by Ulf Durling
‘Everything fit so well until the end,’ he said, ‘when Sister Elsa told me that the putative murderer had not been alone.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He was accompanied by his wife. They had been sitting in front of the television and, just before the end of the evening’s programme, he had cut himself opening a last bottle of beer.’
Carl left to put on water for the tea.
While the pot was boiling, we all three remembered who Fritiof Strömlund was. He serves as a pastor of the Baptist church. It must have been low-alcohol beer.
The doctor put down his spectacles in front of him on the table and rubbed his eyes. Then he gave a deep sigh and, clearly drained of emotional energy, slumped motionless on the sofa.
A deep gloom settled on our little group.
4
When we began to review the doctor’s theory carefully, it didn’t take us long to find the weak point in his reasoning. Perhaps it was the spectacles on the table in front of us that put us on the right track. They seemed to be looking at us reproachfully.
In response to a simple routine question, Carl had been embarrassed to admit that he had forgotten an important detail. Nilsson had not been wearing his glasses, and had therefore not been lying “fully dressed” on the floor. He could never have walked across the room from the bed to the radio and back without the light switched on and with his spectacles still on the bedside table. He would have been helpless without them, and would have preferred to remain in bed and call for help if he had felt ill. There was a switch by the bed for just that purpose.
No. Nilsson had been murdered in his room and his killer had not succeeded in making it look like an accident.
‘Our killer is smart, but not smart enough,’ proclaimed Carl in
English. He was probably quoting some author or other.
As I’ve said before, the name Axel Nilsson sounded vaguely familiar, but I hadn’t been able to put my finger on it until now. I may perhaps have already mentioned my cousin, the master-painter Hammarström, who broke his leg last winter due to the negligence of the road maintenance authorities. He is much younger than I, and runs the well-reputed firm of decorators, Hammarström & Son. I had, in fact, heard about Axel Nilsson through the son, Lars-Erik.
Memory can often play tricks on us and many people of my age complain bitterly about how it has failed them. My cousin Hammarström, for example, often forgets what he had for dinner the night before and has not, as yet, succeeded in memorising my new telephone number. On the other hand, my own memory has
resisted the ravages of time surprisingly well. I am thankful and proud of that. I can readily recall that my principal meal yesterday consisted of lightly-smoked and boiled Falu sausage with fried potatoes, accompanied by a small bottle of stout. Hammarström’s office number is 14693 and his home number is 14007.
So, if my memory isn’t playing tricks, Axel Nilsson should be the same Axel Nilsson—and the ages would square—who worked at the railway here ten years ago, and whom Lars-Erik Hammarström talked about. They had been in the navy at the same time, though Nilsson must have been at least a few years older. I myself was in the infantry, where, due to my considerable abilities, I eventually rose to the rank of corporal. Nilsson had been put on jankers several times, due to insubordination. He had drunk on active service and continued to drink after being discharged. My younger relative had, of course, not gone out of his way to maintain contact, but in a town the size of ours it’s not possible to avoid chance meetings, and Nilsson quite possibly searched him out to borrow money. Lars-Erik had worked with his father all those years and had always been steady and reliable. Nilsson’s visits must have been both awkward and unwelcome, especially since Lars-Erik had married at an early age and was already a father. The mere sight of an intoxicated person could be frightening, even detrimental, to small children.
It was probably in connection with some Christmas party at the master-painter’s house that Nilsson had been mentioned and now I decided to tell my friends what little I knew about him, especially as we appeared to have come to a dead-end and the slightest clue was welcome. To my surprise, the doctor picked up where I left off.
‘I know most people in this town,’ he said, ‘and from my years on the local temperance board I remember a person with that name. He was in the pipeline for resolution.’
‘Resolution, what’s that?’
‘It’s when a person is ordered to an alcoholism treatment unit. When a person succumbs to alcohol, it is sometimes necessary
for society to take care of him. After examination, the doctor is required to give an opinion, which has to determine whether the addiction endangers the individual’s health and the patient himself does not understand the consequences.’
‘You did this particular check-up?’
‘Not of Axel Nilsson. As I said, the temperance board decided that Nilsson should be taken care of, but he refused to commit himself to admission on a voluntary basis. At that time he was about 40 years old and a casual labourer. I think he was a bachelor as well. It was decided that a probation officer would bring him in, and I had obtained his papers to read beforehand, but Nilsson and the probation officer never materialised. I waited for an hour, then the officer called to say that Nilsson had disappeared. He had been staying with his mother, but she hadn’t seen him for a couple of days.’
‘Did Nilsson know about the resolution?’
‘He probably suspected something and took the opportunity to run away.’
‘Did you hear from him again?’
‘No, that’s probably why I remember it. The probation officer and I agreed on taking action as soon as Nilsson turned up. Because of that I kept the documents with me for some time while waiting for an examination to be scheduled, but nothing happened.’
