The Fire Engine that Disappeared

by Maj Sjowall

  The first door was opened by a lady with henna-colored hair, and glasses with green plastic frames. Her hair was gray at the roots and she looked about sixty. Skacke repeated his piece twice before she understood what he wanted.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “I rent one of my rooms. That is, I used to before. A foreigner, did you say? At the beginning of March? Let me see. Yes, I think it was the beginning of March when that Frenchman lived here. Or was he an Arab? I don’t really remember.”

  You could have knocked Skacke down with a feather by this time.

  “Arab?” he repeated. “What language did he speak, then?”

  “Swedish, though not all that well, of course. But enough so that one could understand him.”

  “Can you remember exactly when he lived here?”

  Skacke had not looked at the name plate on the door before ringing and now he leaned to one side pretending to blow his nose as he glanced at the plate above the letterbox. He just had time to see the name Borg before the woman opened the door wide and said:

  “Won’t you come in?”

  He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him. The red-haired lady went ahead of him into the apartment. She pointed to a blue plush-covered sofa over by the window and Skacke sat down. The woman went over to a desk, opened one of the drawers and took out a cash-book with a reddish-brown cover.

  “I can soon tell you when it was,” she said, leafing through the book. “I always put the rent down here and that man was the last to take the room, so it shouldn’t be difficult … here it is. On the fourth of March, he paid in advance for a week. But strangely enough, he moved out earlier, after four days. The eighth, that is. He didn’t ask for any money back for the remaining three days.”

  She took the book with her and sat down at the table in front of the sofa.

  “It was funny, I thought. Why do you want him? What has he done?”

  “We’re looking for a person who can perhaps help us with an investigation,” said Skacke. “What was his name?”

  “Alfonse Lasalle.”

  She pronounced the e in both Alfonse and Lasalle, from which Skacke deduced that she was not very conversant with the French language. Neither was he, for that matter.

  “How did it happen that you rented your room to him in particular?” asked Skacke.

  “How did it happen? Well, I rented one of my rooms, as I told you. That was before my husband was taken ill and had to be home in the daytime. He didn’t want strangers in the house then, so I told the agency to take us off the register until further notice.”

  “So you received tenants through an agency? What was it called?”

  “Svea Agency. It’s in Sveavägen. They’ve been getting tenants for us since 1962, when we first got the apartment here.”

  Skacke took out his notebook and pen. The woman looked on inquisitively as he wrote.

  “What did he look like?” he asked, holding his pen poised in readiness.

  The woman tilted her head and looked up at the ceiling.

  “Well, how can I put it,” she said. “He looked Mediterranean. Dark and rather small. Thick black hair, which grew down his forehead and at his temples. A little taller than me; I’m five foot five. Rather big nose, a little hooked, and quite straight black eyebrows. Quite powerful, but not fat.”

  “How old do you think he was?”

  “Well, thirty-five or so, I should think, perhaps forty. Difficult to say.”

  “Anything else that you remember about his appearance? Or anything special otherwise?”

  She thought for a moment and then shook her head.

  “I don’t think so. He wasn’t here very long, you see. He was polite and seemed well brought-up. Neatly dressed.”

  “How did he speak?”

  “He had an accent like a foreigner, you know. It sounded rather funny.”

  “Can you describe his accent a bit more? Do you remember anything special that he said?”

  “We—ell, I don’t know. He said Mizziz instead of Missis and café when he meant coffee. It’s difficult to remember after such a long time and I can’t imitate accents very well.”

  Skacke wondered what he ought to ask next. He bit his pen and looked at the red-haired woman.

  “What did he do here? Was he a tourist or was he working? What times did he keep?”

  “That’s hard to say,” said Mrs. Borg. “He didn’t have much luggage, just one case. And he went out sometime in the morning and mostly didn’t come back until late in the evening. Of course, he had his own key, so I didn’t always know when he came in. He was very quiet and discreet.”

  “Do you usually allow your tenants to use the telephone? Did he make any calls?”

  “Not really, allow them to use it, I mean, but if someone had to make a call then of course he could do so. But this Lasalle never did, as far as I know.”

  “Might he have used the phone without your noticing. Late at night, for instance?”

  “Not late at night, anyhow. I’ve jacks in the hall and in our bedroom and I always move the telephone in there at night.”

  “Do you remember when he came home on the seventh of March? The last night he was here?”

  The woman took off her unbecoming glasses, looked at them, rubbed them on her skirt and then put them on again.

  “The last evening,” she said. “I don’t think I heard him come in then. I usually go to bed at half-past ten or thereabouts, but I’m not absolutely certain about that night.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to think about it, Mrs. Borg, and I can get in touch with you again and ask you if you remember anything else,” said Skacke.

  “Yes, certainly,” she said. “I’ll do that.”

  He put the telephone number down in his black notebook.

  “Mrs. Borg, you said earlier that Lasalle was your last tenant,” he said.

  “Yes, that’s right. Only a few days after he moved out, Josef was taken ill. That’s my husband. I had to phone and cancel someone I’d promised the room to.”

  “May I look at the room?”

