by Wahlöö, Per
‘We had better be careful.’
‘Yes,’ said Kollberg.
They drove to a fast stop in front of the Little Theatre. They separated.
Martin Beck stood, watched Ahlberg go through the door, and looked at his watch. It was exactly four minutes since she had called. He thought about the woman alone in the apartment two flights above. Folke Bengtsson was not in sight.
Thirty seconds later a light was turned on in a window on the third floor. Someone came to the window and seemed to look out, but disappeared almost immediately. The light went off. Ahlberg was in his place. They waited in silence by the bedroom window. The room was dark but a narrow stream of light came through the door. The lamp in the living room was lit to show that she was home. The living room window looked out on the street and from the bedroom they could see several of the cross streets leading to the intersection.
Bengtsson stood by the bus stop directly across the street. He looked up at her window. He was the only person there and after he had stood for a while he looked up and down the block. Then he walked slowly to the island that separated the street's traffic. He disappeared behind a telephone booth.
‘Here it comes,’ said Ahlberg and motioned in the dark.
But the telephone didn't ring and after several minutes Bengtsson could be seen walking up the street.
Beside the pavement there was a low, stone wall which ran all the way to the building below her window. Behind it was an area planted with grass and low shrubbery which led to the house.
Once again, the man stopped on the pavement and looked up towards her house. Then he began to walk towards her door slowly.
He disappeared out of sight and Ahlberg stared out over the square until he caught sight of Martin Beck who stood completely still by a tree in the planted area. A trolley on Birger Jarls Street hid him for several seconds and after it had passed, he was gone.
Five minutes later they saw Bengtsson again.
He had been walking so close to the wall that they hadn't seen him until he stepped out into the street and began to walk towards the trolley stop. At a kiosk, he stopped and bought a frankfurter. While he ate it, he leaned against the kiosk and stared up at her window constantly. Then he began to pace back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Now and then he looked up at her window.
Fifteen minutes later Martin Beck was behind the same tree again.
The traffic was heavier now and a stream of people crowded the streets. The film had ended.
They lost sight of Bengtsson for a few minutes but then saw him in the midst of a group of cinemagoers on the way home. He walked towards the telephone booth but stopped again a few feet from it. Then suddenly, he walked briskly towards the planted area. Martin Beck turned his back and slowly moved away.
Bengtsson passed the little park, crossed the street towards the restaurant and disappeared down Tegner Street. After a few minutes he appeared again on the opposite pavement and began to walk around Eriksberg Square.
‘Do you think that he's been here before?’ asked the woman in the cotton dressing gown. ‘I mean, it's only pure chance that I saw him tonight.’
Ahlberg stood with his back against the wall near the window and smoked a cigarette. He looked at the girl beside him who was turned towards the window. She stood with her feet apart and had her hands in her pockets. In the weak light reflected from the street, her eyes looked like dark holes in her pale face.
‘Maybe he's been here every night,’ she said.
When the man below had completed his fourth swing around the square, she said: ‘If he's going to tramp around like this the whole night I'll go crazy and Lennart and Martin will freeze to death.’
At twenty-five past twelve he had gone around the square eight times, each time moving faster. He stopped below the steps leading to the park, looked up at the house, and half-ran across the street to the trolley stop.
A bus drove in to the bus stop, and when it moved on, Bengtsson was no longer there.
‘Look. There's Martin,’ Sonja Hansson said.
Ahlberg jumped at the sound of her voice. They had been whispering to one another all along and now she spoke in her normal voice for the first time in two hours.
He saw Martin Beck hurry across the street and jump into a car which had been waiting in front of the theatre. The car started even before he managed to close the door and drove off in the same direction as the bus.
‘Well, thanks for your company tonight,’ Sonja Hansson said. ‘I think I'll go to sleep now.’
‘Do that,’ said Ahlberg.
He would have liked some sleep too. But ten minutes later he walked through the door at the Klara Police Station. Kollberg arrived shortly after.
They had made five moves in their chess game when Martin Beck came in.
‘He took the bus to St Erik's Square and went home. He put out the light almost immediately. He's probably asleep by now.’
‘It was mere chance that she caught sight of him,’ said Ahlberg. ‘He could have been there several times before.’
Kollberg studied the chess board.
‘And if he was? That wouldn't prove anything.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Kollberg's right,’ Martin Beck answered.
‘Sure,’ said Kollberg. ‘What would it prove? Even I have roamed around like an alley cat outside of the houses of willing girls.’
Ahlberg shrugged his shoulders.
‘Although I was younger, a lot younger.’
Martin Beck said nothing. The others made a half-hearted attempt to concentrate on their game. After a while, Kollberg repeated a move which caused a draw, in spite of the fact that he had been winning.
‘Damn,’ he said. ‘That chatter makes me lose my train of thought. How much are you leading by?’
‘Four points,’ said Ahlberg. ‘Twelve and a half to eight and a half.’
Kollberg got up and paced around the room.
‘We'll bring him in again, make a thorough search of his house, and rough him up as much as we can,’ he said.
No one answered.
