Hard Cheese Read online

  HARD CHEESE

  Paul Halter books from Locked Room International:

  The Lord of Misrule (2010)

  The Fourth Door (2011)

  The Seven Wonders of Crime (2011)

  The Demon of Dartmoor (2012)

  The Seventh Hypothesis (2012)

  The Tiger’s Head (2013)

  The Crimson Fog (2013)

  (Publisher’s Weekly Top Mystery 2013 List)

  The Night of the Wolf (2013)*

  The Invisible Circle (2014)

  The Picture from the Past (2014)

  The Phantom Passage (2015)

  *Original short story collection published by Wildside Press (2006)

  Other impossible crime novels from Locked Room International:

  The Riddle of Monte Verita (Jean-Paul Torok ) 2012

  The Killing Needle (Henry Cauvin) 2014

  The Derek Smith Omnibus (Derek Smith) 2014

  (Washington Post Top 50 Fiction Books 2014)

  The House That Kills (Noel Vindry) 2015

  The Decagon House Murders (Ayatsuji Yukito) 2015

  (Publisher’s Weekly Top Mystery 2015 List)

  Visit our website at www.mylri.com or

  www.lockedroominternational.com

  HARD CHEESE

  Ulf Durling

  Translated by Bertil Falk

  Hard Cheese

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First published in Swedish in 1971 by Forum as GammalOst

  HARD CHEESE

  Copyright © Ulf Durling & Forum 1971

  English translation copyright © by John Pugmire 2015.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  For information, contact: [email protected]

  FIRST AMERICAN EDITION

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Durling, Ulf

  [Gammal Ost English]

  Hard Cheese / Ulf Durling

  Translated from the Swedish by Bertil Falk

  As we all know, cheese goes into everything. And there are so many varieties for experimentation.

  In Swedish, the phrase “gammal ost” is shorthand for the expression "att ge igen för gammal ost," which means to take revenge because of a longstanding grievance. While there is no equivalent phrase in English, we do have an expression “hard cheese,” which means “bad luck,” but intended in an unsympathetic or ironic way. It seems quite appropriate for the story

  Plan of The Little Boarding-House

  PART ONE

  Åbrogatan, Monday, October 27th

  1

  Normally the reports of our meetings take quite a different form. The doctor makes a summary on an A4 page, he reports the summary the following Sunday and lets us approve it with our signatures. Since we have been functioning for more than five years and have met almost 200 times, the documents have become so plentiful that a new binder, a blue one instead of the old black one, had to be purchased this year. During the week, the binders, card index and complete collection of reports are kept locked up in a desk drawer at the doctor’s house, and he brings them to every meeting. Since our journals are confidential, no outsider has seen them up to now. However, before we parted this morning, Carl noted that our common deductions had been of such an interesting and noteworthy nature this time that they deserved to be made public. At that, I undertook the task of reporting everything extremely carefully, even the most trifling details, and I promised a thorough report, even of those aspects where we had disagreed.

  With all due respect for Carl's consideration for the public, I rather think he meant the police.

  Our desire for secrecy is perhaps conditioned by the suspicion that, if they knew about our activities, people might have a good laugh at our expense. Tolerance of anything that might be considered unusual or different is low nowadays, not least in our town. Young people, on the other hand, are permitted to behave as they like. Nobody seems to react against how they are dressing, or against their long hair. In any event, nothing is done by the responsible authorities. If a bunch of hoodlums disturbs the peace at night by kicking up a racket on the main street a long time after midnight, they are rewarded with a brand new youth club costing hundreds of thousands of crowns. But if my cousin happens to break a leg, then the social authorities don't even have a domestic helper for him. Had not his daughter-in-law taken care of cleaning and shopping for food, he would have died of neglect and starvation.

  Well, I don't want to carp and normally I am a peaceful and reserved person—not exactly a cheerful senior citizen, but fairly satisfied with my life. Yet sometimes one has the right to get worked up, and it so happens, though not often, that I fire off a short reader's letter to the newspaper. Who, for example, has forgotten how last year I spoke out in connection with the delayed gritting of Åbrogatan, where I happen to live, and where, after the first snowfall had been followed by frost in the night, the street had become glassy? Had I not preferred to keep a low profile as “One of Many,” I would almost certainly have received many a personal thank you. Of that I am quite sure.

  My profession has taught me to do everything with care and attention. Nature has furnished me with doggedness and, thanks to my inquiring mind, I have been able to acquire considerable knowledge in all sorts of subjects.

  Since my educational background is modest, I’ve devoted myself to individual studies, read a great deal at the adult educational association and learned a lot from radio lectures. I was a frequent visitor to the town library, and my private book collection consists of two thousand volumes, paperbacks as well as hardbacks. For many years I’ve been an active committee member of the town's ornithological society and have joined in many worthwhile field trips. For ten years I occupied the position of president of the local branch (The Watermark) of the Philatelic Society. In short, a life filled with intellectual activities, while constantly increasing my book-learning. As a result, despite my age, I feel full of life myself, vital and not at all played out.

