by Maj Sjowall
Martin Beck inspected his fellow passengers gloomily. His expedition had been a failure. There was nothing to indicate that Ari Boeck had not been telling the truth.
Inwardly he cursed the strange impulse that had made him take on this pointless assignment. The possibilities of his solving the case became more and more remote. He was alone and without an idea in his head. And if, on the other hand, he had had any ideas, he would have lacked resources to implement them.
The worst of it was that, deep down within himself, he knew that he had not been guided by any kind of impulse at all. It was just his policeman's soul—or whatever it might be called—that had started to function. It was the same instinct that made Kollberg sacrifice his time off—a kind of occupational disease that forced him to take on all assignments and do his best to solve them.
When he got back to the hotel it was a quarter past four and the dining room was closed. He had missed lunch. He went up to his room, showered and put on his dressing gown. Taking a pull of whisky from the bottle he had bought on the plane, he found the taste raw and unpleasant and went out to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he leaned out the window, his elbows resting on the wide window sill, and watched the boats. Not even that managed to amuse him very much. Directly below him, at one of the outdoor tables, sat one of the passengers on the boat: the man in the blue suit. He had a glass of beer on the table and was still whittling at his stick.
Martin Beck frowned and lay down on the creaking bed. Again he thought the situation over. Sooner or later he would be forced to contact the police. It was a doubtful measure and no one would like it—at this stage not even he himself.
He whiled away the tune remaining before dinner by sitting idling in an armchair in the lobby. On the other side of the room a gray-haired man wearing a signet ring was reading a Hungarian newspaper. It was the same man who had stared at him at breakfast. Martin Beck looked at him for a long time, but the man tranquilly went on drinking his coffee and seemed quite unconscious of his surroundings.
Martin Beck dined on mushroom soup and a perch-like fish from Lake Balaton, washed down felicitously with white wine. The little orchestra played Liszt and Strauss and other composers of that elevated school. It was a superb dinner, but it did not gladden him, and the waiters swarmed around their lugubrious guest like medical experts around a dictator's sickbed.
He had his coffee and brandy in the lobby. The man with the signet ring was still reading his newspaper on the other side of the room. Once again a glass of coffee was standing in front of him. After a few minutes, the man looked at his watch, glanced across at Martin Beck, folded up his paper and walked across the room.
Martin Beck was to be spared the problem of contacting the police. The police had taken that initiative. Twenty-three years' experience had taught him to recognize a policeman from his walk.
12
The man in the gray suit took a calling card out of his top pocket and placed it on the edge of the table. Martin Beck glanced down at it as he rose to his feet. Only a name. Vilmos Szluka.
'May I sit down?"
The man spoke English. Martin Beck nodded.
'I'm from the police."
'So am I," said Martin Beck.
'I realized that. Coffee?"
Martin Beck nodded. The man from the police held up two fingers and almost immediately a waiter hurried forward with two glasses. This was clearly a coffee-drinking nation.
'I also realize that you are here to make certain investigations."
Martin Beck did not reply immediately. He rubbed his nose and thought. Obviously this was the right moment to say, "Not at all—I'm here as a tourist, but I'm trying to get hold of a friend I'd like to see." That was presumably what was expected of him.
Szluka did not seem to be in any special hurry. With obvious pleasure he sipped at his double espresso, however many that made now. Martin Beck had seen him drink at least three earlier in the day. The man was behaving politely but formally. His eyes were friendly, but very professional.
Martin Beck went on pondering. This man was indeed a policeman, but so far as he knew there was no law in the whole world that said that individual citizens should tell the police the truth. Unfortunately.
'Yes," said Martin Beck. "That's correct."
'Then wouldn't the most logical thing to do have been to turn to us first?"
Martin Beck preferred not to reply to that one. After a pause of a few seconds, the other man developed the train of thought himself.
'In the event something that demands an investigation really should have happened," he said.
'I have no official assignment."
'And we have not been notified of any charge. Only an inquiry in very vague terms. In other words, it appears that nothing has happened."
Martin Beck gulped down his coffee, which was extremely strong. The conversation was growing more unpleasant than he had expected. But under any circumstances, there was no reason for him to allow himself to be lectured to in a hotel foyer by a policeman who did not even take the trouble to identify himself.
'Nonetheless, the police here have considered that they had cause to go through Alf Matsson's belongings," he said.
It was a random comment but it struck home.
'I don't know anything about that," said Szluka stiffly. "Can you identify yourself, by the way?"
'Can you?"
He caught a swift change in those brown eyes. The man was by no means harmless.
Szluka put his hand into his inside pocket, withdrew his wallet and opened it, swiftly and casually. Martin Beck did not bother to look, but showed his service badge clipped to his key ring.
'That's not valid identification," said Szluka. "In our country you can buy emblems of different kinds in the toyshops."
