When Waltin phoned the retired mathematics professor he encountered unexpected problems.
“Yes, I hear what you’re saying, police superintendent,” said the professor in a grumpy old man’s voice, “but at the risk of appearing obstinate I would still prefer to speak directly with the bureau chief.”
“The problem is that the bureau chief is out of town,” Waltin lied routinely. “I have spoken with him on the phone and because you contacted us, professor, the bureau chief wanted me to make contact with you at once.” And besides, I am a police superintendent, you old fart, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.
“I hear what you’re saying, superintendent,” mumbled the professor.
“Yes, Bureau Chief Berg was of the firm opinion that this matter was clearly important, given that you contacted us,” said Waltin in a mild voice.
“If he is of that opinion then I really don’t understand why he can’t drag himself over here.”
“As I said before, he is unfortunately out of town.” Surly old fogey who for unclear historical reasons has a completely crazy estimation of his own significance, thought Waltin. But I’m sure that can be changed.
“Where is he?” asked the professor.
“Excuse me?” said Waltin. What’s he saying? he thought.
“I asked where he was, Bureau Chief Berg, that is. Is that so hard to understand? Where is Bureau Chief Berg?”
Obviously senile too, thought Waltin.
“Yes,” said Waltin with feigned heartiness. “A man with your background surely understands why I can’t go into that. Especially not on the phone. My suggestion is that I come to your residence so we can discuss the matter in peace and quiet. Hello?”
The old fart hung up, thought Waltin, astonished. He hung up right in my ear.
When he finally got hold of Berg in his office half the afternoon had gone to waste. In addition Berg had been amused in a manner that Waltin didn’t appreciate.
“Yes, yes,” said Berg, smiling. “Johan can have his ways. When he was working at the defense department’s intelligence division during the war he is said to have taken a swing at a staff major who had hidden his whiskey. He was, of course, a drafted corporal, and in civilian life he was professor of mathematics at Uppsala University. Then he moved to the technical college to be closer to his beloved computers.”
“If we’re talking about the Second World War,” said Waltin, “that might possibly explain it. After all, some water has run under the bridge since then. The years pass, if I may say so.”
Berg shook his head thoughtfully.
“I doubt that he’s senile. He’s actually the one who set up our system of codes and encryption here at the bureau. He has saved millions for us in computer costs. We had official contact just six months ago and he was just as sharp as he’s always been. Here’s what we’ll do,” continued Berg, nodding toward Waltin. “I’ll phone and talk to him, then you come along so that I see to it that you are properly introduced.”
“Fine with me,” said Waltin and shrugged his shoulders. What could he say?
Because I have decided to trust you, thought Berg.
Professor Emeritus Johan Forselius lived in an enormous, old-fashioned apartment on Sturegatan. It took a good while before they were let in, and then they’d had to grope their way along a darkened hallway toward a distant and well-smoked study.
“It’s that damn girl from the home-care services,” muttered the professor. “I’ve told her all fall that she should put new lightbulbs in the hall, but the woman seems to be completely stupid. Speaks some incomprehensible Polish gibberish.”
Forselius blew his nose vigorously into his hand and wiped it off on his pants.
“If you gentlemen want coffee you’ll have to help yourselves,” he said, staring crossly at Waltin. “Personally I could fancy a small cognac.”
The professor sank down into a well-broken-in leather easy chair and nodded toward Berg that he could sit down as well. After that he looked again at Waltin. More challengingly this time.
“Yes, what do you say, Claes,” Berg said obligingly and nodded toward Waltin. “Wouldn’t a cup of coffee taste good?”
“Yes, truly,” said Waltin with warmth in his voice. “Is the kitchen in that direction?” Waltin made a head movement toward the apartment’s darkened interior.
“If you find a stove, superintendent, you’ve come to the right place,” said the professor, grinning contentedly. “The cognac is in the serving area. On second thought, bring the bottle if Erik here would like some, for it must be the superintendent who’ll be driving the car afterward?”
Waltin had been content to smile amiably.
Two months earlier Professor Forselius had received a letter from the United States. The sender was a John P. Krassner, who wrote that he was a researcher and author in the process of writing a book about the politics of security in Europe after the Second World War. Now he was intending to come to Sweden and requested an interview. This was not an unusual request for a man like Forselius: rumor-shrouded code-breaker from the days of the great war, well-known speaker among military personnel and secret police officers across the Western world. Forselius received similar proposals every month, despite the fact that his war posting had ended more than forty years ago, and he had done what he always did. He tossed it into the wastebasket.
“Who the hell wants to talk to people like that?” said Forselius, taking a hefty gulp from his brandy snifter. “But then, the day before yesterday, the doorbell rang, and at first I thought the damn home-care services had sent me some new damn foreigner, and then it turns out it’s that damn Krassner who’d written to me to get an interview and now he’s turned up on my own doorstep.”
Berg nodded understandingly. Those home-care folks, those home-care folks. “So you let him in?”
“Hmm,” said Forselius from the depths of his snifter. “At first I thought about just tossing the bastard out; he’s a little S.O.B. and even if I’m not as strong as I once was, it wouldn’t have been any big deal.” Forselius grunted contentedly and gave Waltin an almost greedy glance. “But then he said something that made me curious.”
“Do tell,” said Berg.
“He had greetings from an old acquaintance,” said Forselius.
The professor took a fresh sip from his large snifter while giving Waltin a suspicious look over the edge of his glass.
“An old acquaintance from the war and the years after.” Forselius nodded and appeared most interested in the contents of his glass.
“You really don’t need to be worried about Claes here,” said Berg with conviction in his voice. “Completely disregarding the fact that he is my closest man, I trust him unreservedly.” Did that sound a little strange? he thought.
Forselius nodded, mostly to himself, it appeared. Then he straightened in his chair, smiled, and shook his head.
“I hear what you’re saying, Erik,” he said. “I hear what you’re saying.”
“Well,” said Berg, smiling.
Forselius shook his head again and set the glass down on the table next to the easy chair.