Clinch (16 page)

Both Lundin and I hold our breath as he carefully rolls up his newspaper. The winter fly stops polishing itself when the shadow darts across the table top, but it’s too late. The dry smack of the newspaper resounds through the little kitchen, which smells, deliciously, of fresh-baked bread. The coffee cups rattle against their saucers.

‘Rest in peace.’ Lundin nods thoughtfully and wipes the rolled-up newspaper against a corner of the table, as a butcher cleans his knife on his apron. He opens the paper and puts it on the table. Over the photograph of Olsson and Berglund is a gleaming bloodstain and a crisp fly wing. In the photograph, the two detectives are standing on Mälaretorget. Olsson is pointing away towards Slussen and Berglund is following his gaze. They look grim. That was the escape route taken by the German creep after shooting a wholesaler named Hildebrandt in the face and hijacking his car to get away from the chaos in the market square. The headline announces,
No Trace of the Market Murderer
.

‘Where was I?’

The chair legs scrape against the floor when Lundin leans back and pops his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets. He drums his chest lightly with his fingers. I dilute the morning cup with some schnapps from the bottle on the table, even though my head hurts after yesterday’s excesses of champagne and wine.

‘You just said I didn’t have a nose for business. That I should stay damned clear of it.’

‘Exactly. Stay damned clear of it. There’s nothing for you to gain there. Unless the wholesaler’s family are offering a reward.’ Lundin takes his thumbs out of his waistcoat and tips forwards. He taps the newspaper article and flicks away the fly wing with his snuff-stained nail. I have a sip of coffee. It’s almost cold but the schnapps is bracing.

‘That German creep is the solution to this whole case.’

‘This case is no longer your concern. The German is a snag for the police to deal with. They have two telephone lines for witnesses and
Aftonbladet
has hired a clairvoyant. Most likely he has already left the country, but if he’s still here they’ll nab him soon enough. Forget the whole thing: forget Zetterberg and Sonja, the only thing you should put your abilities and energy into, my brother, is the director’s wife. There, my friend, you will find a surfeit of coin to collect.’

‘The case is totally overblown. Her bloke found out about the jewellery theft and he immediately fired his entire household staff.’

‘Is it really so hard to understand? Let’s go through it again.’

‘No need.’

‘Ludvig Steiner’s wife comes into your office and more or less throws herself in your arms.’

‘They haven’t shared a bed for years. She says their bedrooms are in separate parts of the house.’

‘He must be more or less the same age as myself. At which point there’s little to think about except your infirmities. And they already have an heir?’

‘A son.’

‘See. She comes to you about a jewellery theft, but when you meet again the old man has pre-empted you and fired every sod
in a fit of rage. None-the-damned-less she wants to see you. And not only that, she invites you out to the Grand.’

‘Yesterday. Tonight we’re going to the Continental.’

‘Three evenings in a row? You’ve got her in your pocket? No young woman has time for an old man, for God’s sake.’

Outside, in a sparsely lit expanse of Ingemarsgatan, a rat gives off a high-pitched scream. I look out of the window, and see it has been cornered among the shadows by an emaciated black cat. The cat inches forwards, moving laterally to cut off any escape route. I take another mouthful of coffee.

‘It smells of trouble.’

‘You’ve lost your salt, old boy. She’s good for millions.’

‘She’s old.’

‘In her right hand she holds long life, in her left, wealth and renown.’

‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Surely you must bloody know, you who have done the rounds of all seven seas?’

Lundin’s excitation whips up a bout of coughing. I put down my coffee cup and watch the starving cat ripping the rat to pieces in the street. Little tufts of fur hover above the cobblestones for a moment. Lundin gets out a grubby handkerchief from his trouser pocket and spits into it before he opens the newspaper. I draw my hand across the night’s production of beard stubble.

The newspaper rustles as Lundin spreads it across the table. He turns it halfway around and taps on the classifieds. ‘Looks like HP has been out on a binge.’

I lean forwards and read:
WHERE ARE
: A silver sports trophy, 3 boxers holding a bowl, on the latter a shield of gold, also a gentleman’s fur coat with an astrakhan collar? Finders contact Harry Persson. Tel. Haga l5 93
.

