by Wahlöö, Per
Five minutes after five, the tall man came out. He stood in front of the door, took out a key ring from his pocket, and locked the door. Then he placed the key ring back in his pocket, checked to see if the door was properly locked, and walked out onto the street.
While Kollberg was putting his coat on he heard one of the beer drinkers say: ‘Folke's going home now.’
And one of the others: ‘What does he have to do at home when he isn't hooked. He doesn't know how good he has it. You should have heard my old lady when I came home last night… What a time just because a man goes and has a few beers before he goes home after work. I swear …’
Kollberg didn't hear any more. The tall man who, without a doubt, was named Folke Bengtsson had disappeared out of sight. Kollberg caught up with him on Norrland Street again. The man was walking through the crowds towards Hamn Street and he continued on to the bus stop right across the street from NK.
By the time Kollberg got there four people were in line behind Bengtsson. He hoped that the bus wouldn't be too full to take them both. Bengtsson looked straight ahead of him the entire time and seemed to be looking at the Christmas decorations in NK's windows. When the bus arrived he hopped up on the step and Kollberg just managed to get on himself before the doors closed.
The man got off at St Erik's Square. The traffic was tight and it took him a few minutes to get by all the traffic lights and cross to the other side of the square. On Rörstand Street he walked into a supermarket.
He continued along Rörstand Street, passed Birk Street, slunk across the street and went through a door. After a while Kollberg followed him and read the names on the mailboxes. There were two entrances to the house, one from the street and the other from the garden. Kollberg congratulated himself and his luck when he saw that Bengtsson lived in an apartment facing the street, two flights up.
He stationed himself in a doorway across the street and looked up at the third floor. In four of the windows there were frilly tulle curtains and a number of potted plants. Thanks to the man in the bar, Kollberg knew that Bengtsson was a bachelor and doubted that these windows belonged to his apartment. He concentrated his attention on the other two windows. One of them was open and while he was watching it, a light was turned on in the second one, which he presumed was the kitchen window. He saw the ceiling and the upper part of the walls which were white. A few times he could see someone moving about inside but not quite clearly enough to be sure it was Bengtsson.
After twenty minutes it was dark in the kitchen and a light was turned on in the other room. A little later Bengtsson appeared in the window. He opened it wide and leaned out. Then he closed it again, and closed the Venetian blinds. They were yellow and let light come through and Kollberg saw Bengtsson's silhouette disappear inside the room. The windows were without curtains because on both sides of the blinds broad streams of light appeared.
Kollberg went and telephoned Stenström.
‘He's home now. If I don't call you back before nine come and take over.’
Eight minutes after nine, Stenström arrived. Nothing had happened except that the light had been turned off at eight o'clock and after that there had been only a weak, cold blue stream of light from between the blinds.
Stenström had an evening paper in his pocket and announced that the man was probably looking at a long, American film on the television.
‘That's fine,’ said Kollberg. ‘I saw it ten or fifteen years ago. It has a wonderful ending. Everyone dies except the girl. I'll run along now and maybe I'll get to see some of it. If you call me before six I'll come over here.’
It was a cold and clear morning. Ten hours later Stenström hurried off toward St Erik's Square. Since the light had been turned off at ten-thirty in the room on the third floor, nothing had happened.
‘Be careful that you don't freeze,’ Stenström had said before he left. When the door opened and the tall man came out, Kollberg was thankful for a chance to move.
Bengtsson had on the same overcoat as he had the day before but he had changed his hat to a grey Crimea cap. He walked quickly and the breath from his mouth looked like white smoke. At St Erik's Square he took a bus to Hamn Street and a few minutes before eight Kollberg saw him disappear behind the door to the moving company.
A few hours later he came out again, walked the few steps to the cafe in the house next door, drank a cup of coffee and ate two sandwiches. At twelve o'clock he went to the cafeteria and when he had eaten, he took his walk through the city and went back to his office. A few minutes after five he locked the door behind him, took the bus to St Erik's Square, bought some bread in a bakery, and went home.
