The Return of the Dancing Master (30 page)

He returned the books to their places on the shelves. It was dark when he left the library. He went to his car and called Elena. He couldn't put it off any longer. She sounded pleased when she heard his voice, but also cautious.

“Where are you?” she said.

“I'm on my way.”

“Why is it taking so long?”

“Trouble with the car.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Something with the transmission. I'll be back by tomorrow.”

“Why do you sound so irritable?”

“I'm tired.”

“How are you feeling?”

“I don't have the strength to go into that now. I just wanted to call and tell you that I was on my way.”

“You must realize that I am worried.”

“I'll be in BorÃ¥s tomorrow, I promise.”

“Can't you tell me why you sound so irritable?”

“I've already said that I'm tired.”

“Don't drive too fast.”

“I never do.”

“You always do.”

The connection was cut off. Lindman sighed, but made no attempt to call again. He switched his cell phone off. The clock on the dashboard suggested it was 7:25 P.M. He wouldn't dare to break into Wetterstedt's apartment before midnight. I ought to go home, he thought. What will happen if I'm caught? I'll be fired and disgraced. A police officer breaking into a property is not something a prosecutor would turn a blind eye to. I wouldn't only be putting my own future on the line, I'd be creating trouble for all my colleagues. Larsson would think he'd been visited by a lunatic. Olausson in Borås would never be able to laugh again.

He wondered if what he really wanted was to be caught. If he was intent on an act of self-destruction. He had cancer, so he had nothing to lose. Was that the way it was? He didn't know. He drew his jacket closer around him, and closed his eyes.

 

 

When he woke up it was 8:30. He hadn't dreamed about the dogs again. Again he tried to convince himself that he should get out of Kalmar as quickly as possible. But in vain.

 

 

The last lights in the windows of the apartments in Lagmansgatan went out. Lindman stood in the shadows under a tree, looking up at the façade of the block of apartments. It had started raining and a wind
was starting up. He hurried across the street and tried the front door. To his surprise, it was still open. He slipped into the dark entrance hall and listened. He had his tools in his pocket. He turned on his flashlight and crept up the stairs to the top floor. He shone his flashlight onto the door of Wetterstedt's apartment. He'd remembered correctly. Earlier in the day when he'd been waiting for somebody to answer the door, he'd noticed the locks. There were two, but neither of them was a deadbolt. That surprised him. Shouldn't a man like Wetterstedt take as many safety precautions as possible? If Lindman's luck had run out, it would have an alarm, but that was a risk he would have to take.

He pushed the mailbox open and listened. He couldn't be absolutely certain that there was nobody in the apartment. It was all quiet. He took out the jimmy. The flashlight was small enough for him to hold it in his teeth. He knew he could only make one attempt. If he didn't manage to open the door right away he would have to leave. In the first few months of his police career he had learned the basic techniques used by burglars to force open a door. Just one try, no more. One single unexpected noise would generally pass unnoticed, but if it happened again there was a serious risk that somebody would hear and become suspicious. He crouched down, put the jimmy on the floor, and pushed the screwdriver as far into the crack between the door and the frame as it would go. He worked it back and forth, and the crack widened. He pressed the screwdriver further in, then pulled it up as far as the lower of the two locks. He picked up the jimmy and forced it in at a point between the two locks, and pressed his knee against the screwdriver to widen the opening as far as possible. He was starting to sweat from the effort. He still wasn't satisfied. If he forced it now there was a risk that only the frame would split and the locks would hold fast. He pressed hard against the screwdriver once more and this time managed to push the jimmy further in between the door and the frame. He got his breath back before testing the jimmy again. It was impossible to push it in any further.

