by Maj Sjowall
At the table three windows away a diner in his fifties became rigid and stared with amazement, a glass of whisky halfway to his mouth. In front of him was a book that he had been pretending to read.
The man with the suntan and the dark-blue shantung suit was not dead.
Stirring, he said, “Ow! It hurts.”
Dead people don’t usually complain. Besides, it didn’t even look as if he were bleeding.
2
Per Månsson was sitting in his bachelor den on Regementsgatan, talking to his wife on the telephone. He was a Detective Inspector with the Malmö police force, and although he was married, he lived as a bachelor five days out of the week. For more than ten years he’d spent every free weekend with his wife—an arrangement which had so far satisfied both of them.
He cradled the receiver with his left shoulder while he mixed a Gripenberger with his right hand. It was his favorite drink, consisting simply of a jigger of gin, crushed ice and grape soda in a big tumbler.
His wife, who’d been to the movies, was telling him the plot of Gone With the Wind.
It took some time, but Månsson listened patiently, because as soon as she had finished the story he planned to ward off their usual weekend get-together with the excuse that he had to work. Which was a lie.
It was twenty minutes after nine in the evening.
Månsson was sweating in spite of his light clothing—a fishnet undershirt and checkered shorts. He had closed the balcony door at the beginning of the conversation so that he wouldn’t be disturbed by the rumble of the traffic from the street. Although the sun had long ago sunk behind the roofs of the buildings across the street, it was very warm in the room.
He stirred his drink with a fork, which he was embarrassed to admit had been either stolen or taken by accident from a restaurant called “Översten.” Månsson wondered if a person could take a fork by accident and said, “Yes, I see. It was Leslie Howard then who … No, huh? Clark Gable? Uh-hmm …”
Five minutes later she’d got to the end. He delivered his white lie and hung up.
The telephone rang. Månsson didn’t answer immediately. He was off work and wanted to keep it that way. He slowly drained his Gripenberger. Watching the evening sky darken, he lifted the receiver and answered, “Månsson.”
“This is Nilsson. That was a helluva long conversation. I’ve been trying to get you for half an hour.”
Nilsson was an Assistant Detective, on duty that night at the central police station on Davidshall Square. Månsson sighed.
“Well?” he said. “What’s up?”
“A man has been shot in the dining room at the Savoy. I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to get over there.”
The glass was empty but still cold. Månsson picked it up and rolled it against his forehead with the palm of his hand.
“Is he dead?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” said Nilsson.
“Can’t you send Skacke?”
“He’s off. Impossible to get hold of. I’ll keep looking for him. Backlund is there now, but you probably ought to …”
Månsson gave a start and put down the glass.
“Backlund? Okay, I’ll leave right away,” he said.
He promptly called a taxi, then put the receiver on the table. While dressing, he listened to the rasping voice from the receiver mechanically repeating the words “Taxi Central, one moment please” until his call was finally put through to the operator.
Outside the Savoy Hotel several police cars were carelessly parked, and two patrolmen were blocking the entrance from a growing crowd of curious evening strollers jammed together at the bottom of the stairs.
Månsson took in the scene as he paid for the cab, put the receipt in his pocket, observed that one of the patrolmen was being rather brusque and reflected that it wouldn’t be long before Malmö’s police force had as bad a reputation as their colleagues in Stockholm.
He said nothing, however, only nodded as he walked past the uniformed patrolmen into the lobby. It was noisy there now. The hotel’s entire staff had gathered and were chatting with each other and with some customers streaming out of the grill. Several policemen completed the picture. They seemed at a loss, unfamiliar with the surroundings. Evidently no one had told them how to act or what to expect.
Månsson was a big man in his fifties. He was dressed casually in dacron pants and sandals, with his shirt out. He took a toothpick from his breast pocket, pulled off the paper wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. As he chewed, he methodically took stock of the situation. The toothpick was American, menthol-flavored; he’d picked it up on the train ferry Malmöhus, which provides such things for its passengers.
Standing by the door leading to the large dining room was a patrolman named Elofsson, whom Månsson thought was a little smarter than the others.
He walked over to him and said, “What’s the story?”
“Looks like someone’s been shot.”
“Have you had any instructions?”
“Not a word.”
“What’s Backlund doing?”
“Questioning witnesses.”
“Where’s the man who was shot?”
“At the hospital, I guess.”
Elofsson turned slightly red. Then he said, “The ambulance got here before the police, obviously.”
Månsson sighed and went into the dining room.
Backlund was standing by the table with the gleaming silver tureens questioning a waiter. He was an elderly man with glasses and ordinary features. Somehow he’d managed to become a First Assistant Detective. He was holding his notebook open in his hand, busily taking notes. Månsson stopped within hearing distance, but said nothing.
“And at what time did this happen?”
“Uh, about eight-thirty.”
“About?”
“Well, I don’t know for sure.”
“In other words, you don’t know what time it was.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Rather odd,” said Backlund.
