Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  “Sure.”

  They studied it together.

  Viktor Palmgren, executive, Malmö, 56

  Charlotte Palmgren, housewife, Malmö, 32

  Hampus Broberg, district manager, Stockholm, 43

  Helena Hansson, executive secretary, Stockholm, 26

  Ole Hoff-Jensen, district manager, Copenhagen, 48

  Birthe Hoff-Jensen, housewife, Copenhagen, 43

  Mats Linder, vice-president, Malmö, 30

  “All of them must work for Palmgren’s companies,” said Månsson.

  “It looks like it,” said Skacke. “They’ll have to be questioned thoroughly once more, of course.”

  Månsson sighed and thought about the geographical distribution. The Jensen couple had already returned to Denmark the previous evening. Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson had taken the morning flight to Stockholm, and Charlotte Palmgren was at her husband’s bedside at the clinic in Lund. Only Mats Linder was still in Malmö. And they couldn’t even be really sure of that. As Palmgren’s second in command, he traveled a lot.

  Thus the day’s misfortunes seemed to culminate in the message of death, which reached them at a quarter to eight and which at once transformed the case into murder.

  But it was to get worse.

  It was ten-thirty and they sat drinking coffee, hollow-eyed and weary. The telephone rang and Månsson answered.

  “Yes, this is Detective Inspector Månsson.”

  And immediately afterwards:

  “I see.”

  He repeated the phrase three times before he said good-bye and hung up.

  He looked at Skacke and said, “This isn’t our case any more. They’re sending a man down from the National Homicide Squad.”

  “Not Kollberg,” Skacke said anxiously.

  “No, it’ll be the one and only Beck. He’s coming tomorrow morning.”

  “What’ll we do now?”

  “Go home to bed,” said Månsson and stood up.

  6

  When the plane from Stockholm landed at Bulltofta, Martin Beck didn’t feel very well.

  He’d always had a distinct aversion to flying, and inasmuch as this Friday morning he was also suffering from the effects of the party the night before, the trip had been particularly unpleasant.

  The hot, heavy air struck him when he came out of the relatively cool cabin, and he began to sweat even before he’d finished walking down the steps. The asphalt felt soft under his shoe soles as he walked toward the domestic arrivals building.

  The air in the taxi was sweltering despite the open window, and the imitation leather covering on the back seat felt red-hot through the thin cloth of his shirt.

  He knew that Månsson was waiting for him at the police station, but he decided to go to the hotel first to shower and change. This time he had reserved a room not at the St. Jörgen’s, as he usually did, but at the Savoy.

  The doorman greeted him so exuberantly that for an instant Martin Beck suspected that he was being confused with a long-lost guest of great importance.

  The room was airy and cool, facing north. From the window he could see the canal and the railway station and beyond the harbor and Kockum’s wharf, a white hydrofoil, which was just disappearing into the pale blue haze on its way over the Sound to Copenhagen.

  Martin Beck undressed and walked around the room naked while he unpacked his suitcase. Then he went into the bathroom and took a long, cold shower.

  He put on clean underclothes and a fresh shirt, and when he had finished dressing he noticed that the time on the clock at the train station was twelve exactly. He took a cab to the main police station and walked directly up to Månsson’s room.

  Månsson had the windows wide open onto the courtyard, which lay in shadow at this time of day. He was in shirt sleeves, drinking beer while he leafed through a bundle of papers.

  After they had greeted each other, and Martin Beck had taken off his suitcoat, settled down in the extra armchair and lit a Florida, Månsson handed him the bundle of papers.

  “For a start you can take a look at this report. As you’ll see, the whole thing was handled horribly from the very beginning.”

  Martin Beck read through the papers carefully and now and then put questions to Månsson, who filled in with details that weren’t in the report. Månsson also recounted Rönn’s slightly modified version of Kristiansson’s and Kvant’s behavior on Karolinskavägen. Gunvald Larsson had refused to have anything more to do with the case.

  When Martin Beck had finished reading, he laid the transcripts on the table in front of him and said, “It’s obvious that we’ll have to first concentrate on questioning the witnesses properly. This really hasn’t been very productive. What do they mean, anyway, by this curious phrase?”

