A shoe with a hollow heel, in the hollow heel a key to a safe-deposit box in the United States, and so far so good. If it hadn’t been for that slip of paper, thought Johansson. The paper with his name and address, despite the fact that he wasn’t in the phone book, despite the fact that extremely few people outside of his family and his closest circle of friends knew where he lived. Despite the fact that his secretary, and anyone else at his office, for that matter, would never dream of giving out his home address.
“A mystery, quite simply,” said Johansson gloomily, and that was exactly what he thought. A damn mystery.
“At first I thought it was the guys in the uniformed police who wanted to mess with you,” said Jarnebring.
I thought so too, thought Johansson, and nodded while he poured the last drops from the wine bottle. I should have stuck to beer like Jarnie, he thought. The same Jarnie who furthermore had replenished Aunt Jenny’s glass twice but still appeared capable of an arrest or two, which of course was more than one might expect of him. They might as well write a traveling testimonial for me, he thought and immediately felt cheered at the thought.
“Where was I?” said Jarnebring, taking a large gulp from his beer glass. “Yes, the guys at the uniformed police, the ones you were giving such a hard time a few months ago.”
In his capacity as head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation, Johansson had led an internal investigation of a unit of the Stockholm riot squad. He had proceeded harshly and they had even had to sit in the pokey a while, but now it appeared that everything was returning to normal. Released from jail, back on the job although without a police van (at least for the time being), and with an indictment in Stockholm district court that would certainly run out in the sand.
“Damn crooks,” said Johansson from the depths of his heart. “How the hell can they let people like that into the corps?”
“Sure,” said Jarnebring, “I’m with you, and just say the word if you want to go outside and have it out with those fucking bastards, but as far as the shoe is concerned they’re innocent. They don’t know a thing about it.”
“I agree with you,” said Johansson, nodding down into his wineglass.
“It’s Krassner’s shoe. And for reasons unknown, he’s written down your address and put it into the heel of the shoe. Where the hell did my dessert go, by the way?”
Pure detective mystery, thought Johansson, trying to make eye contact with his friend the restaurant owner. An honest cop, he thought.
“I was thinking about that letter,” said Johansson.
Jarnebring nodded. They had finished off the dessert and were working on coffee and cognac. Johansson was having it mostly for show, but after half a bottle of Ramlösa mineral water he felt significantly more alert.
“Yes,” said Jarnebring, who didn’t appear to notice how much he drank.
“It was an electric typewriter, you said. Did you check the ink cartridge-one of those color-ribbon cassettes, if I understood you correctly?”
“What the hell, Lars,” said Jarnebring. “I am actually a policeman. Yes, I’ve checked the cartridge, and the only thing on the ribbon is just what’s written in the letter. Who the hell do you think I am?” said Jarnebring, taking a large gulp from his brandy snifter at the same time that he gave his friend the familiar wolfish grin.
“The wastebasket…” said Johansson.
“And the wastebasket,” interrupted Jarnebring. “The only thing in the wastebasket was the package the cartridge came in. As I said.”
“But you said that the piece of shit has been here for a month and a half,” persisted Johansson. “What’s he been doing that whole time? He must have been doing something?”
“I guess he’s been brooding about life and the future,” said Jarnebring, shrugging his shoulders. “Apart from that, he doesn’t seem to have covered much ground. I guess he had other things on his mind.”
“For more than a month,” said Johansson with obvious doubt in his voice.
“Just over six and a half weeks,” said Jarnebring. “I’ve checked the date. He arrived from New York at Arlanda on Sunday, the sixth of October. Jumped on Friday, the twenty-second of November.”
“Those books in his room,” said Johansson. “What were they about?”
“Various things,” said Jarnebring, grinning for reasons that Johansson could not readily understand. “There were some paperback mysteries in English; he seems to have read those at least, for they were fairly dog-eared. Yes,” Jarnebring searched his memory, “then there were quite a few books about Sweden and Swedish history and politics, all of them in English. Sweden the Middle Way, The Paradise of Social Democracy. I’ve got a list in my report if you’re interested.”
Not particularly, thought Johansson.
“Damn it, Lars.” Jarnebring leaned forward across the table and put his right hand on Johansson’s arm. “Relax. There’s bound to be some simple and obvious explanation.”
“I’m listening,” said Johansson; at the same time he couldn’t help smiling.
“Let’s suppose this,” said his best friend. “Some semi-radical nitwit from the States comes here for various unclear reasons and has the exact same opinions that everyone else of his ilk has. One evening he’s at the bar and meets our own talents who think like he does and they stand there shooting the breeze and feeling at home and talking about the sort of thing that unites all those types, regardless of where they come from.”
“And what would that be?” asked Johansson.
“That people like you and me are real shitheads. Policemen. The biggest shitheads around.”
“I know what you mean,” said Johansson. He had heard it from one of his own children.
“Excellent,” said Jarnebring, “and at that point it’s one of our own leftist loonies who remembers that he or she-most likely it’s a broad, come to think of it-has read in the paper that there are actually exceptions even among the worst of the worst.”
“I see,” said Johansson.
“And so she starts to tell about what she’s read in the paper about you and your crusade against our colleagues at the Stockholm riot squad on account of that old drunk that they possibly beat to death, and Krassner gets completely hot in his trousers and decides that, by God, I’ll make sure to take that boy with me into eternity. And he proceeds to write down your name and puts it in his secret little shoe. Damn romantic,” snorted Jarnebring, “and if you don’t intend to foot the bill for drinks, I’ll get two with my own money. What would you like?”
“Let me think,” said Johansson, whose thoughts were going in a different direction than gin and tonic.
“Okay,” said Jarnebring. “Do you remember that editorial in Mini-Pravda, our beloved evening paper, the day after you put those guys in the can? Half a page. Do you remember that?”
“I have a vague memory now that you mention it,” Johansson lied; he could recall the editorial in detail.
“I seem to remember that the headline was ‘An Honorable Cop,’ ” said Jarnebring.
“Now that you mention it,” said Johansson evasively.
“Exactly,” said Jarnebring. “Me and the other guys almost laughed ourselves silly. Lars Martin Johansson, a completely ordinary constable, one of us, allowing for the fact that a lot of water has run under the bridge since we shared the front seat and the same lookouts, you could swear he’s well on his way to becoming a government minister. The only one in Swedish police history to get a positive mention in that rag. And a real policeman besides, not one of the kind you run into nowadays.”
“Was it that bad?” said Johansson, and the discomfort he felt was genuine.
“Cut it out,” said Jarnebring. “It’s cool. I guess we know you. What about that drink, by the way?”