by Maj Sjowall
'Hardly. I'll probably be going about eleven."
'We're famous for our speed. The wife of the Minister of Trade had her bag snatched at Nep Stadium last autumn. She took a taxi here to report it. When she got here, she was handed back her bag at the desk downstairs. That kept us in good shape for a long time. Well, we'll see."
'Thanks then. And good-bye."
'Good-bye. Pity there wasn't time to meet a little more informally."
Martin Beck paused briefly to think. Then he set up a call to Stockholm. The call came through in ten minutes.
'Lennart's away," said Kollberg's wife. "As usual, he didn't say where he was going. 'Duty calls, be back on Sunday, take care of yourself.' He took the car with him. To hell with policemen."
Melander next. This time it took only five minutes.
'Hi! Did I disturb you?"
'I'd just gone to bed."
Melander was famous for his memory, his ten hours' sleep a night and a singular capacity for constantly being in the W. C.
'Are you in on the Matsson case?"
'Yeah."
'Find out what he did the night before he left. In detail. How he behaved, what he said, what he was wearing."
'Tonight?"
'Tomorrow will do."
'Uh-huh."
'Bye, then."
'Bye."
Martin Beck had finished with the telephone. He took pen and paper and went downstairs.
Alf Matsson's luggage was still standing in the room behind the reception desk.
He took the cover off the typewriter, placed it on the table, inserted a piece of paper in the machine and typed:
Portable typewriter, Erika, with case
Yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with strap, fairly new
He opened the case and set its contents out on the table. He then went on typing.
Gray-and-black checked shirt
Sport shirt, brown
White poplin shirt, fresh-laundered, Metro Laundry, Stockholm
Light-gray gabardine trousers, well-pressed
Three handkerchiefs, white
Four pairs socks, brown, dark-blue, light-gray, wine-red
Two pairs colored undershorts, green-and-white check
One fishnet undershirt
One pair light-brown suede shoes
He looked gloomily at the cardigan-like garment, picked it up and went out to the girl at the reception desk. She was very pretty, in a sweet, ordinary way. Rather small, well built, long fingers, pretty calves, fine ankles, a few dark hairs on her shins, long thighs under her skirt. No rings. He stared at her with his thoughts far away.
'What's this kind of thing called?" he said.
'A jersey blazer," she said.
He remained standing there, thinking about something. The girl blushed. She moved to the other end of the reception desk, adjusting her skirt and pulling at her bra and girdle. He could not understand why. He went back, sat down at the table and typed:
Dark blue jersey blazer
58 sheets typing paper, legal size
One typewriter eraser
Electric shaver, Remington
The Night Wanderer by Kurt Salomonson
Shaving kit
Shaving lotion, Tabac
Tube of toothpaste, Squibb, opened
Toothbrush
Mouthwash, Vademecum
Aspirin with codeine, box unopened
Dark-blue plastic wallet
$1500 in $20 bills
Skr 600 in hundred-kronor notes, new type
Typed on Alf Matsson's typewriter
He repacked all the things, folded the list and left. The girl at the reception desk looked at him in confusion. Now she appeared prettier than ever.
Martin Beck went into the dining room and ate a late dinner, with an absent-minded expression still on his face.
The waiter put a Swedish flag in front of him. The maestro came up to his table and played a patriotic Swedish melody in his left ear. He did not seem to notice it.
He drank his coffee in one gulp, put a red hundred-forint note on the table without even waiting for the bill and went upstairs to bed.
22
It was just a few minutes past nine o'clock when the young man from the Embassy telephoned.
'You're in luck," he said. "I've managed to get a seat on the plane that leaves Budapest at twelve o'clock. You get to Prague at ten to two and you have five minutes to wait before the SAS plane to Copenhagen leaves."
'Thanks," said Martin Beck.
'It wasn't easy to arrange at such short notice. Can you pick up the tickets yourself at Malev's? I've arranged for the payment of them, so they can just be collected."
'Naturally," said Martin Beck. "Thanks very much indeed."
'Have a nice flight then, Mr. Beck. It's been very pleasant having you here."
'Thank you," said Martin Beck. "Good-bye."
As predicted the tickets were waiting for him, with the dark curly-haired beauty he had spoken to three days earlier.
He returned to his hotel room, packed his bag and sat at the window for a while, smoking and looking out over the river. Then he left the room (in which he had stayed for five days and Alf Matsson had stayed for half an hour), went down to reception and ordered a taxi. As he came outside onto the steps, he saw a blue-and-white police car approaching at great speed. It braked in front of the hotel, and a uniformed policeman whom he had not seen before leaped out and hurried through the revolving doors. Martin had time to see that he had an envelope in his hand.
His taxi swung around and stopped behind the police car, and the doorman with a gray mustache opened the back door. Martin Beck asked him to wait and went back into the revolving doors just as the policeman went into them from the other direction, closely followed by the receptionist. When the receptionist caught sight of Martin Beck, he waved and pointed to the policeman. After having whirled around a couple of times in the revolving doors, they all three succeeded in meeting up on the hotel steps and Martin Beck was given his envelope. He stepped into the taxi after having given out his last aluminum coins to the receptionist and the doorman.
