by Maj Sjowall
Skacke went into his room and began using the telephone. After a little while Månsson followed him. He stood with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, one shoulder propped against the doorpost.
“Have you given this any thought, Benny?” he said.
“Not very much,” said Skacke carefully. “It seems incredible, somehow.”
“Incredible is the word for it,” Månsson said.
“What I don’t get is the motive.”
“I don’t think we should give a damn about the motive until we get the details straight.”
The telephone rang. Skacke made a note.
“The person who shot Palmgren had only one chance in a thousand of making it out of the hotel dining room afterward. Up to the second the shot was fired, he acted like a fanatic.”
“Something like an assassination?”
“Right. And afterward? What happens? Miraculously enough he escapes, and then he doesn’t act like a fanatic any more, but panics.”
“Is that why you think he’s trying to leave town?”
“Partly. He walks in and shoots and doesn’t care what happens afterward. But then, like most criminals, he panics. He simply gets frightened and only wants to get away from there, as far and as fast as possible.”
That’s one theory, Skacke thought. Seems rather loosely founded, though.
But he said nothing.
“Of course it’s only a theory,” Månsson said. “A good detective can’t rely just on theories. But for the time being I don’t see any other line we can work on.”
The telephone rang.
Work, Månsson thought. What a helluva way to work.
And he was supposed to have a day off!
It was a rough night in the sense that nothing really happened. Some people who more or less fitted the description were stopped on the highways leading out of the city and at the train station. None of them seemed to have anything to do with the case, but their names were taken.
At twenty to one the last train left the station.
At quarter to two the police in Lund sent the message that Palmgren was alive.
At three o’clock another message came from the same source. Mrs. Palmgren was in shock, and it was difficult to question her thoroughly. However, she had seen the gunman clearly and was sure she didn’t recognize him.
“Seems on the job, that guy in Lund,” said Månsson with a yawn.
Just after four the Lund police got in touch again. The team of doctors treating Palmgren had decided for the present not to operate. The bullet had penetrated behind his left ear; it was impossible to tell what damage had been caused. The condition of the patient was reported to be as good as could be expected.
Månsson’s condition wasn’t good. Tired, his throat very dry, he went out to the washroom time after time to fill up on water.
“Is it possible for someone to live with a bullet in his head?” asked Skacke.
“Yes,” said Månsson, “it’s been done before. Sometimes it’s enclosed by the tissue, and the person recovers. If the doctors had tried to remove it, however, he probably would’ve died.”
Backlund had evidently stuck to the Savoy for a long time, for at four-thirty he called to say that he had blockaded and sealed off an area in anticipation of the technical squad’s investigation of the scene of the crime, which might take place in several hours, at the soonest.
“He wants to know if he’s needed here,” said Skacke, holding his hand over the receiver.
“The only place he could possibly be needed is at home in bed with his wife,” said Månsson.
Skacke conveyed the message but modified the wording somewhat. Soon after this Skacke said, “I think we can rule out Bulltofta. The last plane left at five after eleven. Nobody on board answered the description. The next one takes off at six-thirty. It’s been booked up since the day before yesterday, and there’s nobody on the waiting list.”
Månsson mulled over that for a while. “Hmm,” he said finally. “Guess I’ll call up somebody who sure isn’t going to like being dragged out of bed.”
“Who? The police chief?”
“No, he probably hasn’t slept any more than we have. By the way, where were you hiding out last night?”
“At the movies,” said Skacke. “You can’t sit home and study every night.”
“I’ve never sat home and studied,” said Månsson. “One of those hydrofoils left Malmö for Copenhagen at nine o’clock. Try to find out which one it was.”
That was an unexpectedly difficult task, and half an hour went by before Skacke could report, “It’s called Springeren, and right now it’s in Copenhagen. It’s unbelievable how sore some people get when you call and get them out of bed.”
“You can comfort yourself with the fact that I’ve got a much worse job now,” said Månsson.
