by Maj Sjowall
Martin Beck smiled to himself and wandered out toward the harbor.
9
The room that Benny Skacke rented was on Kärleksgatan, only a block from the police station. It was large and cozy, the furniture comfortable and practical, even if somewhat worn. He’d obtained the room from a police sergeant who’d been transferred to Landskrona. The landlady, a friendly, motherly old woman, was a police widow; all she required of boarders was that they be police officers.
His room was next to the hall, within convenient reach of the bathroom and kitchen, and he had unlimited access to both.
Benny Skacke was a man of habit, or rather, was in the process of making himself one. It wasn’t really part of his nature to make a routine out of his existence, but he thought it would be easier for him to accomplish the tasks he’d set out for himself in order to reach his goal if he followed a definite schedule. His goal was to become Chief of Police.
Every morning he got up at six-thirty, did exercises and worked out with bar bells, took an ice-cold shower and rubbed himself dry before getting dressed. He ate a nourishing breakfast, usually consisting of sour milk and cereal, a soft-boiled egg, wholewheat bread and a glass of fruit juice. Since his working hours could be highly irregular, he had to fit his athletic training into the leisure offered during the course of the day. He swam at least three times a week, took long bicycle rides and sometimes put on his sweat suit to go jogging on Limhamn’s field. He diligently took part in the Malmö policemen’s soccer practice, in addition to having a position on the team and playing in all the matches on Mariedal’s field. At night he studied law; he’d already completed two terms toward his law degree and hoped to be ready for the third in the fall.
At eleven o’clock every morning and at nine every evening he called his fiancée, Monica. They had become engaged in Stockholm the week before he started working in Malmö. A recent graduate, she had applied for a job as a physiotherapist in Malmö, but hadn’t managed to find anything closer than Helsingborg. That was an improvement, at any rate, since they could now meet on the rare occasions when their free days happened to coincide.
This warm and sunny Saturday morning, however, he deviated from the schedule to the extent that he got up an hour later and skipped breakfast. Instead he filled a thermos with cold chocolate milk and put it in a canvas bag along with bathing trunks and a bath towel. On his way to the police station, he went into a bakery on Davidshall Square and bought two cinnamon rolls and a vanilla heart. He walked past the large copper doors of the main entrance of the police station, turned on Verkstadsgatan and went into the courtyard, where his bicycle was standing. It was black, a Danish make. On the oblique frame he’d hand-painted the word POLICE in white letters. He hoped that would scare off possible bicycle thieves.
With the bag on the carrier rack, he pedaled off through the luxuriant foliage of Castle Park and on to the bathhouse on Ribersborg. In spite of the early hour, it was already blazing hot. He took a swim, sunbathed for about an hour, and then settled down on the beach grass and ate the lunch he’d brought along.
When Skacke entered his office at nine-thirty, his desk was decorated with a message from Backlund:
Månsson at the widow’s, Beck at the Savoy until further notice. Answer the telephone if it rings. Back at noon.
Backlund
Skacke sat down at the desk and listened for the telephone, which didn’t make a sound, while he mused over the murder of Viktor Palmgren. What could the motive have been? Since Palmgren had been rich, money should be a convenient explanation. Or power. But then who would benefit from his death? Charlotte Palmgren was the closest and—as far as he knew—the only heir to the money; Mats Linder should be next in line for his job. Considering Mrs. Palmgren’s much-talked-of beauty and relative youth, the motive could also have been jealousy. It wasn’t inconceivable that she’d had a lover who’d grown tired of playing second fiddle. But in that case it was a strange way to do away with the husband. Whatever the motive was, the method seemed poorly planned. The assailant had actually escaped, but his chances of getting away must have appeared extremely small if he’d plotted the whole thing beforehand. Moreover, the victim had died after a lapse of twenty-four hours; he might have survived, if the murderer’s luck had been really bad—or good. The man must have known that Palmgren would be in the dining room of the Savoy at that exact moment, unless, of course, he were a complete lunatic who’d simply barged in and shot the first guest he caught sight of.