Gold trophies and an astrakhan collar. That could have been me, if everything hadn’t gone to hell. I grunt and turn my thoughts again to Doris Steiner’s millions. I reach over and firmly grip the schnapps bottle. I’m taking the day off.

Dixie, Doris’s fat black dwarf schnauzer, jumps up and down my leg, barking. Her long silly eyebrows sway as she slants her head and looks at me with her coal-black eyes. I stand in front of the hall mirror, buttoning up the rust-red shirt Doris bought for me. It fits me perfectly, as if made to measure. I have never felt softer cotton. Doris claps her hands excitedly next to me.

‘The tie as well! And the black jacket!’

Her voice is hoarse with cigarettes and cognac left out in the night. She presents a broad silk tie. I do as I’m told and make a double knot. Doris slips her arm under mine. She’s wearing a straight black evening dress with a fishtail hem, and a stole of red mink that reaches her elbows.

‘Now we match each other! You look really quite sweet!’

She squeezes my arm, goes up on her tiptoes, kisses my cheek and quickly rubs off the lipstick with a wetted thumb. I comb through my hair with Fandango and smile sheepishly at my broken physiognomy in the mirror. Not much can be done about the nose and the scars, but the rest just about passes muster.

There’s a tentative tap on the door. Probably just one of the kids who’s worked up the courage to ask for Christmas newspapers. They’ve already come running here once or twice to collect them.

I take my boots, the shoe polish and an old newspaper and walk into the kitchen. These days I shine them better than the pretty shoeshine boy outside the big library on Sveavägen. The secret
is to use silk cloth. Dixie follows me and lies down on the rag rug with her head between her paws. Lundin thumps the broom once on the ceiling. It means Doris should take off her heels. She ashes her cigarette in the sink. He’s just jealous.

‘Could you be
an angel
and take Dixie for a walk before we go out? As you see I have a few things to take care of.’ Doris makes a sweeping gesture over her face.

I nod, check my boots, go over them a few more times and lace them on. I stand up and go to the sink. Dixie yawns excitedly when I find the leash and fix it to her collar of fake rubies. At least I think they’re fake.

With the lead dragging behind her, Dixie posts herself with her front paws against the door. I take off my jacket and clip on the shoulder holster. I made the straps myself, using a pair of discarded braces. I open the door and Dixie runs off ahead, down the stairs. Doris doesn’t like my wearing the Husqvarna when we are together, and as yet I haven’t been able to bring myself to explain why I need it. If we’re off to eat, I leave it at home, because then we rarely go much further than from the car door to the restaurant. In other situations, the weight of the pistol against my ribs is a necessity.

I’m going to take Lundin’s advice and stop chasing both the German creep and Sonja. In time, once the worst turmoil has settled down, the lanky figure in the bowler hat will come looking for me, and then I’ll be ready for him.

Even though Dixie’s a bitch, she nonetheless lifts her hind leg when she wees against the big bank of snow that divides the pavement from the street. It has been snowing more or less without interruption for two days and nights. A couple of kids from number 41 are strolling back home with their skates slung around their necks by laces. Maybe the Christmas orchestra has
started rehearsing its repertoire up by Albano’s rink. On the other side of the street, Wallin is tottering towards number 54. He walks with his arms stretched out from his body, as if he’s preparing to lunge at his own shadow. On weekdays he’s an auxiliary at Konradsberg’s hospital for the mentally ill, at weekends he has a good crack at the bottle.

‘Has Kvist got himself a dog? What a sweet little rascal.’ The widow Lind, who owns the tobacconist’s further down the street, stops and runs her hand through Dixie’s coat before putting the short cigar back into her mouth and hurrying on. Dixie tugs at the lead. Maybe it’s too cold. On the way back we pass Doris’s car.

There’s only one model of its kind in the whole country. It’s a sixteen-cylinder white Cadillac from 1930 with blue-sprayed wheel arches. Steiner purchased it for his wife at Osterman’s Marble Hall during a publicity tour a couple of years ago. I’m mad about it.

Doris lets me drive.

‘To Hotel Continental,’ she calls out when I turn onto the Roslagsgatan, which is slippery as glass. The rear-end swings round and I struggle to straighten the car up. We both yell with excitement as if drunk. We aren’t. Not yet. But it’s probably just a question of time.

