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.”
“Did you ever check what he had in the safe-deposit box?” asked Johansson.
“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?”