  He hunted out a piece of paper and read, “ ‘The deviation from the correct time of various clocks existent on the scene of the crime at the moment of the commission of the crime …’ Does that mean anything?”

  Månsson shrugged.

  “That’s Backlund,” he said. “You’ve met Backlund?”

  “Oh, him. I see,” said Martin Beck.

  He had met Backlund. Once. Several years ago. That was enough.

  A car drove into the courtyard and stopped below the window. Then noises were heard, car doors being slammed shut, people running and loud voices shouting something in German.

  Månsson got up slowly and looked out.

  “They must have made a clean sweep on Gustav Adolf Square,” he said, “or down by the wharves. We’ve stepped up surveillance there, but it’s mostly teenagers who have a little hash for their own use who get picked up. We seldom get at the big shipments and the really dangerous dealers.”

  “Same thing with us.”

  Månsson shut the window and sat down.

  “How’s Skacke doing?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Fine,” Månsson said. “He’s an ambitious boy. Sits at home and studies every night. He does a good job, too, very careful and doesn’t do anything rash. He really learned a lesson that time. He was very relieved, by the way, when he heard that you were coming, and not Kollberg.”

  Less than a year before, Benny Skacke had been more or less the direct cause of Kollberg’s being stabbed in the stomach by a man that both of them were going to arrest at Arlanda airport.

  “Good reinforcement for the soccer team too, I hear,” Månsson said.

  “Is that so?” said Martin Beck disinterestedly. “What’s he doing right now?”

  “He’s trying to get hold of that man who was sitting alone several tables away from Palmgren’s party. His name is Edvardsson, and he’s a proofreader for Arbetet. He was too drunk to be questioned last Wednesday, and yesterday we couldn’t get hold of him. He was probably at home with a hangover and refused to answer the door.”

  “If he was drunk when Palmgren was shot, maybe he’s not worth much as a witness,” Martin Beck said. “And when can we question Palmgren’s wife?”

  Månsson took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

  “This afternoon, I hope. Or tomorrow. Do you want to deal with her?”

  “Maybe it’d be better if you did it yourself. You must know more about Palmgren than I do.”

  “I doubt it,” Månsson said. “But okay, you’re the one to decide. You can talk to Edvardsson, if Skacke gets hold of him. I have a feeling that he’s the most important witness so far, despite everything. Say, would you like a beer? It’s warm, I’m afraid.”

  Martin Beck shook his head. He was extremely thirsty, but warm beer didn’t appeal to him.

  “Why don’t we go up to the canteen and have some mineral water instead?” he said.

  They each drank a bottle of mineral water standing at the bar and then returned to Månsson’s room. Benny Skacke was sitting in the extra chair reading something from his note pad. He stood up quickly when they came in, and he and Martin Beck shook hands.

  “Well, did you get hold of Edvardsson?” Må
nsson asked.

  “Yes, eventually. He’s at the newspaper right now, but should be home about three o’clock,” Skacke said.

  He looked at his notes.

  “Kamrergatan 2.”

  “Call and say that I’ll come at three,” Martin Beck said.

  The building on Kamrergatan seemed to be the first finished in a series of new structures; on the other side of the street were low, old houses that had been evacuated and would soon fall prey to bulldozers to make room for newer and larger apartment buildings.

  Edvardsson lived on the top floor and opened the door soon after Martin Beck had rung the bell. About fifty years old, he had an intelligent face with a prominent nose and deep furrows around his mouth. He squinted at Martin Beck before he threw open the door and said, “Superintendent Beck? Come in.”

  Martin Beck preceded him into the room, which was frugally furnished. The walls were covered with book shelves, and on the desk by the window was a typewriter with a half-typed sheet of paper in the platen.

  Edvardsson removed a stack of newspapers from the room’s only armchair and said, “Please sit down and I’ll get something to drink. I have cold beer in the icebox.”

  “Beer sounds good,” Martin Beck said.

  The man went out into the kitchenette and returned with glasses and two bottles of beer.