He went into his room, picked up the telephone, dialed Denmark, 00945, and then the home number of Police Captain Mogensen, Danish Bureau of Investigation. He counted seventeen buzzes before a thick voice said, “Mogensen.”
“This is Per Månsson in Malmö.”
“What the hell do you want?” said Mogensen. “Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes,” said Månsson, “but this could be very important.”
“It’d better be goddamned important,” the Dane said threateningly.
“We had an attempted murder here in Malmö last night,” said Månsson. “There’s a chance that the gunman flew to Copenhagen. We have a description.”
Then he related the whole story, and Mogensen said bitterly, “For chrissake, do you think I can work miracles?”
“Why not?” said Månsson. “Let us know if you find out anything.”
“Go to hell,” said Mogensen in a surprisingly clear voice and slammed down the receiver.
Månsson shook himself, yawning.
Nothing happened.
Backlund called later to say that they’d begun investigating the scene of the crime. It was then eight o’clock.
“Hell, he’s really on the ball,” Månsson said.
“Where do we go from here?” asked Skacke.
“Nowhere. Wait.”
At twenty to nine Månsson’s private line rang. He lifted the receiver, listened for a minute or two, broke off the conversation without saying so much as thanks or good-bye and yelled to Skacke, “Call Stockholm. Right away.”
“What should I say?”
Månsson looked at the clock.
“That was Mogensen. He said a Swede who gave his name as Bengt Stensson bought a ticket from Kastrup to Stockholm last night and then waited stand-by for several hours. He finally got on an SAS flight that took off at eight twenty-five. The plane should have landed at Arlanda ten minutes ago at most. The guy might fit the description. I want the bus from the airport into the city stopped at the air terminal, and this man taken into custody.”
Skacke rushed to the telephone.
“Okay,” he said breathlessly half a minute later. “Stockholm will take care of it.”
“Who did you talk to?”
“Gunvald Larsson.”
“Oh, him.”
They waited.
After half an hour Skacke’s telephone rang. He yanked the receiver to his ear, listened and was left sitting with it in his hand. “They blew it,” he said.
“Oh,” Månsson said laconically.
But they’d had twenty minutes, he thought.
3
A similar expression was used in the main police station on Kungsholmsgatan in Stockholm.
“Well, they blew it,” said Einar Rönn, sticking his sweaty red face through a crack in the door to Gunvald Larsson’s room.
“Which one?” Gunvald Larsson asked absentmindedly.
He was thinking about something completely different, specifically three unusually brutal robberies in the subway the night before. Two rapes. Sixteen fights. This was Stockholm, quite a different place. Even though there were no murders last night, n
ot even a homicide. Thank god. How many burglaries or thefts had been committed, he didn’t know. Or how many addicts, sexual offenders, bootleggers and alcoholics the police had taken into custody. Or how many policemen had worked over presumably innocent people in patrol cars and local stations. Probably too many to count. He minded his own business.
Gunvald Larsson was a First Assistant Detective on the Assault and Battery Squad. Six foot three, strong as an ox, blond, blue-eyed, he was very snobbish for a policeman. This morning, for example, he was dressed in a pale gray, lightweight suit with matching tie, shoes and socks. He was an odd character; not many people liked him.
“You know, that bus to Haga air terminal,” Rönn said.
“Well, what about it? They blew it?”
“The patrolmen who were supposed to check the passengers didn’t get there soon enough. When they arrived the passengers had all got out and disappeared, and the bus had driven off.”
Finally switching his thoughts to the subject at hand, Gunvald Larsson glared at Rönn with his blue eyes and said, “What? But that’s impossible.”
“Unfortunately not,” said Rönn. “They just didn’t get there on time.”
“Have you gone crazy?”
“I’m not the one who was in charge of this,” Rönn said. “I wasn’t the one.”
He was calm and good-natured, originally from Arjeplog in the north of Sweden. Although he had lived in Stockholm for a long time, he still used some dialect.
