“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.