  “Beck’s Beer,” he said. “Appropriate, eh?”

  When he had poured the beer into the glasses he sat down on the sofa with one arm over the back.

  Martin Beck took a big swallow of beer, which was cold and good in the oppressive heat. Then he said, “Well, you know what my visit is about.”

  Edvardsson nodded and lit a cigarette.

  “Yes, about Palmgren. I can’t exactly say I regret his passing.”

  “Did you know him?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Personally? No, not at all. But you couldn’t help but run into him in every possible connection. The impression I had was of a domineering, arrogant man—well, I’ve never gotten along with that type of person.”

  “What does that mean? ‘That type’?”

  “People for whom money means everything and who don’t hesitate to use any means to get it.”

  “I’d like to hear more about Palmgren later, if you’d like to clarify what you think of him, but first I want to know something else. Did you see the gunman?”

  Edvardsson ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit grizzled and lay in a wave over his forehead.

  “I’m afraid I can’t be of too much help. I was sitting reading and didn’t really react until the fellow was already halfway out the window. At first I only noticed Palmgren, and then I saw the gunman—but kind of out of the corner of my eye. He took off very quickly, and when I got around to looking out of the window, he’d disappeared.

  Martin Beck took out a crumpled pack of Floridas from his pocket and lit one.

  “Have you any idea what he looked like?” he asked.

  “I seem to remember that he was dressed in rather dark clothes, probably in a suit or a sport coat and pants that didn’t match, and that he wasn’t a young man. But it’s only an impression I have—he could have been thirty, forty, or fifty, but hardly older or younger than that.”

  “Was Palmgren’s party already seated when you got to the restaurant?”

  “No,” said Edvardsson. “I’d already eaten and had a whisky when they came. I live alone here, and sometimes it’s nice to sit in a restaurant and read a book, and then I end up sitting there for quite a long time.”

  He paused and added, “Even though it gets damned expensive, of course.”

  “Did you recognize anyone besides Palmgren in this gathering?”

  “His wife and that young man who’s said to be—have been—Palmgren’s right-hand man. I didn’t recognize the others, but it looked as if they were employees, too. A couple of them spoke Danish.”

  Edvardsson took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. He was dressed in a white shirt and tie, pale dacron trousers and black shoes. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Martin Beck felt his own shirt begin to grow damp and stick to his body.

  “Did you happen to hear what the conversation was about?” he asked.

  “To tell you the truth, I did. I’m fairly curious and think it’s fun to study people, so, in fact, I was eavesdropping a little. Palmgren and the Dane talked shop—I didn’t catch what it was all about, but they mentioned Rhodesia several times. He had a lot of irons in the fire, Palmgren—I even heard him say that himself on at least one occasion—and there were a number of shady deals underway, I’ve heard tell. The ladies talked about the kind of things that that kind of ladies usually talk about—clothes, trips, mutual acquaintances, parties … Mrs. Palmgren and the younger of the other two talked about someone who’d had her sagging breasts operated on so that they looked like tennis balls right under her chin. Charlotte Palmgren talked about a party at “21” in New York, where Frank Sinatra had been, and someone called Mackan had bought champagne for all of them the whole night. And a million other things like that. A fantastic bra for 75 kronor at Twilfit. That it’s too warm to wear a wig in the summer, so you have to put your hair up every day.”

  Martin Beck reflected that Edvardsson couldn’t have read much of his book that night.

  “And the other men? Did they talk shop, too?”

  “Not very much. It seems they’d had a meeting before dinner. The fourth man—not the Dane and not the young one, that is—said something about it. No, their conversation wasn’t on a very high level either. For example, they talked a long time about Palmgren’s tie, which unfortunately I couldn’t see since he sat with his back to me. It must have been something special, for they all admired it, and Palmgren said that he’d bought it for 95 francs on the Champs-Elysées in Paris. And the fourth man told them that he had a problem that kept him awake at night. His daughter had actually moved in with a Negro. Palmgren suggested he send her to Switzerland, where there are hardly any blacks.”