  In all modesty, I pride myself on possessing a fair amount of acumen, for which I’ve been complimented many times. Few would guess I was the most senior member of our little group. My dealings with my two closest friends have reinforced my feeling of preserved youth, as has the absence of all those inconveniences that arise over the years; I’m thinking, for example, of shortness of breath and the frequent need to urinate.

  Over many years of careful monitoring of my health, I have not so far detected any foreboding signs. Carl, on the other hand, is afflicted with a mild form of diabetes, and the doctor himself recently underwent an operation for bowel obstruction. I still have my own teeth.

  Strictly speaking, I hate talking about diseases, but I must nevertheless add that when I was hospitalized at the end of the 1950’s, the chief physician as well as Sister Astrid were surprised to see how rapidly I recovered my strength. I’d been afflicted by the influenza rampant at the time and had been admitted to hospital with a high temperature (38,4 degrees Celsius), painful vomiting and much faintness. Already by the next day I could resume reading my book, The Moonstone by Wilkie Collins, in a Swedish translation.

  It had been my intention to make a short introduction to each of the three of us, but somehow I seem to have gone on a lot about myself. Anyhow, twelve years ago I retired with a pension from my position as foreman at Lindquist’s Printing, Ltd. At the time, I received a gratuity and a gold watch with the inscription: “Fo
r good and loyal service, from the friends of the company.” Mister Lindquist made a short speech and everyone applauded and drank skål to my health in sherry.

  In those days I was living at Västra Långgatan 29, but when my wife died two years later I moved to the present comfortable two-roomed flat, modern and with a moderate monthly rent. The bigger room, 28 square metres, is arranged as a library and it is there we gather on those Sunday evenings when I have the pleasure of being the host.

  As a rule we have a cup of coffee and continue with a half bottle of Swedish arrack punch or port wine. The proceedings rarely drag on: two or three hours at the most. We begin at 19.30 and when we meet at my place I make a point of cleaning the flat beforehand. I often buy a sponge-cake and brush my smoking-jacket, which I always wear on these occasions. One last important detail is an overhaul of my six double rows of crime fiction on the southern wall. It would be extremely embarrassing to find some disorder had occurred, which would be noticed. We are used to browsing among each other’s bookshelves, e.g. when the host is out picking up the evening’s refreshments, or when some member finds himself compelled to go to the bathroom.

  It can happen that I have not managed to clean the flat or even to check the bookcase, but on those occasions I will have been polishing my draft late into the Saturday night and then rehearsing the next day in order to be able to use the half an hour I have at my disposal in a fluent and easy manner and in an entertaining way, after the confirmation of the minutes of the previous week. In order to avoid criticism on factual grounds during the concluding speech, one must not overlook any important detail or place inadequate material at the group’s disposal as a basis for forming a judgment. Thank heavens, such occurrences have happened only rarely during the entire time we have been active.

  It may be of interest to learn how I met Carl Bergman for the first time, and how that meeting gradually led to the establishment of our club.

  We bumped into each other outside the town library, where we were both headed. Since the presence of a bookseller at the municipal lending-place of books seemed to me to be somewhat paradoxical, I made so bold as to ask him about how his interest in books came to be so strong that he could not stay away from their dust even in his leisure time.

  We had, of course, seen each other many times in his bookshop and I had earlier, before I retired, had the pleasure of placing some orders through him for the company. Our conversations then had been agreeable but fairly impersonal.

  Now he confided to me that he, too, had ceased working within his chosen occupation and had now begun to read what he had not managed to read earlier. In the hallway he took out a bag of apples and offered me one to taste. Then, when we walked between the shelves, it turned out that we were both aiming for the same book. We were standing there, each with an apple, and he was holding Agatha Christie’s just- published The Clocks. It was of course, just a coincidence, but I couldn’t help asking him whether he understood how funny the circumstances were.

  ‘What do you mean, Mr. Lundgren?’ he enquired.

  ‘Maybe Mr. Bookseller is unaware of the weakness the authoress is said to have had for apples? It’s said that she consumed enormous numbers, perhaps from her own garden, when she was writing.’

  ‘I didn’t know that, and neither did I know that Mr. Lundgren was so familiar with what I thought was my own little special field.’

  We continued talking about the detective novel on our way home and agreed to meet the next week at the same place, so that I could borrow the book after him.

  It was also during that first stroll that I took the opportunity to entertain him with an amusing story, the one about the mystery- addicted borrower. In case the anecdote is unfamiliar, I shall retell it here: when our borrower had read all the detective novels at the library, he one day (by mistake) went home with the telephone directory. The following week, when he returned the book, he told the astounded librarian: “The plot was indeed a little thin, but what a gallery of characters!” I still remember that Carl laughed heartily and at length.

  Thus began our close relationship. Apart from the doctor, nobody has mattered more to me than the bookseller Carl Bergman. I think highly of him and I admire his wide reading when it comes to our common field, the mystery novel.

  Carl is short of stature, always well-dressed, has a pleasant and amiable manner and expresses himself in a refined way. His courteousness can doubtless be traced to constant contact with customers in Bergman’s Book and Stationery Shop, a most valued establishment in the city.