At twenty past seven he came out of his front door again. At St Erik's Square he walked to the right, and continued over the bridge and finally swung in to Kungsholm Street where he disappeared into a doorway. Kollberg stood for a while outside the door where the word BOWLING shone in large, red letters. Then he opened the door and went in.
The bowling hall had seven lanes and behind a railing was a bar with small, round tables and some chairs. Echoes of voices and laughter filled the room. Now and then he heard the sound of rolling balls and the bang that followed.
Kollberg couldn't see Bengtsson anywhere. On the other hand he immediately spotted two of the three men from the bar the previous day. They sat at a table in the bar and Kollberg drew back towards a door in order not to be recognized. After a while the third man came towards the table together with Bengtsson. When they had begun to bowl, Kollberg left.
After a few hours the four bowlers came out. They separated at the trolley stop at St Erik's Square and Bengtsson walked back the way he had come, alone.
At eleven o'clock it got dark in Bengtsson's apartment but by that time Kollberg was already home and in bed, while his bundled up colleague paced back and forth on Birk Street. Stenström had a cold.
The next day was a Wednesday and it went by pretty much as the earlier days. Stenström nursed his cold and spent the major part of the day in the cafe on Småland Street.
That evening Bengtsson went to the cinema. Five rows behind him Kollberg watched while a blond, half-naked Mr America struggled with an ancient monster in Cinemascope.
The next two days were similar. Stenström and Kollberg took turns following the man's uneventful and highly regimented life. Kollberg visited the bowling alley again and found out that Bengtsson played well and that for years he had played every Tuesday with his three friends from work.
The seventh day was a Sunday and according to Stenström the only interesting thing that happened during the entire day was a hockey match between Sweden and Czechoslovakia which, together with Bengtsson and ten thousand others, he attended.
Kollberg found a new door to stand in on Sunday night.
When, for the second Saturday in a row, he saw Bengtsson come out of his office, lock the door at two minutes past twelve and begin to walk towards Regering Street, he thought: ‘Now we'll go to the Löwenbräu and have a beer.’ When Bengtsson opened the door to the Löwenbräu, Kollberg stood at the corner of Drottning Street and hated him.
That evening he went up to his office at Kristineberg and looked at some pictures from the film. He didn't know how many times he had looked at them.
He looked at each picture for a long time and very carefully, but in spite of the fact that it was hard to believe, he still saw the man whose quiet life he had witnessed for two weeks.
23
‘It must be the wrong guy,’ said Kollberg.
‘Are you getting tired?’
‘Don't misunderstand me. I have nothing against standing and sleeping in a doorway on Birk Street night after night, but…’
‘But what?’
‘For ten out of fourteen days this is exactly what has happened: at seven o'clock he opens the blinds. At one minute past seven he opens the window. At twenty-five minutes to eight he shuts the window. At twenty minutes to eight he walks out of his front door, walks over to St Erik's Squar
e and takes the number 56 bus to the corner of Regering Street and Hamn Street, walks to the moving company and unlocks the door at one half minute to eight. At ten o'clock he goes down to the City Cafe, drinks two cups of coffee and eats a cheese sandwich. At one minute past twelve he goes to either one of two cafeterias. He eats …’
‘What does he eat?’ asked Martin Beck.
