Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  After all, herring and potatoes was not a bad diet. Although fatherless and poor, he’d grown up to be a big strong man, taken the “hard road” and eventually done quite well. At least he thought so himself.

  Viktor Palmgren had lived in this same area; and consequently his widow probably still lived there.

  So far he’d only seen pictures of the people around the fated dinner table and didn’t know very much about them. About Charlotte Palmgren, however, he knew that she was considered an exceptional beauty and had once been crowned Miss Something—was it only of Sweden or of the whole universe? Then she’d made herself famous as a model and after that become Mrs. Palmgren, twenty-seven years old and at the height of her career. Now she was thirty-two and outwardly fairly unchanged, as only women can be who haven’t had children, and who can afford to spend a lot of time and an unlimited amount of money on their appearance. Viktor Palmgren had been twenty-four years older than she, a fact which might give an indication of the mutual motives for the marriage. He’d probably wanted something good-looking to display to his business acquaintances and she, enough money so that she never again would need to do anything that might possibly be characterized as work. And that is the way it seemed to have worked out.

  However, Charlotte Palmgren was a widow, and Månsson couldn’t avoid a certain measure of conventionality. Therefore, much to his dislike, he put on his dark suit, white shirt and tie before he went down and got into the car to drive the relatively short stretch from Regementsgatan to Bellevue.

  The Palmgren residence seemed to correspond to all of Månsson’s childhood memories, which had perhaps become covered with a patina of slight exaggeration over the years. One could catch only a glimpse of the house from the street, a bit of the roof and a weather vane, for the hedges were not only well-clipped and richly verdant, but also very high and thick. If he wasn’t mistaken, there was likely to be a wrought-iron fence behind it. The lot seemed immense, and the lawn rather resembled formal gardens. The gate to the drive was just as impenetrable as the hedge; it was of copper, green with age, high, broad, and embellished with spiraling pinnacles. On one half of the door was a row of oversized brass letters, which formed the name that was not totally unknown by now—Palmgren. On the other half was a mail slot, the button for an electric doorbell and directly over it a square opening through which potential visitors could be scrutinized before being granted admission. Clearly it wasn’t a matter of just walking in any old way. As he cautiously pressed down the handle, Månsson almost expected an alarm to start ringing somewhere inside. The door was locked, of course, and the opening hermetically sealed. Nothing could be seen through the mail slot—obviously it opened into a closed metal box.

  Månsson raised his hand to the doorbell, but changed his mind, let his arm sink back and looked around.

  Besides his own old Wartburg, two cars were parked by the curb—a red Jaguar and a yellow MG. Did it seem plausible that Charlotte Palmgren would have two sports cars parked on the street? He stood still listening and thought for an instant that he discerned voices from within the park. Then the sounds died away, perhaps stifled by the heat and the stagnant, quivering air.

  What a summer, he thought. One that comes only about once every ten years. And here you stand like a blockhead in a tie, shirt and suit instead of lying on the beach in Falsterbo or sitting at home in shorts with a cold drink in your hand!

  Then he thought about something else. The mansion was old, probably from the turn of the century or so, certainly rebuilt and modernized for a million or two. These houses usually had a gate in the rear, where the gardener, cooks, maids, messengers and nursemaids could slink in without the master and mistress being irritated by the sight of them.

  Månsson walked along the hedge and turned down the next side street. The lot seemed to extend over the whole block, for the hedge was even, unbroken and still just as impenetrable. He took a right again, went around to the rear, and found what he was looking for. A pair of double wrought-iron gates. From here the house wasn’t visible, since it was enclosed by tall trees and dense foliage. However, he could see a big garage, rather newly built, and an older, smaller building—a tool shed, undoubtedly. There was no name plate on the rear entrance.

  He placed his hands on both sides of the gate and pressed. The sides swung in and open. This meant he didn’t have to find out if the gate was locked or not. In the shade of the trees he felt how warm it really was; drops of perspiration ran down inside his collar and ran down his back in a tickling rivulet between his shoulder blades. He pushed the gates shut.

  On the gravel driveway to the garage, car tracks were visible; the paths that wound into the garden were covered with slate slabs.

  Månsson walked across the grass under the trees in the direction of the house. This took him between rows of blooming laburnum and jasmine and, as calculated, brought him to the back of the house, which was quiet and deserted, with closed windows, kitchen and cellar stairs, and various mysterious adjoining buildings. He looked up at the house but couldn’t see much of it, since he was far too close. He followed the path to the right, climbed over a flower bed, peeked around the corner and stood stock-still among the showy peonies.

