Someone's going to die here in Stockholm. "
The woman backed away another few steps.
"How did you know I received the card?" she asked. "How did you know where I live?"
He looked at her careful y. There was no reason to lie.
"Berlin," he said. "The German police. It was the deutsche Polizei who told me another postcard had turned up, sent to a Dessie Larsson at Aftonposten in Stockholm, Sweden. I came at once. I've just gotten in from the airport."
"So, what are we doing here? What do you want with me? I can't help you. I'm nobody."
He took a step closer to her, she took a step to one side. He checked himself.
"They have to be stopped," he said. "This is the best chance yet… They picked you. So now you're somebody."
Chapter 9
"I've been following these butchers since the murders in Rome last Christmas," he said.
Suddenly he turned away and looked out through the leaded glass farther down the stairs. The fading sunlight was making red, green, and dark blue spots dance on the marble steps.
He closed his eyes and put his hand over them, the colors burning into his brain.
"Sometimes I think I'm right behind them. Sometimes they slip past me, close to me, so close I can almost feel their breath."
"How did you find me? I asked you a question."
He looked at the reporter again. She wasn't like the others. She was younger, about thirty, less high-strung. Plus, al the others had been men – apart from the female reporter in Salzburg whom he hadn't managed to make contact with yet.
"I got your address from directory inquiries. The taxi driver dropped me off at the door. Like I said, I'm a detective."
He knotted his hands in frustration.
"You have to understand how important this is. How far have the police gotten? Have they made contact with the Germans? Tel them they have to talk to Berlin, the best inspector there is cal ed Gunther Bublitz. He's a decent man.