‘Fish or fried meat. He is finished at twenty minutes past twelve, takes a quick walk through the middle of town, and goes back to work. At five minutes past five he locks up and goes home. If the weather is terrible he takes the number 56 bus. Otherwise he walks up Regering Street, King Street, Queen Street, Barnhus Street, Uppland Street, Observatory Street, through Vasa Park, across St Erik's Square, past Birk Street and home. On the way he sometimes shops in some supermarket where there aren't too many people. He buys milk and cake every day and every few days he gets bread, butter, cheese and marmalade. He has stayed at home and looked at the boob tube eight evenings out of the fourteen. On Wednesdays he has gone to the seven o'clock show at the cinema. Fanciful nonsense films, both times. I was the one that had to sit through them. On the way home he stuffs a frankfurter into himself, with both mustard and ketchup. Two Sundays in a row he has taken the subway to the stadium to see the ice hockey games. Stenström got to see those. Two Tuesdays in a row he has gone bowling with three men from his company. On Saturdays he works until twelve. Then he goes to the Löwenbräu and drinks a stein of beer. In addition, he eats a portion of frankfurter salad. Then he goes home. He doesn't look at the girls on the street. Sometimes he stops and looks at the posters in front of the cinemas or in the shop windows, mostly sporting goods and hardware stores. He doesn't buy any newspapers and doesn't subscribe to any either. On the other hand he does buy two magazines, Rekord-Magazine and some kind of fishing magazine. I've forgotten what it is called. Garbage! There is no blue Monark motor bike in the cellar of the apartment house he lives in but there is a red one made by Svalen. It's his. He rarely gets any mail. He doesn't mix with his neighbours but does greet them on the stairs.’
‘What is he like?’
‘How the devil should I know?’ Kollberg said.
‘Seriously.’
‘He seems healthy, calm, strong and dull. He keeps his window open every night. Moves naturally and without trouble, dresses well, doesn't seem nervous. He never seems to be in a hurry but doesn't drag. He ought to smoke a pipe. But doesn't.’
‘Has he noticed you?’
‘I don't think so. Not me, in any case.’
They sat quietly for a while watching the snow which came down in large, wet flakes.
‘You understand,’ Kollberg said, ‘I have a feeling that we could keep on like this right up until he has his vacation next summer. It is a fascinating act, but can the country afford to keep two supposedly capable detectives …’
He stopped in the middle of the sentence.
‘Capable, yes, by the way, last night there was a drunk who said “boo” to me while I stood there and watched the apartment. I almost got a heart attack.’
‘Is it the right guy?’
‘He sure looks like it judging from the film.’
Martin Beck rocked in his chair.
‘Okay, we'll bring him in.’
‘Now?’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘You. After work. So that he doesn't neglect anything. Take him up to your office and get the personal information. When you've got that, call me.’
‘Soft line?’
‘Definitely.’
It was nine-thirty on 14 December. Martin Beck had suffered through the National Police's Christmas party with doughy cake and two glasses of almost alcohol-free glögg.
He called the Public Prosecutor in Linköping and Ahlberg in Motala and was surprised to hear them both say: ‘I'm coming.’
They arrived around three o'clock. The Public Prosecutor had come up via Motala. He exchanged a few words with Martin Beck and then went into Hammar's office.
Ahlberg sat in Martin Beck's visitor's chair for two hours but they only exchanged a few remarks of interest. Ahlberg said:
‘Do you think it was him?’
‘I don't know.’
‘It must be.’
‘Yes.’
At five minutes past five they heard a knock on the door. It was the Public Prosecutor and Hammar.
‘I am convinced that you are right,’ said the Prosecutor. ‘Use whatever method you like.’
Martin Beck nodded.
‘Hi,’ said Kollberg. ‘Have you time to come up? Folke Bengtsson, who I've mentioned to you, is here.’
Martin Beck put down the receiver and got up. When he got to the doorway he turned around and looked at Ahlberg. Neither of them said anything.
He walked slowly up the stairs. In spite of the thousands of examinations he had conducted, he had a funny, bad feeling in his stomach and in the left part of his chest.
Kollberg had taken off his jacket and stood with his elbows on the desk, calm and jovial. Melander sat with his back to them, tranquilly occupied with his papers.
‘This is Folke Bengtsson,’ said Kollberg, and stood up.
‘Beck.’
‘Bengtsson.’
They shook hands. Kollberg put his jacket on.
