Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  The policeman put on a determined look.

  “And for chrissake, try to look like an ordinary human being. Not like you were on guard outside of the U.S. Trade Center.”

  Zachrisson blushed slightly and looked puzzled.

  “Okay,” he mumbled.

  And shortly after, “Is he dangerous?”

  “Could be,” Gunvald Larsson said nonchalantly.

  His own opinion was that Broberg was about as dangerous as a flea.

  “Now try to remember everything,” he said.

  Zachrisson recovered his dignity with some difficulty and nodded.

  Gunvald Larsson walked in the door. The hall was large and deserted, and it looked as if most of the offices had already closed.

  He walked up the stairs. Just as he passed the door with the two plaques, HAMPUS BROBERG INC. and VIKTOR PALMGREN LOAN & FINANCE, a dark-haired woman of about thirty-five locked it from the outside. Obviously the secretary.

  A glance at his Ultratron showed that it was exactly five o’clock. Punctuality is a virtue.

  The woman pressed the button for the elevator without glancing at him. He walked halfway up the next flight of stairs, stood absolutely still and waited.

  The wait was fairly long and extremely uneventful. During the next fifty minutes, the elevator was used three times, and on two occasions individuals of no interest to him walked down the stairs—apparently people who had worked overtime for one reason or another. When this happened Gunvald Larsson walked up and met them on the floor above. Then he returned to his post. At three minutes to six he heard the elevator come creaking up and heavy steps approaching. This time they were coming from down below. The elevator stopped, and a man stepped out. He had a bunch of keys in his hand, and, for all Gunvald Larsson knew, it could very well be Hampus Broberg. If so, dressed in a hat and overcoat despite the heat. He unlocked the office, went in and closed the door.

  At that moment the person who was tromping up the staircase walked past the door to Broberg’s office and came on up. He was heavy-set and wearing work clothes and a flannel shirt. When he caught sight of Gunvald Larsson he stopped short and said loudly, “What are you doing, hanging around here, huh?”

  “It’s none of your business,” Gunvald Larsson whispered.

  The man smelled of beer or akvavit, or both.

  “It is too my goddamn business,” the man said obstinately. “I’m the janitor here.”

  He set himself in the middle of the staircase, with one hand on the wall and the other on the handrail, as if to block the way.

  “I’m a policeman,” Gunvald Larsson whispered.

  At that very second the office door was opened, and Broberg, or whoever it was, came out with the famous suitcase in his hand.

  “Policeman!” said the janitor in a rough, booming voice. “You’d better prove that one before I …”

  The man carrying the suitcase didn’t hesitate a fraction of a second, decided against the sluggish elevator and scooted down the stairs at top speed.

  Gunvald Larsson was in an awkward situation. There was no time for bickering. If he hit the guy in the work clothes he’d probably fall down the stairs and break his neck. After a short hesitation he decided to brush him aside with his right hand. This should have been quite easy, but the janitor resisted and grabbed hold of Gunvald Larsson’s jacket. When he tried to break loose he heard the material give way and rip. Furious about this new damage to his wardrobe, he turned halfway around and struck the man on the wrist. The janitor let go with a groan, but Broberg now had a considerable head start.

  Gunvald Larsson plunged down the stairs. Behind him he heard savage curses and uncertain, shuffling steps.

  The state of affairs in the hall on the ground floor was perfectly ludicrous.

  Zachrisson had come inside the street door, of course, and was standing with his legs apart. He’d opened his jacket and was fumbling for his pistol.

  “Stop! Police!” he howled.

  Broberg had stopped abruptly without letting go of the suitcase, which he was carrying in his right hand. He stuck his left hand into the pocket of his overcoat and pulled out a gun, aimed at the ceiling and fired. Gunvald Larsson didn’t hear a ricochet and was almost certain that it was a starting gun, a stage revolver or some kind of toy.

  Zachrisson flung himself down on the marble floor and shot, but missed. Gunvald Larsson flattened himself against the wall. Broberg ran toward the back of the large hall, away from the policeman by the outer door. There was probably a back door. Zachrisson shot again and missed. The man carrying the suitcase was only ten feet from Gunvald Larsson and was still moving toward the inside of the building.

  Zachrisson fired three shots. All of them hit wide.

  What in hell do they learn at the Police Academy? Gunvald Larsson wondered.

  Bullets ricocheted back and forth between the stone walls.

  One of them entered the heel of Gunvald Larsson’s right shoe, putting paid to a peerless example of Italian craftsmanship.

  “Cease fire!” he roared.

  Zachrisson fired again, but there was just a click. He’d probably forgotten to fill the magazine.

  Gunvald Larsson took three strides forward and, without a second’s hesitation, struck Hampus Broberg on the jaw, as hard as he could. He heard a crunch under his fist, and the man slumped down in a sitting position.

  The custodian came down the stairs, swearing and panting heavily.

  “What the hell …?” he gasped.

  Gun smoke lay like a light blue fog over the hall. The smell of cordite was penetrating.

  Zachrisson stood up, looking perplexed.

  “What were you aiming for?” Gunvald Larsson said angrily.

  “The legs …”

  “Mine?”

