(damn his nosy, interfering ways) and had been told that Mr Jonsson was the cat’s pyjamas – or words to that effect. I had heard the phrase, probably from my grandmother, and knew it implied approbation. The final comment confirmed that meaning. The Empress of Germany was the Kaiser’s wife, and as we all know, Caesar’s wife is above reproach. Which was more than I could say for Schmidt’s literary style.
The information was reassuring, and it fitted the theory I had begun to construct. Even so, I crossed my fingers and took a deep breath before I made the next call.
Did you ever fall in love with a voice? I don’t mean the voice of a singer, like Elvis or Lennon or Luciano Pavarotti. Just an ordinary speaking voice, saying ordinary words: ‘Hello. This is Gustaf Jonsson.’
I assumed that was what he said. He spoke Swedish. It’s hard to describe the quality of his voice. It was deep and gentle and calm, with a remarkable timbre, like a clear humming. It sounded like my father, though it didn’t resemble Dad’s gruff, grumbly tones. It sounded like everybody’s father. Oh, hell, I can’t describe it; all I can say is that the moment he spoke I forgot any lingering suspicions of Gustaf Jonsson.
‘Mr Jonsson?’ I stammered ‘Hi. Hello, there. This is Vicky. Victoria Bliss.’
‘Victoria!’ He didn’t raise his voice, but it sang with delight. ‘I am so glad! You are so good to telephone me. You are well? You are not ill or injured?’
‘No, I’m fine. I – er – ’ I couldn’t ask Everybody’s Dad the questions I had intended to ask. ‘Who the hell are you, Mr Jonsson? Where did you get the crazy idea I was your cousin?’
‘There was some confusion,’ I said finally. ‘I – uh – I changed hotels
‘Yes, I am so glad. The Grand is a good hotel.’
‘How did you know I was staying at the Grand?’
He hesitated, then said even more softly, ‘I apologize to you. When I found you were not at the Excelsior, I inquired of several other hotels. I feared there had been an accident.’
‘You knew I was here, but you didn’t call me?’
‘It would have been to intrude,’ Gustaf said simply. ‘Your Aunt Ingeborg said you desired to visit me, but a young lady does not always desire what her aged aunt believes she desires. I am aged too, and dull. I understand if you do not wish to waste time with me.’
I had hoped that if he talked long enough, he would give me the information I needed without having to dig for it, but this speech turned my brain numb. I felt like a computer feeding back what someone has put into it. I said feebly, ‘Aunt – Aunt Ingeborg?’
‘Yes; it was so good of her to write to me. She found me through a genealogist, when tracing the history of your family. Genealogy is my hobby too – quite a coincidence, would you not say? Always I meant to investigate the American branch. It must stem, I believe, from Great-great-uncle Johann, who ran away from home at the young age of fifteen and was not heard of again. His grieving mother believed he had drowned, but I always wondered . . .’ He broke off, with a grandfatherly chuckle. ‘You see how it is? When I speak of my hobby I forget good manners. As I wrote to Miss Ingeborg, it would make me so very glad to see you. I do not entertain – I am a grouchy old recluse, in fact – ’
‘Then perhaps I shouldn’t intrude.’
‘No, no, I say it badly, I am so stupid. I mean only to warn you that you may be bored. But you are not a stranger, you are kin. For those of the same blood my door is always open.’
‘I’d love to come.’
‘You are sure? I do not force you?’
‘You’d have to use force to keep me away,’ I said grimly.
‘I am so glad! Tomorrow, is it too soon? I am so glad! I will send my car. It is only a five, perhaps six, hours’ drive. Will nine o’clock in the morning be too early?’
The bank references should have warned me that Cousin Gustaf was the kind of man who sent cars to pick up unknown relatives. ‘Nine o’clock?’ I repeated stupidly.
‘It is too early?’
It definitely was too early – not only for me, but for the unfortunate chauffeur who would have to get up at three am. As I hesitated, Gustaf went on, ‘Ten o’clock? Eleven o’clock? Twelve – ’
‘Twelve o’clock would be fine.’
‘I am so glad. You will know the car . . . No, best I should give Tomas a letter. You will read it before you get in the car, then you will know he is the right person. That is the proper way to do it. You will be safe with Tomas. He is a married man, very dependable, very honest.’
I assured him that I was not at all worried about being sold into white slavery by Tomas, though not in those precise words, and hung up with his reiterated expressions of gladness ringing in my ears.
Talking to Cousin Gustaf had been quite an experience. I felt so undone that I collapsed across the bed. So he had heard from Aunt Ingeborg. He must have employed a good medium. Aunt Ingeborg had died the previous October.
The main outlines of the plot were fairly clear now. If my surmises were correct, and I felt sure they were, it was absolutely imperative that I visit Gustaf Jonsson. That sweet, kindly old man had to be warned.
I was still prone, picturing medieval torture devices with a certain smirking Englishman as the central feature, when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch. Six o’clock, on the dot.
‘Where have you been all the day?’ he demanded.
‘“Henry, my son,”’ I said.
‘What?’
‘Sorry, I wasn’t thinking.’
‘What?’
‘Are you sure you don’t know where I went today?’
‘How could I know? When I telephoned you had left the hotel I believed we were to meet for lunch.’
‘You should have shared your belief with me.’
‘What?’
‘What do you want, Leif?’
‘To take you to dinner,’ said Leif.
‘You just want to pump me about Smythe.’
‘You have seen him?’
‘No,’ I said flatly.
‘Oh. Anyway, I will take you to dinner.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I will come at six-thirty.’
‘You will come at seven. I’ll be downstairs.’
I went down at twenty to seven and settled in a quiet corner of the lobby near the bar, where I could keep an eye on the door. Before Leif arrived I had turned down two pressing invitations to have a drink. Neither came from a middle-sized man wearing horn-rimmed glasses. I saw several people who fit that general description; it made me realize how vague it was.
At precisely seven o’clock Leif came through the door. The suit he had worn the previous day had been a cheap ready-made, and rather too small; I suppose he’d have trouble finding something that fit even in a shop that catered to ‘tall, large men.’ That evening he featured wrinkled cotton khaki pants and a short-sleeved knit shirt that had seen better days. I deduced that we were dining informally.
If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn he was glad to see me – myself, not a potential informer. A smile replaced his abstracted frown when he saw me and his eyes moved from my face to my feet and back again with the proper degree of appreciation. As I was begnning to preen myself, he said, ‘No word from Smythe?’
‘You might at least pretend you’re interested,’ I said.
‘In you? I am, of course. If I cared only about Smythe, I would seek information by telephone instead of taking you to dinner.’
He offered a stiff bent elbow. Stifling a smile, I took it. On the whole I was more inclined to believe Leif’s blunt comments than the florid endearments of certain other people.
I suggested we go back to the same restaurant so I could ask about my notebook, but Leif was firm. He had another place in mind. It was a pretty cafe, with tables on a balcony overlooking some stretch of water or other, but the prices on the menu were considerably lower than those of the other restaurant. Studying it, I muttered, “Why is
