Hard Cheese

by Ulf Durling

  He got to his feet uncertainly and went towards the door. I saw that he was shaken and, in a way, sort of relieved. He’d expected worse, but it wasn’t yet time for the final round.

  ‘You’re a big zero, Blom. Let me say it with the best of intentions, for your information.’

  He didn’t answer. I took his silence for an admission. After he’d gone I called in Melin, who had been walking about on the gravel outside.

  ‘It worked like a charm! Now dial the telephone company and make arrangements to monitor all outgoing calls. We could send Vivianne over to them for a couple of days. You’ll be responsible for Blom not leaving the house.’

  My plan was to obtain permission for wire-tapping later on. The idea was that Blom be allowed to fall into the trap. To be sure, it wasn’t about these small matters but about much bigger things. But, as I said, those would have to wait.

  We would strike on Wednesday, but already a lot of things had happened. For example, we’d discovered the name of Axel Nilsson’s visitor. Just fancy that!

  4

  In order to avoid any misunderstandings, I want to be clear that all our methods within the police department are very humane. We go for a soft line, as it were, and I myself am a weak person, primarily emotional. If I have to take strong measures it’s always most regrettable. Ever since I became a chief I occasionally let Gustavsson sit at the table during interrogations—as a kind of insurance, in case I should lose my temper. His confident presence is very comforting to have, sitting there with pen and pad. He can adopt an expression of regret or reproach as required and that is very efficient. At regular intervals, he interferes in the conversation and puts in his cues with great precision.

  No specific tactics are laid down for routine questioning. Normally Melin is the secretary. His expression is just stupid enough to put people at their ease. On Sunday evening he was watching Blom, so I had to run the show on my own.

  First I called in the schoolmistresses, one at a time.

  Sylvia Hurtig-Olofsson was a thin, nervous type. She had a bun at the back of her head, which spoiled her appearance even more. Her upper teeth protruded and, when she dropped what little amount of chin she had, they looked like two icicles hanging from a roof. She twisted her hands non-stop and blushed easily.

  ‘Mrs. or Miss?’ I began, politely but unnecessarily.

  ‘Miss.’

  ‘We regret that you and your woman friend have been kept here.’

  ‘It’s quite all right. Miss Söderström fell ill yesterday, so we had to stay over the weekend anyway. There’s been a conference for home economics teachers here and we’re on leave of absence from our schools in Stockholm. I myself work at Östertorpsskolan in the Bandhagen suburb.’

  ‘Do you mind giving me your age and address?’

  ‘July 18, 1924. Ringvägen 88, Stockholm SÖ.’

  ‘Thank you. I assume you know why we’re talking right now?’

  ‘Of course. Iit has to do with Mr.Nilsson’s death.’

  ‘Did you know him?’

  She didn’t reply immediately. It was as if she was trying to find suitable wording.

  ‘He was not an acquaintance. We exchanged a few remarks in the lounge. One should not speak ill of the dead, but he was quite uncouth.’

  ‘How so?’

  We’re used to putting small conjunctions of this kind in the conversation. It conveys the sense of a real dialogue to the other person. One can also use “really?” or “is that so?” for the purpose of stressing surprise.

  ‘He was rude. He swore.’

  ‘Sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Once he told my friend that male persons were prohibited in the rooms.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. And there was more! He drank! There was always a smell of alcohol about him.’

  ‘How unfortunate, Miss Hurtig-Olofsson. Did you notice anything else?’

  ‘We rarely saw him. Usually we were in our rooms. The TV set in the lounge was out of order.’

  ‘I see. Could you tell me about yesterday?’

  ‘Well, it was like this. The work week ended with a big luncheon at The People’s House and we had counted on packing our things in the afternoon in order to take the eight o’clock train, but then Berta became ill and got.…’

  ‘Gastric flu?’

  ‘Exactly. I put her to bed and rushed to the greengrocer’s and bought apples. Did you know that grated apples are an infallible remedy when it comes to loose bowels?’

