by Maj Sjowall
Gunvald Larsson went across to the table and looked at the open magazine. Zachrisson sneaked past him and tried to snatch it away, but the other man put his large hairy hand on it and said:
“That’s wrong. It should be sixty-eight.”
“What?”
“That doctor in England, Dr. Ruxton. He sawed up his wife and the maid into sixty-eight pieces. And they weren’t naked. Goodbye.”
Gunvald Larsson left that singular boiler room in Torsgatan and drove home. The moment he put his key into the lock of his apartment in Bollmora, he completely forgot his usual habits and did not begin to think again until he was again sitting in his office, the next morning, that is.
It was mystifying. He could not get things right and finally he was driven to taking the matter up with Rönn.
“It’s darned peculiar,” he said. “I don’t understand.”
“What?”
“Well, this business of the fire engine that disappeared.”
“Yes, that’s almost the oddest thing I’ve ever come across,” said Rönn.
“Oh, so you’ve been thinking about it too, then?”
“Yes, I have indeed. Ever since our boy said it had gone. And he’s not been out either, as he’s got a cold and has to stay indoors. It’s simply disappeared somewhere inside the apartment.”
“Are you really such a fool that you think I’m standing here talking about a toy you’ve lost?”
“What are you talking about then?”
Gunvald Larsson explained what he was talking about. Rönn scratched his nose and said:
“Have you checked with the fire department?”
“Yes, I called them just now. The person I spoke to sounded half-witted.”
“Perhaps he thought you were half-witted?”
“Huh!” said Gunvald Larsson.
He slammed the door behind him as he left.
Next morning, Wednesday, the twenty-seventh, a summary was made of the results of the search and it was established that there were none. Olofsson was just as missing as he had been when the notification of his disappearance had been sent out a week earlier. Quite a lot had been found out about him, for instance that he was a drug addict and a professional criminal, but that had been known before. Inquiries were being made after him all over the country and also through Interpol; all over the world, it could be said, if one were given to exaggeration. Photographs, fingerprints and descriptions had been sent out by the thousand. A number of worthless tips had come in, but not many, as the Great General Public, thank heavens, had not yet been informed via the press, radio or television. Soundings in the underworld had produced very little. The work done on the inside had been useless. No one had seen Olofsson since the end of January or the beginning of February. He was said to be abroad. But no one had seen him abroad either.
“We must find him,” said Hammar, with great emphasis. “Now. At once.”
That was roughly all he had to say.
“Instructions of that kind aren’t very constructive,” said Kollberg.
He said it cautiously, after the meeting, as he was sitting on Melander’s desk, apathetically dangling his legs.
Melander leaned back in his chair, his shoulders supported against the back of the chair, his legs crossed and outstretched. He was holding his pipe between his teeth and his eyes were half-closed.
“What are you up to?” said Kollberg.
“He’s thinking,” said Martin Beck.
“Yes, I can see that, for Christ’s sake, but what’s he thinking about?”
“About one of the cardinal faults of the police,” said Melander.
“Oh, yes, which one?”
“Lack of imagination.”
“And that from you?”
“Yes, I suffer from it myself,” said Melander calmly. “And the question is whether this case isn’t a perfect example of lack of imagination. Or perhaps narrow-mindedness in search activities.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my imagination,” said Kollberg.
“Wait a moment,” said Martin Beck. “Can you explain a little further?”
He was standing in his favorite place, just inside the door, his elbow propped up against the filing cabinet.
“At first we were satisfied with the theory that the gas exploded accidentally,” said Melander. “Then we at last get clear evidence that someone tried to kill Malm with an ingenious incendiary arrangement, and then we’ve already got the tracks clearly marked out. We must find Olofsson. Implied: Olofsson is the man who did it. And then we follow that track as if we were a pack of bloodhounds with blinkers on. Who knows if we’re not rushing straight into a cul-de-sac?”
“Rush is the right word,” Kollberg said dejectedly.
“This is an error which is repeated over and over again and which has ruined hundreds of important investigations. The police get hold of what they think are definite facts. These point in a certain definite direction. And the whole search is directed in that particular direction. All other views are stifled or thrown overboard. Just because what lies nearest to hand is usually right, one acts as if this were always so. The world is seething with criminals who have got away with it because of this doctrinaire way of thinking by the police. Supposing someone finds Olofsson now, at this very moment. He’s perhaps sitting outside a restaurant in Paris, or on a hotel balcony in Spain or Morocco. Perhaps he can prove that he’s been sitting there for two months. Where do we stand then?”
“Do you mean that we should simply say to hell with Olofsson?” asked Kollberg.
“Not at all. Malm was dangerous to him and he knew that the moment Malm was nabbed. So he’s the one who’s nearest to hand. There is every reason in the world to try to find him. But we forget the possibility that he may prove to be quite useless for our case, the fire. If it then turns out that he peddled drugs and put false numbers on a few cars, then we’re no further on at all. On the contrary, that’s a matter which quite simply has nothing to do with us at all.”
“It’ll be darned peculiar if Olofsson’s not mixed up in this at all.”
