by Maj Sjowall
If in fact it had been Olofsson who had made that ingenious little apparatus in Malm’s mattress. Despite everything, there was only a guess to support the suspicion, but at headquarters at this stage there was no one who doubted that the guess was correct.
Fredrik Melander had bad luck at first during his inquiries in the underworld. First it turned out that one of his most reliable contacts, a one-time safe-breaker who had gone straight for several years, had had a relapse and was already serving the eighth month of a three-year sentence in Härlanda prison. Then he discovered that the beer hall on the south side frequented by the clientele which might have known Malm and Olofsson, and where he had also been well in with the owner, no longer existed, as the building it had been in had been demolished. The owner had moved away from Stockholm and it was said that she had opened a cigar store in Kumla. After these setbacks, Melander had gone to a third-rate café, on the south side too, which among its regulars could count a couple of old thieves who in their best moments might hand over valuable information in exchange for a drink or two. But even there his luck was against him. The place had changed name and a notice above the entrance announced DANCING TONIGHT. In the windows were large color photographs of the orchestra, a collection of dark-haired men with strange instruments in their hands, which in turn were almost hidden by the men’s frilly shirtsleeves. In the display case by the door, where, previously, modest little handwritten menus had appeared offering customers cabbage and meatballs and pea soup, there was now a colorful menu in Spanish.
Melander went in, stood just inside the door and looked around the place. The ceiling had been lowered, the lights were dimmer and the tables more numerous, now covered with checked tablecloths. Posters showing bullfights and flamenco dancers had been put up on the walls. It was Friday night and about half the tables were taken up by youthful, noisy customers. No one took the slightest notice of him and after a while he saw a waitress whom he recognized. She was dressed as if she were at a fancy-dress ball and could not decide whether she was meant to be a peasant girl from Dalarna or Carmen.
Melander waved her over and asked her if she knew where their old customers had gone to. She did know and mentioned a place a little farther up the same street. Melander thanked her and left.
Here his luck was better. Sitting on a bench along the far wall, he saw a well-known figure gloomily sipping a drink. He was one of the people Melander had hoped to get hold of. This man had once been a skillful forger, but increasing age and alcoholism had forced him to abandon this intermittently profitable occupation. He had also had behind him a brief and not very successful career as a burglar. Nowadays he could hardly manage pilfering an odd pair of stockings from Woolworth’s without getting caught. He was called Curly because of his curly reddish hair, which long before it became the fashion he had worn long and wavy, although this unusual style made it easy to identify him and had several times helped to catch him.
Melander sat down opposite Curly, who immediately brightened up at the prospect of an offer of a drink.
“Well, Curly, how’re things with you?” asked Melander.
Curly swirled around the last remaining drops in his glass and gulped them down.
“Not so good,” he said. “Hard up for bread and no pad. Been thinking of getting a job.”
Melander knew that Curly had never done an honest day’s work in his life and he took the news with great calm.
“Oh, so you’ve nowhere to live?” he said.
“We-ell. I was at Högalid for a bit last winter, but that’s a hell of a place.”
A waitress appeared in the kitchen doorway and Curly said swiftly:
“And I’ve a hell of thirst on too.”
Melander waved to the waitress.
“If you’re paying, perhaps I can go on to grander things,” said Curly, ordering a large gin and tonic.
Melander asked for the menu. When the waitress had gone, he said:
“What do you usually drink then?”
“Plain old akvavit and sugar. Not exactly nectar, but a guy’s got to consider his financial situation.”
Melander nodded in assent. That was something he was wholly in agreement with. But this time the State was paying, even if somewhat deviously, so he ordered pork and mashed turnips for them both, despite Curly’s protests. When the food was put on the table, Curly had already put away his drink and Melander generously ordered the same again. As he was afraid that Curly would shortly be so drunk it would be impossible to communicate with him at all, he hurried to reveal the true purpose of his visit.
Curly savored the name and the drink. Then he said:
“Bertil Olofsson. What does he look like?”
Melander had never actually met him personally, but he had seen Olofsson’s photograph and had his description in his head. Curly thoughtfully ran his hand over his famous hair.
“Ho-ho,” he said. “Oh, yes, I know. Pusher, eh? Cars and a bit of this and that, eh? I don’t know the guy personally, but I know who he is. What d’you want to know?”
Melander pushed his plate away and began to busy himself with his pipe.
“Everything you know about him,” he said. “For instance, do you know where he is?”
Curly shook his head.
“No, I haven’t seen him for quite a time. But then we don’t exactly move in the same circles, you see. He hangs out at places I never go to, see? For instance, there’s some sort of club a few blocks away from here, where I think he used to go. Mostly kids there. That guy Olofsson would be older than most of them.”
“What else does he do besides drugs and cars?”
“I dunno,” said Curly. “Only that, I think. But I’ve heard he works for some guy, but don’t know who. Olofsson’s never been a big shot, but a year or so back he suddenly seemed to come into favor like. I think he works for someone who’s got big things going, see? That’s the talk, you know, but no one knows anything definite like.”
Curly had begun to slur a bit. Melander asked him if he knew Malm.