On the plane, he was seated beside a boastful, loud-voiced Englishman, who hung over him, spraying saliva into his face as he related stories about his totally uninteresting activities as some kind of commercial traveler.
In Prague, Martin Beck just had time to rush through the transit hall into the next plane, before it took off. To his relief the expectorating Englishman was nowhere to be seen, and when they were up in the air, he opened the envelope.
Szluka and his men had done their best to live up to their reputation for speed. They had questioned six witnesses and done the report in English. Martin Beck read:
Summary of interrogation of those persons known by the police to have had contact with the Swedish citizen Alf Sixten Matsson from the time of his arrival at Ferihegyi Airport in Budapest at 10:15 P.M. on July 22, 1966, until his disappearance from Hotel Duna in Budapest at unknown time between 10:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. on July 23 of the same year.
Ferenc Havas, passport control officer who was on duty alone at the passport control point at Ferihegyi on the night between July 22 and July 23, 1966, says that he does not remember seeing Alf Matsson.
János Lucacs, taxi driver, says that he remembers that on the night between July 22 and 23 he took a passenger from Ferihegyi to Hotel Ifjuság. According to Lucacs, the passenger was a man between 25 and 30 years of age, had a beard and spoke German. Lucacs, who does not speak Ger man, understood only that the man wanted to be taken to Ifjusag. Lucacs thinks he remembers that the man had a suitcase, which he put down beside him on the back seat.
Léo Szabo, medical student, night porter at Hotel Ifjusag on July 22-23, remembers a man who came to the hotel late one evening between July 17-24. Everything indicates that this man was Alf Matsson although Szabo remembers neither the exact time of the man's arrival, nor his name or nationality. According to Szabo, the man was be
tween 30 and 35 years old, spoke good English and had a beard. He was wearing light-colored trousers, blue jacket, probably a white shirt, and tie, and had light luggage—one or two bags. Szabo cannot remember having seen this man on any other occasion but this one.
Béla Péter, taxi driver, drove Alf Matsson from the Hotel Ifjusag to the Hotel Duna on the morning of July 23. He remembers a young man with a brown beard and glasses, whose luggage consisted of one large and one smaller bag, the smaller probably a typewriter.
Béla Kovacs, porter at the Hotel Duna, received Matsson's passport and gave him the key to Room 105 on the morning of July 23. According to Kovacs, Matsson was then wearing light, probably gray trousers, white shirt, blue jacket and a plain-colored tie. He was carrying a light-colored coat over his arm.
Eva Petrovich, receptionist at the same hotel, saw Matsson both when he arrived at the hotel shortly before 10:00 A.M. on July 23, and when he left the hotel about half an hour later. She has given the most extensive description of Matsson and maintains she is certain about all details, except the color of his tie. According to Miss Petrovich, Matsson was of medium height, had blue eyes, dark-brown hair, beard and mustache and steel-rimmed glasses. He was wearing light-gray trousers, dark-blue summer blazer, white shirt, blue or red tie, and beige shoes. Over his arm he had a light-beige poplin coat
Szluka had added something:
As you see we have not found out much more than what we already knew. None of the witnesses can remember anything special that Matsson did or said. I have added the description of his clothing at his disappearance to the personal description we have sent all over the country. Should any other facts come to light, I shall let you know immediately. Have a good trip!
Vilmos Szluka
Martin Beck read through Szluka's summary again. He wondered whether Eva Petrovich was the same girl who had helped him identify the cardigan-like garment in Alf Matsson's suitcase. On the back of Szluka's letter, he wrote:
Light-gray trousers
White shirt
Dark-blue blazer
Red or blue tie
Beige shoes
Light-beige poplin coat
Then he took out the list he had made of the contents of Alf Matsson's bag and read through it before putting everything into his briefcase and closing it.
He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, but sat like this until the plane began to go down through the thin cloud bank over Copenhagen.
Kastrup was as usual. He had to stand in a line before being sluiced into the transit hall, where people of all nationalities were crowding in front of the counters. He drank a Tuborg in the bar to gather his strength before tackling the trying task of collecting his luggage.
It was past three o'clock when he finally stood with his bag outside the airport building. A whole row of taxis was standing in the stand and he put his bag in the first one, got into the front seat and gave the driver the address of the harbor in Dragør.
The ferry, which was in and appeared ready to leave, was called Drogden and was an unusually ugly creation. Martin Beck put his bag and briefcase down in the cafeteria and went up on deck as the ferry eased its way out and headed for Sweden.
After the heat of the last few days in Budapest, the breeze in the Sound felt cold and after a while Martin Beck went in and sat down in the cafeteria. There were a great many people on board, mostly housewives who had been shopping over in Denmark.
The trip took scarcely an hour, and in Limhamn he at once got a taxi that would take him to Malmö. The taxi driver was talkative and spoke a southern Swedish dialect that sounded to Martin Beck almost as incomprehensible as Hungarian.
