Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  Ballistic study finished.

  Wall

  20

  Martin Beck and Månsson looked at the bullet that had killed Viktor Palmgren. It was lying in front of them on a sheet of white paper, and their shared opinion was that it looked small and innocent.

  It had been somewhat knocked out of shape by the impact, but not very much, and even then it hadn’t taken the experts many seconds to establish the caliber of the weapon. As a matter of fact, you didn’t even have to be an expert to know that.

  “A .22,” Månsson said thoughtfully. “That seems strange.”

  Martin Beck nodded.

  “Who the hell tries to kill somebody with a .22?” Månsson said. He inspected the small nickel-cased projectile and shook his heavy head.

  Then he answered his own question: “Nobody. Especially if it’s not premeditated.”

  Martin Beck cleared his throat. As usual, he was coming down with a cold, although it was the middle of the hottest summer he’d seen in many years.

  How would it be in the fall? When moisture and raw fogs closed in on the country, saturated with every species of virus from the whole wide world.

  “In America it’s almost considered proof that the gunman is a real craftsman,” he said. “A kind of snobbishness. It shows the murderer is a real pro and doesn’t bother to use more than what’s absolutely necessary.”

  “Malmö isn’t Chicago,” Månsson said laconically.

  “Sirhan Sirhan killed Robert Kennedy with an Iver Johnson .22,” said Skacke, who was hanging around in the background.

  “That’s right,” Martin Beck said, “but he was desperate and emptied the whole magazine. Fired like crazy all over the place.”

  “He was an amateur, anyway,” Skacke said.

  “Yes. And the shot that killed Kennedy was a chance hit. The rest of the bullets hit other people in the crowd.”

  “This guy took careful aim and fired a single shot,” Månsson said. “From what we know, he cocked the gun with his thumb before pulling the trigger.”

  “And he was right-handed,” said Martin Beck. “But then almost everyone is.”

  “Hmm,” said Månsson. “There’s something screwy about this.”

  “Yeah, there really is,” Martin Beck said. “Are you thinking about anything in particular?”

  Månsson grumbled under his breath for a minute. Then he said, “What I’m thinking about is that the fellow acted so professional. Especially with the gun. And he knew exactly who he was going to shoot.”

  “Yes …”

  “And yet he only fired one shot. If he’d been unlucky the bullet could’ve struck the skull and ricocheted. As it turned out, it struck obliquely, and that was enough to take away some of the momentum.”

  Martin Beck had wondered about that, too, but couldn’t arrive at any logical conclusion from the reasoning.

  In silence they began to study the report of the technicians who’d examined the bullet.

  Ballistic science had made great progress since 1927, when it made its international breakthrough during the lengthy, famous trial of Sacco and Vanzetti in Dedham, Massachusetts, but the principles were still the same. Then Calvin Goddard had brought out the helixometer, the micrometer microscope and the comparative microscope, and since then great numbers of criminal cases throughout the world had been decided on the basis of ballistic evidence.

  If the bullet, the shell and the weapon were available it was the simplest thing in the world for any specialized criminologist to establish whether a particular projectile had been fired from a particular gun or not. If two of the components were available—usually the bullet and the cartridge—it was fairly easy to deduce the type of weapon.

  Different makes of gun leave different characteristics on the shell as well as on the bullet in the second that the firing pin hits the detonator cap and the bullet goes its way out through the bore. After Harry Söderman, who’d been an apprentice of Locard in Lyons, constructed the first Swedish comparison microscope in the early thirties, they had slowly but surely built up an exhaustive collection of tables, from which one could read off the effect of different types of gun on the cartridge used.

  But, in this case, the science, despite its generally acknowledged precision, let them down because they only had the bullet to go on and because, moreover, it was misshapen.

  Nonetheless, the ballistics man had compiled a list of possible weapons.

  Martin Beck and Månsson could contribute several that weren’t possible. Only a little common sense was required for that.

  First and foremost, all automatics were eliminated—they reject the shell when the barrel recoils, and no shell had been found in this instance. It’s true that shells can end up in the most unlikely places—in a dish of mashed potatoes, for example, as Backlund had suspected, in clothes or just about anywhere. There had been examples of spent cartridges finding their way into pockets and pants cuffs and not being discovered until much later.

  But the testimony seemed to be conclusive. Even if no one involved seemed to be a weapons expert, everything pointed to one thing—that the murderer had used a revolver. Which, as everyone knows, doesn’t reject shells; they stay in the cartridge cylinder, waiting patiently until someone takes them out.

  The statement from the ballistics expert was very long, and even when Martin Beck and Månsson had spent an hour of their precious time cutting it down, it was still pretty lengthy.

  “My, my,” Månsson said, scratching his head. “This document doesn’t give us much to go on, unless we can locate either the gun or something else that points in some definite direction.”

  “Like what?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Don’t know,” said Månsson.

  Martin Beck wiped the perspiration off his forehead with a folded handkerchief. Then he unfolded it and blew his nose.

  He looked at the list of revolvers and babbled dismally, “Colt Cobra, Smith & Wesson 34, Firearms International, Harrington & Richardson 900, Harrington & Richardson 622, Harrington & Richardson 926, Harrington & Richardson Side-Kick, Harrington & Richardson Forty-Niner, Harrington & Richardson Sportsman …”

  “Sportsman,” Månsson said to himself.

  “I’d like to have a word with these Harrington and Richardson guys,” Martin Beck said. “Why can’t they be satisfied with one model?”

  “Or none at all,” Månsson said.

  Martin Beck turned the page and continued to mumble.