“What?”
“I said, it seems rather odd. You have a wrist watch, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And there is a clock on the wall over there, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Yes, but …”
“But what?”
“Both of them are wrong. Anyway, I didn’t think of looking at the clock.”
Backlund appeared overwhelmed by the response. He put down the pad and pencil and began to clean his glasses. He took a deep breath, grabbed the notebook and started writing again.
“Even though you had two clocks at your disposal, you still didn’t know what time it was.”
“Well, kind of.”
“We’ve got no use for ‘kind of’ answers.”
“But the clocks aren’t synchronized. Mine’s fast, and the clock over there’s slow.”
Backlund consulted his Ultratron. “Odd,” he said, writing something down.
Månsson wondered what.
“So, you were standing here when the criminal walked by?”
“Yes.”
“Can you give me as full a description as possible?”
“I didn’t really get a good look at him.”
“You didn’t see the gunman?” said Backlund, startled.
“Well, ves, when he climbed out the window.”
“What did he look like?”
“I don’t know. It was pretty far away, and that table was hidden by the pillar.”
“You mean you don’t know what he looked like?”
“Not really.”
“How was he dressed then?”
“In a brown sport coat, I think.”
“Think.”
“Yeah. I only saw him for a second.”
“What else did he have on? Try pants, for example.”
“Sure, he had pants on.”
“Are you certain?”
“Well, it sure would have seemed a little … like you said, odd, oth
erwise. If he hadn’t had any pants on, I mean.”
Backlund wrote furiously. Månsson started chewing on the other end of the toothpick and quietly said, “Say, Backlund?”
The other man turned around and glared.
“I’m in the middle of questioning an important witness …”
He broke off and said sullenly, “Oh, so it’s you.”
“What’s going on?”
“A man was shot in here,” said Backlund in great earnest. “And you know who?”
“No.”
“Viktor Palmgren. The corporation president.” Backlund laid heavy stress on the label.
“Oh, him,” said Månsson. And thought, this’ll be a helluva time. Aloud he said, “It happened over an hour ago and the gunman climbed out the window and got away.”
“It may look that way.”
Backlund never took anything for granted.
“Why are there six police cars outside?”
“I had them close off the area.”
“The whole block?”
“The scene of the crime,” said Backlund.
“Get rid of everybody in uniform,” Månsson said wearily. “It can’t be very pleasant for the hotel to have police swarming around in the foyer and out on the street. Besides, they must be needed more some place else. Then try to get up a description. There has to be a better witness than this guy.”
“Naturally, we’ll question everybody,” said Backlund.
“All in due time,” said Månsson. “But don’t detain anyone who doesn’t have something crucial to say. Just take names and addresses.”
Backlund looked at him suspiciously and said, “What are you planning to do?”
“Make some telephone calls,” said Månsson.
“Who to?”
“The newspapers, to find out what’s happened.”
“Was that supposed to be a joke?” said Backlund coldly.
“Right,” said Månsson absentmindedly and looked around.
Journalists and photographers were roaming around in the dining room. Some of them must have been there long before the police, and one or more had been on the spot in the grill or the bar when the famous shot was fired. Probably. If Månsson’s suspicions proved correct.
“But the manual requires …,” Backlund began.
Just then Benny Skacke hurried into the dining room. He was thirty years old, and already an Assistant Detective. Previously he had been with the National Homicide Squad in Stockholm, but had asked to be transferred after taking a rather foolish risk that had almost cost the life of one of his superiors. He was dedicated, conscientious, somewhat naive. Månsson liked him.
“Skacke can help you,” he said.
“A Stockholmer,” said Backlund skeptically.
“Right,” said Månsson. “And don’t forget that description. That’s all that matters now.”
He threw his shredded toothpick into an ashtray, went out into the lobby and headed for the telephone across from the reception desk.
Månsson made five calls in rapid succession. Then he shook his head and went into the bar.
“Well, look who’s here!” said the bartender.
“How’s it going?” Månsson said and sat down.
“What can we give you today? The usual?”
“No. Just a grape soda. I’ve got to think.”
Sometimes everything gets messed up, Månsson thought. This case had really got off to a bad start. In the first place, Viktor Palmgren was important and well known. True, it was hard to tell exactly why, but one thing was certain—he had plenty of money, at least a million. The fact that he had been shot down in one of the most famous restaurants in Europe didn’t help matters. This case would attract a lot of attention and could have far-reaching consequences. Immediately after the shooting, the hotel personnel had carried the wounded man out to a TV lounge and fixed a makeshift stretcher. They’d alerted the police and an ambulance at the same time. The ambulance had come very quickly, picked up the wounded man and taken him to General Hospital. For a while there had been no sign of the police. In spite of the fact that a patrol car had been parked at the railroad station—in other words, less than 200 yards from the scene of the crime. How had that happened? He had received the explanation now, but it wasn’t especially flattering to the police. The call had been misinterpreted at first, the case judged to be less urgent than others. The two patrolmen at the train station had therefore spent their time picking up a completely harmless drunk. Only after the police had been alerted a second time had cars and uniformed men been dispatched to the hotel, with Backlund fearlessly in the lead. What had then been undertaken in the way of investigation seemed totally slipshod. Månsson himself had sat rehashing Gone With the Wind with his wife for more than forty minutes. Besides that, he’d had two drinks and been forced to wait for a taxi. When the first policeman arrived, half an hour had passed since the shot was fired. As to Viktor Palmgren’s condition, the situation was equally unclear. He had been examined at the emergency ward in Malmö, then referred to a neurosurgeon in Lund, about fifteen miles away. At this very second the ambulance was still on its way. One of the most important witnesses, Palmgren’s wife, was also in the ambulance. She’d probably sat across from him at the table and had been the person most likely to get a close look at the gunman.
