Open Grave: A Mystery Read Online Free PDF

called a smoking jacket, at least back in the day when smoking was done in a fashionable manner.
    His face bright red, he pointed with a diffuse motion in the direction of his own house and stamped one foot on the stone paving.
    “What do you mean?”
    Bunde waved his arm.
    “A man,” he panted, “a man sneaking around with an ax in his hand.”
    “On your lot?”
    It was a strange feeling, talking to Bunde like this. Not because the associate professor had problems setting aside formalities with people, but it felt wrong somehow.
    “I didn’t see that well, if it was on mine or yours, or”—Bunde clearly experienced this unexpected neighborly contact and extended conversation as equally strange, because he hesitated suddenly—“or if it was on Lundstr ö m’s, or whatever his name is, the new person.”
    Alexander Lundquist had moved in five years ago and was therefore observed with a certain skepticism. No one knew exactly what he did for a living, but there was talk about some kind of publishing activity. Bunde, whose property bordered the newcomer’s, had cautiously let the surroundings know that it probably concerned pornography.
    “I see,” said the associate professor, uncertain how he should tackle the situation.
    “Is this how it’s going to be now,” Bunde repeated, “with a lot of running around in the bushes, photographers and other riffraff, those kinds of paparazzi?”
    “Photographers don’t usually carry axes. Perhaps it was someone working on Lundquist’s yard?”
    “That! His yard mostly looks like a communal garbage dump.”
    Everything that had to do with municipal operations, including recycling stations, Bunde called “communal.”
    “All the more reason to hire someone,” the associate professor replied.
    He was finding an unexpected enjoyment in the conversation.
    “I definitely think he mentioned something about that.”
    “Have the two of you talked?”
    “Just in passing,” said the associate professor.
    “Yes?”
    “Perhaps it was Lundquist himself you saw?”
    “Very unlikely,” Bunde said with a sneer. “He’s never appeared in the yard before.”
    The associate professor had to agree.
    “This man, you didn’t go up and ask what he was doing?”
    Bunde shook his head.
    “I don’t believe there will be ‘running around’ as you say. Have you gone over to congratulate?”
    “No, I want to wait,” said Bunde doggedly.
    “Perhaps we should take up a collection for a little flower arrangement? I mean, those of us here on the street.”
    Bunde stared at the associate professor.
    “I think I smell something burning,” he said.
    “I’ll never be a cook,” the associate professor said, smiling.
    Bunde turned on his heels and almost ran toward the gate, which he had left open. It was such an unusual sight for the associate professor that he did not catch the neighbor’s parting words.
    “Close the gate behind you!” he shouted.
    He observed the neighbor striding away. Bunde’s hair was sticking out like a scraggly white broom from the back of his head. The sight reminded the associate professor of the only children’s book he owned. In it a magician was depicted who at the end of the tale was put to flight by angry people. He wanted to recall that the magician had conjured away something valuable to a poor man in the village. Could it be a cow?
    It must have been a cow. Otherwise he probably would not have gotten the book as a Christmas present. His father had been called the “Indian” at home in Rasbo.
    The associate professor walked along the stone-paved walk, and to push away the memories flaring up from childhood and youth he let his eyes sweep over the yard, observed that the Ö land stone ought to be reset, noted that the moss in the lawn had conquered even more ground, especially in the shadow of the privet hedge, and that the autumn crocus had never been so abundant and beautiful.
    While he slowly shut the gate he thought again about the