that didn’t ring quite true, he’d taken it upon himself to go there and… well, to tell the truth, he’d spied on her. For her own good, of course, not because he was the least bit jealous. He merely wanted to know what was troubling her so that he could help.
Watching her surreptitiously as she waited in the hotel lobby, he’d soon realized that she, in turn, was busy watching for somebody else. He’d seen me come through the lobby with Lou Taylor. Sara had followed us, and he’d followed Sara. After dinner, he’d trailed us all back to the hotel. Then Sara had got her car and driven into the park. He’d been behind her until she stopped. She got away from him briefly while he was looking for a suitable place to leave his own car. When he got back to the parking lot on foot, her fancy Volkswagen was standing there empty.
He’d waited in the bushes for her to return. He’d seen her come back to the car with me. We’d had a long conversation, not as friendly as it might have been, he thought. I’d left abruptly, he thought in anger, and disappeared into the darkness. Almost immediately, as if dispatched by me, two men had come and dragged Sara out of her car and carried her off in the direction I’d taken. While he, Carlsson, was still trying to make his way after her through the trees and darkness, there had been shots. He’d come to the edge of the clearing and seen me standing there, looking grim and terrible. At my feet was his beloved, his Sara, lying on the ground, brutally beaten and shot to death. He’d started forward, but the police had come…
“Why didn’t you tell them about me?” I asked, when he stopped.
He shrugged his shoulders expressively. “They would have put you in prison where I could not reach you. I was crazy with grief and anger. I was going to punish you myself, not give you to some stupid policeman!” After a moment, he went on: “I slipped away. I learned your name at the hotel. When you left, in the morning, it was easy to determine your destination. I followed.”
“With your little sword-cane,” I said dryly.
He shrugged again. “Pistols are not so common here as they are in your country, Herr Helm. It was the only weapon I owned. I thought it would suffice. I did not expect to meet a swordsman with an American passport.” He grimaced. “You are skillful, sir, but that little knife, I do not think that was quite fair.” After a moment, he said, “You cannot tell me this secret business in which, you say, my Sara was engaged, that led to her death? You cannot tell me who killed her?”
I said, “No, but I can assure you the man will be taken care of.”
That was big talk, for someone whose hands were tied by official orders, but I had to say something to get this little firebrand out of my hair. The situation was complex enough without being loused up further by vengeful amateurs. I finally got him to promise to go back to Stockholm and leave everything to me. I took his home address and telephone number, and promised to notify him when I had something to notify him about. I watched him get into his big American car and drive away. Then I got into my little Volvo, drove back to the hotel, stuck some band aids on my fingers, and went to bed.
In the morning, I had my breakfast in a corner of the hotel dining room, which I shared, for the moment, only with a pair of railroad workers and a tourist couple from Norway—the language sounds like badly garbled Swedish, to a Swede. Outside the windows, it was a bright, clear fall day. I hoped it would stay that way, for photography’s sake. I sipped my coffee, and nibbled at the stuff on my plate, and thought about Mr. Raoul Carlsson, which was a waste of time. If the little man was kidding me, I’d know more about it when Vance made his report, I hoped within the next day or two.
A shadow fell across the table. “Are you thinking deep thoughts?” Lou Taylor asked. “If so, I’ll go away.”
I rose and
Watching her surreptitiously as she waited in the hotel lobby, he’d soon realized that she, in turn, was busy watching for somebody else. He’d seen me come through the lobby with Lou Taylor. Sara had followed us, and he’d followed Sara. After dinner, he’d trailed us all back to the hotel. Then Sara had got her car and driven into the park. He’d been behind her until she stopped. She got away from him briefly while he was looking for a suitable place to leave his own car. When he got back to the parking lot on foot, her fancy Volkswagen was standing there empty.
He’d waited in the bushes for her to return. He’d seen her come back to the car with me. We’d had a long conversation, not as friendly as it might have been, he thought. I’d left abruptly, he thought in anger, and disappeared into the darkness. Almost immediately, as if dispatched by me, two men had come and dragged Sara out of her car and carried her off in the direction I’d taken. While he, Carlsson, was still trying to make his way after her through the trees and darkness, there had been shots. He’d come to the edge of the clearing and seen me standing there, looking grim and terrible. At my feet was his beloved, his Sara, lying on the ground, brutally beaten and shot to death. He’d started forward, but the police had come…
“Why didn’t you tell them about me?” I asked, when he stopped.
He shrugged his shoulders expressively. “They would have put you in prison where I could not reach you. I was crazy with grief and anger. I was going to punish you myself, not give you to some stupid policeman!” After a moment, he went on: “I slipped away. I learned your name at the hotel. When you left, in the morning, it was easy to determine your destination. I followed.”
“With your little sword-cane,” I said dryly.
He shrugged again. “Pistols are not so common here as they are in your country, Herr Helm. It was the only weapon I owned. I thought it would suffice. I did not expect to meet a swordsman with an American passport.” He grimaced. “You are skillful, sir, but that little knife, I do not think that was quite fair.” After a moment, he said, “You cannot tell me this secret business in which, you say, my Sara was engaged, that led to her death? You cannot tell me who killed her?”
I said, “No, but I can assure you the man will be taken care of.”
That was big talk, for someone whose hands were tied by official orders, but I had to say something to get this little firebrand out of my hair. The situation was complex enough without being loused up further by vengeful amateurs. I finally got him to promise to go back to Stockholm and leave everything to me. I took his home address and telephone number, and promised to notify him when I had something to notify him about. I watched him get into his big American car and drive away. Then I got into my little Volvo, drove back to the hotel, stuck some band aids on my fingers, and went to bed.
In the morning, I had my breakfast in a corner of the hotel dining room, which I shared, for the moment, only with a pair of railroad workers and a tourist couple from Norway—the language sounds like badly garbled Swedish, to a Swede. Outside the windows, it was a bright, clear fall day. I hoped it would stay that way, for photography’s sake. I sipped my coffee, and nibbled at the stuff on my plate, and thought about Mr. Raoul Carlsson, which was a waste of time. If the little man was kidding me, I’d know more about it when Vance made his report, I hoped within the next day or two.
A shadow fell across the table. “Are you thinking deep thoughts?” Lou Taylor asked. “If so, I’ll go away.”
I rose and
Similar Books
