Free Misterioso by Arne Dahl, Tiina Nunnally Page B

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
Svenska Dagbladet
?”
    “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-Julén. 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 Stallgränd 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