  Gunvald Larsson picked up the weapon that had fallen out of Broberg’s hand. As he’d suspected, it was a starting gun.

  Outside on the street a vociferous crowd was gathering.

  “Are you nuts?” the custodian said. “That’s Mr. Broberg.”

  “Shut up,” said Gunvald Larsson and dragged the man on the floor to his feet.

  “Take the suitcase,” he said to Zachrisson. “If you can manage it.”

  He led the captive out through the door, gripping his right arm tightly. Broberg held his chin in his left hand. Blood trickled out between his fingers.

  Without looking around, Gunvald Larsson forced his way through the jabbering crowd and walked over to his car. Zachrisson plodded after him with the suitcase.

  Gunvald Larsson shoved the prisoner into the back seat and got in himself.

  “Think you can get us to Headquarters?” he asked Zachrisson.

  The latter nodded dejectedly and squeezed in behind the steering wheel.

  “What’s going on?” asked a dignified citizen in a gray suit and beret.

  “We’re making a film,” Gunvald Larsson said and slammed the door.

  “Get this goddamn thing moving,” he said to Zachrisson, who was fumbling with the ignition.

  Finally he got the car started.

  On the way to Kungsholmen Zachrisson asked a question that had obviously been on his mind.

  “Aren’t you armed?”

  “Idiot,” said Gunvald Larsson wearily.

  As usual he was carrying his police pistol on a waistband clip.

  Hampus Broberg said nothing.

  17

  Hampus Broberg said nothing, because he was both unwilling and unable. Two of his teeth had been knocked out, and his jawbone was fractured.

  At nine-thirty that night Gunvald Larsson and Kollberg were still leaning over him, shouting senseless questions.

  “Who shot Viktor Palmgren?”

  “Why did you try to escape?”

  “You hired a killer, didn’t you?”

  “It’s no good denying!”

  “You’d better come clean.”

  “Well, who’s the gunman?”

  “Why don’t you ans
wer?”

  “The game’s up, anyway, so start talking.”

  Now and then Broberg shook his head, and when Palmgren’s murder was mentioned he contorted his already contorted features into an expression that was probably intended to be a sardonic smile.

  Kollberg could imagine what this grimace meant, but not much more.

  During the introductory formalities and later, in passing, they’d asked him if he wanted to call his lawyer, but the prisoner still shook his head.

  “You wanted Palmgren out of the way so you could sneak off with the money, didn’t you?”

  “Where is the gunman?”

  “Who else was in on the plot?”

  “Spill it!”

  “You’re being held in custody.”

  “You’re in a bad fix.”

  “Why are you trying to protect other people?”

  “Nobody’s bothering to protect you.”

  “Well, come out with it.”

  “If you tell us who committed the murder it may count in your favor later on.”

  “You’d be wise to cooperate with us.”

  Now and then Kollberg tried a gentler approach.

  “When were you born? And where?”

  Gunvald Larsson ran true to form, the whole time trying to adhere to the doctrine that you have to begin from the beginning.

  “Okay, let’s take it from the beginning again. When did you decide that Viktor Palmgren had to be got out of the way?”

  Grimace. Shake of the head.

  Kollberg thought he could read the word “idiots” on the man’s lips.

  For an instant it struck him that that was quite an adequate description.

  “If you won’t talk, write on the pad there.”

  “Here’s a pencil.”

  “We’re only interested in the murder. Others will have to take care of the other stuff.”

  “Do you realize you’re suspected of conspiracy?”

  “As accessory to first-degree murder?”

  “Are you going to confess or not?”

  “It’d be best for everyone if you did it now. Right away.”

  “Let’s take it from the beginning. When did you decide that Palmgren had to be killed?”

  “Out with it!”

  “You know we have enough evidence to have you booked. You’re already in custody.”

  That was true. No doubt about it. In the suitcase were stocks and other securities worth something like half a million kronor, according to a quick calculation. They were homicide detectives, not financial experts, but they knew a little about illegal traffic in currency and securities.

  They’d found a one-way ticket to Geneva via Copenhagen and Frankfurt in a folder in the inside pocket of Broberg’s suit coat. The ticket was in the name of a Mr. Roger Frank.

  In the other inside pocket there was a forged passport, bearing Broberg’s picture, but also with the name Roger Frank, engineer.

  “Well, how about it?”

  “The best thing you can do is clear your conscience.”

  At last Broberg took the ballpoint pen and wrote some words on the steno pad.

  They leaned over the table and read:

  Get me a doctor.

  Kollberg drew Gunvald Larsson aside and said in a low voice, “Maybe that’s what we should do. We can’t keep on like this for hours.”

  Gunvald Larsson frowned and said, “Guess you’re right. Is there anything to show he set up that damned murder? Seems to me that’s highly unlikely.”

  “Right,” Kollberg said reflectively. “Right.”

  They were both tired and felt like going home.

  But they rounded things off by repeating several questions:

  “Who shot Palmgren?”

  “We know you didn’t shoot him, but we also know you know who did it. What’s his name?”

  “And where is he?”

  “When were you born,” said Gunvald Larsson, who was not really concentrating. “And where?”