The telephone rang. It was Chief Superintendent Malm in Stockholm, looking for Martin Beck. Skacke informed him that he was probably still at his hotel, and Malm hung up without thanking him or saying good-bye.
Benny Skacke had forgotten his train of thought and became lost in daydreams. He imagined that he came up with the solution, tracked down and caught the murderer singlehanded. He would be promoted, and after that the only direction he could go would be up. He was close to becoming Chief of Police when a new ring of the telephone interrupted his visions of the future.
It was a woman’s voice. At first he didn’t understand what she was saying; her skånsk accent was hard for a Stockholmer to comprehend. Before his transfer to Malmö, Skacke had never been in Skåne. It didn’t surprise him that he found certain skånsk dialects difficult to understand. However, it didn’t cease to amaze him that he couldn’t always make himself understood. He who spoke perfectly correct Swedish.
“Uh, it’s about the murder that was in the newspaper,” he heard the woman say.
“Yes,” he said and waited.
“This is the police I’m talking to, isn’t it?” she asked suspiciously.
“Yes, this is Assistant Detective Skacke,” he said.
“Assistant? Isn’t your boss there?”
“No, he’s away for the moment. But you can talk to me just as well. I’m working on this case, too. What did you have on your mind?”
He thought his tone inspired confidence, but the woman didn’t seem at all convinced of his authority.
“Maybe it’d be better if I came over,” she said solemnly. “I don’t live so far away.”
“Yes, please come up,” said Skacke. “Just ask for Assistant De—”
“Maybe the boss will be back by then,” she added and hung up.
Twelve minutes passed. Then there was a knock on the door. If the woman had sounded skeptical on the telephone, she seemed even more so when she caught sight of Skacke.
“I’d really imagined someone older,” she said, as though she were choosing an article in a store.
“Very sorry,” said Skacke stiffly. “But it so happens that I’m on duty at the moment. Please sit down.”
He moved the armchair a little closer to the end of the desk, and the woman sat down carefully on the very edge of the chair. She was small and pudgy, dressed in a pale green summer coat and a white straw hat.
Skacke returned to his place behind the desk and said, “Well, Mrs., uh …”
“Greta.”
Is there such a name? Skacke thought. Apparently so.
“Well, Mrs. Gröngren. What is it you have to say about what happened last Wednesday?”
“The murder,” she said. “Uh, you see, it’s just that I saw the murderer. Well, I didn’t know then that it was him, not until this morning when I read the newspaper. Then I understood.”
Skacke leaned forward, his hands clasped on the blotter.
“Tell me about it,” he said.
“Uh, I’d been over to Copenhagen shopping for groceries, you see, and then I met a ladyfriend, and we had coffee at Brønum; so I came home rather late. When I got to the corner at Mälar Bridge across from the Savoy the DON’T WALK sign was on, so I had to stand there and wait. Suddenly I saw a man jump out of one of the windows of the dining room at the Savoy—I’ve been there several times to eat dinner with my nephew, so I know it was the dining room. Well, my first thought was: What a rat! He’s making off without paying the bill. But I couldn’t do
anything since the light was red, and there was no one around.”
“Did you see where he went after that?” Skacke asked.
“Yes, I did. He went over to the bicycle rack to the left of the hotel, got on a bicycle and pedaled away toward Drottning Square. Then the light turned green, but I lost sight of him. I thought that the manager of the restaurant could surely afford to lose that money, so I didn’t worry about it and went home.”
She paused briefly.
“Well, when I’d crossed the street, people came out of the hotel entrance and stared, but by then he was already gone.”
“Can you describe the man?” Skacke said with ill-concealed fervor and pulled over his note pad.
“Uh, he was about thirty, maybe forty. More like forty. He was quite bald—no, not bald, but almost. He had dark hair. And he had a brown suit on, a yellowish shirt and a tie—I don’t know what color. Shoes black or brown, I think—must’ve been brown, since his suit was brown.”
