives always that gentle with their hands?”
“Not all,” said Johansson, smiling wanly.
The short text seemed to have been written on Krassner’s typewriter. The letter was dated Thursday, October 17, addressed to Police Superintendent Lars M. Johansson; Johansson translated as he read:
Dear Police Superintendent Lars M. Johansson,
My name is John P. Krassner. I am a researcher and journalist from the U.S. We don’t know one another, but I got your name from one of my Swedish contacts, a very well-known Swedish journalist who mentioned that he knew you well and that you were an honorable, uncorrupted, and very capable Swedish police officer who doesn’t shy away from the truth no matter how frightening it might be.
I’ve written this letter as a kind of security measure, and if you have the occasion to read it, unfortunately it means that I have most probably been killed by persons within the Swedish military intelligence service or the Swedish secret police or the Soviet military intelligence service GRU.
The reason for my being in your country is that I am in the process of finishing a large-scale investigative report that I have worked on for several years. I am going to publish my investigation in the form of a book early next year. It is going to be published by a large American publisher but at the present time I am prevented from saying which publisher this concerns. The facts that I recount are however such that they are going to alter the entire security and political situation in northern Europe and not least in your own country.
I have comprehensive documentation to support what you’ll be able to read in my book. These are in secure storage along with the manuscript of the book, in a secret safe-deposit box which I have the use of. I have instructed my old girlfriend Sarah Weissman to turn these papers over to you, so that you can see to it that justice is done in your own country.
Sincerely,
John P. Krassner
What the hell is this? thought Johansson and looked inquiringly at his hostess.
“It’s a typical John P. Krassner letter,” said Sarah Weissman and smiled faintly, as if she were a mind reader. “I know, because I’ve received a few hundred in the past ten years.”
So that’s how it is, thought Johansson.
“I don’t understand what he means,” said Johansson. “It’s true that Sweden has both a military-intelligence service and a secret police, but I can assure you that they really don’t run around murdering people. Least of all American journalists.”
“Ah! You think the Russkies did it,” said Sarah and winked.
“That I find extremely hard to believe,” said Johansson. “Considering how he died, I mean.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. “And if I hadn’t found out that he actually had died, I would have thrown it away, just as I’ve done with all his other letters. It was in my mailbox when I came home from New York last Friday. I was there working for a few days. I don’t usually read other people’s letters, actually, but considering what’s happened … well, you understand.”
“I understand,” said Johansson, nodding.
“He sent a similar letter to me about a month ago,” said Sarah. “In that one he reported that he was in Sweden on a secret assignment. He was like that. John’s entire life was a Top Secret Mission. He could be completely out of it. When we moved in together he used to tape strands of hair on the door if we went out, to check if anyone had sneaked in while we were gone. I hardly dared sleep at night.”
“Did it say anything else?” said Johansson.
“It said something about you,” said Sarah, smiling. “It said that one of his, quote, secret Swedish informants, end quote, had given him the name of a, quote, honorable Swedish cop, end quote. And if something happened to him I was to see to it that you got the letter that he sent to you poste restante, which was I suppose almost a guarantee that you never would have received it, but because John was the way he was …” Sarah shrugged her shoulders in a meaningful way.
“Tough shit,” said Johansson, smiling.
“To say the least,” said Sarah. “In addition I was to make copies of all of his secret documents for you,” she continued. “So that my mom and I could arrange a publisher for him and his so-called book.”
“I understand,” said Johansson. The fellow doesn’t seem to have been quite right in the head, he thought.
“So you can just forget that nonsense about the major publisher that he was unfortunately prevented from saying anything about. It was a typical John publisher. Existed only in John’s head.”
“Might one be able to read that letter that he wrote to you?” Johansson asked.
“No,” said Sarah, shaking her head. “You can’t because I’ve thrown it away. I threw away all his letters, and you would have done the same.”
The key that was in the hollow heel, thought Johansson.
“Those papers,” said Johansson. “That he was supposed to have in a safe-deposit box. Do you know what they are?”
“Not a clue,” said Sarah. “The only thing I know is that it’s my safe-deposit box.”
A little more than six months earlier, a month or so after John’s uncle had died, John got in touch with Sarah and asked her to rent a safe-deposit box in her name but for his use. He needed it to store certain “secret and very sensitive documents” with which he was working. Sarah had refused at first but because he nagged and nagged and nagged she had finally given in. Under certain conditions, however.
“That I kept one of the keys and that if he put the least little thing whatsoever into it that might be suspected to contain something illegal, then I would personally carry all of it to the police.”
