by Maj Sjowall
“Well, okay,” Paulsson said. “It was just an idea that struck me …”
Paulsson spent Saturday night in the bar, where he consumed a great number of various nonalcoholic drinks.
When he ordered his sixth, a Pussyfoot, even the bartender, who wasn’t easily surprised, looked somewhat astonished.
On Sunday night the bar was closed, and Paulsson stayed in the lobby. He prowled around the reception desk, but the clerk seemed very busy, talked on the telephone, studied the ledger, helped guests and now and then hurried off on an urgent errand with elbows raised and long coat tails flapping after him. Finally Paulsson was able to exchange a few words with him, but didn’t receive support for any of his theories. The clerk was particularly emphatic about the fact that the man was not a Negro.
Paulsson finished off the day with a pusztaschnitzel in the grill.There the clientele was significantly more numerous and youthful than in the dining room, and he overheard several interesting conversations from the tables nearby. At the table next to Paulsson’s, two men and a girl were talking about things that, to his great displeasure, he couldn’t fathom, but at one point they even mentioned the murder of Viktor Palmgren.
The younger man, with long red hair and a bushy beard, expressed his contempt for the deceased and his admiration for the assailant. Paulsson studied his appearance carefully and made a mental note of it.
The next day was Monday, and Paulsson decided to extend the search to Lund. There were students in Lund, and where there were students there had to be radical elements. Up in his room he had long lists of names of people in Lund who could be suspected of holding deviant opinions.
So in the afternoon he took the train to the university town, which he had never visited before, and set off through the town to search out the students.
It was hotter than ever, and Paulsson perspired in his checkered suit.
He found his way to the university, which was dead and abandoned in the blazing sun. No revolutionary activities seemed to be going on. Paulsson recalled the picture he’d seen of Mao swimming in the Yangtze Kiang. Maybe the Lund Maoists were in the Höje River, following the Chairman’s example.
Paulsson took off his jacket and went to have a look at the cathedral. He was surprised that the notorious Giant Finn statue was so small and bought a picture postcard of him to send to his wife.
On his way from the cathedral he caught sight of a notice announcing a dance that the Student Union was going to have that night. Paulsson decided to go to it, but since it was still early in the evening, he had to find some way to pass the time.
He wandered around the town, which was deserted for the summer, strolled under the tall trees in the city park, sauntered along the gravel paths of the Botanical Gardens for a long time and suddenly felt very hungry. He ate a simple dinner at Storkällaren and then sat over a cup of coffee, watching what little activity there was on the square outside.
He didn’t have the vaguest idea of how to organize the search for Viktor Palmgren’s killer. Assassinations hardly ever occurred in Sweden—he couldn’t remember any political murder occurring in modern times. He wished that the information he had to go on wasn’t so vague and that he knew a little better where to start looking.
When it was dark, and the street lamps had been turned on, he paid the check and went to find the discothèque.
That venture was also unproductive. About twenty teenagers were drinking beer and dancing to deafening rock music. Paulsson talked to several of them, but it turned out that they weren’t even students. He drank a small mug of beer and then took the train back to Malmö.
He ran into Martin Beck in the hotel elevator. Even though they were alone in the elevator, the latter stared fixedly at a point above Paulsson’s head, whistling silently to himself. When the elevator stopped he winked at Paulsson, put a finger to his lips and walked out into the corridor.
19
On Monday afternoon Månsson called his Danish colleague.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Mogensen said. “Calling during working hours. Do you think I sit here sleeping at the Bureau of Investigation, too?”
“Beg your pardon,” Månsson said.
“Oh, I understand, it’s so urgent you can’t hold off until tonight. Well, let’s hear it, I’m just sitting here twiddling my thumbs.”
“Ole Hoff-Jensen,” said Månsson. “He’s a director of some company that’s a part of an international concern owned by Viktor Palmgren. You know, the guy who was shot dead here last week. I’d like to know what kind of company and where its office is. As soon as possible.”
