house. About ten years previously, the owner, a widower called Hjalmarson who worked at the provincial records office, had died. His son lived in Brazil. According to some neighbors he was a representative for some Swedish firm and an arms dealer according to others. He returned home for the funeral. It had all amounted to a worrying time for Hemmansvagen, according to a retired department head at the local council offices in Kronoberg, who emerged as a spokesman for the neighbors. And so there was an invisible sigh of relief when the “For Sale” sign was taken down and a moving van drove up filled with all the belongings of a retired reserve officer. He used to be something as antiquated as a major in the Scanian hussars, an amazing relic from a former age. He was named Gustav Jernberg, and he announced his presence to the surrounding world by means of friendly bellowing. The worries returned, however, when it became apparent that Jernberg spent most of his time in Spain, on account of his rheumatism. When he was away, the house was occupied by his grandson, who was in his mid-thirties, arrogant, rude, and paid no attention to normal conventions. His name was Hans Jernberg, and all anybody knew was that he was some kind of businessman who occasionally paid fleeting visits, often accompanied by strange companions nobody recognized.
The police immediately started looking for Hans Jernberg. He was traced at about two in the afternoon to an office in Goteborg. Wallander spoke with him over the telephone. At first he claimed to have no idea what they were talking about. But Wallander was in no mood to wheedle and coax people into telling the truth that day, and threatened to hand him over to the Goteborg police besides hinting it would be impossible to keep the press out of it. Halfway through the call one of the Kalmar cops stuck a note under Wallander’s nose. They had run a search on Hans Jernberg through various files and found he had strong connections with neo-nazi movements in Sweden. Wallander stared at the note before the obvious question to ask the guy at the other end of the line struck him.
“Can you tell me your views on South Africa?” he asked.
“I can’t see what that has to do with it,” said Hans Jernberg.
“Answer the question,” Wallander demanded impatiently. “Or else I’ll have to call my colleagues in Goteborg.”
The reply came after a short silence.
“I consider South Africa to be one of the best organized countries in the world,” said Hans Jernberg. “I regard it as my duty to do all I can to support the whites living there.”
“And you do that by renting out your house to Russian bandits who run errands for the South Africans, do you?” asked Wallander.
This time Hans Jernberg was genuinely surprised.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh yes you do,” said Wallander. “But you can answer another question instead. Which of your friends has had access to the house during this last week? Think carefully before you answer. If there’s the slightest sign of evasion I’ll ask one of the Goteborg prosecutors to issue a warrant for your arrest. And that’s what will happen, believe you me.”
“Ove Westerberg,” said Hans Jernberg. “He’s an old friend of mine who runs a construction firm here in town.”
“Address?” demanded Wallander, and received it.
It was all very confusing. But some effective work on the part of the CID in Goteborg threw some light on what had happened at the yellow house over the last few days. Ove Westerberg proved to be as good a friend of South Africa as Hans Jernberg. Through a series of contacts whose identities seemed shrouded in mist, he had received a query some weeks previously as to whether the house could be placed at the disposal of some South African guests, who would pay good money. As Hans Jernberg was abroad at the time, Ove Westerberg had not told him about it. Wallander also suspected the money had gone no further than Westerberg’s pocket. But Westerberg had no idea who these guests from South Africa were. He did not even know they had been there. That was as far as Wallander got that day. It would be the job of the Kalmar police to delve further into contacts between Swedish neo-nazis and the representatives of apartheid in South Africa. It was still not clear who had been in the yellow house with Konovalenko. While neighbors, cab drivers, and bus conductors were being interrogated, Wallander made a thorough search of the house. He could see that two of the bedrooms had been used recently, and that the house had been vacated in a great hurry. It seemed to him Konovalenko must have left something behind this time. He had left the house, never to return. It was possible, of course, that the other visitor had taken Konovalenko’s belongings with him. It was also possible that there was no limit to Konovalenko’s caution. Maybe he anticipated the possibility of a burglary every night, and hid all his belongings before going to bed? Wallander summoned Blomstrand, who was busy searching the toolshed. Wallander wanted every available cop to search the house looking for a bag. He couldn’t say what it looked like or how big it was.
“A bag with something in it,” he said. “There must be one somewhere.”
“What kind of things in it?” wondered Blomstrand.
“I don’t know,” said Wallander. “Papers, money, clothes. Maybe a gun. I just don’t know.”
The search began. Various bags and cases were carried down to where Wallander was waiting on the ground floor. He blew the dust off a leather briefcase containing old photos and letters, most of them starting with phrases like Dearest Gunvor or My dear Herbert. Another, just as dusty and unearthed in the attic, was crammed with exotic starfish and seashells. But Wallander waited patiently. He knew there would be traces of Konovalenko somewhere, and hence also perhaps his unknown companion. While he was waiting, he spoke with his daughter and Bjork. News of what had happened that morning had spread all over the country. Wallander told his daughter he felt OK, and it was all over now. He would return home that night, and they could take the car and spend a few days in Copenhagen. He could tell by her voice she was not convinced he was well, or that it was all over. He thought afterward he had a daughter who could read him like a book. The conversation with Bjork came to an end when Wallander lost his temper and slammed down the receiver. That had never happened in all the years he had worked with Bjork. But Bjork had begun to question Wallander’s judgment because, without telling anybody, he had set out after Konovalenko on his own. Of course, Wallander could see there was a lot to be said for Bjork’s point of view. But what upset him was the fact that Bjork started going on about that now, when he was in the middle of a critical stage of the investigation. As far as Bjork was concerned, he regarded Wallander’s furious outburst as an unfortunate sign that he was still mentally disturbed. “We’ll have to keep an eye on Kurt,” Bjork told Martinson and Svedberg.
It was Blomstrand himself who finally found the right bag. Konovalenko had hidden it behind a stack of boots in a closet in the corridor between the kitchen and the dining room. It was a leather suitcase with a combination lock. Wallander wondered whether the lock might be booby-trapped. What would happen if they forced open the case? Blomstrand drove to Kalmar airport at high speed with it, and had it put through the x-ray machine. There was no indication it might blow up if anybody opened it. Wallander took a screwdriver and forced the lock. There was a number of papers in the case, tickets, several passports, and a large sum of money. There was also a small pistol, a Beretta. All the passports belonged to Konovalenko, and were issued in Sweden, Finland, and Poland. He had a different name in each passport. As a Finn he was called Konovalenko Makela, and as a Pole he had the German-sounding name of Hausmann. There were forty-seven thousand Swedish kronor and eleven thousand U.S. dollars in the case. But what interested Wallander most was whether the other documents could indicate who the unknown traveling companion might be. To his great disappointment and annoyance, most of the notes were written in a foreign language, which he thought must be Russian. He could not understand a word. They seemed to be consecutive memos since there were dates in the margin.
Wallander turned to Blomstrand.
“We need somebody who speaks Russian,” he said. “Somebody who can translate this on the spot.”
“We could try my wife,” said Blomstrand.
Wallander stared at him in surprise.
“She studied Russian,” Blomstrand went on. “She’s very interested in Russian culture. Especially nineteenth- century writers.”
Wallander closed the suitcase and tucked it under his arm.
“Let’s go see her,” he said. “She’d only get nervous if we brought her to this circus.”
Blomstrand lived in a row house north of Kalmar. His wife was an intelligent, straightforward woman, and Wallander took an immediate liking to her. While they were drinking coffee and eating sandwiches in the kitchen, she took the papers into her study and looked up a few words in the dictionary. It took her nearly an hour to