  ‘I had no idea. I’ll make a mental note of it.’

  ‘They should be finely shredded.’

  ‘I understand. Please continue.’

  ‘Round about eight o’clock she felt better, thanks to the apples, and we decided to go to the cinema. They were showing Rio Bravo. We sat at the end of the row, but didn’t need to leave early, and returned back to the hotel just after eleven.’

  ‘Did you hear anything from room number 5 when you went out or returned? Did you meet anyone?’

  ‘N-No. We were together for a while in Berta’s room. By the way, have you read The Saga of Gösta Berling?’

  I remembered that my schoolmistress in Swedish pestered us with that drivel in junior secondary school. It’s about a priest who gets fired because of alcoholism and begins monkeying about with broads. Pure rubbish, if I remember it rightly.

  ‘The Saga of Gösta Berling? Of course, a lovely book.’

  ‘You like it? Oh, that makes me so happy. We read aloud from it.’

  It was meant to be a grandiose declaration. She thought that I would clap my hands and roll up my eyes to heaven. I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

  ‘Yes, we had reached that wonderful chapter about the home of Lilliecrona. ...’

  She made a telling pause and I managed to smile in a melancholy way.

  ‘… and could not fall asleep. All of a sudden Berta got sick again and had to run to the lavatory. She had a high temperature. 38,7 Celsius. Do you know what we did?’

  I took a wild guess.

  ‘Grated apples?’

  ‘Right you are! I gave her a double dose of it but did not dare to leave her alone. She was very weak and her pulse was 112. We were at our wits’ end. Well, after some time her poor stomach calmed down and when the pulse went down below 100 we could at last fall asleep. I hauled my mattress over to her room, laid it down on the floor and stayed the night there. She’s much better today. No fever.’

  ‘And her pulse?’

  ‘78 in the evening, a little bit too much but not dangerous, thank goodness!’

  ‘Are you sure that you didn’t hear anything during the night?’

  ‘No. The house was quiet, that I can swear.’

  ‘No radio music, no footsteps, no other sounds?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’

  ‘In that case, I won’t detain you any further. Thank you very much for your help.’

  We shook hands. Hers was small and bony with many bracelets that rattled against each other. She turned back at the door.

  ‘Can we leave the hotel tonight? There’s a train before midnight. Poor Berta won’t sleep if she has to be in the room next to the dead man’s.’

  ‘I quite understand. Yes, you can leave.’

  She curtseyed in an affected way and disappeared.

  On the scratch pad, where I’d scribbled a little bit for the sake of appearances, I’d written about twenty dollar signs in a row, quite decorative.

  The next person was another hag, big and clumsy. If you’ve seen a female Russian discus-thrower, you know what I mean. If such a person gets diarrhoea it takes quite some time to empty the bowels. She pushed the door open in the same brutal way as Ivehed probably had in the morning.

  ‘Here I am,’ she boomed cheerfully.

  ‘Please come in and sit down. How are you? I heard that your health has been rather delicate?’

  ‘Thank you, I’m fine. One is wise enough to cure oneself.’

  ‘Grated apple
s are a blessing,’ I tried, having decided to go ahead in the partly pious style.

  ‘Nonsense. That’s what Sylvia thought. I had to put away a lot of it yesterday and even more during the night. No, constable, I took Enterovioform pills, but I hadn’t got the heart to tell Sylvia.’

  ‘I heard that you were here by virtue of your profession.’

  ‘That’s right. If one gets an opportunity, one takes it. I am a domestic science teacher. Do you understand what that means?’

  ‘My wife is a teacher.’

  Here I took the opportunity to be a little bit personal. Sometimes it relaxes them.

  ‘I pity her. Most girls are tolerable, but the boys, constable... But I’m quite accustomed to it and know how to command respect. Between the two of us, they call me the Big Terror.’

  ‘I understand—I mean … what about the boys?’