It was starting to come together. Nilsson had told Blom that he’d returned from abroad. But had he really been in hiding for ten years, just to escape the alcohol rehab unit? Or did he have other reasons to go underground? What did we know about him? Ten years ago he had been 40 years old and free and independent. A good-for-nothing and a compulsive drinker, a railroad worker and odd-job man. He needed money and he probably didn’t just borrow from my young relative. He’d been living in the town for a long time, perhaps his whole life. Why hadn’t he left earlier? Had he any other means of support here? Did his mother provide him with money as well as a room? All these questions were buzzing around in my head, but it seemed useless to speculate without more information.
There was a small interruption when Carl’s wife came home. She is a charming woman. She came in to greet us and, although she seemed surprised to see us still there, she was her usual kind self and brought us fruit and carbonated drink. Our host then suggested that we air our lungs in the garden.
The apple trees were no longer bearing fruit and the flowers in the well-tended beds were long since gone. In the surrounding houses, partly blocked from view by a dense yew hedge, only a few windows were lit and soon they, too, went dark one by one.
It was a fine autumn evening. I didn’t freeze, although I wasn’t wearing an overcoat. Thousands of stars twinkled intimately in the magnificent sky. The doctor, less inclined than I to celestial contemplation, observed that they seemed only too inglorious and annoying, reminding him of Axel Nilsson’s blinking eye and
causing him to wonder if he had any nervous tics.
With that, the mood disappeared and—since the night was now decidedly cool—I thankfully acquiesced to Carl’s suggestion to go back inside. As courteous as ever, he enquired whether we were tired and wished to end the meeting, which none of us, of course, wanted to do.
Happily, Mrs. Bergman excused herself and disappeared upstairs to bed.
‘I wasn’t sure before, but now I’ve asked Margit and I can therefore contribute another piece of the puzzle,’ Carl began. ‘I had a feeling that Axel Nilsson’s mother, with whom he presumably stayed, could have been the same
Mrs. Nilsson who used to clean the book shop a couple of years ago and who died last year, by the way. She was a small, bent-over, humour-haired woman of about seventy who always appeared anxious. She was the widow of a butcher and had settled somewhere down by the creek. We rarely saw each other, since she used to come after the shop was closed and did her duties in the evening.’
‘She had a son?’
The doctor could not restrain his curiosity.
‘Just a moment! The reason that I didn’t think of her right away is because our meetings were occasional and I addressed her by her first name, Agda. I usually dropped formal titles with my colleagues in order to create a more relaxed atmosphere in the workplace.’
He paused. Forgetting he was no longer the owner of Bergman’s Books and Stationer’s Shop by the bus square, he was starting to wander down Memory Lane.
‘Was there a son?’ repeated the doctor impatiently.
‘Yes. My wife, who kept the accounts and paid the salaries, just reminded me that her name was Agda Nilsson and then it came back to me. There was a small incident which might be of interest. One evening ten years ago, when I was working late filling some orders, I happened to meet Agda—Mrs. Nilsson—in the storage room. She was unhappy and red-eyed and I asked her as discreetly as possible if there was something troubling her. Usually she just said “how do you do” in a polite but simple way, and only replied in shy monosyllables when spoken to. Now she told me that she was alone. I asked if some relative had died and she answered that one could say that. Then she started to cry. I remember it well, for she was ashamed to show it and had no handkerchief. I opened a pack of paper napkins and she wiped away her tears. Later she explained that her son had gone to America, and now she had no relatives left. An elder son had gone there previously and hadn’t even sent her a Christmas card.’
‘Did she have more children?’
‘No, she just kept repeating there was no one left. Not very much more was said. After that I didn’t see her for quite a while. I suspect she did her cleaning at a later time to avoid running into me.’
‘Didn’t she say anything about her son and why he had gone?’
‘No, nothing. Neither then nor later.’
‘Not much flesh on those bones,’ Efraim sighed. ‘We already knew most of it. But all right… Nilsson has become a little bit more human now that he has a mother.’
Considering how excited Carl had been just a minute ago, I was afraid that the doctor’s disappointment would discourage him, but there were shrewd lines about his mouth that usually promise a surprise.
‘But one evening some years later she brought company.’
‘A dog?’
‘Better than that!’
‘A fiancé?’
‘Don’t be foolish. A child! The girl was a couple of years old. She knocked over a whole pile of paper rolls right under my nose. Agda picked them up straight away and apologised. I took the opportunity to give the girl a colouring-book. She grabbed it from me, hid behind a showcase and refused to come out to say thank you. Agda became very embarrassed. Nevertheless, she was a nice kid and I listened to them from my office. The child babbled quite incomprehensibly and obviously tore the colouring-book in pieces or ate it. Agda gave the girl a good talking-to: “Don’t do that with your kind uncle’s nice book.” They left late that evening and I wondered at what time small children usually go to bed.’
‘A two year-old should have at least twelve hours of sleep,’ the doctor said.
That remark, which had no actual bearing on our murder case, was probably intended to stop Carl wandering into a comparison with the bedtimes of his own small grandchildren.
‘When they left, Agda said: “Now Lillan and granny will go home and sleep.”’
‘Wait a minute. Didn’t you just say...?’
‘Yes. One year she was totally alone and the following year she was a grandmother.’
Again the doctor lit another Corona. He was obviously surprised and intrigued.
