Open Grave

Thirty-nine

Ten days passed before worrying made him call. There was something wrong. Not only in the flower bed and the fact that the bicycle still stood leaning against Lundquist’s wall. A planting can be unsuccessful or sloppily done and a bicycle can be left behind, but that Haller should wait so long to be in touch was not likely.

It was not just the books that the gardener promised to stop by with but more the hope the associate professor had seen in Haller’s eyes.

Haller had radiated loneliness, expressed in a kind of resigned nonchalance and evasive insinuations. He himself had taken his share, but hit back. But the associate professor had also glimpsed something else entirely, a kind of eagerness to be friendly and accommodating, which surely stemmed from the joy of having found someone like-minded.

They were two lonely men with a common interest. Chance had brought them together. Both had seen the possibilities of a friendship. Would Haller frustrate that now by staying away, break his promise about “the duplicates”? The associate professor did not think so. That was why he called the police.

The woman who took his report was very polite, asked questions, and little by little as he explained what had happened she acquired a sympathetic tone in her voice. It sounded as if she shared his worry. The associate professor, who to start with expressed himself cautiously, careful not to stand out as a senile and curious old man, became more forthcoming.

He told how he perceived Haller as an extremely lonely person. Sympathetic and social, but lonely. He put great weight on the flower bed, that a professional would never plant that way. To the question of why the plants were planted so amateurishly the associate professor could not give an answer, other than that Haller must have been very confused.

They talked for perhaps twenty minutes. Then he went up to his tower, satisfied with himself, happy about the conversation. The police had encouraged him to contact the neighbor to find out if he had had any contact with the gardener. But the associate professor was doubtful. Perhaps that was too obviously sticking his nose into other people’s business.

The bicycle was still there. He had only caught a glimpse of Lundquist once since then. He probably did not care that the wintergreen had been planted wrong. But the bicycle, didn’t he wonder about that? That made him decide to contact Lundquist.

Just as he took out the phone book it struck him that he had not thought about calling Haller himself. The policewoman had not said anything about that either, perhaps she assumed that he had tried to reach him by phone but failed. He looked up his name. There were not many Hallers. Karsten lived not far away, on Artillerigatan. Within walking distance, thought the associate professor.

After a moment’s hesitation he dialed the number. It rang ten times before he hung up. He looked up the neighbor’s number. Lundquist answered after two rings. The associate professor told him how it was, that he was worried. There was no reason to beat around the bush. Lundquist did not seem to be the type who appreciated small talk.

No, he had not seen Haller. Not heard from him either, no bill had come, but he was not particularly worried about that. He had determined that all the work ordered was done and was satisfied with it. He had not noticed Haller’s bicycle.

The associate professor apologized for the trouble-certainly unnecessary-thanked him and hung up. But he was not relieved in any way; on the contrary, his worry increased. Something had happened to Haller, he was sure of it. Could he call the police again without seeming completely nuts? He stared at the direct number the woman had given him. He resorted to magic to decide. If the sum of the figures in the telephone number was an odd number he would call. He quickly added the six digits and the result was twenty-seven. He immediately picked up the phone before he had time to change his mind.