“What did he look like? His face, build, anything unusual about him?”
She seemed to reflect.
“He was thin,” she said. “Thin body, thin face. Nothing special. Pretty tall, I thought. Shorter than you, but pretty tall. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Skacke sat quietly and looked at her for a while. Then he said, “When you lost sight of him where was he?”
“At the traffic light, I think. At the crossing on Bruksgatan. The light must have been red there. Then the WALK sign came on, and when I walked across the street he was gone.”
“Hmmm,” said Skacke. “Did you see what the bicycle looked like?”
“The bicycle? Like any other bicycle, I suppose.”
“Did you see what color it was?”
“No,” Mrs. Gröngren said and shook her head. “Cars were going past the whole time. They got in the way.”
“I see,” said Skacke. “There’s nothing else you can remember about this man?”
“No. Not that I can think of now. Will I get a reward for this?”
“I don’t believe so,” said Skacke. “The public has a moral obligation to help the police. Could I have your address and telephone number so that we can get in touch if necessary?”
The woman gave her address and telephone number. Then she stood up.
“Well, good-bye now,” she said. “Do you think I’ll get in the newspaper?”
“It’s quite possible,” Skacke said to encourage her.
He got up and followed her to the door.
“Good-bye and thanks an awful lot for the help. And for the trouble.”
After he had shut the door and sat down at the desk, the door was opened again, and the woman stuck in her head.
“You know, that’s right!” she said. “Before he got on the bicycle, he took something out of the inside of his jacket and put it in a box, a cardboard container, on the carrier rack. I’d completely forgotten about that.”
“Oh,” Skacke said, “you didn’t happen to see what it was? The thing under his sport coat?”
“No, he was sort of turned away from me. The box was about this big. Almost as big as the carrier and about four inches thick. I saw it later as he was riding away.”
Skacke thanked her once again, and Mrs. Gröngren left, this time apparently for good.
Then he dialed the number of the hydrofoil terminal.
When it was new, he’d written on the cover of his notebook:
Assistant Detective B. Skacke
While waiting for an answer, he wrote in front of that: First.
10
Just after one on Saturday afternoon, Martin Beck and Per Månsson ran into each other in the doorway to the police station canteen.
Martin Beck had strolled around in the Industrihamn docks, which were quiet and deserted on Saturdays like this during summer vacation. He’d walked all the way out to the oil wharves, where loading had been momentarily interrupted, to view the strange science-fiction landscape. Milky water stagnated in ponds surrounded by rectilinear bars of sand, on which trucks and excavators had made deep tracks. He had marveled at how much the harbor area had grown since he’d seen it for the first time about fifteen years before. He’d suddenly felt hungry—a new and pleasant phenomenon the day after a hearty meal. It doesn’t take long to get used to having an appetite again, he thought contentedly. Returning to the center of the city as quickly as possible in the blazing sun, he wondered what could be on the lunch menu at the police station.
Although Månsson wasn’t especially hungry, he was extremely thirsty. He had refused the drink Charlotte Palmgren offered him. But now, sitting in his stifling car, he saw the light red drinks in Mats Linder’s hands, clinking with ice. They danced before his eyes. For a second he considered driving home and mixing a Gripenberger, but decided it was too early in the day and compromised. A glass of cold soda water at the canteen would have to do.
Martin Beck’s hunger diminished somewhat when he entered the canteen, and since he didn’t feel so sure of his stomach, he ordered a ham omelet, a tomato and a bottle of mineral water. Månsson duplicated the order.
When they were settled down with their trays, they caught sight of Benny Skacke, who was desperately looking over in their direction. Backlund was sitting across from him, with his back turned to Beck. Backlund had pushed his plate aside and was pointing his first finger threateningly at Skacke. They couldn’t hear what he was saying, but to judge from the look on Skacke’s face, he was giving him some kind of lecture.