“Only seen him once or twice at Uven,” said Curly. “I heard he was in that place what burned down. He was only some kind of small-time guy. Nothing to bother with, him, see. Anyhow, he’s dead, poor guy.”
Before Melander left, after a moment’s hesitation, he thrust two 10-kronor notes into Curly’s hand and said:
“Give us a call if you hear anything else. You might make some discreet inquiries, eh?”
When he turned around at the door, he saw Curly beckoning to the waitress.
Melander hunted out the club Curly had mentioned. When he saw its young customers crowding round the entrance, he realized he would melt into his surroundings about as effectively as an ostrich in a flock of hens, so he went on. Homeward.
As soon as he got home, he called Martin Beck and asked whether they might risk assigning Skacke the job of going to the club.
Benny Skacke was delighted. As soon as Martin Beck had put down the receiver, Skacke called up his girl and told her that owing to an important assignment, he would not be able to meet her that evening. He explained in somewhat veiled language that it was a question of catching a dangerous murderer. But she did not seem especially impressed. In fact, she was rather sour.
He devoted most of the day to carrying out the program that he had set himself to follow every Friday. First he practiced for half an hour on the horizontal bar, then he went to Åkeshov Baths, had a steambath and swam a thousand yards, and when he got home he sat down at his desk and studied law for two hours.
Late in the afternoon he began to wonder how he should be dressed in order to look as little like a policeman as possible. He would have preferred to look like a playboy. Normally he dressed formally and could not imagine himself going to work without a tie on, for instance. As Skacke could hardly be described as a frequenter of bars and very rarely indeed went to either a restaurant or a nightclub, he was not absolutely certain what people usually wore in such places. However, he
did have a faint idea that the rather ordinary ready-made suits that hung in his wardrobe would not be what fashion demanded of youthful playboys. Finally he went out to his parents’ home in Kungsholm and borrowed a suit from his younger brother. His mother had cooked beefburgers, so he took the opportunity of having dinner there too. At the table, as an example of his dangerous life as a detective, he told some totally untrue stories to his astonished and proud parents, rounding off the whole with something he had heard was supposed to have happened to Gunvald Larsson.
When he got back to Abrahamsberg, he at once put the suit on. It felt peculiar, but he was pleased when he saw himself in the mirror. He was convinced that no one in the whole of the police force possessed such a creation.
The jacket was long and sharply nipped in at the waist, with slanting pockets and a wide collar which went high up at the back of the neck. The trousers were very tight and were buttoned just below his navel, and the legs, which clung to him over his thighs like tights, flared out conically below the knee and flapped unpleasantly around his shins as he walked. The suit was of brilliant blue corduroy and with it went a bright orange turtlenecked shirt.
Benny Skacke considered himself disguised into unrecognizability when soon after ten o’clock he made his entry into the nightclub. It was located in the basement and before he was shuffled down the stairs, he was relieved of a 35-kronor membership fee.
The club consisted of two large rooms and one smaller one. The air down there was thick with tobacco smoke and the smell of human sweat.
In one of the larger rooms people were dancing to a frenzied pop group, while others sat drinking beer and carrying on deafening conversations. In the smaller room, relative silence reigned. It seemed to be reserved for those who preferred sitting at a table, eating a little, drinking wine and holding hands in the romantic light of flickering candles. The people there were presumably silent because of the candles, thought Skacke, as naturally they were on the point of death owing to a lack of oxygen.
He pushed his way through to the bar and after a while managed to acquire a stein of beer, and with it in his hand, he circulated around, studying the clientele. A number of the girls did not look a day older than fourteen, and he saw at least five gentlemen who were certainly over fifty, but generally speaking the average age appeared to be between twenty-five and thirty.
Skacke decided to listen to what people were saying before he himself fell into conversation with anyone. He moved discreetly nearer to four men in their thirties who were standing close together in one corner. From their expressions, the subject of the conversation was a serious one; they were frowning, sipping their beer thoughtfully, listening attentively to whoever was speaking and now and again interrupting each other with impatient gestures. Skacke could hear nothing of what they were saying until he was right beside them.
“I’m not convinced that generally speaking she’s in possession of any libido at all,” said one of them. “So I would suggest Rita.”
“She just does a solo job,” said another. “So I think Bebban’s better.”
The other two muttered in agreement.
“Okay,” said the first man. “We’ll take Bebban, so then we’ve three anyhow. Come on then, let’s go and find her.”
The four gentlemen vanished in among the dancers. Skacke remained where he was and wondered what a libido was. He would have to look it up when he got home.
The crowd around the bar had thinned out and Skacke managed to force his way up to the counter. When the barman came to him, he ordered a beer and said in passing:
“Seen Berra Olofsson anywhere?”
The man wiped his hands on his striped apron and shook his head.
“No, not for several weeks,” he said.
“Are any of his buddies here?”
“I don’t know. Yes, I saw Olle a moment ago.”
“Where is he now?”
The barman let his eyes run over the crowd. He nodded toward a point diagonally behind Skacke.
“There he is.”
Skacke turned round and saw at least fifteen people who might be Olle.
“What does he look like?”