‘We ought to tail him again, with new guys.’
‘No,’ said Ahlberg.
Martin Beck continued biting on his index finger knuckle. After a while he said: ‘Is she getting frightened?’
‘It doesn't seem so,’ Ahlberg answered. ‘That girl doesn't get nervous easily.’
‘Neither did Roseanna McGraw,’ Martin Beck thought.
They didn't say much more to one another but were still wide awake when the noise of the moving traffic on Regering Street indicated that although their work day had ended, it was just beginning for others.
Something had happened, but Martin Beck didn't know exactly what.
Another twenty-four hours passed. Ahlberg increased his lead by another point. That was all.
The following day was a Friday. Three days were left before the end of the month and the weather was still mild. It had been rainy and misty most of the time and at twilight the fog had rolled in.
At ten minutes after nine the sound of the telephone broke the silence. Martin Beck picked up the receiver.
‘He's here again. He's standing by the bus stop.’
They got there fifteen seconds faster than the last time in spite of the fact that Kollberg had parked on the street. After another thirty seconds they saw the signal indicating that Ahlberg was in his place.
The repetition was almost frightening. The man named Folke Bengtsson wandered around Eriksberg Square for four hours. Four or five times, he hesitated outside the telephone booth. Once he stopped and ate a frankfurter. Then he rode home. Kollberg followed him.
Martin Beck had been very cold. He walked quickly back to the police station with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground.
Kollberg arrived half an hour later.
‘Everything's quiet.’
‘Did he see you?’
‘He was like a sleepwalker. I don't t
hink he would have seen a hippopotamus three feet in front of him.’
Martin Beck dialled Policewoman Sonja Hansson's number. He felt that he must think about her in terms of her job and her rank. Otherwise, he couldn't stand it.
‘Hello. It's Saturday tomorrow, or more correctly, today. He works until noon. Be there when he finishes work. Rush past him as if you were on your way somewhere. Take hold of his arm and say: “Hi, I've been waiting for you. Why haven't I heard from you?” or something like that. Don't say any more. Then take off. Leave your coat open too.’
He paused briefly.
‘You have to do your very best this time.’
He hung up. The others stared at him.
‘Which one of you is the best tail?’ he said absently.
‘Stenström.’
‘Okay. From the minute he leaves his house early tomorrow morning I want him followed. Stenström can do it. Report all his movements. Here. On the other telephone. Two of us must be here all the time.’
Ahlberg and Kollberg were still staring at him but he didn't notice.
At twenty-two minutes to eight Bengtsson walked out of his front door and Stenström's assignment had begun.
He stayed near the moving company's office on Smäland Street until a quarter past eleven when he went into a cafe and sat down by the window waiting.
At five minutes to twelve he saw Sonja Hansson on the corner.
She was dressed in a thin, blue tweed coat which was open. He could see that her belt was drawn tightly around her waist. Under the coat she had on a black turtleneck sweater. She was bareheaded and carried gloves but no pursebook. Her stockings and black pumps seemed much too thin for the weather.
She continued across the street and disappeared out of his sight.
The moving company's employees began to leave the office and finally the man named Bengtsson came out and locked the door. He ambled along the pavement and when he had moved a few feet, Sonja Hansson came running towards him. She greeted him, took hold of his arm, and said something to him as she looked in his eyes. She let go of his arm almost immediately and continued talking while she took a few steps away from him. Then she turned on her heels and ran on.
Stenström had seen her face. It had expressed eagerness, pleasure and appeal. Silently he applauded her performance.
The man remained where he was and watched her run down the street. He moved slightly, as if to follow her, but changed his mind, put his hands in his pockets and walked off slowly with his head lowered.
Stenström got his hat, paid the cashier, and looked out of the door carefully. When Bengtsson had turned the corner, Stenström left and followed him.
At the Klara Police Station Martin Beck stared dismally at the telephone. Ahlberg and Kollberg had temporarily given up their chess game and sat silently behind their newspapers. Kollberg was working on a crossword puzzle and chewing frantically on a pencil.
When the telephone finally rang, he bit so hard on the pencil that it broke in two.
Martin Beck had the receiver at his ear before the first ring ended.
‘Hi. It's Sonja. I think it went well. I did exactly as you said.’
‘Good. Did you see Stenström?’
‘No, but I guess he was there somewhere. I didn't dare turn around so I just kept on going for several blocks.’
‘Are you nervous?’
‘No. Not at all.’
It was a quarter past one before the telephone rang again.
‘I'm in a tobacco shop on Järn Square,’ said Stenström. ‘Sonja was great. She must have put a few bees in his bonnet. We've walked through the centre of town, over the main bridge and now he's wandering around in the Old City.’
‘Be careful.’
‘No problem. He's walking like a zombie. He doesn't see or hear anything around him. I've got to take off now so that I don't lose him.’
Ahlberg got up and walked back and forth on the floor.
‘It's not exactly a pleasant job we've given her,’ he said.
‘She'll do fine,’ said Kollberg. ‘She'll take care of the rest of it well too. I hope Stenström doesn't scare him off though.’