This point of view was not entirely without justification and Martin Beck did not consider the matter worth further argument. He took out his identification card.
'My passport is at the reception desk."
The other man studied the card thoroughly and at length. As he returned it, he said, "How long are you planning to stay?"
'My visa is good until the end of the month."
Szluka smiled for the first time during their conversation. The smile hardly came from the heart and it was not difficult to figure out what it meant. The Hungarian sipped up the last drop of coffee, buttoned up his jacket and said:
'I do not wish to stop you although, naturally, I could do it. As far as I can see, your activities are more or less of a private nature. I assume that they will remain so and that they will not harm the interests of the general public or any individual citizen."
'You can always go on tailing me, of course."
Szluka did not reply. His eyes were cold and hostile.
'What do you really think you're doing?" he said.
'What do you think?"
'I don't know. Nothing has happened."
'Only that a person has disappeared."
'Who says so?"
'I do."
'In that case you should go to the authorities and demand that the case be investigated in the ordinary way," said Szluka stiffly.
Martin Beck drummed on the table with his fingers.
'The man is missing—there's no doubt about it."
The other man was evidently just about to leave. He was sitting absolutely upright in the easychair, with his right hand on the arm.
'By that statement you actually mean—as far as I can make out—that the person in question has not been seen here at this hotel during the last two weeks. He has a valid residence permit and can travel freely within the country's borders. At present there are a couple hundred thousand tourists here, many of them spending their nights in tents or sleeping in their cars. This man might be in Szeged or Debrecen. He might have gone to Lake Balaton to spend his holiday bathing."
'Alf Matsson did not come here to swim."
'Is that so? In any case, he has a tourist visa. Why sho
uld he disappear, as you call it? Had he, for instance, booked his return ticket?"
The last question was worthy of some thought. The manner in which it was put indicated that the man already knew the answer. Szluka rose to his feet.
'Just a moment," said Martin Beck. "I'd like to ask you about one thing."
'Please go ahead. What do you want to know?"
'When Alf Matsson left the hotel, he took his room key with him. The next day, it was handed in here by a uniformed policeman. Where did the police get the key from?"
Szluka looked straight at him for at least fifteen seconds. Then he said, "Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question. Good-bye."
He walked swiftly through the lobby, stopped at the coat-check counter, received his gray-brown hat with a feather in it and stood with it in his hand, as if thinking about something. Then he turned around and went back to Martin Beck's table.
'Here is your passport."
'Thank you."
'It wasn't at the reception desk, as you thought. You were mistaken."
'Yes," said Martin Beck.
He found nothing amusing about the other man's behavior and did not bother to look up. Szluka remained standing there.
'What do you think of the food here?" he said.
'It's good."
'I'm delighted to hear it."
The Hungarian said this as if he really meant it, and Martin Beck raised his head.
'You see," explained Szluka, "nothing very dramatic or exciting happens here nowadays—it's not like in your country or in London or New York."
The combination was somewhat bewildering.
'We've had more than enough of that in the past," said
Szluka solemnly. "Now we want peace and quiet, and we take an interest in other things. Food, for instance. I myself had four slices of fat bacon and two fried eggs for breakfast And for lunch I had fish soup and fried, breaded carp. Apple strudel for dessert."
He paused. Then he said thoughtfully, "The children don't like fat bacon, of course. They usually have cocoa and buttered sweet rolls before they go to school."
'Uh-huh."
'Yes. And this evening I'm going to have veal schnitzel with rice and paprika sauce. Not bad. Have you tasted the fish soup here, by the way?"
'No."
Indeed, he had come across this fish soup on his first evening, but he could not see that this had anything to do with the Hungarian police.
'You definitely ought to try it. It's excellent. But it's even better at Matya's, a place quite near here. You ought to take the tune to go there—like most of the other foreigners."
'Uh-huh."
'But I can assure you that I know a place where they have even better fish soup. The best fish soup in all Budapest. It's a little place up on Lajos út. Not many tourists find their way there. You have to go down to Szeged to find a soup like this."
'Uh-huh."
Szluka had become noticeably exhilarated during this report on culinary matters. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts now and looked at his watch. Presumably he was thinking about his veal schnitzel.
'Have you had time to see anything of Budapest?"
'A little. It's a beautiful city."
'Yes, it is, isn't it? Have you been to the Palatine Baths?"
'No."
'They're worth a visit I'm planning to go there myself tomorrow. Perhaps we could go together."
'Why not?"
'Excellent. In that case I'll meet you at two o'clock outside the entrance."
'Good-bye."
Martin Beck remained seated awhile, thinking. The conversation had been unpleasant and disquieting. Szluka's last sudden change in attitude did not in any way alter that impression. More intensely than ever, he had a feeling that something did not fit, and at the same time, his own impotence seemed more and more apparent.