  It has a wide range of items and the service is first-class. Carl bought the business in the beginning of the 1930’s and he ran it until 1963, when he retired due to old age and health reasons. Obviously his trade had been a paying concern. He is pretty well-off and has built a two-storey house in the eastern part of the town.

  I have often been his guest in connection with our Sunday meetings and also on other occasions. His wife, a charming person who, of course, does not take part in our meetings, is in the habit of welcoming us at the door; she always calls attention to something pertinent regarding the weather and asks me about my health. I mention it because my health mostly is excellent.

  The Bergmans have three adult children, two of them daughters, married and living in the capital. Their son Gunnar is with the police department in town. He has, according to Carl, a talent out of the ordinary and, after completing training at the Swedish National Police Academy with high testimonials, advanced to become a detective sergeant. I met him myself ex officio last year at the police station when I reported the vandalizing of my bike, a Crescent; both cycle tyres had been cut to pieces in a most revolting way. The hoodlum had not been captured, however, in spite of the efforts of the police force. A few months ago I met Bergman junior at his father’s home and I reminded him of the cycle vandal. He assured me, in a very friendly and confidence-inspiring way, that my case had not been classified and was still open. I am glad to have contributed to drawing the police force’s attention to this sort thing, which of course is not unique of its kind.

  Carl and I thus began to meet in the library and made it a habit to walk back together, discussing books we both had read. Almost always these were detective novels. We discussed plots, murder motives and the deductions of the detectives; compared different modes of procedure and different styles; and analysed problems and compared notes as to similar cases.

  At this stage, it’s important to explain our fundamental attitude to detective novels. We are supporters of the classic problem-story tradition, with sharp-wittedness as a condition for the detective (or the reader) to be able to solve the riddle. We demand literary standards and a serious attitude from the author. The plot may be complicated but not illogical. The reader must have a fair chance to put his or her intelligence and cunning to the test. All the suspects must be introduced in a fair and honest way, and all solutions and explanations must be well justified. We demand that the detective solve his task using his gray cells, not with his clenched fists.

  Already in those days we were more or less in agreement in all essentials. We had, and still have, different favourites among the writers. Among mine I count above all Freeman Wills Crofts and Cyril Hare, while Carl prefers Margery Allingham, Josephine Tey and, among the Swedes, Vic Suneson. We have a common faiblesse for Ellery Queen and John Dickson Carr.

  Later on, the doctor introduced more modern voices that we learned to admire, such as Patricia Highsmith and John Bingham. We even included novels by Raymond Chandler and Ross Macdonald—whom I personally find to be too brutal and outspoken—through some minor technical changes in the procedure of presenting the report.

  At the time of writing, the card index comprises no less than 58 writers' names, from Edgar Allan Poe to Harry Kemelman. In the collection of reports, there are, all in all, 193 cards from as many meetings entered into the minutes. The first one was held on March 14, 1965. At that time I had already met the doctor a couple of times.
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br />   Carl said to me during one of our walks that he wanted to introduce me to one of his friends. He asked me to visit him the next day and then it turned out that he had invited the doctor.

  I knew, of course, of Dr. Efraim Nylander, but thanks to my health I had never had a reason to consult him. The previous year, he had handed over his position as district medical officer to Dr. Rydin and had opened a private practice on his previous premises. I suppose he couldn’t give up contact with his profession and his patients.

  Given that medical science has made considerable strides during the last few decades, and that the doctor’s workload made it difficult for him to keep up to date with its evolution, his prescriptions could occasionally appear to be somewhat out-of-date. If he sometimes, for conservative reasons, prefers liniments and old-fashioned cures to some of the modern medical preparations, he makes up for it with a very personal attention to the patient’s situation. Many people prefer the informality of Dr. Nylander’s approach over sitting for an hour in the waiting room of the Out Patient’s Department at our new and well-equipped hospital and then, after five minutes of consultation, receiving a prescription from a graduate in medicine. He still has many patients, whom I would gladly join if, contrary to expectation, ailments should knock at my door. For obvious reasons, I prefer to belong to his circle of friends.

  Imagine my surprise when I found Dr. Nylander at Carl’s place that evening in the beginning of 1965 and it turned out that, for many years, they had exchanged viewpoints and opinions about detective novels and that they now and then met in private.

  The doctor is a bachelor and for many years his flat has been cared for by a charwoman, Mrs. Storm. He is a somewhat stout man, weighing more than 100 kilo, and he is almost bald-headed, with only a tonsure of white hair. Since for at least half of his life he has been wearing a doctor’s white coat, he seems to be awkward in a jacket. He almost always takes it off it in the evenings. Perhaps he wants to hide the fact that the jacket is creased. He wears a pair of broad, red suspenders and claims they don’t keep up the trousers but they do press down his shoulders. His head has a tendency to become a part of his chest, since his neck either doesn’t exist or is hidden by his double chins. When he is laughing, his body vibrates in a strange way and his eyes seem to disappear into a pucker between the forehead and the cheeks. Everything to do with the doctor is very big and noisy.