‘Stenström's okay,’ he said, after a while.
Martin Beck said nothing.
It was a few minutes after three when they heard from Stenström again.
‘Now we're on Folkung Street. He just keeps going up and down the streets. He never stops and never looks around. He seems apathetic in some way.’
‘Just keep on,’ Martin Beck replied.
Normally, it would take a lot to break down Martin Beck's calm exterior. But after he had looked from the clock to the telephone for forty-five minutes and no one in the room had uttered a word, he suddenly got up and went out.
Ahlberg and Kollberg looked at one another. Kollberg shrugged his shoulders and began to set up the chess board.
Out in the washroom Martin Beck rinsed his hands and face with cold water and dried himself carefully. When he walked out into the corridor, a policeman in shirtsleeves told him that he had a telephone call.
It was his wife.
‘I haven't seen hide nor hair of you for an eternity and now I'm not even supposed to call you. What are you doing? When are you coming home?’
‘I don't know,’ he said tiredly.
She continued to talk and her voice became harsh and shrill. He broke in and interrupted her in the middle of a sentence.
‘I don't have time now,’ he said irritably. ‘Goodbye. Don't call any more.’
He regretted his tone even before he put down the receiver but shrugged his shoulders and went back to his chess-playing colleagues.
Stenström's third call came from Skepps Bridge. By then it was twenty minutes to five.
‘He went into a restaurant for a while. He's sitting alone in a corner drinking a beer. We've walked around the entire southern part of the city. He still seems strange.’
Martin Beck realized that he hadn't eaten anything all day. He sent out for some food from the cafeteria across the street. After they had eaten, Kollberg fell asleep in his chair and began to snore.
When the telephone rang he woke up with a start. It was seven o'clock.
‘He's been sitting here until now and he's had four beers. He's just left and is on his way towards the centre of the city again. He's walking faster now. I'll call in as soon as I can. So long.’
Stenström sounded out of breath as if he had been running and he hung up the phone before Martin Beck had a chance to say anything.
‘He's on his way there,’ said Kollberg.
The next call came at half past seven and was even shorter and just as one-sided.
‘I'm at Englebrekts Square. He's walking on Birger Jarls Street at a pretty fast pace.’
They waited. They watched the clock and the telephone in turn.
Five past eight. Martin Beck picked up the receiver in the middle of the ring. Stenström sounded disappointed.
‘He's swung onto Eriksberg Street and crossed the viaduct. We're on Oden Street now. I guess he's going home. He's walking slowly again.’
‘Damn it! Call me when he's home.’
Half an hour went by before Stenström called again.
‘He didn't go home. He turned onto Uppland Street. He doesn't seem to realize that he has feet. He just walks and walks. Mine won't hold up much longer.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘North Ban Square. He's passing the City Theatre now.’
Martin Beck thought about the man who had just passed the City Theatre. What was he thinking about? Was he really thinking at all; or was he just walking around unconscious of his surroundings, withdrawn and with one thought or possibly one decision ripening within him?
During the next three hours Stenström telephoned four times from different places. The man stayed on the streets near Eriksberg Square but never went really close to her house.
At two-thirty Stenström reported that Bengtsson had finally
gone home and that the light in his room had just gone out.
Martin Beck sent Kollberg as a replacement.
At eight o'clock on Sunday morning Kollberg came back, awakened Ahlberg who was sleeping on a sofa, threw himself down on it and slept.
Ahlberg went over to Martin Beck who sat brooding by the telephone.
‘Has Kollberg arrived?’ he asked and looked up with bloodshot eyes.
‘He's sleeping. Out like a light. Stenström's on watch.’
They only had to wait two hours for the first telephone call of the day.
‘He's gone out again,’ Stenström reported. ‘He's walking towards the bridge to Kungsholm.’
‘How does he look?’
‘Just the same. Even the same clothes. God knows if he even took them off.’
‘Is he walking fast?’
‘No, rather slowly.’
‘Have you slept?’
‘Yes, a little. But I don't exactly feel like a man of steel.’
Between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon Stenström called in approximately every hour. Except for two short breaks in a coffee shop, Folke Bengtsson had been walking for six hours. He had wandered around Kungsholm, the old part of the city, and southern Stockholm. He hadn't gone anywhere near Sonja Hansson's apartment.
At five-thirty Martin Beck fell asleep in his chair by the telephone. Fifteen minutes later Stenström's call awakened him.
‘I'm at Norrmalms Square. He's walking towards her part of the city. He seems different now.’
‘In what way?’
‘It's as if he's come to life. He seems compelled in some way.’
Eight-fifteen.
‘I have to be more careful now. He's just swung onto Sveavägen still headed in her direction. He's looking at girls now.’
Nine-thirty.
‘Sture Street. He's going slowly towards Sture Square. He seems calmer and is still looking at the girls.’
‘Take it easy,’ Martin Beck said.
Suddenly he felt fresh and rested in spite of the fact that he hadn't really slept for forty-eight hours.
He stood and looked at the map on which Kollberg was trying to follow Bengtsson's wandering with a red pen. The phone rang again.