We drive down Sveavägen at speed, past the Metropol restaurant and the Stockholm School of Economics. Doris spins the wide gold bracelet over the edge of her Nappa leather glove.

‘Four days to Christmas and Ludvig fires our entire service staff.’

‘Could have been a bit of an overreaction.’

We pass the NORMA where the gangsters hang out on the corner of Kungsgatan. I change down into second where the
street narrows by Ateneum girls’ school and the statue of Karl Staff. A couple of girls in teddy capes are standing outside the school. One of them has tightened a strap around a pile of books, which she carries in one hand, even though school must have finished hours ago.

‘And just at the one time we’re not heading south for Christmas.’

Adolf Fredrik’s church, newly renovated, shines white in the evening. Along the outside of the iron railings, a bent-over old woman in a large knitted scarf and an apron of sack weave walks back and forth by a stall selling decorative spruce twigs for Christmas. She’s slapping herself, trying to work up some warmth.

‘Times are hard. We all have to make sacrifices.’

‘I suppose that’s right. And anyway I met you.’ She puts her hand on my thigh. I keep my eyes on the road, fully aware that she’s smiling.

I slow down and turn right by the Concert Hall into Kungsgatan.

‘Who will you be celebrating with?’

‘With Lundin, one supposes.’

‘So you have no one else?’

A couple of quick memories flash before me, but I discard them. ‘No one.’

I pick up speed as we approach Zetterberg’s house. There it lies, grey and immobile in the darkness, with crystallised ice emerging like static eruptions from the drain pipes.

I turn into Vasagatan and park outside the Continental. A tramp with a bottle of cheap plonk in one hand runs up to hold the car door open and maybe earn himself a five-öre piece, but the doorman rushes forwards and kicks snow at him. The doorman’s an elderly bloke with slanted, tired eyes and white gloves. All the gold in his coat makes him look like an admiral. For a moment
I am reminded of the sleazy cloakroom man at the Restaurant Pilen’s third-class dining room.

‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Steiner! How very nice to see you again.’ The doorman bows slightly and hurries off to hold the double glass doors open for us. Doris wriggles out of her fur coat and he folds it over his arm.

‘Sir?’

With a nod, I give him my overcoat and hat. Doris’s soft arm steals under mine. I adjust my tie, get out a comb and pull it through my hair. The thick rug yields under our feet as we walk into the music café. The cigarette boy and the toilet attendant stiffen attentively. A couple of electric chandeliers spread a muted, pleasant light over the tables. In a corner, a morose-looking pianist with protruding ears and a strong chin tinkles a low-key, droning melody on a white grand piano. He’s so short that they should really have put a telephone directory on his seat.

I briefly remember going to Kompaniet to choose a doll’s house for my daughter’s second birthday. It must have been about ten years ago. The most beautiful of them, a great monstrosity crafted in the Jugend style, reminds me of the large music café in which I’m now standing. The walls are in white and red, and the room is furnished with heavy mahogany chairs and tables and enormous potted palms. I couldn’t afford the pretty doll’s house and not any of the simpler models either, so in the end I had to make one myself from off-cuts I got from the wood yard on Tavastgatan.

Doris breaks free from me. I follow her.

The big windows towards Vasagatan are spotless. A young, blonde waitress in a white pinafore and bonnet quickly changes our vase of drooping red roses for another one a few tables along, and gives the little rack of HP and Worcestershire sauce a
poke, to adjust its position by a fraction. We sink into the plush armchairs. Outside, another filthy tramp is playing the comb or a harmonica, his cap in the snow in front of him. My reflection flickers over him in the window, our faces merge. I know that he could be me tomorrow, or I could be him.

Next to the grand piano sits a young man in a black wool suit, his hair slicked severely back without a parting. His tie shines a deep yellow against his white shirt. He holds a glass of wine in his hand and taps his foot lightly at the floor. He has white socks and he can’t stay in beat.

At a little table next to the young man sits a couple. The man is about ten years older than the woman. She’s wearing an evening dress buttoned asymmetrically, with a fur-lined collar and a beret, even though she’s indoors. Gazing demonstratively over the man’s shoulder and out of the window, she looks utterly bored. Meanwhile, he’s reading a newspaper.