Detective Inspector Huss: A Huss Investigation set in Sweden, Vol. 1 Read Online Free PDF

Bring your wife too.”
    “We’ll try to be there at eleven.”
    “It’s about time for us to go downstairs. The officers in the squad car can’t come through the front entrance, as you know,” she said gently.
    She escorted him down in the elevator. He muttered his thanks and disappeared out into the darkness between the two waiting uniformed officers.
     
    IRENE HAD to stop and admire the skillfully laid marble floor. The pattern was a black swan surrounded by pink and white lilies. It was the most beautiful floor she had ever seen. Carl Larsson on the stairwell walls, as an extra bonus, didn’t hurt the overall impression either.
    In her many years on the police force, she had passed through hundreds of stairwells, most of them depressingly dilapidated, with the smell of piss and cooked food slamming visitors in the face like a kind of urban tear gas. The walls were scratched up and the graffiti shrieked COCK, NIGGER GO HOME, KILROY WAS HERE, and other cheery messages. Filthy stairs and front doors that had been kicked in were part of the usual picture. The police are seldom called to stairwells with marble inlay on the floor and Carl Larsson paintings on the walls.
     
    THE BALCONY door was open and the techs were busy securing evidence. One obvious item was a meat cleaver. Not the size used by a butcher, but rather a smaller kitchen variety.
    “This was lying on the floor of the balcony, right next to the wall. It was sheltered by part of the roof, so we’ll probably find something of interest on it,” said Andersson.
    The superintendent was more excited than he wanted to show. His cheeks were flushed a bright red.
    Irene said softly, “Are you okay? I mean . . . your blood pressure?”
    “Why the hell are you bringing that up now?”
    The superintendent was thrown quite off balance and looked annoyed. No one wants to be reminded of the incipient infirmities of old age. Hypertension was one of his. The techs looked up from their tasks in surprise. With great effort Andersson controlled himself and lowered his voice.
    “The sauna was turned on. I got overheated when I looked inside,” he said without convincing even himself.
    Irene decided to drop the sensitive question of her boss’s blood pressure. “Was the heating unit still on?” she wondered.
    “No, it was off. And here’s the explanation for the cigar smell.”
    Andersson pointed at the gray cylinder of ash left by a cigar that lay in a blue crystal ashtray, placed on a smoking table inset with a round copper disc. Beside the ashtray stood a short whisky glass with a trace of amber-colored liquid in the bottom. The smoking table stood between two sofas, which stood perpendicular to each other. They looked invitingly comfortable and were covered in soft wine-red leather. The sofa nearest the balcony was placed with its back to the wrought-iron railing, one end facing the balcony door. A wing chair was ensconced in front of the big mullioned window, upholstered in leather that matched the sofas. The halogen reading lamp next to it resembled a flesh-eating plant made of brass. The other sofa faced the balcony door, with its back to the stairway and the bedroom corridor. The placement of the ashtray and the whisky glass indicated that Richard von Knecht had been sitting on the latter sofa. The superintendent pondered the scene.
    “Why was he sitting on the sofa and not in the wing chair?” he wondered.
    “Check the speakers. One is in the corner and the other is on the other side of the balcony door. I’m guessing the sound is best right here on this sofa,” Irene replied.
    She walked over to the CD player, which was hidden behind smoky glass doors in one of the bookshelves. With a pen she carefully pushed a button, and the disc slid out. Without touching it she read aloud: “The Best of Glenn Miller. So Richard von Knecht sits here, fresh out of the sauna, smoking a good cigar, drinking a shot of Scotch whisky, and listening to Glenn Miller.