At about half past eleven, the foyer and the dining room began to empty and Martin Beck went up to his room. After he had undressed, he stood for a moment by the open window, inhaling the warm night air. A paddle steamer slid by on the river, brightly illuminated with green, red and yellow lights. People were dancing on the aft deck and the sound of the music came through intermittently across the water.
A few people were still sitting at the tables in front of the hotel, one of them a tall man in his thirties, with dark wavy hair. The man had a glass of beer in front of him and had obviously been home and exchanged his blue suit for a light-gray one.
He shut the window and went to bed. Then he lay in the dark thinking: the police may not be especially interested in Alf Matsson, but they're certainly interested in Martin Beck.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
13
Martin Beck sat in the shade by the stone balustrade in front of the hotel, eating a late breakfast. It was his third day in Budapest and it promised to be just as warm and beautiful as the previous ones.
Breakfast was nearly over, and he and an elderly couple, who sat in silence a few tables away, were the only guests. There were a good many people moving about on the street and down on the quay, mostly mothers with children and low streamlined baby carriages like small white tanks.
The tall dark man with a stick was not visible, which in itself did not necessarily mean that he was no longer being watched. The police corps was large and there were no doubt replacements.
A waiter came over and cleared his table.
'Frühstück nicht gut?"
He looked unhappily at the untouched salami.
Martin Beck assured him that the breakfast had been very good. When the waiter had gone away, he took out a picture postcard he had bought in the hotel kiosk. It was of a paddle steamer on its way up the Danube, with one of the bridges in the background. The lady in the kiosk had stamped the card for him and he pondered for a moment over whom he should send it to. Then he addressed it to Gunnar Ahlberg, Police Station, Motala, wrote a few words of greetings on it, and put it back into his pocket.
He had met Ahlberg two summers ago, when the body of a woman had been found in the Göta Canal at Motala. They had become good friends during the six-month investigation and had kept in touch sporadically ever since. At the time the investigation and search for the murderer had become a personal affair for him. It had not been only the policeman in him that caused him to think of nothing else but the case for months on end.
And now, here in Budapest, it was only with the greatest effort that he could summon up any interest for his assignment.
Martin Beck felt stupidly useless as he sat there. He had several hours to dispose of before his meeting with Szluka, and the only constructive thing he could think of doing was putting the postcard to Ahlberg into the mailbox. It annoyed him that Szluka had asked him (before he had thought of it himself) whether he had checked to see if Matsson had booked a return flight. He took out his map and found one of the airline's branch offices near a square close to the hotel. Afterward he got up, walked through the dining room and the foyer, and put the postcard in the red mailbox outside the hotel entrance. Then he began walking in toward town.
The square was large, with shops and travel agencies and a great deal of traffic. Many people were already sitting at a sidewalk café, drinking coffee at the small tables. Outside this café he saw a stairway that led down underneath the street. "Földalatti" appeared on a sign and he supposed that the word meant W. C. He felt sticky and warm and decided to go down there and wash before he visited the airline office. He crossed the street diagonally and followed two gentlemen carrying briefcases down underground.
He descended into the smallest subway he had ever seen. On the platform was a little glassed-in wooden kiosk painted green and white, and the low roof was held up by decorative cast-iron pillars. The train, which was already standing there, looked more like a dwarf-sized train at an amusement park than an efficient means of transportation. He remembered that this subway was the oldest in Europe.
He paid the fare, and got a
ticket at the kiosk and stepped into the little varnished wooden car—it could well have been the same one Emperor Frans Joseph had traveled in when he had opened the line some time at the end of the previous century. There was a pause before the doors closed, and the car was full as the train started.
On the small platform in the middle of the car stood three men and a woman. They were deaf-mutes and were carrying on a lively conversation in sign language. When the train stopped for the third time, they got off, still eagerly gesticulating. Before the platform filled up again, Martin Beck had time to notice a man sitting at the other end of the car, half-turned away from him.
The man was dark and sunburned and Martin Beck recognized him at once. Instead of the gray jacket he was now wearing a green shirt, open at the neck. There was probably nothing left of the stick he had been whittling on all the previous day.
Suddenly the train plunged out of the tunnel and slowed down. It rode on into a green park with a big pool, shimmering in the sunlight. Then it stopped and the car emptied. This was evidently the end of the line.
The last to step out of the car, Martin Beck looked around for the dark man. He was nowhere to be seen.
A wide road led into the park, which looked cool and inviting, but Martin Beck decided against any further expeditions. He read the timetable on the platform and saw that the stretch between this park and the square where he had got on was the only line and that the train would be returning in a quarter of an hour.
It was half past eleven when he went into Malev's office. The five girls behind the counter were busy with customers, so Martin Beck sat down by the street window to wait.
He had not succeeded in spotting the man with the dark wavy hair on his return from the park, but he presumed that he was still somewhere in the vicinity. He wondered whether he would be tailing him during his meeting with Szluka too.