‘Whose child was…Lillan? The eldest son had emigrated many years earlier to America. He could hardly have produced any small children here.’
‘Not here perhaps,’ I said, brilliantly but rashly, ‘but over there.’
‘Nonsense. If he’s not sending Christmas cards he’s hardly going to send children.’
‘Could the girl have been Axel’s?’
‘Why not? A few years after Agda complains about being alone, a two year-old suddenly turns up on the scene. Which must mean that Agda, at the end of the nineteen-fifties just thinks she’s alone, whereas in actual fact—.’
‘She’s a grandmother,’ the doctor interjected. ‘No more than nine months later.’
The new circumstances were digested for a while. Carl took the floor again.
‘The explanation for Axel running away from his homeland could, in other words, be that he not only wanted to get away from his resolution, but also from paternity.’
‘What’s a poor fellow to do,’ the doctor said sarcastically, ‘when he
finds himself trapped wherever he looks? He goes to sea, naturally. He signs articles on board and sails out to become as free as a lark, while at home the girl walks about grieving ….’
‘Do we know anything about the child’s mother?’
‘No, but we should be able to find out easily enough.’
The case had taken a surprising turn. But again there was
something that didn’t fit. I opened my mouth.
‘But what could cause the runaway father to return after ten years? By that time his alimony debts will have grown considerably and there is a bitter and deceived mother of his child who’s been forced to fend for herself, even with the assistance of granny.’
‘On the other hand: what chances did Nilsson have of succeeding in America? He probably couldn’t live on his brother as he had on his mother. America is the land of the future, for sure, but only for those who can do something.’
It was the doctor who was at it again.
‘If Axel Nilsson was a washout here at home, he must have been the same in America. Furthermore, he got older and became sick and totally incapacitated.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ I put in. ‘To begin with, he was not that old and, secondly, there’s no proof he was sick.’
Carl, who had been quiet for a while, now spoke again.
‘Remember, he took drugs and Blom had the impression....’
‘Who the devil has said that he took drugs?’ roared the doctor.
‘Excuse me. I forgot to mention there was a newly opened bottle of Dichiotride-K in the room, on the bedside table.’
‘What’s that, Efraim?’ I asked, for the purpose of pouring oil on troubled waters.
‘Diuretic pills, often used in connection with hypertension and heart disease. They drive out bodily fluid.’
‘But Blom said that Nilsson was pitifully thin and his clothes were
hanging on him. Why did he need to get rid of fluid?’
‘He may have taken too many pills!’
The idea came from Carl, and was obviously so stupid that the doctor didn’t even bother to respond.
‘Maybe it was suicide,’ I offered. and the doctor gave me a withering look.
‘With diuretic pills? All of a sudden he got tired of living and decided to pee himself to death? Are you serious?’
I laughed rather nervously. It wasn’t clear whether the doctor was pulling my leg or in the mood to appreciate my well-known sense of humour, so I decided not to take the opportunity to tell the story of the mystery fan who borrowed the library’s phone directory by mistake. I decided to leave it for another occasion.
‘How many pillows did Nilsson have under his head during the night?’ the doctor asked.
‘There was one in the bed and one without its case in the wardrobe.’
‘Hmm. Did he have any problems walking up the stairs?’
‘No, he seems to have been moving around quite freely des
pite
his wounded leg.’
‘Without seeming to be out of breath? That doesn’t suggest heart trouble. But who knows?’
The doctor looked simultaneously pleased, concerned and irritated, a difficult feat.
‘Why did the limping, blinking, bespectacled, slurring, pill-eating
prodigal son come back?’ Carl asked. ‘Why did he hide himself in a shady little boarding-house? He could hardly have worked his way across the Atlantic, useless as he must have been as a crew member.’
‘Axel will be a sailor,’ the doctor murmured.
‘What?’
‘It’s a sentence I learned during a grammar lesson in school a long time ago. The meaning shifts depending on which word you stress. Axel will be a sailor, not anyone else. He will be a sailor, he isn’t qualified yet. He will be a sailor, not a carpenter or even a tailor. Do you see what I mean?’
Carl and I both nodded. Efraim can sometimes be a little hard to follow.
‘Which perhaps is a digression in relation to the problem we are facing,’ he continued, ‘but I.…’
It was at that moment that I found the key to the whole problem, in a literal as well as in a figurative sense.
‘Isn’t it obvious why he was hiding in the boarding-house?’ I interrupted him quietly and unexpectedly.
5
The new information we had just received had made it possible for a startling explanation of the murder riddle to crystallize in my brain. I felt a sense of importance in my friends’ eyes similar to when Director Lindquist made his memorable speech upon my retirement from the firm, or when I was entrusted with the responsibility of President of The Watermark Society of Philatelists.
‘Don’t you find it surprising that Nilsson was staying in a double room?’
‘He was disabled,’ Carl reminded me.
‘Disabled enough to demand a lot of elbow-room and space in room 5, but at the same time capable of running up and down the stairs like a monkey. We know most of the time he was hiding in his room; that he seldom went out and seldom received visitors at the hotel.’