“And he went along with that?” said Johansson.
“Of course,” said Sarah. “I guess that was what he was hoping for. That I would go and snoop in his little deposit box and become his own little secret coconspirator.”
“Yes,” said Sarah. “It had been about a month since I’d rented it and because I was at the bank anyway on other business I actually did that.”
“Well,” said Johansson, smiling. “What did you find then?”
“It was empty,” said Sarah. “It was a typical John safe-deposit box.”
But after that she hadn’t checked the safe-deposit box. When she received the letter that she threw away she hadn’t even thought about doing so. When she found out that he had died she still hadn’t thought about doing so. And when she read John’s letter to Johansson, it was a Friday evening and the bank was closed for the weekend.
“They open tomorrow at nine o’clock,” said Sarah. “So you can get your papers then.”
Since I’m here anyway I might as well do it thoroughly, thought Johansson.
“Is there a nice hotel here in town?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sarah, smiling. “The Weissman Excelsior is the very best and you can even sleep in dear Dad’s bed.”
“I don’t want to be a nuisance,” said Johansson.
“Not a nuisance in the least,” said Sarah. “But there is one thing I’m wondering about.”
“Yes?”
“I actually tried to phone you yesterday,” she said. “When I’d read the letter that John sent to you, I tried to call you at home. In Sweden.”
“I have an unlisted number.”
“I know,” said Sarah. “I spoke with directory assistance in Stockholm. Then I called your office too. The Swedish National Police Board, the Swedish FBI. John wrote that you were head of an FBI. The Big Boss.”
Oh, well, thought Johansson and smiled weakly.
“And what did they say?” he asked.
“That I should call on Monday during office hours and talk with your secretary. I also spoke with someone on duty and he was very polite but no one was allowed to talk with you.”
“Did you tell them your name?” asked Johansson. Where do all these curious women come from? he thought.
“Of course,” said Sarah, smiling broadly. “I said that my name was Jane Hollander and I worked with the state police in Albany and that it was an urgent official matter.”
Sigh, thought Johansson.
“Jane and I are old classmates,” said Sarah, giggling. “She actually is a police officer and works with the state police, so it was almost true, but it still didn’t help.”
“Nice to hear,” said Johansson and smiled.
“But you just show up and knock on my door. Just as easy as pie.”
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“So how did you do it?” said Sarah, looking at him with curiosity. “How did you actually find out about that letter with my address? I’ll die of curiosity if you don’t tell me.”
“Pure chance,” said Johansson modestly, “just pure chance.”
“Pity,” said Sarah ironically. “And here I’d gotten the idea that you were pretty smart.”
“You said something about John’s uncle,” said Johansson, who wanted to change the subject.
“Yes, he was a really horrible person. Fortunately he died last spring. I thought we might go to his house so you could see how he lived. John was living there too the past few years.”
“And that won’t be a problem?” said Johansson.
“Not in the least,” said Sarah happily. “It’s my house now. First John inherited it from his uncle, and now I’ve inherited it from John. I was thinking about donating it as a summer camp for young black drug-users from New York,” said Sarah delightedly.
“Sounds interesting,” said Johansson neutrally.
“It sure does,” said Sarah. “They were the people John’s uncle thought the very worst of. It’s true that he hated almost everyone, but young black drug-users from New York were the ones he hated the very most. He’s going to twirl like a propeller in his grave when he finds out about it. Then we can have dinner afterward. I know a really good place right in the neighborhood, a Vietnamese restaurant.”
Vietnamese, thought Johansson. Good thing Jarnebring isn’t along.
Practical business. First Johansson borrowed her phone and called his hotel in New York. After a certain amount of discussion and financial compensation, it had been arranged. It was good enough if he was out of his room before three o’clock the following day and because he was supposed to check in at Kennedy by six o’clock he at least had the time worked out. First the bank as soon as it opened in the morning, after that the train to New York, then the hotel to pack, pay, and check out. Then it would have to be a taxi to Kennedy to check in, a little quick Christmas shopping, and after that the evening plane directly home to Stockholm, where he would arrive on Tuesday morning. A completely feasible schedule, thought Johansson, and if he only had a little time left over he would phone work and see to it that one of his colleagues picked him up at Arlanda and drove him directly to the office.
Then he shoveled snow. Sarah had a car that was snowed in, in the garage, and all things considered, not least considering the next day, it was a better alternative than a taxi. Johansson started shoveling dressed in a sport coat; when he was through he was in his shirtsleeves, and despite the fact that the temperature was almost zero, he felt markedly refreshed. The garage door had frozen stuck, but after a few hefty pulls with his feet solidly on the ground it had come unstuck and could be opened. Inside was his reward: an almost new Volvo station wagon.