“Okay, I get it,” Mogensen said. “I’ll call back.”
Half an hour passed.
“That wasn’t so hard,” said Mogensen. “Are you listening?”
“Sure. Go ahead,” Månsson said and grasped his pencil.
“Mr. Ole Hoff-Jensen is forty-eight years old, married, and has two daughters. His wife’s name is Birthe; she’s forty-three. They live on Richelieus Allé in Hellerup. The firm is an air freight company called Aero-fragt, which has its main office on Kultorvet in Copenhagen and space out at Kastrup airport. The company has five planes of the DC-6 type. Anything else you want to know?”
“No thanks. That’s enough for the moment. How are you, by the way?”
“Horrible. And hot. I think this heat drives people insane. The city’s packed with nut cases. Swedes galore. Farewell.”
The instant Månsson hung up it occurred to him that he’d forgotten to ask for the telephone number of the airline.
He asked the switchboard to get it, which took a while. When he finally reached Aero-fragt he was informed that Hoff-Jensen couldn’t be reached until the following day, and that he could meet with him after eleven o’clock.
It’s just as well, Månsson thought. I couldn’t have taken another director today.
He spent the remainder of Monday afternoon working on some routine business, which did, after all, have to be taken care of.
On Tuesday morning he picked up Martin Beck outside of the hotel. He’d planned for them to take the hydrofoil to Copenhagen, but Martin Beck explained that he wanted to ride on a real boat, and that they might as well combine work with pleasure and eat lunch during the crossing. He’d found out that the train ferry Malmöhus was due to leave in twenty minutes.
There weren’t many passengers on board. Only two tables in the dining room were occupied. They made a round of the smorgasbord to sample the herring, had wienerschnitzel and then went forward to the lounge to drink coffee.
The Sound was as smooth as glass, but the view wasn’t entirely clear. The silhouette of Ven shimmered in the haze, but it wasn’t possible to distinguish either Backafallen or the small white church. Martin Beck studied the lively traffic with interest and was delighted when he caught sight of a steam-driven freighter with a graceful hull and a beautiful, straight chimney.
Over coffee Martin Beck outlined what Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson had found out from Broberg and Helena Hansson. It was bad enough, but didn’t really seem to contribute to the murder investigation.
They took a train from the boat to Central Station and then went on foot across Rådhus Place and through the narrow streets to Kultorvet. Aero-fragt’s office was on the top floor of an old building, and since there wasn’t an elevator, they had to climb up the steep, cramped flights of stairs.
Although the building was old, the interior decoration of the office was ultramodern. They entered a long, narrow corridor with many doors covered with padded green imitation leather. The wall space between the doors was filled with large photostat copies of old types of airplanes, and under each picture there was a small leather armchair and a brass ashtray on a pedestal. The corridor led into a large room with two lofty windows onto the square.
The receptionist, who was sitting with her back to the window at a white steel-frame desk, was neither young nor very pretty. She had a pleasant voice, however; Månsson recognized
it from his telephone call the previous day. She also had gorgeous, strawberry blond hair.
She was talking on the telephone and gestured politely to them to wait in chairs on one side of the room. Månsson dropped into one of the armchairs and took out a toothpick. He’d replenished his supply from the condiments rack in the train ferry’s dining room. Martin Beck remained standing and looked at the old tile stove in one corner of the room.
The telephone conversation was being carried on in Spanish, a language in which neither Martin Beck nor Månsson was proficient, and they soon grew tired of listening.
At last the strawberry blonde finished talking and stood up with a smile.
“You gentlemen are from the Swedish police, I gather,” she said. “Just a moment, and I’ll notify Mr. Hoff-Jensen.”
She disappeared through a pair of double doors covered in the same imitation leather, although here they were coffee brown, with large, shiny brass studs. The doors closed noiselessly behind her, and even though Martin Beck strained his ears, he couldn’t distinguish voices from within. Barely a minute passed before the doors were opened again, and Hoff-Jensen came toward them with outstretched hand.