  The scenery was breathtaking in several respects. The lawn was very large and green, as well kept as an English golf course. In the middle was a kidney-shaped swimming pool lined with light blue tile, with clear green, shimmering water. At its farthest end there were a sauna, parallel bars and Roman rings. An exercise bicycle beside the sauna. Presumably this was where Viktor Palmgren had built up his excellent physical condition that everyone talked about. In something resembling a Bruno Mathsson chair at the edge of the pool, Charlotte Palmgren was sitting, or rather, lying, naked, her eyes closed. She had a very deep suntan, evenly apportioned over her whole body, and blond hair. If anyone had ever fostered the suspicion that she wasn’t a genuine blonde, it was refuted by the fact that the sparse triangular patch of hair between her legs was so light that it appeared almost white against her suntanned skin. Her face had thin, apathetic features, a clean profile and a straight mouth. She was very thin, with almost unnaturally slender hips, a small waist and girlish breasts. Her nipples were small and pale brown and the area around them lighter than the other skin. There was nothing about her that appealed to Månsson. She could just as well have been a mannequin in a store window.

  Just look at that, a naked widow!

  Why not, anyway? Widows have to be naked, too, sometimes.

  Månsson stood among the peonies feeling like a Peeping Tom, which of course he was.

  What induced him to remain there, however, wasn’t what he saw but what he heard. Somewhere in the immediate vicinity but out of sight came clinking noises from someone who was moving and doing something.

  Then Månsson heard steps, and a man came forward out of the shade cast by the house. He was suntanned, too, although not nearly so deeply as Charlotte Palmgren. He was dressed in flowered Bermuda shorts and carried two tall glasses containing a pale red liquid. Straws and ice cubes. Not a bad idea at all.

  Månsson recognized the man immediately from the photographs. It was Mats Linder, closest associate and protege of Viktor Palmgren, deceased for less than forty-eight hours.

  He walked across the grass toward the swimming pool. The woman in the reclining chair raised her left leg and scratched her ankle. Still without opening her eyes, she stretched out her right arm and took one of the glasses from the man’s hand.

  Månsson retreated behind the corner of the house. Listened. Linder said something first, “Is it too sour?”

  “No, it’s okay,” the woman said.

  He heard her put the glass down on the tiles.

  “Aren’t we terrible?” Charlotte Palmgren said apathetically.

  “Anyway, it’s damned nice.”

  “You can say that again.”

  Her voice still had the same indifferent tone.

  It was quiet for a while. Then the
widow said in a suggestive and affected tone, “Mats, why can’t you take those stupid pants off?”

  If Linder replied at all, Månsson would never find out, for he promptly left his place among the peonies.

  He walked briskly and silently the same way he’d come, closed the gate behind him and continued along the hedge, went around both street corners and stopped in front of the green copper door. Without a second’s hesitation he pressed the doorbell.

  Chimes sounded in the distance. It didn’t take more than a minute before light steps were heard approaching. The peephole was opened, and a light blue-green eye stared at him. He also saw a lock of blond hair and exaggeratedly long, technically perfect eyelashes.

  Månsson had taken out his identity card and held it up in front of the opening.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” he said. “My name is Månsson. Detective Inspector.”

  “Oh,” she said childishly. “Of course. The police. Could you please wait a few minutes?”

  “Of course. Am I intruding?”

  “What? No, not at all. Just a couple of minutes for me to …”

  Apparently she couldn’t invent an appropriate conclusion, for the aperture banged shut and the light steps withdrew much faster than they had come.

  He looked at his watch.

  It took her only three and a half minutes to return and open the door. Wearing silver sandals and a severe gray dress of a light material.

  She could hardly have had the time to put on anything underneath it, thought Månsson, but it wasn’t necessary anyway. She had nothing special to show off or to hide.

  “Please come in,” Charlotte Palmgren said. “I’m so sorry you had to wait.”

  She locked the door and walked ahead of him to the house. Out on the street a car started. Evidently there were others besides the widow who were quick on their feet.

  For the first time Månsson had the opportunity to see the mansion in its entirety and he stared at it with amazement. It wasn’t a house, actually, but a kind of diminutive castle with pinnacles and towers and strange projections. Everything indicated that the original builder had suffered from a severe case of megalomania and that the architect had copied the design from a picture postcard. Recent modernizations with added porches and glass verandas hadn’t improved the over-all impression. It looked atrocious, and one didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or maybe send for a demolition team to blow up the whole business. The building seemed extremely substantial; dynamite was probably the only thing that could budge it. Along the drive stood a row of hideous sculptures of the type found in Germany in the Kaiser’s day.

  “Yes, it’s a beautiful house,” Charlotte Palmgren said. “But it wasn’t cheap to modernize. Now everything’s in tiptop shape.”

  Månsson managed to tear his eyes away from the house and proceeded to look at the surroundings. The lawn, as he’d already had the chance to remark, was fastidiously well kept.

  The woman followed his eyes and said, “The gardener comes three days a week.”

  “I see,” Månsson said.

  “Do you want to go in or sit outside?”

  “Makes no difference,” Månsson said.

  Every trace of Mats Linder was gone, even the glasses, but on a cart on the porch in front of the large veranda stood a seltzer bottle, a bucket of ice and some bottles.