“You have a Volvo,” said Johansson delightedly. “Why didn’t you say so?”
“Surprise, surprise,” said Sarah, smiling.
It was Johansson who got to drive, which was practical considering that his hostess had packed herself into an ankle-length red wool coat with hood, lined leather boots, and thick knitted mittens. For the most part only the tip of her nose protruded.
“I got the car from Dad,” she said. “He wanted me to drive safely, but I think it’s way too big.”
“It’s one of the safest cars there is. Your dad seems to be a very wise man,” Johansson stated.
“Big, safe, and Swedish,” said Sarah, beaming. “I’m glad you got to meet a relative.”
Wonder if she’s interested in me? thought Johansson.
On the way they stopped at a good-sized shopping center where Johansson bought a set of clean underwear, a shirt, and a toothbrush. For some reason all of these articles were on the same shelf right before the checkout counter.
What a peculiar country, thought Johansson. Wonder how many unplanned overnights there would have to be for it to be profitable to give them a shelf of their own, in Albany, more than three hours’ drive north of New York, of all places?
“Can I help you, detective?” said Sarah and smiled inquiringly. She had lowered the hood of her winter coat and her frizzy red hair was like a halo around her head.
“No,” said Johansson and nodded toward the shelf by the checkout. “There was just one thing I was thinking about.”
“Planning for the unplanned,” said Sarah and smiled.
This must be the cleverest woman I’ve ever met, thought Johansson, for of course he was like that himself as well.
Then they drove out to the house where John had lived before he went to Sweden, where he died.
What an extraordinarily lugubrious place, thought Johansson, who made it a point of honor to constantly expand his vocabulary. The house stood on a rise fifty yards from the road. It was built of brick that had turned black with age and was large enough to hold an entire summer camp of young drug-abusers. Turn-of-the-century American neo-Gothic, a mausoleum of gloominess that concealed its secrets behind tall lead-cased windows.
“What do you think?” said Sarah, smiling with delight. “It sure is cozy.”
“I think you should sell it,” said Johansson. “Otherwise those poor kids will take an overdose.”
On the lower floor was a large hall that opened onto an even
larger living room. Dark men’s-club furniture from the era before the war, and rows of framed photographs crowded together on the sooty mantelpiece above the fireplace. On the brown-spotted wallpaper were light rectangular and square areas, evidence of paintings that had previously hung there. On the facing long wall was a pair of half-open double doors into a neighboring dining room, where merely sticking his head in caused Johansson to lose his appetite. It was untidy with a vengeance. Ashtrays overflowing with cigarette butts, crumpled cigarette packs, and dried-up apple cores, newspapers tossed on the floor, piles of books that had been taken off a bookshelf that was still leaning precariously. In the middle of the floor was a motley pile of outdoor rattan furniture barely covered up by a worn-out Oriental rug.
“Elegant, isn’t it?” said Sarah.
The only thing Johansson looked at closely were the photographs on the mantelpiece. Twenty-some photos of one or several persons with frames of silver, pewter, and wood, and judging by the motifs they had been taken over a period of about fifty years. A man was pictured in all the photos except one, a portrait of a woman in early middle age. She was high-busted, had her hair set in a bun, wore a dress with a collar, and was staring sternly at the photographer.
“John’s mother,” said Sarah. “The reason she’s staring like that is that as usual she’s dead drunk. All the others are of his uncle, the colonel, visiting fine people that he’s met.”
“You say colonel,” said Johansson. “I thought you said he was a professor.”
“We’ll discuss that later,” said Sarah. “After you’ve looked at all his photos where he’s visiting fine people that he’d met.”
Not a bad summary, thought Johansson. In the photo where he was the youngest, the uncle was dressed in full academic regalia with a flat hat, black robe, and chain, courteously bowing toward a white-haired skeleton in the same getup. In the others as a rule he was dressed in uniform or double-breasted suit with broad lapels, and depending on the outfit he was either saluting or shaking hands with other men, without exception older than himself and, judging by their appearance, higher class as well. Two of them Johansson even recognized. The first from his school history textbook, for it was President Harry S. Truman, who, politely leaning forward, was shaking hands with Uncle Colonel-Professor, who, despite the broad-striped suit, was standing at stiff attention with his chin thrust forward and a steely glance. Who the hell is it that he resembles? thought Johansson.