He wiped his brow. Then he forced the jimmy with all his might, simultaneously pressing hard against the screwdriver with his knee. The door gave way. The only noise was a creaking and the thud of the screwdriver landing on his shoe. He turned off his flashlight and listened, ready to flee if necessary. Nothing happened. He opened the door carefully and pulled it shut behind him. There was a stuffy, closed-in smell in the apartment. He had a vague feeling that it reminded him of his aunt's house near Varnamo, where he'd been to visit several times as a child. A smell of old furniture. He switched on
his flashlight, careful not to point it at a window. He had no plan and didn't know what he was looking for. If he'd been an ordinary burglar it would have been easier. He'd have been looking for objects of value, and trying to find likely hiding places. He examined a pile of newspapers on a table. Nothing suggested that Wetterstedt subscribed to a morning paper that would be delivered in the early hours.

He walked slowly around the apartment. It was just three rooms, plus the kitchen and the bathroom. Unlike the spartan furniture and fixtures at the summer cottage, Wetterstedt's apartment in town was overflowing with furniture. He glanced into the bedroom, then continued to the living room, which apparently also served as a studio. There was an empty easel, and a writing desk against one wall. He opened a drawer.

Old pairs of glasses, packs of playing cards, newspaper clips. “The portrait painter Emil Wetterstedt celebrates his fiftieth birthday.” The photograph had faded, but Lindman recognized Wetterstedt's piercing eyes gazing straight at the photographer. The text was full of deference. “The nationally and internationally well-known portrait painter who never left his hometown of Kalmar, despite many chances to establish himself elsewhere.... Rumors abounded of an offer to settle on the Riviera with famous and rich clients.” He replaced the clip, thinking that it wasn't very well written. Wetterstedt had said that he didn't like writing letters, only brief messages on postcards. Perhaps he'd written the newspaper article himself, and it had turned out so badly because he wasn't used to writing. Lindman searched through the drawers. He still didn't know what he was looking for. He moved on to the third room, a study, and went to the desk. The curtains were drawn. He took off his jacket and hung it over the desk lamp before switching it on.

There were two piles of paper on the desk. He looked through the first one. It consisted of bills and brochures from Tuscany and Provence. He wondered if Wetterstedt in fact enjoyed traveling, despite claiming not to. He replaced the pile, and drew the second one towards him. It was mainly crossword puzzles torn out of newspapers. They were all solved, with no cross-outs or alterations. He might not care for letter-writing, but he knew his words.

At the bottom of the pile was an envelope, already opened. He took out an invitation card printed in a typeface reminiscent of runestones. It was a reminder. “On November 30 we meet as usual at 1300 hours in the Great Hall. After lunch, reminiscences, and music, there will be a lecture given by our comrade, Captain Akan Forbes, on the subject of
his years fighting to keep Southern Rhodesia white. This will be followed by our A.G.M.” It was signed by the “Senior Master of Ceremonies.” Lindman looked at the envelope. It was postmarked Hassleholm. He moved the desk lamp closer and read the text again. What exactly was this an invitation to? Where was this Great Hall? He put the card back in its envelope and replaced the pile.

Then he went through the drawers, which were unlocked. All the time he was listening for the slightest noise from the landing. In the bottom left-hand drawer was a brown leather file box. It filled the drawer. Lindman took it out and laid it on the desk. There was a swastika embossed on the leather. He opened it carefully because the side was split. It contained a thick bundle of typewritten sheets. They were carbon copies, not originals. The paper was thin. The text was written on a typewriter with a letter “c” that was slightly higher than the other letters. They seemed to be some kind of accounts. At the top of the first page was a handwritten heading: “Comrades, departed and deceased, who continue to fulfill their commitments.” Then followed long lists of names in alphabetical order. In front of every name was a number. Lindman moved carefully on to the next page: another long list of names. He glanced through them without recognizing any. They were all Swedish names. He turned to the next page.

Under the letter D, after Karl-Evert Danielsson, the same hand as had written on the first page had noted: “Now deceased. Pledged an annual subscription for 30 years.” Annual subscription to what? Lindman wondered. There was no reference to the title of an organization, just this list of names. He could see that many had died. In some places there was a handwritten note that future subscriptions had been specified in a will, in others that “the estate will pay” or “paid by the son or daughter, no name given.” He turned back to the letter B. There she was, Berggren, Elsa. He turned to the letter M. Sure enough, there was Molin, Herbert. He returned to the beginning. The letter A. No Andersson, Abraham. He moved on to the end. The last name was Oxe, Hans, numbered 1,430.

