by Maj Sjowall
“To tell the truth, that same line of thought had occurred to me even before I talked to Malm. It looks amazingly like a political killing. Something very peculiar about the murderer’s modus operandi—”
Martin Beck broke off sharply. He’d used exactly the same terminology as Malm, and that annoyed him.
“Maybe, maybe not,” said Månsson. “The radical groups down here are mainly centered in Lund. I know a little about them, and they’re damn peaceful for the most part. Of course Sepo doesn’t think so.”
“There’s nothing that says he comes from around here,” Skacke said.
Månsson shook his head.
“Knowledge of the local area,” he said. “And if that bit about the bicycle happens to be correct.”
“Just think, maybe we could get hold of it,” Skacke said optimistically.
Månsson looked at him a long time. Then he shook his head again and said good-naturedly, “My dear Skacke, tracking a bicycle …”
Backlund knocked and stepped in without waiting for an answer; he was polishing his glasses diligently.
“Deliberations, I see,” he said with irritation. “Maybe you gentlemen have also concluded where the shell went. We’ve hunted everywhere. Even in the food. I even made a thorough search of the mashed potatoes. There simply isn’t any shell …”
“Sure there is,” Månsson said wearily.
“But he used a revolver,” Martin Beck and Benny Skacke said in the same breath.
Backlund looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.
On Sunday morning when Benny Skacke got off his bicycle at the hydrofoil’s pier, Springeren was just entering the inner harbor. It had settled down on its keel and was gliding slowly forward to the quay.
The weather was still fantastic; not many people had chosen to cross the Sound in something that closely resembled an airplane cabin. A dozen passengers came climbing out of the boat’s interior, hurried over the gangplank and through the station building to fight over the only taxi on the spot.
Skacke waited at the gangplank. After five minutes a blond girl in a hostess uniform came up on the deck. He walked up to her, introduced himself and showed her his identification.
“But I’ve already told the police about that man,” she said. “The police in Copenhagen.”
To Skacke’s happy surprise, she actually spoke Swedish, but naturally with a noticeable Danish accent.
“Yes, I know,” he said, “but there was something they didn’t ask you about. Did you happen to notice if that man standing on the deck last Wednesday evening was carrying anything?”
The boat stewardess bit her lower lip and knit her brow.
At last she said hesitatingly, “Ye-es, now that you mention it—I recall that … No, wait, didn’t he have a box in his hand, a black cardboard box, about this big?”
She approximated the dimensions with her hands.
“Did you see if he still had the box when he came down and took a seat? Or when he went ashore?”
She pondered a moment. Then she shook her head firmly.
“No, I don’t remember that. I really don’t know. I only saw that he had it under his arm when he was standing up here.”
“Thanks anyway,” said Skacke. “That’s a valuable piece of information. You haven’t remembered anything else about that man since you spoke with the police in Copenhagen?”
Again she shook her head.
“No, nothing else,” she said.
“Nothing else?”
She smiled at him professionally and said, “No, nothing. Now if you’ll excuse me I have to get things ready for the next trip.”
Skacke rode his bicycle back to Davidshall Square and went up to his room in the police station. He was actually off work, but it was close to eleven o’clock—time to call Monica.
He preferred to call from his office rather than from home. For one thing, he didn’t dare talk so long at home, considering the cost; for another, his landlady was rather curious when he talked on the telephone. And he wanted to be undisturbed when he was talking to Monica.
She was off work, too, alone at home in the apartment she sublet along with a friend from work. The conversation lasted almost an hour, but what did that matter? The police department could pay. Or, better still, the taxpayer.
When Skacke hung up he had on his mind something different from the murder of Viktor Palmgren.
11
Martin Beck and Månsson met again at the police station at eight o’clock on Monday morning. Neither of them was in the best of humors; Månsson seemed indolent, slow-moving and unenterprising, and Martin Beck grim and pensive.
Without a word, they looked through their papers, but there wasn’t anything encouraging. Nothing had happened on Sunday except that the town had become even warmer and emptier. When they informed the afternoon newspapers that “the state of the investigation was unchanged,” there was indeed every justification for this empty and worn-out phrase. The only positive thing had been Skacke’s vague information from the hydrofoil.
July is a highly unsuitable month for police investigations. If the weather is also beautiful, it’s unsuitable for almost anything except for being on vacation. The Kingdom of Sweden virtually closes down; nothing functions, and it’s impossible to get hold of people, simply because most of them have gone abroad or to their summer places. That includes almost every category from native professional criminals to government bodies. The relatively few policemen on duty are occupied mostly with checking up on the motley stream of foreigners or trying to keep traffic under control out on the highways.
Martin Beck would have given a lot to be able to talk to his old colleague Fredrik Melander, now Detective Inspector with the Assault and Battery Squad in Stockholm, forty-nine years of age and more than ever equipped with the police force’s surest memory for names, dates, circumstances and all the other facts he’d managed to pick up during thirty years on the job. A man who never forgot anything and one of the few who might have something constructive to offer concerning this strange business with Palmgren. But Melander was definitely out of reach. He was on vacation and, as usual when off work, he had isolated himself completely in his summer cottage out on Värmdö. There was no telephone there, and none of his colleagues knew exactly where the place was. His hobby was chopping wood, but he’d chosen to devote this month of vacation to building a new, two-seater outhouse—something that only he and his tall, amazingly ugly wife were aware of, however.