  Edvardsson got up, carried the empty bottles out into the kitchenette and returned with two more bottles of beer. They were misty and looked extremely tempting.

  “Yes,” Edvardsson said, “that’s most of what I remember from the table conversation. Not especially helpful, is it?”

  “No,” Martin Beck said truthfully. “What do you really know about Palmgren?”

  “Not much. He lives in one of the largest of those old upperclass mansions out toward Limhamn. He made a pile of money and also spent plenty, among other things on his wife and that old house.”

  Edvardsson was silent a moment. Then he asked a question in return: “What do you know about Palmgren?”

  “Not too much more than that.”

  “God save us if the police know as little as I do about characters like Viktor Palmgren,” said Edvardsson and drank deeply from his glass of beer.

  “Right when Palmgren was shot, he was giving a talk, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, I remember, he stood up and started rambling on—the usual sort of nonsense. Welcomed them and thanked them for good work and lectured the ladies and had his fun. He seemed skilled at it; he sounded overwhelmingly jovial. The whole staff withdrew so they wouldn’t disturb them, and even the music stopped. The waiters had vanished into thin air, and I had to sit there sucking on ice cubes. Don’t you really know what Palmgren was doing, or is it a police secret?”

  Martin Beck eyed the glass of beer. Took it. Took a sip cautiously.

  “I don’t know very much, in fact,” he said. “But there are others who probably know. A lot of foreign business and a real estate agency in Stockholm.”

  “I see,” Edvardsson said and then seemed lost in thought.

  After a moment he said, “The little I saw of that murderer, I already told them about the day before yesterday. Two fellows from the police were on me. One fellow who kept asking what time it was, and also a younger one who seemed a little sharpe
r.”

  “You weren’t quite sober at the time, were you?” Martin Beck said.

  “No. Lord knows, I wasn’t. And then yesterday I tied on another one, so I’m still hungover. It must be this damned heat.”

  Splendid, thought Martin Beck. Hungover detective questions hungover witness. Very constructive.

  “Maybe you know how it feels,” Edvardsson said.

  “Yes, I do,” said Martin Beck. Then he took the glass of beer and emptied it in one gulp. He stood up and said, “Thank you. Maybe you’ll be hearing from us again.”

  He stopped and asked another question:

  “By the way, did you happen to see the weapon the murderer used?”

  Edvardsson hesitated.

  “Come to think of it now, it seems to me I caught a glimpse of it, at the moment he stuck it in his pocket. I don’t know much about guns, of course, but it was a long, fairly narrow thing. With a kind of roller, or whatever you call it.”

  “Revolving chamber,” said Martin Beck. “Good-bye and thanks for the beer.”

  “Come again sometime,” Edvardsson said. “Now I’m going to have a pick-me-up, so I can put things into a little better shape here.”

  Månsson was still sitting in about the same position behind his desk.

  “What shall I say?” he said when Martin Beck slipped in through the door. “How did it go? Well, how did it go?”

  “That’s a good question. Rather badly, I think. How’s it going here?”

  “Not at all.”

  “How about the widow?”

  “I’ll get her tomorrow. Better be careful. She is in mourning.”

  7

  Per Månsson was born and grew up in the working-class section around Möllevång Square in Malmö. He’d been a police officer for more than twenty-five years. Having lived with Malmö his whole life, he knew his city better than most—and liked it, too.

  However, there was one part of the city he’d never really got to know, and this section had always made him feel uneasy. That was Västra Förstaden, with areas like Fridhem, Västervång and Bellevue, where many rich families had always lived. He could remember the famine years of the twenties and thirties, when many times as a little kid he had trudged in his clogs through the blocks of mansions on the way to Limhamn, where somehow it might be possible to find herring for dinner. He recalled the expensive cars and the uniformed chauffeurs, maids in black dresses with aprons and starched white caps, and upper-class children in tulle dresses and sailor suits. He’d felt so utterly outside of all that; the whole environment had appeared incomprehensible, like a fairy tale to him. Somehow it still felt the same way by and large, despite the fact that the chauffeurs and most of the servant girls were gone and that by now upper-class children didn’t differ very much on the surface from any other children.