“You mean that letter?” asked Hedberg. “The letter about the meeting?”
“Exactly,” said Waltin, “Krassner’s invitation to the meeting with Forselius. Did you find it?”
“No,” said Hedberg. “It wasn’t left behind in his room, in any case. Of that I’m quite certain. Neither a letter nor an envelope.”
Damn, thought Waltin, despite the fact that he almost never swore.
“We’ll just have to hope that he didn’t have it with him,” said Hedberg, smiling wryly.
Waltin was not the type to take unnecessary risks. If Krassner had indeed had Forselius’s letter in his pocket when he jumped out the window, it was too late to do anything about that. On the other hand there was almost certainly still time to warn Forselius so that he could keep his mouth shut if the investigators from the Stockholm police were to contact him. In addition there were of course a number of other major reasons to find out what he and Krassner had really been up to at the meeting, which in any event must have been considerably shorter than planned.
Forselius seemed even less pleased than usual to encounter Waltin. After the usual grumbling about Saturday morning and “important business,” he finally yielded and received him in his darkened apartment, as usual and despite the time of day wearing a dressing gown and holding a brandy snifter. Waltin pretended not to notice and turned on the charm, being careful not to show his cards from the start.
“How did the meeting with Krassner go?” Waltin asked with a conciliatory smile.
“The meeting with Krassner,” said Forselius, with a calculating look at Waltin. “You’re wondering how the meeting with Krassner went?”
“Yes,” said Waltin, smiling amiably. “Tell me how it went.”
“So kind of you to ask,” Forselius grunted. “It went just fine.”
“That’s nice,” said Waltin. “What did you-”
“The little snake never showed up,” Forselius interrupted, fortifying himself with a generous gulp from the snifter.
“He never showed up?”
“I’m happy that your ears are functioning,” Forselius said amiably. “As I said. He never showed up.”
“What did you do, then?” Waltin asked with interest. Idiot, he thought. The old man is a complete idiot.
“I waited a while. Then I read a good book, an excellent book, in fact, about stochastic processes and harmonic functions. I have it here somewhere if you’re interested.” Forselius made a sweeping gesture in the direction of the bookshelves behind his back.
“It never occurred to you to make contact?” asked Waltin. As we’d agreed on, you miserable old bastard, he thought.
“No,” said Forselius, looking as if he’d never given it a thought. “On the other hand I did make a call to your boss.”
What else would you expect? thought Waltin.
“And what did he say?”
“Not too much,” said Forselius. “Either he wasn’t at home or he didn’t want to answer.”
“Did you leave a message?” asked Waltin.
“I never leave messages on answering machines,” said Forselius haughtily. “It goes against the nature of the operation.”
When Waltin told Forselius that Krassner was dead, the old man nodded approvingly. It was an excellent opportunity to find out in peace and quiet what “the little snake” had been up to. The information that he must have taken his own life was received with amused indulgence.
“Took his own life, of course,” said Forselius, winking. “So now the superintendent wants me to testify that he seemed deeply depressed when we met, if our colleagues from the open operation should knock on my door.”
“If that should be the case I only want you to say how it was,” said Waltin with forced courtesy. “That he wanted to meet you for an interview but that he never showed up.” And that you can keep yourself sufficiently sober not to mention us, he thought.
“So it was then that he”-Forselius grunted with enjoyment while he drew his index finger across his wrinkled neck-“took his own life.”
Sigh, thought Waltin, and five minutes later he said goodbye, correct yet courteous.
After the visit with Forselius, Waltin took the road past the firm’s garage. The blue delivery van stood parked in its usual place and it had been cursorily cleaned. However, in the trash can by the garage door only five yards away someone had been recklessly careless. The black garbage bag was almost empty, but on the top was a paper bag and inside it an empty can, a crumpled coffee cup, and various scraps of paper that were evidence of a hamburger dinner for two, plus a receipt for the whole party from the hot-dog stand up by Tessin Park at Gärdet.
What kind of world is it we live in when a police superintendent is forced to use his weekend to root through garbage cans? thought Waltin gloomily while with distaste and the help of his pen he poked through the leftovers. What do I do now and how do I get rid of these two lightweights?
First he returned to his office and spoke with an acquaintance who was responsible for certain security issues at the ministry of foreign affairs. No problem, because Waltin promised to pay the costs, and the joint decision on a quickly arranged extra exercise under realistic conditions could be made immediately. One hour later he met Göransson and Martinsson in his office. Both appeared to have slept well, and one thing was obvious right from the start: Neither of them had any idea about Krassner’s demise.
“Tell me,” said Waltin, nodding and smiling amiably while he leaned back in his large desk chair and formed his fingers into a church steeple of the classic Gothic model.
“Yes,” said Göransson, clearing his throat and leafing through his little black notebook. “Well,” he continued after another throat clearing. “The object left his address on Körsbärsvägen at eighteen thirty-two hours. After that he walked at a brisk pace down Körsbärsvägen, then Valhallavägen on the sidewalk on the west side. He arrived at the appointed meeting place, Sturegatan 60, at eighteen forty-two hours and went directly in through the doorway. Ten minutes later, that is,” Göransson summarized with a discreet throat-clearing and a slightly nervous side glance at his younger colleague.
“I see,” said Waltin blandly. “And what did you do then?”
“We positioned our vehicle approximately one hundred yards further down on Sturegatan,” said Göransson, giving Martinsson another glance. “It was the best position according to our collective judgment.”
“What else?” asked Waltin heartily. “Was it you who was driving, Martinsson?”
Martinsson tore himself unwillingly away from his image in the large mirror behind Waltin’s back and shook his head.
“No,” said Martinsson. “It was Göransson who drove.”
Göransson glared acidly at his younger colleague, which wasn’t easy, as he was trying to do it on the sly.
“And at what time had you taken up your position?” Waltin asked innocently.
“About eighteen forty-three,” said Göransson. “About eighteen forty-three more or less, that is.”
This is getting better and better, thought Waltin, but he didn’t say that.
“And so then what happened?” Waltin asked with curiosity, at the same time leaning forward across the desk in order to further indicate his deep interest.
Not a thing, according to both conspirators. They had just sat there-true enough, in the front seat of a Dodge delivery van but watchful as two eagles-until the radio operator had made contact and told them to break it off and call it a day and then it was past ten o’clock.
“Twenty-two-zero-eight hours,” Göransson clarified with a fresh throat clearing and after another look in his little black book.
“It’s all in our surveillance memo,” Martinsson assisted obligingly. “It’s sitting in the usual folder.”