  ‘Eat potatoes that have got burnt five days a week and clean the saucepans with steel wool afterwards, then ask!’

  ‘You should have returned home yesterday?’

  ‘Yes, but thank goodness I became sick and was spared the usual Sunday visit to my old aunt. Sylvia began to lament exaggeratedly when the flu broke out, but I can tell you that I was not in any danger. At eight I felt better. You see, that was the time when the train left. We were able to go to the cinema show at nine. Sylvia wanted to see Dreams of Happiness or some such nonsense, but I took her to a western. I recommend it.’

  ‘You got worse during the night?’

  ‘Not really. I had a slight fever of course, but that was nothing. When we returned from the cinema, Sylvia read aloud from her book.’

  Now seemed a good time to go on a charm offensive, I thought.

  ‘The Saga of Gösta Berling? A lovely book.’

  ‘Does the constable really think so? Sickly in my opinion. Well tastes differ. Anyway, Sylvia persisted in reading aloud, but around one o’clock I couldn’t stand it any longer. I went to the lavatory but when I returned, there she was grating apples like anything. I just had to say thank you and swallow them. After that she dragged her mattress into my room and I didn’t get a moment’s peace, because she felt my pulse every other minute. We didn’t fall asleep until three.’

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual yesterday, during the day or the night?’

  ‘No.’

  It wasn’t so much her replies as her attitude that bothered me. All the time she regarded me in a patronizing way. This person was a nightmare.

  ‘Miss Söderström.…’

  ‘Mrs., if you please.’

  ‘Sorry, but I got the impression that you were unmarried.’

  ‘Widow. My husband was with the streetcar line.’

  She had probably eaten him up. That Miss Hurtig used her title on her woman friend was probably something to do with their common profession.

  ‘May I ask when you were born and what address you have?’

  ‘Ask as much as you like. February 11, 1912. If you want to visit me, I live at Stagneliusgatan 17 in the Fredhäll suburb. Bring The Saga of Gösta Berling .’

  ‘Just a moment. This is a murder investigation and no joking matter.’

  ‘Is that so? I’ve said I don’t have anything of interest to tell you. Regarding the murdered man, I saw him a couple of times. It seems that he had accosted Sylvia, so I stared him in the eye and he disappeared into his room in a flash. That’s how disabled he was. May I go now? We have a train we don’t want to miss.’

  She got to her feet and walked out. I thought that my scratch pad was empty. But no, in a corner at the bottom of the page I found a flat fish without scales.

  The next day I learnt that they had not gone off until the morning train. Melin had met them in the corridor while they were dragging their luggage downstairs. Obviously there must have been some hundred pages still unread in the book and Miss Hurtig-Olofsson had not been able to stop reading. They had simply missed the train. Melin had politely asked where they were headed. “To Stockholm,” the Söderström woman had screamed, while the other one acted as if in a trance, whispering something about Jerusalem. He thought that they were planning some kind of conducted tour together.

  The next person was a small round man with a ruddy complexion and a good-natured appearance. He was dressed in a faultless business suit and there was a smell of hair lotion about him.

  ‘You are Ivar Johanson?’

  ‘At your service.’

  ‘Why are you in town at the present time?’

  ‘I have the pleasure of representing Ström & Söderlund, the well-known textile company. I specialise in furnishing fabrics. Business brings me here every couple of months. I’m responsible for this sector and now and then I make contact with businessmen in order to show them our new products. I have many friends in town. I’m always welcome. May I offer you a small advertising handout? Compliments of the company.’

  He put a ball-point pen on the table in front of me. On one side was printed: “Ström & Söderlund, sells for all the fabric is worth.” I nodded but left the pen on the table.

  ‘Do you have anything to tell me about yesterday evening?’

  ‘Very little, actually. I came to town on Thursday. Since I was alone, I asked Nilsson to accompany me in the evening. I thought of the annex of the Grand Hotel. Maybe a cocktail or two. But he hadn’t got the time for that.’

  ‘How did you get acquainted with him?’