“Quite correct. But peculiar things happen occasionally. That Malm killed himself at the same time as someone tried to murder him, is, for example, a very peculiar coincidence. It foxed me, too, on the site of the crime. Another peculiarity, which clearly no one has thought about, is the following: it will soon be three weeks since the fire and no one has either seen or heard from Olofsson during that time, which has caused certain people to draw certain conclusions, but it is still no less a fact that neither, as far as we know, had anyone had any contact with Olofsson for a whole month before the fire.”
Martin Beck straightened up and said thoughtfully:
“No, that’s true.”
“That argument undoubtedly has certain implications,” said Kollberg.
They thought about the implications.
A little farther down the same corridor, Rönn slunk into Gunvald Larsson’s room and said:
“You know, I thought about something last night.”
“What?”
“Well, about twenty years ago I was working for a couple of months down in Skåne. In Lund. I’ve forgotten why.”
He paused thoughtfully and then said with some profundity:
“It was awful.”
“What was?”
“Skåne.”
“Aha. And that was what you had thought about?”
“Just pigs and cows and fields and students. And hot. I almost dropped dead. But there was one thing. We had a big fire while I was there. A factory burned down in the middle of the night. Later on, it turned out that it was some nightwatchman who had set it on fire by mistake. He sounded the alarm himself, but was so confused that he called the fire department in Malmö. He came from there, you see. So while the fire was burning in Lund, the firemen stood around in Malmö gaping, with extension ladders, fire pumps, jumping nets and the lot.”
“Do you mean that Zachrisson’s so dumb that he
stood there in the middle of the south side and called up Nacka fire department?”
“Something along those lines, yes.”
“Well, he didn’t, anyhow,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I’ve called up every single police district within beating distance of the city. And none of them had any fire alarms that night.”
“If I were you, I’d call up the firehouses too.”
“If you were me, you’d be darned tired of fires by now. And also, there’s a better chance of getting a sane answer from the police. Only fractionally better, of course.”
Rönn went over toward the door.
“Einar?”
“Yes.”
“What did they want jumping nets for? At a factory on fire in the middle of the night?”
Rönn thought about it.
“Don’t know,” he said at last. “Perhaps I’ve got too lively an imagination.”
“D’you think so?”
Gunvald Larsson shrugged his shoulders and went on picking his teeth with a letter opener.
But all the same, the next morning he began calling up all the firehouses in the areas around Stockholm. The solution came surprisingly quickly.
“Okay-doke,” said an exaggeratedly chummy member of the fire station staff at Solna-Sundbyberg. “Of course I can check.”
And ten seconds later.
“Yes, we had a false alarm to 37 Ringvägen in Sundbyberg that evening. It came at 23:10 hours to be exact. Telephone alarm. Anything else?”
“The police didn’t say anything about that,” said Gunvald Larsson. “The police must’ve been there, mustn’t they?”
“A radio car went of course. Funny otherwise.”
“Did that call come through Stockholm Central Alarm or directly through to you?”
“Direct, I expect. But I can’t tell you that for certain. There’s only one report. Anonymous telephone alarm. False.”
“And what do you do when that kind of call comes in?”
“We go out, of course.”
“Yes, I realize that, but do you send the information on to anyone?”
“Yes, to the fuzz out here.”
“To whom did you say?”
“The fuzz. And we also inform Central Alarm. You see, if it’s a big fire, which is visible, I mean, then there’s a hell of a lot of calling hither and thither. We might get twenty-five calls here while a hundred other people are calling the emergency number or sounding off fire alarms and what have you. That’s why we report when we go out. Otherwise there’d be a hell of a mess all round.”
“I see,” said Gunvald Larsson coldly. “Do you know who received the call?”
“Of course. A chick called Mårtensson. Doris Mårtensson.”
“Where can I get hold of her?”
“Nowhere, old man. She went off on vacation yesterday. To Greece.”
“To Greece?” said Gunvald Larsson with profound distaste.
“Yes, anything wrong with that?”
“Just about as much wrong as anything could be.”
“Oh, shit. I wouldn’t have expected the fuzz to sit there spouting communist propaganda. I was at the Acropolis, or whatever it’s called, myself last autumn. It was fine. Damned orderly, I thought. And the police, what style they’ve got! You boys have a lot to learn from them.”
“Shut your big mouth, idiot,” said Gunvald Larsson, flinging down the receiver.
There was one important matter he had not had time to mention, but he could not stand it any longer. Instead, he went into Rönn’s office and said:
“Would you do me a favor and call up the fire department in Solna-Sundbyberg and ask when a person called Doris Mårtensson is coming back from her vacation?”
“Well, I suppose I could. What’s up with you, anyhow? You look as if you were just about to have an attack of something.”
Gunvald Larsson did not reply. He marched back to his desk and immediately dialed the number of the police station in Råsundavägen in Solna. Just as well to get that done too, while he was up to it.
“Yesterday I called you and asked about a very important matter. It was whether there had been any fire alarm at about eleven on the seventh of March,” he said, by way of an introduction. The man in Solna replied:
“Yes, and I was the person who took your call and said that there was no report of any such thing.”