Gunvald Larsson had received Skacke’s call quite by chance and considered checking this bus as a simple routine measure. He scowled angrily and said, “But goddammit, I called Solna promptly. The man on duty there said they had a patrol car on Karolinskavägen. It takes three minutes at most to drive to the air terminal from there. They had at least twenty minutes. What happened?”
“The guys in the car seem to have been detained on the way.”
“Detained?”
“Yes, they had to issue a warning. And when they got there the bus had already left.”
“A warning?”
Putting on his glasses, Rönn looked at the piece of paper he was holding in his hand. “Right. The bus’s name is Beata. Usually it comes from Bromma.”
“Beata? What kind of asshole has started giving names to busses?”
“Well, it’s not my fault,” Rönn said sedately.
“Do the geniuses in the patrol car have names, too?”
“Very likely. But I don’t know what they are.”
“Find out. For chrissake, if busses have names, patrolmen must have them too. Although really they should only have numbers.”
“Or symbols.”
“Symbols?”
“You know, like kids at nursery school. Like boats, cars, birds, mushrooms, bugs or dogs.”
“I’ve never been in a nursery school,” Gunvald Larsson said scornfully. “Now find out. That guy Månsson in Malmö is going to die laughing if there’s no reasonable explanation.”
Rönn left.
“Bugs or dogs,” Gunvald Larsson said to himself. And added, “Everybody’s crazy.”
Then he went back to the robberies in the subway, picking his teeth with the letter-opener.
After ten minutes Rönn came back, glasses on his red nose, paper in hand. “I’ve got it now,” he said. “Car three from the Solna police station. Patrolmen Karl Kristiansson and Kurt Kvant.”
Gunvald Larsson jerked forward suddenly, nearly committing suicide with the letter-opener. “Christ, I should have known. I’m hounded by those two idiots. They’re from Skåne, too. Get them over here on the double. We’ve got to straighten this thing out.”
Kristiansson and Kvant had a lot of explaining to do. Their story was complicated and not at all easy. Besides, they were scared to death of Gunvald Larsson and managed to postpone their visit to the police station on Kungsholmsgatan for nearly two hours. That was a mistake, for in the meantime Gunvald Larsson made successful inquiries on his own.
Finally they were standing there anyway, uniformed, proper, caps in hand. They were six foot one, blond and broad-shouldered, and looked woodenly at Gunvald Larsson with dull blue eyes. They were wondering to themselves why Gunvald Larsson would be the one to break the unwritten but golden rule that police aren’t supposed to criticize the actions of other policemen or to testify against each other.
“Good morning,” said Gunvald Larsson in a friendly manner. “Nice that you could make it.”
“Good morning,” said Kristiansson hesitantly.
“Hi,” said Kvant insolently.
Gunvald Larsson stared at him, sighed and said, “You were the ones who were supposed to check the passengers on that bus in Haga, weren’t you?”
“Yes,” said Kristiansson.
He reflected. Then he added, “But we got there late.”
“We couldn’t make it on time,” Kvant improved.
“I’ve gathered that,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I’ve also gathered that you were parked on Karolinskavägen when you got the call. Driving to the air terminal from there takes about two minutes, three at most. What make of car do you have?”
“A Plymouth,” Kristiansson said, squirming.
“A perch does a mile and a half an hour,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It’s the slowest fish there is. But still it could’ve easily covered that stretch in a shorter time than you did.”
He paused. Then roared, “Why the hell couldn’t you get there on time?”
“We had to caution somebody on the way,” said Kvant stiffly.
“A perch probably could have come up with a better explanation,” Gunvald Larsson said with resignation. “Well, what was this caution about?”
“We … were called names,” Kristiansson said feebly.
“Abuse of an officer of the law,” said Kvant emphatically.
“And how did that happen?”
“A man riding by on a bicycle shouted insults at us.”
