“You’ve done well,” said Vindel, glancing at Johansson’s business card, which he had placed before him on the table. “Police superintendent, that’s not cat shit.”
“Yeah,” said Johansson. “I’ve done well.”
“For me things almost went to hell for awhile,” said Vindel.
“Your health failed you?” asked Johansson, despite the fact that he knew. Vindel shook his head.
“Booze,” he said. “The greatest depravity that he-down-there ever sent us poor wretches up here. But I broke out of those chains of his and there are others besides me who can testify to the fact that it was at the last minute.”
Me among them, thought Johansson and nodded, but he didn’t say anything. Vindel took a cookie from the plate and suddenly smiled at Johansson.
“It’s nice when things go well for us Norrlanders,” he said. “We’ve always pulled our weight, I can tell you, but how many Norrlanders are there in the government? Stockholmers and Scanians, they’re a dime a dozen, but Norrlanders?” Vindel sighed and shook his head. “Although when the wind starts to blow, then we come in handy.”
So true, so true, thought Johansson, and what am I doing here, really?
…
Johansson had shown him the pictures anyway. The picture of Krassner and nine of the others that he had gotten from Jarnebring. Vindel only shook his head.
“He wasn’t in any condition for me to recognize him,” said Vindel, “and it’s true I’ve lived here since I came to Stockholm, but I don’t recall any of them.” He nodded toward Johansson’s photographs and shook his head.
“Which of them is it?” asked Vindel.
“That one,” said Johansson, pointing to the photo of Krassner.
“I’ve never seen him,” said Vindel. “Has he done something, or…?” he asked. “More than been the death of Charlie, I mean.”
“Not as far as we know,” said Johansson.
“I heard he was American,” said Vindel. “Your colleagues who were here over the weekend said so. There was a big husky one, a real mountain of a guy, and then he had a little dapper one with him who looked like an executive. In all fairness, though, they were both nice, I have no complaints about either of them.”
I should hope not, thought Johansson.
“There’s one thing I was thinking about,” said Vindel as they stood in the entryway saying goodbye.
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“I told my neighbor, Mrs. Carlander, fine lady, widow, although she’ll soon be eighty of course…”
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“Yes, I told her that he was an American.”
“Yes,” said Johansson.
“Yes, she must have seen them when they stood there talking at the place where he was killed. Your colleagues, that is.”
“Yes,” said Johansson as he stepped out through the door. High time to get back to work, he thought.
“She’d heard about Charlie; that’s why we came to talk about it and when I told her that they’d said that he was an American.”
You haven’t started tippling again, have you? thought Johansson, feeling ashamed at the thought. “Absolutely no problem,” he said. “It’s no secret, and I’d like to say thank you for the treat.”
“You’re welcome,” said Vindel and nodded after Johansson, who was disappearing down the stairwell.
“I think she’d spoken with some American when she was at the post office,” explained Vindel to Johansson’s back.
“Excuse me?” said Johansson, turning around.
“It was him,” said Mrs. Carlander, pointing at the photo of Krassner. “I heard right away that he was an American but also that he spoke with a distinct upstate New York accent. My husband was head of sales for SKF in the U.S. and we lived there for quite a few years,” Mrs. Carlander explained.
This can’t be true, thought Lars Martin Johansson.
“Tell me,” he said.
“It must have been a little over a month ago,” said Mrs. Carlander. She wasn’t sure of the day, but toward the end of every month she would always gather together all the bills that needed to be paid and go to the post office with them, so it must have been just around then. Besides, it was then that her husband’s pension check was deposited in her account, so she didn’t need to worry about making overdrafts from the bank and annoyances like that.
No doubt, thought Johansson, looking around at the tastefully decorated apartment. Mrs. Carlander has the means to get by.
“I could just write it out on my postal account and put it in the mail,” she continued, “but I think there are so many newfangled things and I feel more secure going to the post office where there’s always someone to ask if need be. And besides, they’re so nice, the people who work there, especially the manager. She’s charming.”
Johansson nodded.
“Where is the post office?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Carlander. “It’s our own post office, as we usually say, we older folks who live here in the neighborhood. It’s that little post office on Körsbärsvägen. Right on the corner before the student dormitory, but on the other side of the street of course,” she explained. “Besides, the walk there is just about right.”
Johansson nodded. He had a vague recollection of having walked or driven past it at some point.
“And naturally they’re going to close it,” said Mrs. Carlander, with a noticeable irritation at the ravages of time.
“I see,” said Johansson.
“Well,” said Mrs. Carlander. “So we’ve started to organize a protest among us older people in the neighborhood. The politicians can’t just take all local service away from us.”
They certainly can, thought Johansson, but he didn’t say that.
“It must have been in the morning,” continued Mrs. Carlander. “That I was there, that is. There are very few people there in the morning, and of course you want to stand in line as little as possible.”
“That’s for sure,” said Johansson. “Who wants to stand in line?”
“That’s why I recall it so well,” said Mrs. Carlander. “I became extremely irritated at him.”
On the morning about a month earlier when Mrs. Carlander visited the post office on Körsbärsvägen, the premises had been mostly empty when she entered. There was only one man, speaking English with the cashier at the only window that was open.
“I heard right away that he was an American,” said Mrs. Carlander. “My husband and I lived there for almost ten years. SKF had an office in Manhattan at that time and we lived less than an hour north, on the Hudson River outside a charming little town called Montrose. Gerhard commuted on weekdays, morning and evening, and I took care of our children. Now they’re grown up and have children of their own.”
Johansson nodded. He had gathered as much from the framed family pictures on her little desk.
“Where was I?” Mrs. Carlander smiled absently but then she picked up the thread again and there was a twinkle in her gray eyes. “That’s what was amusing, suddenly I recognized his, well, accent. New England, although to be exact it’s not really New England.”
“So you, Mrs. Carlander, became irritated at him,” Johansson reminded her.
“He was going to send some letter and the cashier’s English no doubt could have been better-I actually became a little irritated at her too, and for a moment I thought about butting in and offering to help out by translating, but you don’t want to meddle either.”
No, thought Johansson. You’re not the type. He nodded encouragingly.
“But finally I became thoroughly irritated in any event, for he didn’t give up and it’s a little hard for me to stand for longer periods, but just as I was about to say something the manager came and took over. Charming young woman, you should meet her, although that is a strange title they’ve given her. Postmaster. What’s wrong with postmistress? After all, you say equestrienne, for example. It’s not logical.”