  Then they gave up, sent for the police doctor on call and turned Broberg over to the guards in the detention ward.

  They got into their cars and went home, Kollberg to his wife, who was already asleep, Gunvald Larsson to grieve over his ruined clothes.

  Before Kollberg fell into bed he tried to call Martin Beck but couldn’t reach him.

  Gunvald Larsson didn’t consider calling Beck or anyone else. He took a long shower and thought about the bloodstains on his pants, his ripped jacket and ruined shoes. Before going to sleep he read two pages of a book by Stein Riverton.

  Kollberg had witnessed a more instructive interrogation earlier in the evening.

  As soon as he and Åsa Torell had brought Helena Hansson into a bare, inhospitable room at the Vice Squad headquarters, the girl broke down completely and reeled off a confession that had run as freely as her tears. They had to turn on a tape recorder to catch everything she had to say.

  Yes, she was a call girl.

  Yes, Hampus Broberg was a regular customer of hers.

  He’d given her the suitcase, the plane ticket and the hotel voucher. She was going to fly to Zurich and leave the suitcase in the hotel’s safe deposit box. He was going to come from Geneva the next day and pick it up.

  She was going to get ten thousand kronor for her trouble, if everything went well. She didn’t know what was in the suitcase.

  Hampus Broberg had said they couldn’t risk taking the same plane.

  When the police arrived she’d tried to contact Broberg at the Carlton Hotel, where he was staying under the name of Frank, but couldn’t reach him.

  The fee for the job in Malmö had been fifteen hundred kronor, not a thousand.

  She also blurted out the various contact numbers of the call girl ring she belonged to.

  She said she was completely innocent, really, and didn’t know what it was all about.

  She was a prostitute, but then she wasn’t the only one, and she’d never done anything else.

  She knew absolutely nothing about the murder.

  At any rate, no more than she’d already told them.

  Kollberg was inclined to believe her on that point, as well as on the others.

  18

  In Malmö Paulsson was on the lookout.

  The first days—Saturday and Sunday—he’d concentrated on the hotel personnel; he wanted, so to speak, to close in on his prey. He knew from experience that it was easier to carry out an assignment if you knew who it was you were looking for.

  He took his meals in the hotel dining room and between times remained in the lobby. He soon found out that hiding behind a newspaper in the restaurant with his ears pricked up gave meager results. Most of the guests spoke foreign languages that were incomprehensible to him, and if the staff discussed Wednesday’s event among themselves, they didn’t do it in the proximity of his table.

  Paulsson decided to play the curious guest who’d read about the drama in the newspaper. He called over the waiter, an apathetic young man with sideburns and a dazzling white jacket several sizes too large.

  Paulsson tried to start up a conversation about the shooting, but the waiter wasn’t interested and answered in monosyllables. Every now and then his eyes wandered toward the open window.

  Had he seen the murderer?

  Ye-e-es.

  Wasn’t he one of those long-haired types?

  No-o-o.

  Did he really not have long hair, or was he sloppily dressed at least?

  Maybe his hair was a little long. Didn’t see too well. He had a jacket on, anyway.

  The waiter pretended he had something to do in the kitchen and left.

  Paulsson reflected.

  If someone usually had long hair and a beard and wore jeans and baggy jackets, it was, of course, the easiest thing in the world to disguise himself. All he had to do was cut his hair, shave and put on a suit, and then no one would recognize him. The problem with such a disguise was that it would take quite a while for that person to regain
his former appearance. Therefore he ought to be easy to find.

  Paulsson felt happy about this conclusion.

  However, many of these left-wingers looked like ordinary people. He’d noticed that many times when he’d been on duty during demonstrations in Stockholm. It had often annoyed him. People who wore work clothes and had big red Mao buttons on their shirts were easy to identify, even when they weren’t in groups. But the job was complicated by people who were treacherous enough to go around in business suits, smooth-shaven and clean-cut, with their leaflets and subversive literature in neat briefcases. This meant that he didn’t have to go to unhygienic extremes in his own disguise, but it was annoying all the same.

  The headwaiter came over to his table.

  “Was the meal good?” he asked.

  He was short, had close-cropped hair and a humorous twinkle in his eye. He must surely be more alert and talkative than the waiter.

  “It was very good, thank you,” Paulsson said.

  Then he switched to the topic.

  “I was just thinking about what happened last Wednesday. Were you here at the time?”

  “Yes, I was working that night. Horrible. And they haven’t caught the murderer, either.”

  “Did you see him?”

  “Uhn—you see, it all happened so fast. When he first came in I wasn’t in the dining room. I didn’t come in until after he’d fired. So you could say I just caught a glimpse of him.”

  Paulsson had a brilliant idea.

  “He didn’t happen to be colored?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I mean a Negro, to be blunt. He wasn’t a Negro?”

  “No, why would he be a Negro?” said the headwaiter with genuine surprise.

  “There are rather light-colored Negroes, as you may know. Who don’t even look like Negroes, really, if you don’t look too closely.”

  “No, I’ve never heard of that. Other people saw him much better than I did, so you’d think some of them would’ve noticed if he was a Negro. And said it. No, he couldn’t have been.”