  “My father-in-law bought this house,” she said, “but he died many years ago, long before Viktor and I met.”

  “Where did you meet?” Månsson asked irrationally.

  “In Nice, six years ago,” she said. “I was in a fashion show there.”

  She hesitated a second, then said, “Maybe we should go inside.”

  “Fine,” Månsson replied.

  “I can’t offer you anything special. A drink or two, of course.”

  “Thank you but no.”

  “You understand, I’m all alone here. I’ve sent the servants away.”

  Månsson didn’t say anything, and after a moment she said, “After what’s happened, I thought it would be better to be alone. All alone.”

  “I understand. My sympathies.”

  She inclined her head slightly but wasn’t capable of expressing anything but disgust and total apathy.

  Probably she wasn’t talented enough to be able to look sorrowful, Månsson thought.

  “Mm-m,” she said, “Let’s go in then.”

  He followed her up a flight of stone steps beside the veranda, crossed a large gloomy hall and entered a colossal drawing room stuffed with furniture. The mixture of styles was grotesque—ultramodern mixed with old wing chairs and semi-antique tables. She directed him to a group of four sofa units, a couch and a gigantic table with a thick plate-glass top. It looked new and expensive.

  “Please sit down,” she said conventionally.

  Månsson sat down. The chair was the largest he’d ever seen; he sank down so deep that it felt as though he would never get back on his feet again.

  “Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything to drink?”

  “Nothing, thanks,” Månsson said. “I won’t disturb you for long. But unfortunately I have to ask you several questions. As you understand, we’re anxious to get hold of the person who killed Mr. Palmgren as quickly as possible.”

  “Yes, you are a policeman. Well, what should I say? It’s been terribly sad, this whole thing. Tragic.”

  “You saw the gunman, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, but it all happened so terribly fast. I sort of didn’t react until afterward. Then the horrible thought struck me that he could have shot me too. All of us.”

  “Had you ever seen this man before?”

  “No, absolutely not. I can’t remember names or things like that, but I have a good memory for faces. The police in Lund asked me the same question.”

  “I know, but you were upset then, naturally.”

  “Certainly, it was horrible,” she said with little conviction.

  “You must have given this a lot of thought during the past few days.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “And you did see the man clearly. You were looking in his direction. What did he actually look like?”

  “Well, what can I say? He looked terribly ordinary.”

  “What kind of impression did he make? Was he nervous? Or desperate?”

  “You know, he looked completely ordinary. Quite common.”

  “Common?”

  “Yes, no one we’d ever associate with, I mean.”

  “What were your feelings when you saw him?”

  “Nothing, until he pulled out the pistol. Then I was afraid.”

  “You saw the weapon?”

  “Of course. It was some kind of pistol.”

  “You couldn’t say what kind?”

  “I don’t know a thing about guns. But it was some kind of pistol. Pretty long. Like the kind they use in Westerns.”

  “But what could you say about the man’s facial expression?”

  “Nothing. He looked ordinary, as I said. I got a better look at his clothes, but I’ve already talked about that.”

  Månsson gave up on the description. Either she wouldn’t or couldn’t tell any more than she already had. He looked around the curious room. The woman followed his glance and said, “This sofa grouping is quite dashing, don’t you think?”

  Månsson nodded and considered how much it could have cost.

  “I bought it myself,” she said with a certain pride. “At Finncenter.”

  “Do you live here all the time?” Månsson asked.

  “Where else would we live when we’re in Malmö?” she asked sheepishly.

  “But when you’re not in Malmö?”

  “We have a house in Estoril. We live there during the winter. Viktor often did business in Portugal. And then the company apartment in Stockholm, of course. It’s on Gärdet.”

  She reflected and added, “But we only live there when we’re in Stockholm.”

  “I understand. Di
d you usually accompany your husband on his business trips?”

  “Yes, when there were social affairs, I always went along. But not to the meetings.”

  “I understand,” Månsson repeated.

  What did he understand? That for the most part she’d served as a living mannequin, something young to hang expensive creations on, things that would have been of no use to ordinary people. That for persons like Viktor Palmgren, a wife who attracted universal admiration was included in the stage properties.

  “Did you love your husband?” he asked suddenly.

  She didn’t look surprised, but searched for an answer.

  “Love sounds so silly,” she said finally.

  Månsson took out one of his toothpicks and began to chew on it contemplatively.

  She looked at him with amazement. For the first time she displayed something resembling real interest.

  “Why do you do that?” she asked.

  “A bad habit I picked up when I stopped smoking.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I see. Otherwise, there are cigarettes and cigars in the case over there.”

  Månsson looked at her a second. Then he tried a new tack.

  “The dinner last Wednesday was almost a business gathering, wasn’t it?”

  “Right. They’d had a meeting in the afternoon. But I wasn’t there. I was at home changing then. I was at the luncheon earlier in the day.”

  “Do you know what this meeting was about?”