  “Certainly.”

  She got up and showed him the way. The door to the room was in the hall, opposite the outer door. The room was about 15 feet square and high, and contained a bed, a bedside table, an ordinary table, two chairs, an armchair, a small desk and a large old-fashioned wardrobe with oval mirrors in the doors.

  “The toilet is just next door,” said the woman. “My husband and I have our bathroom adjoining our bedroom.

  Skacke nodded and looked around. The room was as impersonal as a third-rate hotel room. On the table by the armchair was a checked linen cloth, and on the desk an inky blotter. Two prints and a wreath of artificial flowers hung on the walls. The rug, bedspread and curtains were thin and faded after much laundering.

  Skacke went across to the window, which faced the street. He could see the telephone booth on the corner and the wastepaper basket into which he had thrown the Norwegian’s beer bottle. Farther down the street, the clock outside a watchmaker’s showed ten past three. He looked at his own watch. It was ten past three.

  Benny Skacke took a hasty farewell of Mrs. Borg and raced down the stairs, two steps at a time. In the entrance, he remembered something, rushed into the elevator and went up to the fifth floor again. The woman looked at him in surprise, evidently not expecting him back quite so soon.

  “Have you cleaned the room, Mrs. Borg,” he asked breathlessly.

  “Cleaned? Of course, I’ve—”

  “Dusted and polished? Furniture and all?”

  “We-ell I usually clean up just before a guest comes to live in it. There’s no point in doing it all that thoroughly before that. The room may stand empty for several days, weeks sometimes, so I usually strip the bed, empty the ashtray and air the room after someone moves out. What do you mean? Why do you ask?”

  “Please don’t touch anything. We must come back and see if there are any clues. Fingerprints and all that.”


  She promised not to go into the room again. Skacke said goodbye and raced headlong down the stairs again.

  He ran to his delayed meeting with Monica, wondering at the same time if he had got a bite at last.

  When he arrived at the restaurant where Monica had been waiting for twenty-five minutes, in his thoughts he had already been promoted and was yet one more step on toward becoming Chief of Police.

  But in Kungsholmsgatan, Gunvald Larsson said:

  “What was he wearing?”

  And ten seconds later:

  “What kind of overcoat did he have? Suit? Shoes? Socks? Shirt? Tie? Did he use hair oil? What were his teeth like? Did he smoke? In that case what and how much? What did his bedclothes look like when he’d slept in them? Did he sleep in pajamas or a nightshirt? Did she give him coffee in the morning? For instance.”

  And after another thirty seconds:

  “Why didn’t that fool of a woman send in a registration card as usual when she had a foreigner living with her? Did she look at his passport? Did you frighten the old bitch properly?”

  Skacke gave him a shattered look and turned around to go.

  “Stop a minute, Racky.”

  “Yes.”

  “Get one of those fingerprint boys there immediately.”

  Skacke went.

  “Fool!” said Gunvald Larsson to the closed door.

  They found several fingerprints in the room in Sundbyberg. When they had eliminated all those that were Mrs. Borg’s and Skacke’s, three were left, one of which was a thumbprint preserved in thick greasy hair oil.

  On Tuesday, the twenty-first of May, they sent out copies of the fingerprints to Interpol. What else could they do?

  25

  On the Monday after Ascension Day, Martin Beck called up Malmö and asked how things were going.

  Hammar was standing 6 feet away from him and had just said:

  “Call up Malmö and ask how things are going.”

  He regretted asking the moment he heard Månsson’s voice, for suddenly he remembered the innumerable times over the years when he himself had been the recipient of the same idiotic question. From people in more senior Positions. From the press. From his wife. From foolish colleagues. From inquisitive acquaintances. How are things going?

  Nevertheless, he cleared his throat and said:

  “Hi. How are things going?”

  “We-ell,” said Månsson. “When I’ve anything to tell you, I’ll let you know.”

  Which was, naturally, the reply he deserved.

  “Ask him if there are any further developments generally speaking,” said Hammar.

  “Are there any further developments generally speaking?” said Martin Beck.

  “On Olofsson?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who’s that mumbling away in the background?”

  “Hammar.”

  “Uhuh,” said Månsson. “So it’s like that is it?”

  “Ask him if he’s taken the international aspect into consideration,” said Hammar.

  “Have you taken the international aspect into consideration?” said Martin Beck.

  “Yes,” said Månsson. “I’ve taken that into consideration.”

  There was a moment’s silence. Martin Beck coughed embarrassedly. Hammar went out and slammed the door behind him.

  “Has he gone now?” said Månsson.

  “Yes. Listen, I don’t really want—”

  “Uhuh,” said Månsson. “I’m used to that sort of stuff. About Olofsson …”

  “Yes?”

  “He was obviously not very well known down here. But I’ve a couple of bites. People who at least know who he was. They didn’t like him. Say he was a big-mouth and all that. Think he was …”

  Månsson fell silent again.

  “Yes?”

  “The usual damned snotty Stockholmer,” said Månsson emphatically, in a tone of voice which implied that the expression to some extent met with his approval.

  “Did they know what he was up to?”