Martin Beck ate his omelet quickly and then walked over to Backlund. Putting his hand on his shoulder, he said kindly, “Forgive me for borrowing Skacke awhile. There are a couple of things I have to go over with him.”
Backlund seemed irritated by the interruption but could hardly protest. That cocky Stockholmer had been sent down by the National Police Board to head the investigation. As if they couldn’t manage it themselves.
Visibly relieved, Skacke stood up and went with Martin Beck. Månsson finished his meal, and they left the canteen. Backlund gazed after them with a grieved look on his face.
They went to Månsson’s room, which was moderately cool and ventilated. Månsson sat down in the swivel chair, took a toothpick from the penholder and, after peeling off the paper, stuck it in the corner of his mouth. Martin Beck lit a cigarette and Skacke went directly across the corridor to get his note pad. Then he sat down in the chair next to Martin Beck and placed the pad in his lap.
Martin Beck caught sight of the writing on the pad’s cover and smiled. When Skacke saw his glance he blushed and closed the pad quickly. Then he began to give an account of what the new witness had had to say.
“Are you positive her name’s Gröngren?” Månsson said skeptically.
When Skacke was through, Martin Beck said, “You’d better check that out with the crew on the hydrofoil. If it was the same man they saw standing on the afterdeck, they should’ve seen the box. If he still had it with him.”
“I’ve already called,” Skacke said. “The boat stewardess who saw him isn’t working today. But she’s making the crossing tomorrow morning, so I’ll go down and talk to her then.”
“Good,” said Martin Beck.
“You understand Danish then,” Månsson said in a doubtful tone.
“Is it really that hard?” Skacke said, wide-eyed.
Then it was time for Martin Beck to tell them about Malm’s phone call and the arrival of their colleague.
“Hmm, Paulsson’s his name,” said Månsson. “I wonder if I haven’t seen him on TV. He sounds a lot like a security guy we have here, too. He’s a secret agent called Persson. Always wears the same kind of suit. Dresses strangely. I thought you already knew about the herring export business, but I’ve never had an inkling about the weapons deals.”
“That’s not so strange, really,” Martin Beck said. “It wasn’t exactly intended that too many people should know about it.”
Månsson broke the toothpick in hal
f and put it in the ashtray.
“Well, something like that did enter my mind when the naked widow told me that Palmgren did a lot of business in Portugal.”
“The naked widow?” Martin Beck and Skacke chorused.
Taking a new toothpick out of the penholder, Månsson said, “I was going to say the merry widow. But she wasn’t—either happy or sad. She seemed indifferent to everything.”
“But naked,” said Martin Beck.
Månsson recounted the morning’s visit to the Palmgren mansion.
“She was good-looking, huh?” Skacke said.
“No, I didn’t think so,” Månsson said curtly.
Then he turned to Martin Beck and said, “Do you have anything against my questioning Linder?”
“No,” Martin Beck said, “but I’d really like to meet him, too. Besides, it might take the two of us to handle him.”
Månsson nodded. After a while he said, “Do you believe that stuff about a political motive?”
“Sure, why not? But I’d like to know a little more about Palmgren’s activities abroad. How we would work that, I don’t know. Mats Linder probably isn’t familiar with that part of the operations—presumably his job only includes the herring company. What was the Dane’s job, by the way?”
“I don’t know yet,” Månsson said. “We’ll have to find that out. If nothing else works, Mogensen will surely know.”
They sat quietly for a while. Then Skacke said, “If the gunman is the same guy who flew to Stockholm from Kastrup, we know he’s Swedish. And if the murder had political motives, then he had to be against Palmgren’s dealings with Rhodesia and Angola and Mozambique and wherever else it was. And if he was against them, then he has to be some left-wing fanatic.”
“Now you’re talking like Persson,” said Månsson. “He sees extremists under every bush. But there’s something to what you say, of course.”