23
The taxi stopped outside the police station on Da-vidhall Square. Martin Beck got out, walked up the wide steps and deposited his bag in the glass reception office. He had not been there for two years but was struck, as always, by the massiveness and majestic solemnity of the building and by its pompous halls and wide corridors. Two flights up, he stopped in front of a door marked INSPECTOR, knocked and slipped in. Someone had once said that Martin Beck knew the art of standing inside a room having already shut the door behind him at the same time as he knocked on it from the outside. There was a grain of truth in this.
'Hiya," he said.
There were two people in the room. One of them was standing leaning against the window, chewing a toothpick. He was very large. The other, who was sitting at the desk, was tall and thin, with his hair brushed straight back and his eyes lively. Both were in civilian clothes. The man at the desk looked critically at Martin Beck and said, "Quarter of an hour ago I read in the paper that you were abroad, breaking up international narcotics rings. And now you just walk in here saying hiya. Is that any way to behave? Do you want something?"
'Do you remember a stabbing case here on the eve of Twelfth Day? Guy called Matsson?"
'No. Should I?"
'I remember it," said the man by the window, apathetically.
'This is Månsson," said the Inspector. "He does… what are you doing, actually, Månsson?"
'Nothing. I was just thinking of going home."
'Exactly. He isn't doing anything and was thinking of going home. Well, what is it you remember?"
'I've forgotten."
'Is there any other way you can be of service?"
'Not until Monday. I'm off duty now."
'Must you munch like that?"
'I'm giving up smoking."
'What do you remember about that stabbing case?" "Nothing." "Nothing at all?" "No. Backlund was in charge." "What did he think, then?"
'Don't know. He worked hard on the preliminary investigation for several days. Was very secretive about it."
'You're very lucky," said the man at the desk to Martin Beck. "Why?"
'Well, to be allowed to meet Backlund," said Månsson. "Exactly. He's popular. Coming back in half an hour. Room 312. Take a ticket for the queue." "Thanks."
'This Matsson, is he the same guy you're looking for?" "Yes."
'Was he here in Malmö?" "I don't think so."
'They're no fun," said Månsson mournfully. "What aren't?" "Toothpicks."
'Then for God's sake, smoke. No one asked you to eat toothpicks."
'They say there's a kind with taste to them," said Månsson.
Martin Beck recognized the lingo only too well. Something had probably wrecked their day. Their wives had no doubt called and pointed out that their food was spoiling and inquired whether there were no other policemen.
He left them to their troubles, went up to the canteen and had a cup of tea. He took out Szluka's paper from his inside pocket and read through the meager testimonies once again. Somewhere behind him there was an exchange of remarks.
'Excuse me for asking, but is this really a mazarine cupcake?"
'What else do you think it is?"
'Some kind of cultural monument, maybe. Seems a pity to eat it. The Bakery Museum ought to be interested." "If you don't like it, you can go somewhere else." "Yeah, two floors down for instance, and report you for harboring dangerous weapons. I order a mazarine cupcake and you go and give me a fossilized fetus that not even the
Swedish State Railway would serve up without the locomotive blushing. I'm a sensitive person and—"
'Sensitive, eh? And by the way, you took it off the counter yourself."
Martin Beck turned around and looked at Kollberg.
'Hi," he said.
'Hi." .
Neither of them seemed particularly surprised. Kollberg pushed away the objectionable cake and said, "When did you get back?"
'This moment. What are you doing here?"
'I thought I'd talk to someone named Backlund."
'Me too."
'Actually, I had something else to do here," said Kollberg apologetically.
Ten minutes later it was five o'clock. They went down together. Backlund turned out to be an elderly man with a friendly, ordinary face. He shook hands and s
aid:
'Oh, yes. VIP's from Stockholm, eh?"
He put out two chairs for them and sat down, saying:
'Well, I am grateful. To what do I owe this honor?"
'You had a stabbing case on the eve of Twelfth Day," said Kollberg. "A guy called Matsson."
'Yes, that's quite correct. I remember the case. It's closed. No charge brought."
'What really happened?" said Martin Beck.
'Well, hm-m… Wait a minute and I'll get the file."
The man called Backlund went out and returned about ten minutes later with a typed report stapled together. It seemed remarkably detailed. He leafed through it for a moment, evidently renewing his acquaintance with it with both delight and pride. Finally he said, "We'd better take it from the beginning."
'We only want a general idea of what happened," said Kollberg.
'I see. At 1:23 A.M. on January 6 of this year a radio patrol consisting of Patrolman Kristiansson and Patrolman Kvant—who were patrolling in their car on Linnégatan here in town—received orders to go to Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn, where someone was said to have been stabbed. Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant at once went to this address, where they arrived at about 1:29 A.M. They took charge of a person who stated that he was a journalist: one Alf Sixten Matsson, residing in Stockholm at Fleminggatan 34. Matsson also stated that he had been assaulted and stabbed by Bengt Eilert Jönsson, a journalist who is a resident of Malmö and lives at Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn. Matsson, who had a flesh wound approximately two inches long on the outside of his left wrist, was taken to the emergency ward of General Hospital by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant while Bengt Eilert Jönsson was held and taken to police headquarters in Malmö by Patrolmen Elofsson and Borglund, who had been called in by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant. Both men were under the influence of alcohol."