  “Yes and no. You see, among all my contacts, I’ve only found two who knew Olofsson by name and who admit that they’ve met him a few times. They say he smuggled drugs, but not on a large scale. He appeared down here now and again and they met him only sporadically. They got the impression that he was usually coming from Stockholm when he came here. He was always driving a new car and shot his mouth off a lot, but didn’t seem to have all that much money. He was seldom here in Malmö more than a day or two, but he might appear for several days in a row. None of these guys seems to have met him the last time. One of them was inside anyhow last winter and didn’t come out until April.”

  Silence. Martin Beck said nothing. At long last Månsson began to speak again.

  “Well, this isn’t by any means cleared up yet, so it’s hardly worth telling you what little I know. I’ve quite a bit of information, but none of it hangs together. Some of it I got from these two contacts and some I’ve rooted out for myself.”

  “Yes, I understand,” said Martin Beck.

  “He often went to Poland,” said Månsson. “That’s clear. The suit he was wearing came from there, by the way.”

  “Which means he presumably sold the cars there?”

  “Yes, possibly,” said Månsson. “But the question is whether we’re any the wiser for that. More important is …”

  He stopped.

  “What?”

  “That Malm and Olofsson met here on different occasions seems to be a fact too. Anyhow, they were seen together here.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  “Yes, but not this year. Malm was better known here than Olofsson. And people liked him better. Both my informers have met them together at least once or twice and they got the impression they were working together.… Well, that wasn’t what I meant. Which was important, I mean.”

  “Wasn’t it?”

  “There’s a lot that’s obscure,” said Månsson hesitantly. “For instance, Olofsson must have lived somewhere while he was here. Either rented a room or lived with someone. But I haven’t been able to find out where or with whom.”

  “No, it won’t be that easy.”

  “Oh, well, I’ll find out, I expect. In time. Where Malm hung out when he was here, I do know. He used to stay at small flop houses down on the west side. Round about Västergatan and Mäster Johansgatan, you know.”

  Martin Beck did not know Malmö well and the places meant nothing to him.

  “Good,” he said, for lack of anything better to say.

  “Oh, that was easy,” said Månsson. “I don’t think it’s important. This other thing, on the other hand.”

  Martin Beck began to feel slightly irritated.

  “What other thing?”

  “Well, where Olofsson lived.”

  “Perhaps he stayed a few hours, now and again. On his way through, or to meet up with Malm.”

  “We-ell,” said Månsson. “I don’t think so. He had a lair somewhere. But where?”

  “How the hell would I know? And how do you know, anyhow?”

  “He had a dame here,” said Månsson.

  “What? A girl?”

  “Yes. Exactly. He’s been seen with her several times, on widely different occasions, timewise. First time at least eighteen months ago, and last time that I know of just before Christmas.”

  “We must find her.”

  “That’s just what I’m doing now,” said Månsson. “I know a bit about her, what she looks like and all that, but I don’t know her name or where she lives.”

  He was silent for a moment. Then he said:

  “Strange.”

  “What is?”

  “That I can’t find her. If she’s around here in town, then I ought to be able to get hold of her.”

  “I can think of plenty of explanations,” said Martin Beck. “Perhaps she’s not from Malmö. A Stockholm girl, for instance. Perhaps she’s not even Swedish.”

  “We-ell,” said Månsson. “I think she’s from h
ere. Well, we’ll see. I’ll get hold of her.”

  “D’you think so?”

  “Yes, sure. But it may take some time. I’m going on vacation in June, by the way.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Martin Beck.

  “Yes. But after that I’ll go on looking for her, of course,” said Månsson quietly. “When I find her, I’ll let you know. That’s it for now.”

  “Bye,” said Martin Beck automatically.

  He remained sitting with the telephone receiver in his hand for a long time, although the other man had already hung up. He sighed and blew his nose.

  Månsson was clearly a person it was wise to leave alone to do things his own way.

  26

  On Saturday the first of June, Månsson flew to Rumania with his wife. He had marked down his three-week vacation with great care and did not come back until after the Midsummer holiday, on Monday the twenty-fourth, to be exact.

  He must have taken his knowledge of the case of the drowned man with him, as well as his thoughts and possible theories on Olofsson’s life and miserable activities, for in general nothing much was heard from Malmö, and literally nothing of interest to Martin Beck.

  Månsson was by no means the only person on leave in June. Despite diverse obscure intimations that the police ought not perhaps to take their vacations until after the elections, the force had thinned out, or at least those in command had, with astonishing swiftness. General elections were to be held in September, so July and August could be expected to be trying months and most policemen attempted to transform their regulation holidays from theory into practice. Melander retreated to his cottage on Värmdö and Gunvald Larsson and Rönn discreetly disappeared to Arjeplog where they allowed themselves to be illuminated by the midnight sun and spent the fine summer nights fishing.

  They talked mostly about grayling and salmon-trout and different kinds of flies and bait. Now and again Rönn’s face might suddenly cloud over and he did not reply when spoken to. On these occasions, he was thinking about the fire engine that had disappeared, but he never mentioned it.