  ‘I didn’t! We met briefly in the corridor and I got the impression he might be thirsty. In this business you become a little bit of a psychologist. You see what sort of person people are. I am known for that talent.’

  ‘What kind of person was Nilsson?’

  ‘Difficult to say. He was a complicated person. Ivar, I immediately said to myself, there’s a man with problems, a human being in need. Something within me exhorted me to stand by his side. One day you yourself may need consolation and support, officer. Then it could be me who comes to look after you, saying “Ivar Johanson, here I am!”’

  He made a dramatic pause to allow me to applaud or burst into tears. The man was drunk, there was no doubt about it. He had moved nearer during his statement, and the smell of menthol from the Thule lozenges could not disguise the brandy.

  ‘What did he say about himself?’

  ‘Nothing. I didn’t see him again. Last Saturday in the evening, I mean yesterday, he had a row in his room with some person unknown to me and I went there in order to hush them up. Nilsson didn’t respond to my knock on the door and didn’t open.’

  ‘Did you hear anything else?’

  ‘Oh, yes. As I said, I was alone. When they became silent at last, I knocked again at half past ten, hoping for a brief chat with him and perhaps a drink. But he didn’t respond. The radio was on, though. I could hear it through the door. Then I came to think about the other male guest.’

  ‘Renqvist?’

  ‘Yes. I had only exchanged a few words with him. Ivar, I said to myself, that man has problems. You must share his struggles. So I knocked. Nobody opened there either, so I went to bed and fell asleep.’

  ‘So you don’t have any more to add?’

  ‘Yes, I have. I woke up again. It was then that I heard someone crying.’

  ‘Crying?’

  ‘Yes, crying. It sounded heart-rending but it was not very strong, more like a whimpering. I dressed rapidly and went into the corridor, but by then it had stopped. It was nearly two o’clock. Nilsson’s room was silent and he didn’t react to my knocking. Oh damn it! I forgot to tell you! I had heard the radio just before one o’clock when I went to the lavatory but not an hour later. Anyway, I was standing there while someone nearby needed solace for his or her despair. But where? I heard the monotonous sound of voices talking from one of the women’s rooms, so they were ruled out. That left Renqvist, so I knocked at his door and this time he replied: “Come in.” He was in bed and I sat down at the end. “I hear that you have problems,” I said. “What can I do for you?”’
/>   ‘And what was his answer?’

  ‘He said “Clear off,”’ Johanson replied. ‘At that, I gave him a pen and went back to bed. Then I heard nothing more. In the morning, when I had washed and shaved, I went out to call my mother in Malmö and happened to see Blom in the corridor, outside room number 5. Just think if Nilsson had been able to talk to me in a timely manner before his death and unburden his soul!’

  ‘And are you sure that the radio in Nilsson’s room was off at two o’clock?’

  ‘That’s God’s truth.’

  ‘Will you be here tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, you can count on me if need be. Keep the ball pen.’

  He walked out in a dignified and careful way, but in the doorway he gave a slight lurch as he met Renqvist, our last witness. He was a thin, upright man of medium height dressed in an unbuttoned Crowns humour uniform and a most tidy leave-of-absence tie on the slant.

  He inspected me critically with clear, sharp eyes under shaggy eyebrows.

  ‘You wanted to see me.’

  ‘Yes, please. Just a few formalities. Your name is?’

  ‘Sten Renqvist, warrant officer, Infantry 19. What do you want to know?’

  ‘Everything that could shed light upon the death at this hotel.’

  ‘OK, I’m innocent. That’s the only thing that’s important to me.’

  ‘We don’t suspect you of anything. We just want some information.’

  ‘Fine with me. I’m here as instructor at test shootings with some old pieces of ordnance. There are not many people who can handle them any longer, and there are a lot of damned regulations to observe when the tests begin tomorrow morning and continue until Tuesday. Then there will be inspections and care of arms, and I will return home to Boden that same evening. I never saw Nilsson.’