Kvant was still acting the part while Kristiansson was standing saying nothing, but looking more and more uneasy.
“And that prevented you from carrying out the orders you’d just received?”
Kvant had the answer ready. “In an official statement, the National Chief of Police himself said that a complaint should definitely be brought against anyone who abuses an officer, especially an officer in uniform. A policeman can’t be made a laughing stock.”
“Is that so?” said Gunvald Larsson.
The two patrolmen glared at him unsympathetically.
He shrugged and went on: “Now I grant you that the potentate you mention is famous for his official statements, but I doubt that even he could have said anything so utterly stupid, for chrissake. Well, how did those insults go?”
“ ‘Pig!’ ” Kvant said.
“And you think you didn’t deserve that?”
“Absolutely not,” Kvant said.
Gunvald Larsson looked searchingly at Kristiansson, who shifted his weight and mumbled, “Yes, I suppose so.”
“Yeah,” Kvant said. “And even if Siv would say …”
“What is Siv?” said Gunvald Larsson. “Is that a bus, too?”
“My wife,” said Kvant.
Gunvald Larsson disentangled his fingers and put his enormous hairy hands on the desk top, palms down. “Here’s how it happened,” he said. “You were parked on Karolinskavägen. You had just gotten the alert. Then a man rode by on his bicycle and shouted ‘Pig!’ at you. You were obliged to caution him. And that’s why you didn’t make it to the air terminal on time.”
“That’s right,” said Kvant.
“Yeeaah,” said Kristiansson.
Gunvald Larsson watched them for a long time. Finally he said in a low voice, “Is that true?”
No one answered. Kvant began to look apprehensive. Kristiansson nervously fingered his pistol holster with one hand, wiping the sweat off his forehead with his cap.
Gunvald Larsson remained quiet for a long time, letting the silence d
eepen. Suddenly he raised his arms and slammed his palms down on the table, with a smack that made the whole room shake.
“It’s a lie,” he shouted. “Every single word is a lie; and you know it, too. You’d stopped at a drive-in. One of you was standing outside the car eating a hot dog. As you said, a man rode by on a bicycle and someone shouted something at you. But it wasn’t the man who shouted, it was his son who was sitting in the kiddie carrier on the back of the bike. And he didn’t yell ‘Pig!’ but ‘Daddy, this little pig …’ He is only three years old. He plays with his toes, for chrissake.”
Gunvald Larsson broke off abruptly.
By now Kristiansson and Kvant were as red as beets. At long last Kristiansson mumbled indistinctly, “How on earth did you know?”
Gunvald Larsson looked piercingly from one to the other. “All right, who was eating the hot dog?” he asked.
“Not me,” said Kristiansson.
“You sonovabitch,” Kvant whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Well, let me answer the question for you,” Gunvald Larsson said tiredly. “The man on the bicycle simply wouldn’t let two idots in uniform bawl him out for more than fifteen minutes for something a three-year-old happened to say. So he called here to complain and had every right to do so. Especially since there were witnesses.”
Kristiansson nodded glumly.
Kvant tried to make a final defense: “It’s easy to hear the wrong thing when you’ve got your mouth full of …”
Gunvald Larsson cut him off by raising his right hand.
He pulled over his notepad, took a pencil out of his inside pocket and printed in large letters, “GO TO HELL!” He tore off the page and shoved it across the desk. Kristiansson took the sheet, glanced at it, turned a deeper shade of red and gave it to Kvant.
“I can’t bear to say it one more time,” Gunvald Larsson said.
Kristiansson and Kvant took the message and left.
4
Martin Beck didn’t know anything about all that. He was in his office at the South police station on Västberga Allé, working on quite different problems. He had pushed back his chair and was sitting with his legs outstretched and his feet on the lower desk drawer, which he’d drawn halfway out. He bit down on the filter tip of a newly-lit Florida, thrust his hands deep into his pants pockets and squinted out the window. He was thinking.