The Locked Room

The bells of St. Maria struck two as she came out from the subway station on Wollmar Yxkullsgatan. Before hurrying on towards the Maria Square she halted and lit a cigarette. The din of the church bells reverberated through the air, reminding her of the dreary Sundays of her childhood. She'd been born and grown up only a few blocks from the Church of St. Maria, where she'd also been christened and confirmed--the latter almost twelve years ago. All she could remember about her confirmation classes was hav-ing asked the vicar what Strindberg had meant when he'd written of the "melancholy descant" of the St. Maria bells. But she couldn't recall his answer. The sun was beating down on her back. After crossing St. Paulsgatan she eased her pace, not wishing to break into a sweat. All of a sudden she realized how nervous she was and regretted not having taken a tranquillizer before leaving home. Reaching the fountain in the middle of the square, she dipped her handkerchief in the cool water and, walking away, sat down on a bench in the shade of the trees. She took off her glasses and rubbed her face with the wet handkerchief, polished her glasses with the hem of her light-blue shirt, and put them on again. The large lenses reflected the light, concealing the upper half of her face. She took off her wide-rimmed blue denim hat, lifted up her straight blond hair, so long it brushed against her shoulders, and wiped the nape of her neck. Then, putting on her hat, she pulled it down over her brow and sat quite still, her handkerchief crumpled up into a ball between her hands. After a while she spread the handkerchief out beside her on the bench and wiped the palms of her hands on her jeans. She looked at her watch: half past two. A few minutes to calm down before she had to go. When the clock struck 2:45 she opened the flap of the dark-green canvas shoulder bag that lay in her lap, picked up her handkerchief, which by now was completely dry, and without folding it slipped it into the bag. Then she got up, slung the leather strap of the bag over her right shoulder, and started walking. Approaching Hornsgatan she grew less tense; every-thing, she persuaded herself, would work out fine. It was Friday, the last day of June, and for many people the summer vacation had just begun. On Hornsga-tan, both on the street itself and on the sidewalks, the traffic was lively. Emerging from the square, she turned off to the left and went into the shadow of the houses. She hoped today had been a wise choice. She'd weighed the pros and cons and realized she might have to put off her project until next week. No harm in that, though she wasn't too keen on exposing herself to such mental stress. She got there earlier than she'd planned and halted on the shady side of the street, observing the big window opposite her. Its shiny glass reflected the sunshine, and the heavy traffic partially blocked her view. But one thing she noticed. The curtains were drawn. Pretending to be window shopping, she walked slowly up and down the sidewalk, and although there was a large clock hanging outside a watchmaker's shop nearby she kept looking at her watch. And all the while she kept an eye on the door on the other side of the street. At 2:55 she walked over to the crosswalk at the intersection. Four minutes later she was standing outside the door of the bank. Before pushing it open, she lifted the flap of her bag. Walking in, she let her gaze sweep over the office, a branch of one of Sweden's major banks. It was long and narrow; the front wall consisted of the door and the only window. To her right a counter ran all the way from the window to the short wall at the other end, and on her left four desks were fixed to the long wall. Beyond them were a low, round table and two stools upholstered in red-checked material. Furthest away were some stairs, rather steep, disappearing below toPer Wahloo is the author of 'The Locked Room', published 1992 under ISBN 9780679742227 and ISBN 0679742220.