“Hi.” He showed her his ID. “Criminal investigation department. It’s about two of your former members.”
“I think I know who you mean,” she said, nodding at the copy of
Hjelm nodded too. “They were members here, right?”
“Yes. They played here quite regularly. They would always say hello when they came in and stop to chat.”
“Do you know whether they played golf together? Did you ever see them together?”
“Hmm… I don’t think they were regular golf partners. I can’t remember ever seeing them together. But sometimes, afterward they’d join a larger group. Those types of golfers often sit down after a game to discuss other matters.”
“What do you mean by ‘those types of golfers’?”
“Bad golfers.”
Hjelm paused. “So you’re a competitive golfer?”
“Uh-huh.”
“And you don’t like the kind of people who come here to, well, hobnob and network and meet up with colleagues? Even though you’re a true Danderyd girl, you have trouble with these ‘bad golfers,’ since they give the sport its persistent image of an indolent rich man’s game.”
“Quite a psychoanalytical interpretation,” said the true Danderyd girl.
“So how do things work here? Do the members just go out and start playing as soon as they arrive, or do they have to register somewhere?”
“We have a guest book, and everyone who wants to play has to sign in first.”
“May I have a look at it?”
“You’re leaning on it. Excuse me, I have to see to the guests who just came in.”
“No, you don’t,” said Hjelm. “While I leaf through the pages for the past few weeks, you can take a quick look in that fancy computer of yours and find out when Daggfeldt and Strand-Julen became members.”
“I’m sorry, but I’ll be with you in a minute,” she said over his shoulder to a couple of gray-haired men wearing classic checkered lamb’s-wool golf sweaters. Hjelm eavesdropped on their conversation as he glanced through the so-called guest book.
“Good Lord,” said the older man. “What’ll it be next? Have you seen today’s
“Yes, by God. Does every decent person have to rely on a security firm nowadays? They were fine, upstanding men, I’ll tell you that, brother, fine men. Both Daggfeldt and Strand-Julen. I knew them personally. Do you think the Communists are behind it?”
Hjelm left the two men to their not entirely unpredictable fate as the girl handed him a handwritten note and then turned with a smile to her guests.
Hjelm stopped her. “I’m not quite done here. Mr. D. joined in ’82,” he said cryptically in order not to attract the attention of the two men. “Mr. S.J. didn’t become a member until ’85. Do you have the guest books from that period?”
The girl again apologized to the guests, who were easily seduced by her dazzling white teeth.
“What a great girl,” Hjelm heard them say behind him. “Ranked number ten in Europe, I’ve heard.”
“Could we go into your office?” said Hjelm. They went into the office. “Ranked number ten in Europe?” he exclaimed.
She smiled. “Nope. Those dear old men have me mixed up with Lotta Neumann. She’s older than me, but ten years give or take doesn’t mean much at their age.”
“So do you still have the old guest books?”
“Yes, they’re in the storeroom. I can get them for you.”
“Good. All of them. Starting with 1982, that is. I’ll need to take them with me, but you’ll get them back. And I’ll need to take the current book that you’ve got out there on the counter, so you’ll have to start a new one. As soon as we’re done with all of them, you can have them back. It’ll just be a matter of a few days, at most.”
“I can’t let you have the one on the counter. We’re using it.”
Hjelm sighed. He had hoped to avoid resorting to the language of intimidation.
“Just listen to me. This has to do with a double murder, and there are likely to be more. Pretty soon your whole clientele could be wiped out. I have powers of authority invested in me that would make even those old guys out there start talking about a police state. Okay?”
She slunk off.
He never ceased to be amazed at how close ordinary speech could come to the language of intimidation. A few minor shifts in the wording, and the deed was done. Quite acceptable when spoken by the right person. Quite horrific if uttered by the wrong one.
Hjelm emerged into suddenly radiant spring sunshine, lugging a big box filled with guest books. There wasn’t a trace of wind. Perfect golf weather, or so he assumed.
The only indication that he’d arrived at the right place was a yellowing old label, handwritten and partially torn away, next to one of the buttons. “Mimiro,” it said. There were nine other buttons in the low entryway, half a flight of stairs down, on Stallgrand in Gamla Stan. He pressed the button. Through a rusty little grating on the building intercom, a stentorian voice bellowed, “Yes?”
“I’m not sure that I’m in the right place. I’m looking for the organization called the Order of Mimir.”
“This is the Order of Mimir. What can I do for you?”
“I’m from the Criminal Police. It has to do with a couple of your members.”
“Come in.”
The lock buzzed, and Hjelm pushed open the worn door. It was so low that he had to stoop to enter. The hall was narrow and dingy, the air dusty and damp. It was a medieval building that looked as if it had never been remodeled. He paused for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dark.
In a doorway appeared a tall, sinewy old man wrapped in a strange, lavender-colored cloak. He held out his hand toward Hjelm. If he hadn’t studied up on the nature of these organizations, he probably would have tried to twist the man’s arm out of its socket and at the same time avoid baring his throat.
“How do you do?” said the man, whose voice was no more of this world than he himself seemed to be. “I’m David Clofwenhielm, Guardian of the Order of Mimir.”
“Paul Hjelm.” As Hjelm expected, the man had a firm handshake, though not exactly like the Freemasons, if a comparison were permitted.
“You haven’t yet seen the inner sanctum.” The words resonated from David Clofwenhielm’s golden throat. “And you may never see it. How close you come depends on the reason why you’re here.”
“Guardian,” said Hjelm. “Is that something like a Grand Master?”
“We don’t use that sort of outmoded title. We don’t want our order to risk being considered a lesser variant of the Freemasons. By the way, do you happen to know who the Grand Master of the Freemasons is here in Sweden?”
Hjelm shook his head.
“Prince Bertil,” said Clofwenhielm.
“Is he still alive?” said Hjelm.
Clofwenhielm emitted a thunderous sound, and only after it had echoed ten times was it possible to identify it as a laugh. Apparently there was some animosity between the two organizations. “Come in, inspector.”
“Thank you,” said Hjelm with no intention of correcting him as to his proper title. Any sort of promotion was undoubtedly useful in this situation.
They slowly descended a long, winding staircase. The massive stone walls were dripping with moisture, and the ceiling was so low that the lanky Clofwenhielm bent nearly double as he led the way. Here and there a damp- resistant torch was affixed to the wall. Finally they entered a small room with several coats of arms scattered over the walls, thick velvety drapery on the far wall, and an enormous oak desk. On the desk stood two plastic cheese bells; rivulets of moisture formed and dripped off the outside of the misty, opaque surfaces. Clofwenhielm lifted up one of the cheese bells and took out a small, ultramodern laptop, a miracle of an anachronism. He sat down at the desk.
“I assume that you want to consult our directory for some reason,” he rumbled. His voice, which had seemed so out of place upstairs in the relative light, was now in its proper element. “Please have a seat,