Moreover, Martin Beck and Månsson should both have gone on vacation this week; the knowledge that it was sure to be put off until sometime in the nebulous future was reflected in their gloomy expressions.
On this Monday, however, there was questioning to be attended to, if at all possible. Martin Beck called Stockholm and managed after many if’s and but’s to persuade Kollberg to take care of Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson, the executive secretary.
“What’ll I ask them about?” Kollberg said mournfully.
“I don’t really know.”
“Who’s the head of the investigation?”
“I am.”
“And you don’t know? How in the hell am I going to find out anything?”
“I’d like to get a picture of the general situation.”
“The general situation? It’s bad. I’m dying of heat exhaustion.”
“What we need is the motive. Or, rather, we have too many to choose from. Maybe the atmosphere in the Palmgren concern can lead us to the right one.”
“I see,” Kollberg said skeptically. “This Hansson person, is she good-looking?”
“They say so.”
“Well, there’s always something to look forward to. Bye now.”
Martin Beck had been close to saying, “Let me hear from you,” but checked himself at the last second.
“Bye,” he said and hung up.
He looked at Månsson and said, “Kollberg’ll take care of the Stockholm end.”
Månsso
n nodded and said, “Okay, he’s a good man.”
Kollberg was more than that, but Månsson didn’t know him as well as Martin Beck did.
As a matter of fact, Kollberg was the only person Martin Beck trusted completely. He had sound judgment and was fully capable of managing on his own. Besides this he was imaginative, systematic and implacably logical. They had worked together for many years, and each understood what the other was thinking without having to exchange too many words.
Månsson and Martin Beck sat quietly and listlessly leafing through their papers.
A little after nine they got up and went down to Månsson’s car, which was parked in the courtyard.
The Monday morning streets were a bit livelier, but it still didn’t take Månsson more than ten minutes to drive to the tall building near the harbor where Viktor Palmgren had his main office in Sweden. By this time Mats Linder ought to be presiding in there.
Månsson parked in a highly illegal manner and put down the visor, which had a rectangular cardboard sign with the word POLICE neatly printed on the front.
They took the elevator up to the seventh story and stepped out into a large antechamber with a bright red wall-to-wall carpet and satiny wallpapered walls. There was a low table in the middle of the floor surrounded by comfortable armchairs. On the table top was a stack of magazines—they were mostly foreign, but even Svensk Tidskrift and Veckans Affärer were there. There were also two large crystal ashtrays, a teak case with cigars and cigarettes, an ebony lighter and a heavy Orrefors glass vase with red roses. Behind a long table on the left side of the room sat a blond receptionist of about twenty examining her glossy nails. In front of her was an intercom, two ordinary telephones, a steno pad in a metal stand and a gilded fountain pen on the blotter.
She had a model’s figure and was dressed in a black and white dress with a very short skirt. Her stockings had an ingenious black lacework pattern, and her feet were enclosed in elegant black shoes with silver buckles. Her lipstick was almost white, and her eyelids were covered with powder-blue eyeshadow. She had long silver earrings, even, chalk-white teeth and beneath dark false eyelashes, unintelligent, clear-blue eyes. She was quite flawless, Martin Beck supposed, if you like women that way.
The girl watched them with a touch of scorn and disapproval. Then she pecked at a page of the appointment book in front of her with the long pointed nail of her first finger and said in the broadest conceivable skånsk accent, “You must be from the police.”
She glanced at her diminutive watch and continued, “You are almost ten minutes too early. Mr. Linder is on the telephone. He’s talking to Johannesburg. Please sit down for the time being. I’ll notify you as soon as the conversation is completed. You’re Månsson and Back, aren’t you?”
“Beck.”
“I see,” she said indifferently.
She took the gold pen and made a nonchalant little mark in the appointment book. Then she inspected them once again, barely concealing her dislike, and made a vague gesture toward the table with the roses, crystal ashtrays and smoking articles.
“Go ahead and smoke,” she said.
The way a dentist says, “Rinse.”
Martin Beck felt uneasy in the setting. He glanced at Månsson, who was dressed in a wrinkled shirt with the tail out, unpressed gray pants and sandals. He probably wasn’t much more elegant himself, even though he’d put his pants under the mattress the night before. Nevertheless, Månsson seemed totally unaffected. He flung himself down in one of the armchairs, took a toothpick out of his breast pocket and leafed through a number of Veckans Affärer for about thirty seconds before shrugging his shoulders and throwing the magazine down on the table. Martin Beck also sat down and carefully studied the selection of expensive smoking articles in the open teak case. Then he took out one of his own Floridas, pinched the filter together and struck a match.
He looked around. The girl had returned to admiring her nails. It was absolutely quiet in the room. Something irritated him very much. After a while he realized what it was—the doors were invisible. They were there, but so well melted into the surrounding wallpaper pattern that a person actually had to make an effort to discover them.