Lindman closed the file and replaced it in the drawer. Were these the papers Wetterstedt had referred to? A Nazi old comrades association, or a political organization? He tried to work out what he had stumbled upon. Somebody should take a look at this, he thought. It should be published. But I can't take the file with me because there would be no way I could have gotten it without having broken into this apartment. He turned off the desk lamp and sat in the dark. The air
was heavy with the disgust he was feeling. What stank was not the old carpets or the curtains—it was the list of names. All these living and dead individuals paying their subscriptions, in person or via their trustees, their sons or daughters—to some organization that declined to reveal its name—1,430 persons still adhering to a doctrine that should have been dismissed once and for all. But that wasn't the way it was. Standing behind Wetterstedt had been a boy, a reminder that everything was still very much alive.

He sat there in the dark, making up his mind that it was time for him to head home. But something held him back. He took out the file once more, opened it, and turned to the letter L. At the bottom of a page was the name “Lennartsson, David. Subscription paid by the wife.” He turned the page.

 

 

It was like being on the receiving end of a punch, he reflected afterwards, on his way to BorÃ¥s, driving far too fast through the darkness. He had been totally unprepared. It was as if somebody had crept up on him from behind. But there was no room for doubt. It was his father's name there at the top of the page: “Lindman, Evert, deceased, subscriptions pledged for 25 years.” There was also the date of his father's death seven years ago, and there was something else that removed any possible doubt. He recalled as clear as day sitting with one of his father's friends, a lawyer, going through the estate. There had been a gift written into the will a year or so before his father died. It was not a large sum, but striking nevertheless. He had left 15,000 kronor to something calling itself the Strong Sweden Foundation. There was a bank transfer number, but no name, no address. Lindman had wondered about that donation, and what kind of a foundation it was. The lawyer assured him that there was no ambiguity, his father had been very firm on this point; Lindman had been devastated by the death of his father, and lacked the strength to think any more about it.

Now, in Wetterstedt's stuffy apartment, that donation had caught up with him. He couldn't close his eyes to facts. His father had been a Nazi. One of those who kept quiet about it, didn't speak openly about their political opinions. It was incomprehensible, but true nevertheless. Lindman now realized why Wetterstedt had asked about his name, and where he came from. He knew something Lindman didn't know: that his own father was among those Wetterstedt admired above all others. Lindman's father had been like Molin and Berggren.

He closed the drawer, pushed back the desk lamp, and noticed that his hand was shaking. Then he checked everything meticulously before leaving the room. It was 1:45 A.M. He needed to get away fast, away from what was hidden in Wetterstedt's desk. He paused in the hall, and listened. Then he opened the door and went out, shutting it behind him as tightly as he could.

At that very moment there came the sound of the front door opening or closing. He stood motionless in the darkness, holding his breath and keeping his ears pricked. No sound of footsteps on the stairs. Someone might be standing down there, hidden in the dark, he thought. He kept on listening, and also checked to make sure he'd remembered to take everything with him. The flashlight, the screwdriver, the jimmy. All present and correct. He went down one floor tentatively. The lunacy of the whole undertaking had now hit him like an ice-cold shower. Not only had he committed a pointless break-in, he'd also unearthed a secret he'd infinitely preferred never to have discovered.

He paused, listened, and then switched on the lights in the staircase. He walked down the last two flights to the front door. He looked around when he emerged onto the street. No one. He hugged the wall of the block of apartments to the end, then crossed the street. When he reached his car he looked around again, but could see no sign of anybody having followed him. Nevertheless, he was quite sure. He wasn't imagining things. Someone had left the building as he was closing the damaged door to the apartment.