He was athletic and suntanned. His broad smile revealed a row of dazzling white, flawless teeth under a well-tended mustache. He was dressed in a style of studied unconventionality, in an olive green shirt of thin raw silk, a darker jacket of soft Irish tweed, chestnut brown trousers and beige moccasins. The thick curly hair that showed at the neck of his shirt was silvery against his bronzed skin. He had a broad chest and a large head with powerful facial features. His closely-cropped hair was platinum blond, as was his mustache. His hips seemed unnaturally narrow in relation to the heavy upper half of his body.
After he’d shaken hands with Martin Beck and Månsson, he held the door open for them. Before closing it, he said to the secretary, “I don’t want to be disturbed for anything.”
Hoff-Jensen waited until the policemen had each taken a seat, then he settled down behind the desk. He leaned against the back of his chair and picked up the cigar that was smoldering on an ashtray within easy reach.
“Well, gentlemen, you’re here about poor Viktor, I assume. You haven’t found the guilty man?”
“No, not yet,” Martin Beck said.
“I really don’t have much more to say than what I said when we were questioned that terrible night in Malmö. Everything happened in a matter of seconds.”
“But you had the time to see the gunman, didn’t you?” Månsson said. “You were sitting facing in that direction.”
“Certainly,” Hoff-Jensen said and puffed on his cigar.
He reflected a moment before continuing.
“But before the shot was fired I hadn’t noticed the man, and afterward it took me a minute to grasp what had happened. I saw Viktor fall onto the table, but didn’t understand right away that he’d been shot, even though I did hear the shot. Then I saw the man with the revolver—I think it was a revolver—rush to the window and disappear. I was taken by surprise and didn’t have time to take note of what he looked like. So, gentlemen, you see that I can’t be of much help to you.”
He lifted his arms and let them fall on the padded arms of the chair in a gesture of apology.
“But you did see him,” Martin Beck said. “You must have some impression.”
“If I had to describe the man I’d say that he looked middleaged, a little shabby, perhaps. I don’t think I ever saw his face; by the time I looked up he already had his back to me. He must have been in good shape to have got through that window so fast.”
He leaned forward and put the cigar out in the ashtray.
“What about your wife?” Månsson asked. “Did she see anything in particular?”
“Not a thing,” Hoff-Jensen answered. “My wife is a very sensitive, impressionable woman. It was a terrible shock for her, and it took her several days to get over it. Besides, she was sitting beside Viktor and so had her back to the criminal. You won’t insist on questioning her?”
“No. It may not be necessary,” Martin Beck said.
“That’s kind of you,” Hoff-Jensen said and smiled. “Well, in that case …”
The man gripped the arm rests as if to stand up, but Månsson hastened to say, “We have a couple more questions, if you don’t mind, Mr. Hoff-Jensen.”
“Ye-es?”
“How long have you been head of this company?”
“Since it was formed eleven years ago. As a young man I was a pilot, then I studied advertising in the United States and was publicity director for an airline before Viktor made me head of Aero-fragt here in Copenhagen.”
“What about now? Are you carrying on as usual, despite his death?”
Hoff-Jensen extended his arms and displayed his beautiful set of false teeth.
“The show must go on,” he said.
It was quiet in the room. Martin Beck looked sideways at Månsson, who’d sunk deeper into the chair and was staring disgustedly at the golf bag full of clubs propped up against the tile stove.
“Who will be head of the concern now?” said Martin Beck.
“Well, that’s a good question,” said Hoff-Jensen. “Young Linder is still too green, probably. And Broberg, uh, like me, I imagine, has his hands full.”
“How did you get along with Mr. Palmgren?”
“Very well, I’d say. He had complete confidence in me and in the way I ran the company.”
“Exactly what does Aero-fragt do?” Martin Beck asked and realized immediately what the answer would be.
