The Man Who Went Up in Smoke mb-2

by Maj Sjowall

  One of the chairs by the counter became free and Martin Beck went up to H and sat down. The girl behind the counter had her dark hair done in an elaborate set of curls on her forehead. She looked efficient and was smoking a cigarette with a scarlet filter tip.

  Martin Beck carried out his errand. Had a Swedish jour nalist by the name of Alf Matsson booked a flight to Stockholm or anywhere else after the twenty-third of July?

  The girl offered him a cigarette and began leafing through her papers. After a while she picked up the telephone and spoke to someone, shook her head and went over to speak to one of her colleagues.

  After all five of them had leafed through their lists, it was past twelve o'clock and the girl with the curls informed him that no Alf Matsson had booked a flight on any plane leaving Budapest.

  Martin Beck decided to skip lunch and went up to his room. He opened the window and looked down onto the lunch guests below. No tall man in a green shirt was visible.

  At one of the tables sat six men in their thirties drinking beer. A thought struck him, and he went over to the telephone and set up a call to Stockholm. Then he lay down on the bed and waited.

  A quarter of an hour later the phone rang and he heard Kollberg's voice.

  'Hi! How's things?"

  'Bad."

  'Have you found that chick? Bökk?"

  'Yes, but it was nothing. She didn't even know who he was. A musclebound blond boy was standing there feeling her up."

  'So it was just a lot of big talk then. He was pretty much of a big mouth, according to his so-called buddies here."

  'Have you got a lot to do?"

  'Nothing at all. I can go on digging around if you like."

  'You can do one thing for me. Find out the names of those guys at the Tankard and what sort of people they are, will you?"

  'O.K. Anything else?"

  'Be careful. Remember that they probably are journalists, all of them. So long. I'm going swimming now with somebody named Szluka."

  'That's a hell of a name for a chick. Martin, listen, have you checked to see if he booked a return flight?"

  'Bye," said Martin Beck, and put down the receiver.

  He hunted up his bathing trunks from his bag, rolled them up in one of the hotel towels and went down to the boat station.

  The boat was called Óbuda and one of the unpleasant roofed types. But he was late and it had the advantage of being faster than the coal-fired boats. 60

  He stepped ashore below a large hotel on Margaret Island. Then he followed the road toward the interior of the island, walked swiftly beneath the shady trees along a lush green lawn, past a tennis court, and then he was there.

  Szluka was standing waiting outside the entrance, his briefcase in hand. He was dressed as on the previous day.

  'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," said Martin Beck.

  'I've just come," said Szluka.

  They paid and went into the dressing room. A bald old man in a white undershirt greeted Szluka and unlocked two lockers. Szluka took a pair of black bathing trunks out of his briefcase, swiftly undressed and meticulously hung his clothes on a hanger. They pulled on their bathing trunks simultaneously, although Martin Beck had had considerably fewer garments to remove.

  Szluka took his briefcase and went ahead out of the dressing room. Martin Beck followed behind with his towel rolled up in his hand.

  The place was full of suntanned people. Immediately in front of the dressing room was a round pool with fountains spouting up tall streams of water. Shrieking children were running in and out under the waterfalls. On one side of the fountain pool was a smaller pool with steps sloping down into the water from one end. On the other was a large pool full of clear green water which darkened toward the middle. This pool was full of swimming and splashing people of all ages. The area between the pools and the lawns was covered with stone slabs.

  Martin Beck followed Szluka along the edge of the large pool. In front of them and farther on they could see a semi-circular arcade, for which Szluka was evidently heading.

  A voice on the loudspeaker called out some information and a mob of people began to run toward the pool with the steps leading down into it. Martin Beck was almost knocked over and followed Szluka's example, stepping to one side until the rush was over. He looked inquiringly at Szluka, who said:

  'Wave bathing."

  Martin Beck watched the small pool swiftly filling with people, who finally stood packed like sardines. A pair of huge pumps began to swish water toward the high edges of the pool and the human shoal rocked on the high waves, amid cries of delight.

  'Perhaps you'd like to go and ride the waves," said Szluka. Martin Beck looked at him. He was quite serious. "No, thank you,"' said Martin Beck.

  'Personally, I usually bathe in the sulfur spring," said Szluka. "It is very relaxing."

  The spring ran from a stone cairn in the middle of an oval pool—the water was knee-deep there and its far end was shaded by the arcade. The pool was built tike a labyrinth, with walls that rose about ten inches above ground level. The walls formed back supports for molded armchairs in which one sat with the water up to one's chin.

  Szluka stepped down into the pool and began to wade between the rows of seated people. He was still holding his briefcase in his hand. Martin Beck wondered if he was so used to carrying it that he had forgotten to put it down, but he said nothing and stepped down into the pool and began to wade along at Szluka's heels.

  The water was quite warm and the steam smelled of sulfur. Szluka waded into the colonnade, put down his briefcase on the edge of the wall and sat down in the water. Martin Beck sat down beside him. It was very comfortable in the spacious stone armchair, which had broad arms about six inches below the surface of the water.

  Szluka leaned his head against the back and closed his eyes. Martin Beck said nothing and looked at the bathers.

  Nearly opposite him sat a small, pale, thin man, bouncing a fat blonde on his knee. They were both looking seriously and absent-mindedly at a little girl who was splashing about in front of them with a rubber ring around her stomach.

  A pale, freckled boy in white bathing trunks came slowly wading by. Behind him he was towing a sturdy youth by a loose grip on his big toe. The youth was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, his hands clasped over his stomach.

  On the edge of the pool stood a tall sunburned man with wavy dark hair. His bathing trunks were pale-blue with wide flapping legs, more like undershorts than trunks. Martin Beck suspected that this was in fact the case. Perhaps he should have warned him that he was going swimming, so that the man would have had time to go and get his trunks.

  Suddenly, without opening his eyes, Szluka said, "The key was lying on the steps of the police station. A patrolman found it there."

  Martin Beck looked in surprise at Szluka, who was lying utterly relaxed beside him. The hair on his sunburned chest was fluttering slowly about tike white seaweed in the shimmering green water.

  'How did it get there?"

  Szluka turned his head and looked at him beneath half-closed lids.

  'You won't believe me, of course, but the fact is, I don't know."

  A long-drawn-out cry of disappointment, in unison, was heard coming from the smaller pool. The wave bathing was over for this time and the large pool filled up with people again.

  'Yesterday you didn't want to tell me where you'd got the key from. Why did you tell me now?" said Martin Beck.

  'As you seem to misinterpret most things anyway, and it was a piece of information you could have got hold of elsewhere, I considered it better to tell you myself."

  After a while Martin Beck said, "Why are you having me tailed?"

  'I don't understand what you're talking about," said Szluka.

  'What did you have for lunch?"

  'Fish soup and carp," said Szluka.

  'And apple strudel?"

  'No, wild strawberries and whipped cream and powdered sugar," said Szluka. "Delicious."

&
nbsp; Martin Beck looked around. The man in the undershorts had gone.

  'When was the key found?" he said.

  'The day before it was handed in to the hotel. On the afternoon of the twenty-third of July."

  'On the same day that Alf Matsson disappeared, in fact."

  Szluka straightened up and looked at Martin Beck. Then he turned around, opened his briefcase, took out a towel and dried his hands. Then he pulled out a file and leafed through it.

  'We have made some inquiries, actually," he said, "despite the fact that we have had no official request for an investigation."

  He took a paper out of the file and went on, "You seem to be taking this matter more seriously than appears to be necessary. Is he an important person, this Alf Matsson?"

  'Insofar as he has disappeared in a way that can't be explained, yes. We consider that sufficiently important grounds to find out what's happened to him."

  'What is there to indicate that something has happened to him?"

  'Nothing. But the fact is, he's gone."

  Szluka looked at his paper.

  'According to the passport and customs authorities, no Swedish citizen by the name Alf Matsson has left Hungary since the twenty-second of July. Anyway, he left his passport at the hotel, and he can hardly have left the country without it. No person—known or unknown—who might have been this Alf Matsson has been taken to a hospital or morgue here in this country during the period in question. Without his ssport, Matsson cannot have been accepted at any other hotel in the country either. Consequently, everything indicates that for some reason or another your compatriot has made up his mind to stay in Hungary for an additional period."

  Szluka put the paper back into the file and closed his briefcase.

  'The man's been here before. Perhaps he's acquired some friends and is staying with them," he went on, settling himself down again.

  'And yet there's no reasonable explanation for his leaving the hotel and not letting anyone know where he is," said Martin Beck a little later.

  Szluka rose and picked up his briefcase.

  'So long as he has a valid visa, I cannot—as I said—do anything more in the matter," he said.

  Martin Beck also rose.

  'Stay where you are," said Szluka. "Unfortunately I have to go. But perhaps we'll meet again. Good-bye."

  They shook hands and Martin Beck watched him wading away with his briefcase. From his appearance, one would not think he ate four slices of fat bacon for breakfast.

  When Szluka had disappeared, Martin Beck went over to the large pool. The warm water and the sulfur fumes had made him drowsy, and he swam around for a while in the clear cooling water before sitting in the sun on the edge of the pool to dry. For a while he watched two deadly serious middle-aged men standing in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a red ball to each other.

  Then he went in to change. He felt lost and confused. He was none the wiser for his meeting with Szluka.

  14

  After his bathe, the heat did not seem quite so oppressive any longer. Martin Beck found no reason to overtax his strength. He strolled slowly along the paths in the spacious park, often stopping to look around. He saw no sign of his shadow. Perhaps they had at last realized how harmless he was and had given up. On the other hand, the whole island was swarming with people and it was difficult to pick out anyone special in the crowd, especially when one had no idea what the person concerned looked like. He made his way down to the water on the eastern side of the island and followed the shoreline out to a landing stage where all the boats he had previously ridden on came in. He thought he could even remember the name of the station: Casino.

  Along the edge of the shore above the landing stage stood a row of benches where a few people were waiting for the boats. On one of them sat one of the few people in Budapest familiar to him: the easily frightened girl from the house in Újpest. Ari Boeck was wearing sunglasses, sandals and a white dress with shoulder straps. She was reading a German paperback and beside her on the bench lay a nylon string bag. His first thought was to walk past, but then he regretted it, halted and said, "Good afternoon."

  She raised her eyes and looked at him blankly. Then she appeared to recognize him and smiled.

  'Oh, it's you, is it? Have you found your friend?"

  'No, not yet."

  'I thought about it after you'd gone yesterday. I can't understand how he came to give you my address."

  'I don't understand it either."

  'I thought about it last night too," she said frowning. "I could hardly sleep.'"

  'Yes, it's peculiar."

  (Not at all, my dear girl, there's an extremely simple explanation. For one thing, he didn't give me any address. For another, this is probably what happened: he saw you in Stockholm when you were swimming and thought there's a sweet piece, I'd like to—yes, exactly. And then when he came here six months later, he found out your address and the location of your street, but didn't have time to go there.)

  'Won't you sit down? It's almost too hot to be standing upright today."

  He sat down as she moved the nylon net. It held two things he recognized, namely the dark-blue bathing suit and the green rubber mask, as well as a rolled-up bath towel and a bottle of suntan oil.

  (Martin Beck, the born detective and famous observer, constantly occupied making useless observations and storing them away for future use. Doesn't even have bats in his belfry—they couldn't get in for all the crap in the way.)

  'Are you waiting for the boat too?"

  'Yes," he said. "But we're probably going in different directions."

  'I don't have anything special to do. I was thinking of going home, of course."

  'Have you been swimming?"

  (The art of deduction.)

  'Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?"

  (Well, that's a very good question.)

  'What have you done with your boyfriend today?"

  (What the hell has that got to do with me? Oh, it's just an interrogation technique.)

  'Tetz? He's gone. Anyway, he's not my boyfriend."

  'Oh, isn't he?"

  (Extremely spiritual.)

  'Just a boy I know. He stays at the boarding house now and again. He's a nice guy."

  She shrugged her shoulders. He looked at her feet. They were still short and broad with straight toes.

  (Martin Beck, the incorruptible, more interested in a woman's shoe size than the color of her nipples.)

  'Uh-huh. And now you're going home, are you?"

  (The wearing-them-down treatment.)

  'Well, I thought I would. I don't have anything special to do around this time of the summer. What are you going to do yourself?"

  'I don't know."

  (At last a word of truth.)

  'Have you been up to Gellért Hill to look at the view? From the Liberation Memorial?"

  'No."

  'You can see the whole city from there, as if it were on a tray."

  'Mm-m."

  'Shall we go there? Perhaps there'll even be a little breeze up there."

  'Why not?" said Martin Beck.

  (You can always keep your eyes open.)

  'Then we'll take the boat that's coming in now. You would have taken that one anyway."

  The boat was called Ifjugárda and had probably been built on the same design as the steamer he had been on the day before. The ventilators, however, were constructed differently and the funnel was slightly aft-braced.

  They stood by the railing. The boat slid swiftly midstream toward Margaret Bridge. Just under the arch, she said, "What's your name, by the way?"

  'Martin."

  'Mine's An. But you knew that before, didn't you—however that happened."

  He gave no reply to that, but after a while said, "What does this name mean—Ifjugárda?"

  'A member of the Youth Guard."

  The view from the Liberation Memorial lived up to her promise and more so. There was even a little breeze up there, too. They had gon
e all the way on the boat to the last stop in front of the famous Gellért Hotel, then walked a bit along a street named after Béla Bártok and finally got on a bus which slowly and laboriously had taken them to the top of the hill.

  Now they were standing on the parapet of the citadel above the monument. Beneath them lay the city, with hundreds of thousands of windows glowing in the late afternoon sun. They were standing so close to each other that he felt a light, brushing touch when she swung her body. For the first time in five days, he allowed himself to be caught thinking about something other than Alf Matsson.

  'There's the museum I work in, over there," she said. "It's closed during the summer."

  'Oh."

  'Otherwise I go to the university."

  'Uh-huh."

  They went down on foot, along twisting paths traversing the bank down to the river. Then they walked across the new bridge and found themselves close to his hotel. The sun had rolled down below the hills in the northwest and a soft, warm dusk had fallen over the river.

  'Well, what shall we do now?" said Ari Boeck.

  She held him lightly by his arm and swung her body playfully as they walked along the quay.

  'We could talk about Alf Matsson," said Martin Beck.

  The woman gave him a swift look of reproach, but the next moment was smiling as she said, "Yes, why not? How is he? Are you great friends?"

  'No, not at all. I only… know him."

  At this stage he was almost convinced that she was telling the truth and that his vague idea that had taken him to the house in Újpest had been a false trail. But it's an ill wind that brings no one any good, he thought.

  She was clinging to his arm a little now and zigzagging with her feet so that her body swung back and forth on a vertical axle.

  'What kind of boat is that?" he said.

  'It goes on moonlight cruises up the river, then around Margaret Island and back. It takes about an hour. Costs next to nothing. Shall we go along on it?"

  They went on board and soon afterward the boat set out, peacefully splashing in the dark current. Of all the types of engine-driven vessels yet constructed, there is none that moves so pleasantly as the paddle steamer.