An hour had already gone by. An hour wasted, and every second of it was precious.
Månsson shook his head again and glanced at the clock above the bar. Nine-thirty.
Backlund marched into the bar, followed closely by Skacke.
“And you just sit here?” Backlund said, quite surprised.
He strained his eyes to stare at Månsson.
“How’s the description coming?” said Månsson. “We’ve got to get a move on.”
Backlund fumbled with his notebook, put it on the bar, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.
“Listen,” Skacke said quickly, “this is the best we can come up with right now. Medium tall, thin face, thin dark brown hair, combed back. Brown sport coat, pastel shirt, dark gray pants, black or brown shoes. Age about forty.”
“Fine,” said Månsson. “Send it out. Right away. Block all main roads, check out trains, planes and boats.”
“Right,” said Skacke.
“I want him to stay in town,” said Månsson. Skacke left.
Backlund put on his glasses, stared at Månsson and repeated his pertinent question, “And you just sit here?”
Then he looked at the glass, saying with even greater astonishment, “Drinking?”
Månsson didn’t reply.
Backlund turned his attention to the clock over the bar, compared it with his watch and said, “That clock’s wrong.”
“Of course,” the bartender said. “It’s fast. A little service for guests who’re in a hurry to catch a train or boat.”
“Hmm,” Backlund said. “We’ll never get this figured out. How can we determine the correct time when we can’t rely on the clock?”
“It won’t be too easy,” Månsson said absentmindedly.
Skacke came back.
“Well, that’s done,” he said.
“Probably too late,” Månsson said.
“What in the world are you talking about?” Backlund said, seizing his notepad. “About this waiter …”
Dismissing him with a gesture, Månsson said, “Wait. We’ll take that later. Benny, go call the police in Lund and ask them to send a man to the neurosurgeon at the hospital. The man they send should have a tape recorder with him so he can take down anything Palmgren says. If and when he regains consciousness. He’ll have to question Mrs. Palmgren, too.”
Skacke departed again.
“About this special waiter. I’d say he wouldn’t have noticed a thing if Dracula himself had fluttered through the dining room,” the bartender said.
Irritated, Backlund kept quiet. Månsson waited to say anything else until Skacke came back. Since Backlund was officially Ska
cke’s superior, he carefully addressed his question to both of them.
“Who do you two think is the best witness?”
“A guy named Edvardsson,” said Skacke. “He was sitting only three tables away. But …”
“But what?”
“He isn’t sober.”
“Liquor’s a curse,” Backlund said.
“Okay, we wait with him until tomorrow,” said Månsson. “Who can drop me off at headquarters?”
“I can,” said Skacke.
“I’ll stay here,” Backlund said stubbornly. “This is officially my case.”
“Sure,” said Månsson. “We’ll be seeing you.”
In the car he mumbled, “Trains and boats …”
“Do you think he’s gotten out of here?” asked Skacke hesitantly.
“He could have left. Any way you look at it, we’ve got a whole lot of people to call. And we can’t worry about waking anybody up.”
Skacke looked sideways at Månsson, who was taking out another toothpick. The car swung into the courtyard of the main police station.
“Planes,” Månsson said to himself. “It could be a rough night.”
The station seemed large, grim and very empty at this time of day. It was an impressive building. Their steps echoed desolately on the broad stone staircase.
By nature, Månsson was as slow-moving as he was tall. He detested rough nights, and besides, most of his career was behind him.
The opposite was true of Skacke. He was twenty years younger, thought about his career a lot and was eager and ambitious. But his previous experience as a policeman had made him careful, anxious to do what was expected.
So, in fact, they complemented each other quite well.
Inside his room Månsson immediately opened the window, which faced the station’s asphalt courtyard. Then he sank down in his desk chair and sat silently for several minutes, reflectively spinning the platen on his old Underwood.
Finally he said, “Get all the radio messages and calls sent up here. Take them on your telephone.”
Skacke had a room on the other side of the corridor, across from Månsson.
“You can leave the doors open,” Månsson said.
And after several seconds he added with mild irony, “That way we’ll have a real tracking center.”