The Return of the Dancing Master(126)
“This too. Lots of Nazi organizations, including several Swedish ones, publicize their opinions on my computer screen. I was sitting here trying to understand. I was looking for the people who are members of Nazi organizations today. How many of them there are, what their organizations are called, how they think.”
She tapped the keys again. A picture of Hitler. More tapping, and suddenly she appeared on the screen herself. “Veronica Molin. Broker.”
She turned it off. The screen went black.
“Now I’d like you to leave,” she said. “You chose to jump to a conclusion on the basis of a picture you saw on my screen when you were snooping around and looking in at my window. Perhaps you still think I’m stupid enough to sit here worshiping a swastika. It’s up to you to decide if you’re an idiot or not, but please go anyway. We have nothing more to say to each other.”
Lindman didn’t know what to do. She was upset, convincingly so.
“If the situation had been reversed,” he said, “how would you have reacted?”
“I’d have asked. Not immediately accused you of lying.”
She stood up and flung open the door.
“I can’t stop you from going to my father’s funeral,” she said. “But I shall feel no compulsion to speak to you there, or to shake your hand.”
She ushered Lindman out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. He went back to the lobby. The card players had left. He went up to his room, wondering why he had reacted the way he did. He was rescued by a telephone call. It was Larsson.
“I hope you weren’t asleep.”
“On the contrary.”
“Wide awake?”
“Very much so.”
He thought he might as well tell Larsson what had happened.
“It’s a dangerous habit, peeping into little girls’ bedrooms. You never know what you might see,” he said, laughing.
“I acted like an idiot.”
“We all do sometimes. Not all at the same time, with any luck.”
“Did you know that you can look up all the Nazi organizations in the world on the Internet?”
“Probably not all of them. What was the word she used? ‘Underworld’? No doubt there are lots of different rooms down there. I suspect the really dangerous organizations don’t advertise their names and addresses on the Internet.”
“You mean it’s only possible to scrape the surface?”
“Something like that.”
Lindman sneezed. And again.
“I hope that’s not something you’ve caught from me.”
“How’s your throat?”
“I have a slight temperature; it’s swollen on the left side. People who get to see as much misery as we do often succumb to hypochondria.”
“I have enough to deal with in the real world.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I put my foot in my mouth again.”
“What did you want?”
“Somebody to talk to, I suppose.”
“Are you still in Johansson’s office?”
“Yes, and I’ve got coffee.”
“I’ll be there.”
As he passed the front of the hotel he glanced at Veronica Molin’s window. He could just see that the light was still on, but the gap in the curtains was gone.
Larsson was waiting for him outside the community center. He had a cigarillo in his hand.
“I didn’t know you smoked.”
“Only when I’m very tired and need to keep awake.”
He broke the end off the cigarillo and trampled the glowing tobacco. They went inside. The bear observed their entry. The building was deserted.
“Erik called,” Larsson said. “He’s a very honest man. He said that he was so depressed about having his guns stolen that he didn’t feel up to working tonight. He was going to have a couple of drinks and a sleeping pill. Maybe not a very good combination, but I don’t blame him.”
“Any news from the mountain?”
They were in the office by now. There were two thermos flasks on the desk, marked “Härjedalen County Council.” Lindman shook his head when Larsson offered him a cup. There were a few half-eaten Danish pastries on a torn paper bag.
“Rundström has been calling off and on. We’ve also heard from backup headquarters in Ostersund. One of the helicopters we usually use has broken down. A substitute will be arriving from Sundsvall tomorrow.”
“What about the weather?”
“There is no mist on the mountain at the moment. They moved their base down to Funasdalen. No joy from the roadblocks yet, apart from that Norwegian drunk. Apparently his grandmother had been a missionary in Africa and brought a zebra skin home with her. There’s an explanation for practically everything. Rundström’s worried, though. If they’re able to carry out a search on the mountain tomorrow and don’t find him, it can only mean that he’s broken through the cordon. In which case it probably was him who burgled Erik’s place.”