The minutes passed. Månsson absent-mindedly chewed on his toothpick. Martin Beck put out his cigarette and lit another, then stood up and walked over to where a large aquarium with shimmering green water was built into the wall. He stood studying the gaudy fish until a low buzz from the intercom interrupted this activity.
“Mr. Linder will see you now,” the receptionist said.
A second later, one of the well-camouflaged doors was opened, and a dark-haired woman of about thirty-five gestured for them to come in. Her movements were rapid and precise, her look steady. A typical executive secretary, Martin Beck thought. Probably she was the one who did the work, if any real work got done within these walls. Månsson stood up and went first, with a heavy, leisurely gait, through a small room with a desk, electric typewriter, filing cabinets and many folders, arranged on shelves against the wall.
Without a word, the dark-haired secretary opened one more door and held it open for them. After they stepped in, Martin Beck had an even stronger impression that they were big, clumsy, uncouth and out of place.
During the time it took Månsson to walk straight up to the desk, behind which Mats Linder was just getting up with a grieved but kind, polite smile, Martin Beck was studying three different things in turn—the view, the furnishings and the individual they’d come to meet.
He had the ability to take stock of situations quickly and felt that it was his greatest asset in his chosen profession. While Månsson took the toothpick out of his mouth, put it in the brass ashtray and shook hands, Martin Beck had the time to grasp the essentials.
The view from the large picture windows was spectacular. Below lay the dock, or rather, the docks, bustling with activity—swarm of cargo and passenger boats, tugboats, cranes, trucks, trains and rows of containers. Beyond the harbor were the Sound and Denmark. The scene was crystal clear. He could see at least twenty boats at one time, among them several passenger boats on their way to or from Copenhagen. The panorama far surpassed the view from his own hotel window, which wasn’t so bad, either. All he needed was a good pair of binoculars.
A pair of Carl Zeiss marine binoculars, made in Jena, had been included among the furnishings. They were on the right side of the large steel desk. The desk was so situated that Linder sat with his back to a windowless wall covered by a huge photographic enlargement of a fishing trawler in heavy sea, its freeboard splashed with foam, a huge cascade of water welling up from the prow. Along the starboard gunwale stood a row of men in sou’westers and oilskins, hoisting up the trawl. The contrast was striking—between struggling to catch a meager living from the sea and sitting in peace and quiet in a luxurious office where fortunes were made from these men’s toil. The contrast was striking, but probably unintentional. There have to be limits to cynicism. On the wall across from the window hung three lithographs by Matisse, Chagall and Salvador Dali. In the room there were also two leather chairs for visitors and a conference table with six straight-backed rosewood chairs.
According to the detectives’ information, Mats Linder was thirty years old. His appearance suited his age and position perfectly. Tall, slender and well built. Brown eyes, neatly parted hair, a thin face with a firm profile and a determined chin. Very soberly dressed.
Martin Beck looked at Månsson and felt sweatier and more wrinkled than ever.
He introduced himself and shook hands with Linder.
They sat down in the leather armchairs.
The man behind the desk leaned on his elbows and sat with his finger tips pressed together.
“Well,” he said, “has the murderer been apprehended?”
Månsson and Martin Beck shook their heads simultaneously.
“Then how can I be of help to you gentlemen?”
“Did Mr. Palmgren have any enemies?” Martin Beck asked.
It was a ridiculously simple question, but a beginning had to be made somewhere. Linder, however, seemed to take the question with exaggerated gravity and to consider his answer carefully. At last he said, “When a person is involved in business of the scope that Viktor Palmgren was, he can hardly escape making enemies.”
“Can you think of anyone in particular?”
“Far too many,” Linder said with a wan smile. “Gentlemen, the world of business is tough today. With the credit market in its present state, there’s no room for philanthropy or sentimentality. Many times it’s a matter of kill or be killed. From an economic viewpoint, that is. But …”
“Yes?”
“But in the business world we use other methods than shooting each other. Therefore I believe that we can quite simply dismiss the theory that a slighted competitor walked into the dining room of a first-class restaurant with a pistol in his hand, in order, so to speak, to balance his books privately.
Månsson made a movement, as though something had occurred to him, but he didn’t say anything. Martin Beck was forced to continue directing the conversation.
“Do you have any idea who it was who shot your boss?”
“I didn’t really see him, partly because I was sitting beside Vicke—his intimate friends used to call him that—and consequently I had my back turned to the murderer, and because I didn’t realize what was happening at first. I heard the shot—it wasn’t loud and didn’t seem very frightening—then Vicke fell forward over the table and I immediately stood up and leaned over him. It took several seconds before I realized that he was severely injured. When I turned around the gunman was gone, and the staff came rushing from all directions to help. But I told the police all this that same night.”
“I know,” said Martin Beck. “Maybe I didn’t make myself quite clear. “What I meant was, have you any idea of what kind of person might be involved?”
“A lunatic,” said Mats Linder without the slightest hesitation. “Only a person who is mentally ill could act that way.”