"Hello," he greeted. "I hope you found our humble hospitality to your liking, Mr. Ricker." He led them down a narrow corridor to another closed door. Hines left them, retraced his steps. Vanger opened the door, ushered Ricker in.
Ricker saw Molly Borden standing beside a small glass table in a spacious but dim-lit room. The walls were mirrored and a dull hidden light cast vague shadows upon heavy chairs and a sofa, gleamed weirdly upon chrome ash-trays, a carved bottle and glasses. The highlighted silhouette of the woman commanded the scene. She stood carelessly, one crimson-tipped hand resting on the table, a cocktail glass glinting in the other. She had changed from her traveling suit, wore a shimmering gown that bathed her lithe body in a sheen of liquid silver. Had it been under any ordinary circumstances, Ricker would have whistled at the sight of her.
"Your stare tickles, Mr. Ricker," she said. "Won't you come in? Will you have scotch or—"
"He's a telenewsman," said a deep voice from a shadowed chair to the left. "He'll have scotch. And please turn on the light, Vanger. We must make our guest feel at home."
A sudden light glowed over the room. Ricker gazed at the person who had spoken.
He saw a large fat man lounging deep in a cushioned armchair. He had three folds of pale flesh for a chin below his thick lips, his eyes were puffed with the whites startlingly large and his skin was white, an unhealthy white—like a great white worm.
Ricker inhaled quickly. His jaw dropped.
It was Senator Trexel sitting there.
Ricker was struck dumb. He clutched the back of a chair as his mind swirled.
"So Dorothy Adison was right!" He heard himself speak the words as if somebody else had said them.