‘I'll run along now. So long.’
‘So long.’
Martin Beck sat down. There was a sheet of paper in Kollberg's typewriter. He pulled it up a bit and read: ‘Folke Lennart Bengtsson, Office Manager, Born 6/8/1926 in Gustaf Vasa's parish, Stockholm. Unmarried.’
He looked at the man. Blue eyes, a rather ordinary face. A few streaks of grey in his hair. No nervousness. In general, nothing special.
‘Do you know why we have asked you to come here?’
‘As a matter of fact, no.’
‘It is possible that you can help us with something.’
‘What would that be?’
Martin Beck looked towards the window and said:
‘It's beginning to snow heavily now.’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘Where were you during the first week of July last summer? Do you remember?’
‘I ought to. I was on vacation then. The company that I am with closes down for four weeks right after midsummer.’
‘Yes?’
‘I was in several different places, two weeks on the West Coast, among others. I usually go fishing when I'm off. At least one week in the winter too.’
‘How did you get there? By car?’
The man smiled.
‘No, I don't have a car. Not even a driver's licence. I went on my motor bike.’
Martin Beck sat quietly for a second.
‘There are worse ways to travel. I had a motor bike too for a few years. What kind do you have?’
‘I had a Monark then, but I got a new one this past autumn.’
‘Do you remember how you spent your vacation?’
‘Yes, of course. I spent the first week at Mem, that's on the Östgata coast, right where the Göta Canal begins. Then I went on to Bohuslän.’
Martin Beck got up and went over to the water pitcher which stood on top of a file near the door. He looked at Melander. Walked back. He lifted the hood off the tape recorder and plugged in the microphone. The man looked at the apparatus.
‘Did you go by boat between Mem and Gothenburg?’
‘No, from Söderköping.’
‘What was the name of the boat?’
‘The Diana’
‘Which day did you travel?’
‘I don't remember exactly. One of the first days in July.’
‘Did anything special happen during the trip?’
‘No, not that I can remember.’
‘Are you sure? Think about it.’
‘Yes, that's right. The boat had some engine trouble. But that was before I went on board. It had been delayed. Otherwise I wouldn't have made it.’
‘What did you do when you got
to Gothenburg?’
‘The boat got in very early in the morning. I went up to a place called Hamburgsund. I had reserved a room there.’
‘How long did you stay?’
‘Two weeks.’
‘What did you do during those two weeks?’
‘Fished as often as I could. The weather was poor.’
Martin Beck opened Kollberg's desk drawer and took out the three photographs of Roseanna McGraw.
‘Do you recognize this woman?’
The man looked at the pictures, one after the other. His expression didn't change in the slightest.
‘Her face looks familiar in some way,’ he said. ‘Who is she?’
‘She was on board the Diana’
‘Yes, I think I remember,’ the man said indifferently.
He looked at the pictures again.
‘But I'm not sure. What was her name?’
‘Roseanna McGraw. She was an American.’
‘Now I remember. Yes, that's right. She was on board. I talked with her a few times. As well as I could.’
‘You haven't seen or heard her name since then?’
‘No, actually not. That is to say, not before now.’
Martin Beck caught the man's eyes and held them. They were cold and calm and questioning.
‘Don't you know that Roseanna McGraw was murdered during that trip?’
A slight shift of expression crossed the man's face.
‘No,’ he said, finally. ‘No … I really didn't know that.’
He wrinkled his forehead.
‘Is it true?’ he said suddenly.
‘It seems very strange that you haven't heard anything about it. To be blunt, I don't believe you.’
Martin Beck got the feeling that the man had stopped listening.
‘Naturally, now I understand why you have brought me here.’
‘Did you hear what I just said? It seems very strange that you haven't heard anything about it in spite of everything that's been written about this case. I simply don't believe you.’
‘If I had known anything about it I certainly would have come in voluntarily.’
‘Come in voluntarily?’
‘Yes, as a witness.’