The man behind the bar raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“I thought you knew him,” he said. “He’s standing over there. The one with sideburns and a black turtleneck.”
Skacke took his beer, put the money down on the counter and turned around. He at once saw the man called Olle, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, talking to a little blonde with a voluminous hair-style and large breasts. Skacke went across and gave the man a light slap on the shoulder.
“Hi, Olle!” he said.
“Hi,” said the man hesitantly.
Skacke nodded to the blonde, who gave him a gracious look back.
“How’s life treating you?” said the man with the sideburns.
“Fine,” said Skacke. “Listen, I’m looking for Berra. Berra Olofsson. Have you seen him around lately?”
Olle took his hands out of his pockets and poked his forefinger into Skacke’s chest.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been looking for that guy all over the place. But he’s not at home. Don’t know where the hell he is.”
“When did you see him last?” said Skacke.
“Hell of a long time ago. Wait a moment. Beginning of February, I guess, early in the month. He had to go to Paris for a week or two, he said. I haven’t seen him since then. What d’you want him for, anyway?”
The blonde had moved over to other company a few feet away. Now and again she glanced in Skacke’s direction.
“Oh, just wanted to talk with him about something,” said Skacke vaguely.
Olle took hold of his arm and leaned forward.
“If it’s about a dame, you can talk with me,” he said. “I’ve taken several over from Berra, actually.”
“Well, someone has to see to the business when he’s away,” said Skacke.
Olle grinned.
“Well?” he said.
Skacke shook his head.
“No,” he said. “Not dames. Other things.”
“Aha. I see. No, well, I’m afraid I can’t help there. I’ve hardly got enough for myself.”
The blonde came over and pulled at Olle’s arm.
“I’m coming, chick,” said Olle.
Skacke was not exactly a brilliant dancer, but all the same he went up to a lady who looked as if she belonged to either Olofsson’s or Olle’s stable. She looked at him with a bored expression, followed him onto the dance floor and mechanically began to move her body. She was not easy to converse with, but he found out that she didn’t know Olofsson.
After four laborious dances with different partners of varying verbosity, Skacke got a bite.
The fifth girl was almost as tall as he was, had prominent light blue eyes, a large backside and small pointed breasts.
“Berra?” she said. “Of course I know Berra.”
She stood as if nailed to the floor through her feet as she swung her hips, pushed out her breasts and clicked her fingers. Skacke only really needed to stand in front of her.
“But I don’t work for him any longer,” she added. “I work solo.”
“D’you know where he is?” said Skacke.
“He’s in Poland, I heard someone say the other day.”
She ground her hips round and round. Skacke clicked his fingers a little so as not to appear too inactive.
“Are you sure? In Poland?”
“Yes. Someone said so, I don’t remember who.”
“Since when?”
She shrugged.
“Don’t know. He’s been away a while, but he’ll appear again, no doubt. What do you want? Horse?”
The conversation had to be carried on at a roar for them to be able to hear one another over the music.
“Perhaps I can fix you up, in that case,” she yelled. “But not until tomorrow.”
Skacke met three more girls who knew Bertil Olofsson,
but they did not know exactly where he was either. No one had seen him during recent weeks.
At three o’clock the lights began to wink on and off and guests were encouraged to leave. Skacke had to walk for a while before getting hold of a taxi. His head felt thick from the beer and the bad air and he longed for home and bed.
In his pocket he had the telephone numbers of two girls who had offered to pose for him, of another who was only interested in general and of the girl who wanted to sell him drugs. Otherwise the evening’s ultimate outcome had not been much. Tomorrow he would have to report to Martin Beck that all he had found out was that Bertil Olofsson had disappeared.
But there were two facts in the credit column.
He knew roughly when Bertil Olofsson had disappeared.
And that one about Poland.
Always something, thought Benny Skacke.
18
When Gunvald Larsson, fresh from his bath, stepped into the police station in Kungsholmsgatan and went up to the Homicide Squad’s offices, he had no idea how the Malm affair had developed. It was Monday, the twenty-fifth of March, and the first day after his sick leave.
He had not answered his telephone after his confrontation with Max Karlsson on the previous Tuesday and the newspapers had not said a word about the fire since the item on Madeleine Olsen’s death. He would in fact get his medal sooner or later, but both his heroic deed and the tragedy were now dead news and the name Gunvald Larsson already fading into some obscure corner of the public memory. The world was evil and flooded with front-page news. Suicide is not approved news in the Swedish press, partly for aesthetic reasons, partly because there are so compromisingly many of them, and a fire with three victims is not a lasting tidbit. Neither was there any cause for great ovations for the police; so long as they could not stop this wretched drug-trafficking, or deal with the innumerable demonstrations, or guarantee elementary freedom of movement in the streets. And so on.
So Gunvald Larsson stared with undisguised astonishment at the illustrious gathering which was just pouring out from a meeting with Hammar. Melander and Ek, Rönn and Strömgren were all there, not to mention Martin Beck and Kollberg, two people of whom he spoke extremely unwillingly and then only when absolutely necessary. Even Skacke was rushing about the corridor, with artificial solemnity trying to live up to the heights at whose feet he was temporarily tarrying.