“It flies freight, as the name implies,” Hoff-Jensen said.
He held out a cigar case to Månsson and Martin Beck, and when both shook their heads he took a cigar himself and lit it. Martin Beck lit a Florida, exhaled the smoke and said, “Yes, I understand that, but what kind of freight? You have five planes, isn’t that right?”
Hoff-Jensen nodded and studied the coal on his cigar. Then he said, “The freight consists mainly of the company’s own products, primarily canned fish. One of the planes is also equipped with freezer storage. At times we run charter flights. Some firms in Copenhagen call on us for various carrying jobs—and other interested parties, for that matter.”
“What countries do you fly to?” Martin Beck asked.
“Mostly European, if you don’t include the Eastern European countries. Africa sometimes.”
“Africa?”
“Mostly charter. That’s seasonal,” Hoff-Jensen said and looked pointedly at his watch.
Månsson sat up straight, took the toothpick out of his mouth and pointed it at Hoff-Jensen.
“How well do you know Hampus Broberg?”
The Dane shrugged.
“Not very well. We see each other sometimes at board meetings, like last Wednesday. We talk on the telephone now and then. That’s all.”
“Do you know where he is now?” asked Månsson.
“In Stockholm, I suppose. His home is there. And his office.”
Hoff-Jensen seemed surprised by the question.
“What kind of a relationship did Palmgren and Broberg have?” Martin Beck asked.
“Good, as far as I knew. They may not have been exactly close friends, the way Viktor and I were. We played golf together a lot and saw each other outside business hours. I’d say that Viktor and Hampus Broberg were more like boss and employee.”
Something in his tone betrayed a feeling of contempt for Hampus Broberg.
“Had you ever met Mr. Broberg’s secretary before?” Månsson asked.
“The blond girl? No, that was the first time. A sweet kid.”
“How many employees do you have?” Martin Beck asked.
Hoff-Jensen stopped to think.
“Twenty-two at present,” he said. “It varies a little, depending on …”
He broke off and shrugged.
“Well, on the season, the nature of the business and so on,” he said nebulously.
“Where are your planes now
?” Martin Beck asked.
“Two are at Kastrup. One is in Rome and one on Sao Tomé for engine repairs. The fifth is in Portugal.”
Martin Beck stood up abruptly and said, “Thank you. Can you let us know if you think of something else? Will you be staying here in Copenhagen in the near future?”
“Yes, I will,” Hoff-Jensen said.
He put down the cigar but remained sitting quietly in the chair.
In the doorway Månsson turned around and said, “You don’t by any chance know who could’ve wanted Viktor Palmgren dead?”
Hoff-Jensen picked up his cigar, gazed steadily at Månsson and said, “No, I don’t know. Obviously the person who shot him. Good-bye, gentlemen.”
They walked down Købmagergade to Amager Square. Månsson glanced toward Læderstræde. He knew a girl who lived there. She was a sculptor from Skåne, who preferred to live in Copenhagen. He’d met her in connection with an investigation a year earlier. Her name was Nadja, and he liked her very much. They met now and then, usually at her place, slept with each other and had a good time together. Neither of them wanted to make a commitment, and they were careful not to encroach too much on each other’s lives. During the past year, their relationship had been practically flawless. Månsson’s only problem was that he no longer enjoyed his weekend get-togethers with his wife in the same way; he would rather have been with Nadja.
Strøget teemed with people, most of whom seemed to be tourists. Martin Beck, who detested crowds, dragged Månsson through the throng outside of the entrance to Magasin du Nord and in on Lille Kongensgade. They each drank a bottle of Tuborg at cellar temperature in Skindbuksen, which was also crowded, although the people were more congenial than on the street.
Månsson persuaded Martin Beck to take the hydrofoil home. The boat’s name was Svalan, and Martin Beck felt sick during the crossing. Forty minutes after they left Danish soil they walked in the door to Månsson’s office.
On the desk was a message from the Technical Squad: