“Yes,” said Johansson inquiringly. “What’s strange about that?”
“He wanted it forwarded to a different person,” she explained. “A woman, so I thought that was probably more of that secret stuff that I shouldn’t butt into, but I have both her name and address. I have a copy of the forwarding information that you can look at if it’s of any help.”
“Yes,” said Johansson. “Gladly.”
Sarah J. Weissman, read Johansson, 222 Aiken Avenue, Rensselaer, NY 12144 U.S.A. Yes, yes, yes, thought Johansson. And so who is she?
“I actually checked the address,” she said. “I mean, you do get a bit curious.”
It shows in your eyes. You think this is a lot more fun than I do, Johansson thought gloomily.
“And?” he asked.
“Yes, the zip code fits the address. I haven’t checked if the addressee is there. I don’t really know if we can do that, but the rest checks out. Rensselaer is north of New York.”
Upstate New York, thought Johansson, and that much adds up.
“You seem worried, superintendent,” she said. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
If the eyes are indeed the mirror of the soul, thought Johansson, you seem sufficiently talented in any case. The question is whether you are sufficiently tight-lipped.
“Perhaps,” said Johansson.
“Try,” she said. “Sometimes you actually have to try trusting your fellow humans.”
“Are you the type of person who can… keep her mouth shut?” asked Johansson, and he immediately thought that perhaps he ought to have put that differently.
“Yes,” she said and nodded emphatically. “I am.”
“Good,” said Johansson. “The problem is in brief the following. I’ve never met this Krassner. I didn’t even know that he existed. True, I’m head of the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation”-a brief period of happiness, thought Johansson-“but,” he continued, “Krassner isn’t one of our informants, and if he were, it wouldn’t be handled in this way.
“Explain to me,” Johansson went on, “why someone sends something poste restante to a police officer they’ve never met without saying that they’ve done so. The chance that he will get what’s been sent ought to be about nil.”
“Certainly,” she said. “But there’s another thing that I don’t understand.”
Johansson nodded to her to continue.
“How you found out about it anyway. I mean, you show up here with me. How did you find out about it?”
You’re not stupid, thought Johansson, and what do I say now without saying too much?
“By pure coincidence,” he said. “Why does he send something to me in such a way that he must be almost certain that I will never receive it or even find out about it?” he continued by way of diversion.
“Wouldn’t the simplest way be for you to ask him? And if he’s already gone home and it’s terribly important I suppose you could ask the American police for help. I mean, the police have some kind of international cooperation, don’t they? Even we have within the postal service, and sometimes it actually works really well.”
Now she smiled again and seemed visibly charmed.
Groan, thought Johansson. Just so she doesn’t think I’m a complete idiot.
“The problem is that I can’t do that,” he said. And don’t start harping about why, he thought.
“Are you that policeman that there was so much about in the papers a few months ago?” she asked.
Johansson nodded.
“Perhaps he’s heard people talking about you in particular,” she said. “There was pure adulation in several newspapers, and that isn’t so common when it comes to policemen, is it? Does he understand Swedish?”
“I don’t believe he does,” said Johansson. “Although I’m not completely sure. It’s possible of course he might have spoken with someone. Who spoke Swedish, I mean.” She’s thinking the same way as Jarnebring, he thought. No resemblance in other respects.
“Think if it’s like this,” she said, suddenly sounding eager. “Suppose he’s up to something secret or something dangerous, and so he wants to get himself a kind of insurance, as it were. I’ve read that in mysteries many times. People who leave all their secret papers with people they can trust, lawyers and journalists and in secret safe-deposit boxes. Like a type of insurance if something should happen to them.” Johansson had been struck by the same thought five minutes earlier. There was just one hitch.
“There’s just one hitch,” he said. “How would I have found out about it?”
“You’re sitting here,” she said, “so you’ve clearly found out about it.”
“True,” said Johansson, “but I still have no idea what it’s about.”
“Exactly,” she said and sounded even more eager. “And you shouldn’t, either. As long as nothing has happened, you shouldn’t know a thing. He never needed his insurance. You wouldn’t even be sitting here if it weren’t for a pure coincidence. You’ve said that yourself.”
Johansson nodded and tried to look as if he was doing so because of what she had said. Then he smiled.
“You’ve never thought about becoming a police officer?” he asked.
“No, never,” she said, smiling back.
“I’d like to thank you very much for your help,” said Johansson.
“It was nothing,” she said, and there was no mistaking that she was charmed. “Get in touch if you happen to get stuck again.”
Don’t tempt me, he thought, and suddenly he felt rather miserable.
What a mess, thought Johansson. What is this really all about? First he stopped at the Östermalm police station and gave back Jarnebring’s identification photos. Jarnebring wasn’t in, which saved both time and explanations. After that he went to the office and now he was sitting behind his desk submerged in thought. What is it that connects me with the now deceased John Krassner and the hopefully still existing Sarah Weissman? Krassner and Weissman, Americans of whom generally speaking he knew no more than that the first was dead and that he’d probably taken his own life by jumping out the window of his student apartment. And what do you really know about yourself? thought Johansson gloomily. If you really stop to think about it? Wiklander, thought Johansson.
“Can you get hold of Wiklander,” said Johansson to his secretary on the intercom, despite the fact that she was only sitting on the other side of the wall five yards away from him. Don’t feel like running around today, he thought.
Wiklander was thin and dark, tall and trim and ten years younger than Johansson. He worked on the National Bureau of Criminal Investigation’s own surveillance squad and was an extraordinarily competent policeman. If it would ever be necessary to put a face on discretion-which was highly unlikely, as that would be contrary to the very idea-then Wiklander was a likely candidate. Now he was standing in Johansson’s office, sniffing the air like a foxhound moments before you pull off the leash.
“What can I do for you, chief?” asked Wiklander.
“Find out a telephone number and check if the address matches up,” said Johansson and handed over a handwritten slip of paper.
“Sarah Weissman,” said Wiklander. “Check the address and find out her telephone number. Of course,” he said and almost sounded a little offended. “Nothing else?”
“Well, yes,” said Johansson, “so you don’t need to have that sour look. I want you to do it without a soul finding out about it.”
“You mean our dear colleagues,” said Wiklander, who was of course no numbskull.
“Exactly,” said Johansson. “In a global sense, even. And preferably no one else either.”
“Sure,” said Wiklander. “If she has a telephone number, you’ll get it.”
“Excellent,” said Johansson.
Fifteen minutes later Wiklander was back with the requested telephone number. It was written on the same piece of paper he had received from Johansson, and if he knew Wiklander it was also the only relevant thing in writing.