“Now, however, I happen to know that there was a false alarm that night, to be more exact, to 37 Ringvägen in Sundbyberg, and that the police were informed in the ordinary way. So a police radio car should have been at the place.”
“Funny. There’s no report about that.”
“Then check it, for Christ’s sake, with the guys who were on duty then. Who were they, anyhow?”
“On patrol? I should be able to look that up. Wait a moment.”
Gunvald Larsson waited, impatiently drumming his fingertips on his desk.
“Here we are. Car Number Eight, Eriksson and Kvastmo, with a cadet called Lindskog. Car Number Three, Kristiansson and Kvant …”
“That’s quite enough,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Where are those two crass morons now?”
“Kristiansson and Kvant? They’re on duty, on patrol.”
“Then send them straight here, for Christ’s sake. Immediately!”
“But—”
“No buts. I want to see both those morons standing like statues in my office here in Kungsholmsgatan within fifteen minutes.”
He replaced the receiver just as Rönn put his head around the door and said:
“Doris Mårtensson is coming back in three weeks’ time. She starts work again on the twenty-second of April. Dreadfully bad-tempered, by the way, the guy who answered. He didn’t exactly belong to your fan club.”
“No, it’s getting smaller and smaller,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Yes, I expect it is,” Rönn said gently.
Sixteen minutes later, Kristiansson and Kvant were standing in Gunvald Larsson’s office. Both were from Skåne, blue-eyed, broad-shouldered and nearly 6 feet. Both of them had also had painful experiences of previous encounters with the gentleman now sitting behind the desk. The moment Gunvald Larsson’s eyes fell on them, they stiffened and actually did look very much like a couple of concrete statues representing two radio policemen in leather tunics with shoulder straps and polished buttons. They were also equipped with pistols and billy clubs. A finer point in the grouping was that Kristiansson was holding his cap rigidly clamped under his left arm, while Kvant’s was still on his head.
“Christ, it’s him!” whispered Kristiansson. “That lousy …”
Kvant said nothing. His forbidding expression showed that he was not going to allow himself to be intimidated.
“Aha,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Here you are, standing here, you miserable blockheaded morons.”
“What is it you want to …?” began Kvant, and then he stopped suddenly as the man behind the desk rose to his feet.
“It’s a matter of a small technical detail,” said Gunvald Larsson, in a friendly voice. “At ten past eleven on the night of the seventh of March, you were called to 37 Ringvägen in Sundbyberg to check up on a fire alarm. Do you remember that?”
“No,” said Kvant, impudently. “I don’t remember that.”
“Don’t stand there lying to me,” roared Gunvald Larsson. “Were you at that address or weren’t you? Answer me!”
“Yes, perhaps,” said Kristiansson. “We were … I mean, I think I remember it. But …”
“But what?”
“But it was nothing,” said Kristiansson.
“Don’t say any more, Kalle, you’re just making a fool of yourself,” Kvant said warningly.
He himself added in a loud voice:
“I don’t remember it.”
“If either of you tells me one more lie,” said Gunvald Larsson, the volume of his voice now ten times as great, “then I’ll personally kick you back into the lost-property office in Skanör-Falsterbo, or wherever
the hell you come from. You can lie in court, or anywhere else you like, but not here! And take your cap off, for Christ’s sake!”
Kvant removed his cap, clamped it tightly under his left arm, glanced at Kristiansson and said ambiguously:
“It was your fault, Kalle. If you hadn’t been so damned lazy …”
“But it was you who didn’t want us to go there at all,” said Kristiansson. “You said we’d heard nothing and you wanted to drive back and clock in. There was something wrong with the radio, you said.”
“That’s quite another matter,” said Kvant, shrugging. “No one can help it if there’s something wrong with the radio. That’s a circumstance outside the control of an ordinary policeman.”
Gunvald Larsson sat down again.
“Out with it now,” he said, laconically. “Quickly and simply.”
“I was driving,” said Kristiansson. “We received a radio message—”
“Very indistinctly,” Kvant interjected.
Gunvald Larsson gave him a withering look and said:
“No report-prose, thank you. And a lie doesn’t get any nearer the truth by half-repeating it.”
“Well,” said Kristiansson, anxiously, “we drove there, to that address, 37 Ringvägen, in Sundbyberg, and there was a fire engine there, but there was no fire, so it was nothing.”
“Except a false alarm, which you quite simply didn’t report, for Christ’s sake. Out of sheer idleness and stupidity. Is that right?”
“Yes,” mumbled Kristiansson.
“We were exhausted,” said Kvant, with a glimpse of hope. “By what?”
“Lengthy and demanding duty.”
“Christ, kiss my ass,” said Gunvald Larsson. “How many arrests had you made during your patrol?”
“None,” said Kristiansson.
Perhaps not so brilliant, but truthful, thought Gunvald Larsson.
“It was foul weather,” said Kvant. “Poor visibility.”
“We were just about to go off duty,” said Kristiansson, appealingly. “Our tour was over.”
“Siv was very ill,” said Kvant. “That’s my wife,” he added informatively.
“And there was nothing there,” repeated Kristiansson.
“No. Exactly,” said Gunvald Larsson mildly. “There was nothing. Nothing but the key evidence of a threefold murder.”