Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, The - Stieg Larsson [45]
She walked to Högklintavägen and rang the bell at 6:00 on the dot. Seconds later the lock on the street door clicked and she went up two flights and rang the doorbell next to the name of Svensson. She had no idea who Svensson might be or if any such person even lived in that apartment.
“Hi, Plague,” she said.
“Wasp. You only pop in when you need something.”
As usual, it was dark in the apartment; the light from a single lamp seeped out into the hall from the bedroom he used as an office. The man, who was three years older than Salander, was six foot two and weighed 330 pounds. She herself was four feet eleven and weighed 90 pounds and had always felt like a midget next to Plague. The place smelled stuffy and stale.
“It’s because you never take a bath, Plague. It smells like a monkey house in here. If you ever went out I could give you some tips on soap. They have it at the Konsum.”
He gave her a wan smile, but said nothing. He motioned her to follow him into the kitchen. He plopped down on a chair by the kitchen table without turning on a light. The only illumination came from the street light beyond the window.
“I mean, I may not hold the record in cleaning house either, but if I’ve got old milk cartons that smell like maggots I bundle them up and put them out.”
“I’m on a disability pension,” he said. “I’m socially incompetent.”
“So that’s why the government gave you a place to live and forgot about you. Aren’t you ever afraid that your neighbours are going to complain to the inspectors? Then you might fetch up in the funny farm.”
“Have you something for me?”
Salander unzipped her jacket pocket and handed him five thousand kronor.
“It’s all I can spare. It’s my own money, and I can’t really deduct you as a dependant.”
“What do you want?”
“The electronic cuff you talked about two months ago. Did you get it?”
He smiled and laid a box on the table.
“Show me how it works.”
For the next few minutes she listened intently. Then she tested the cuff. Plague might be a social incompetent, but he was unquestionably a genius.
Vanger waited until he once more had Blomkvist’s attention. Blomkvist looked at his watch and said, “One perplexing detail.”
Vanger said: “I was born on November 1. When Harriet was eight she gave me a birthday present, a pressed flower, framed.”
Vanger walked around the desk and pointed to the first flower. Bluebell. It had an amateurish mounting.
“That was the first. I got it in 1958.” He pointed to the next one. “1959.” Buttercup. “1960.” Daisy. “It became a tradition. She would make the frame sometime during the summer and save it until my birthday. I always hung them on the wall in this room. In 1966 she disappeared and the tradition was broken.”
Vanger pointed to a gap in the row of frames. Blomkvist felt the hairs rise on the back of his neck. The wall was filled with pressed flowers.
“1967, a year after she disappeared, I received this flower on my birthday. It’s a violet.”
“How did the flower come to you?”
“Wrapped in what they call gift paper and posted in a padded envelope from Stockholm. No return address. No message.”
“You mean that…” Blomkvist made a sweeping gesture.
“Precisely. On my birthday every damn year. Do you know how that feels? It’s directed at me, precisely as if the murderer wants to torture me. I’ve worried myself sick over whether Harriet might have been taken away because someone wanted to get at me. It was no secret that she and I had a special relationship and that I thought of her as my own daughter.”
“So what is it you want me to do?” Blomkvist said.
When Salander returned the Corolla to the garage under Milton Security, she made sure to go to the toilet upstairs in the office. She used her card key in the door and took the lift straight up to the third floor to avoid