  “Iver Johnson Sidewinder, Iver Johnson Cadet, Iver Johnson Viking, Iver Johnson Viking Snub … We should be able to cross that one out. Everybody says the barrel was long.”

  Månsson walked over to the window and looked thoughtfully out over the station courtyard. He wasn’t listening any more. He heard Martin Beck’s voice only as background noise.

  “Herter’s .22, Llama, Astra Cadix, Arminius, Rossi, Hawes Texas Marshal, Hawes Montana Marshal, Pic Big Seven—God, is there no end to this.”

  Månsson didn’t answer. He was thinking of something else.

  “I wonder how many revolvers there are in this city alone,” Martin Beck said.

  The question could hardly be answered. They must have been legion—inherited, stolen and smuggled. Hidden away in closets and drawers and old trunks. Illegal, of course, but people didn’t worry about that.

  And then, naturally, there were people who actually had licenses, but not many.

  The only ones who definitely didn’t have revolvers, or at least didn’t wear them, were policemen. The Swedish police were equipped with 7.65 mm Walther pistols, stupidly enough. Although it’s easier to change the magazine on automatics, they have the unpleasant habit of getting caught in clothing and other things, just when it’s important to draw fast. “To snag,” as it is called in the jargon.

  They were interrupted in their reflections when Skacke knocked on the door and came in.

  “Somebody has to talk to Kollberg,” he said. “He doesn’t know what he’s going to
do with these people in Stockholm.”

  21

  What to do with Hampus Broberg and Helena Hansson was a problem, to put it mildly.

  In addition, Martin Beck and Kollberg had to resolve the matter on the telephone, which took quite a while.

  “Where are they now?” Martin Beck said.

  “On Kungsholmsgatan.”

  “In custody?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can we get them booked?”

  “The prosecuting attorney thinks so.”

  “Thinks?”

  Kollberg sighed deeply.

  “What are you trying to say?” Martin Beck asked.

  “They’re being held for planning to violate the currency laws. But for the moment there isn’t any formal charge against them.”

  Kollberg paused significantly. Then he said, “This is what I’m trying to say. The only conclusive evidence against Broberg is that he had a forged passport in his pocket and fired a blank from a starting gun when Larsson and that trigger-happy patrolman were about to pick him up.”

  “Yes?”

  “And the broad’s confessed that she peddles her ass. She also had a suitcase full of securities. She says Broberg gave her the suitcase and the securities and the ticket and the whole works and offered her ten grand to smuggle everything into Switzerland.”

  “Which is probably true.”

  “Sure. The problem is that they never had time to get under way. If Larsson and I’d had our heads on straight, we would’ve let them keep going for a while. We could’ve tipped off customs and the passport check-point so they would’ve got caught out at Arlanda.”

  “Then you mean there won’t be enough evidence?”

  “Right. The prosecuting attorney claims there’s a possibility the judge will refuse the arrest warrant and will think it’s enough to issue an injunction against their leaving his jurisdiction.”

  “And let them go?”

  “Exactly. Unless you …”

  “What?”

  “Unless you can convince the prosecuting attorney down there in Malmö that they’re being held because they have vital information about Palmgren’s murder. If you can do that we can book them and send them down to you. That’s what the lawyers suggest.”

  “What do you think?”

  “Not too much. It seems really obvious that Broberg was planning to make off with an ungodly amount of money. But if we take that approach, the matter has to be handed over to the Fraud boys.”

  “But does Broberg have anything to do with the murder?”

  “Let’s just say that since last Friday his conduct has been dictated by the fact that Palmgren died on Thursday night. It looks clear as day, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. Seems like the only logical explanation.”

  “However, Broberg has the world’s best alibi for the murder itself. Just like Helena Hansson and the other people sitting at the table.”

  “What does Broberg say?”

  “He’s reported to have said ‘Ow!’ when the doctor bandaged his jaw. Otherwise he hasn’t said a word—literally.”

  “Wait a second,” Martin Beck said.

  He wiped off the sweaty telephone receiver with his handkerchief.

  “What are you doing?” Kollberg asked suspiciously.

  “Sweating.”

  “Then you should see me. To get back to this goddamn Broberg, he’s not very cooperative. For all I know, this money and all these stocks could actually be his.”

  “Hmm,” Martin Beck said. “If that were true, where would he have got them?”

  “Don’t ask me. The only thing I know about money is that I don’t have any.”

  Kollberg seemed to be thinking over this sorrowful remark. Then he said, “Anyway, I have to have something to tell the prosecuting attorney.”

  “How is it with the girl?”

  “A lot easier, as far as I can see. She’s talking her head off. The Vice Squad is reeling in the whole call-girl outfit, which is apparently spread out over the whole country. I just talked to Sylvia Granberg, and she claims they can hold Helena Hansson without any trouble, at least as long as their investigation lasts.”

  Sylvia Granberg was a sub-inspector with the Vice Squad and, among other things, Åsa Torell’s boss.”

  And besides they have some interests to tend to in Malmö,” Kollberg went on. “So if you want to meet Helena Hansson you shouldn’t run into any trouble.”

  Martin Beck said nothing.

  “Well?” Kollberg said finally. “What should I do?”

  “It would undoubtedly be interesting if certain confrontations took place,” Martin Beck mumbled.

  “I can’t hear what you’re saying,” complained Kollberg.

  “I’ve got to do some thinking about this. I’ll call you in about half an hour.”

  “Absolutely no later. Any time now everybody’s going to jump on me and start yelling. Malm, the Chief of Police and the whole bunch.”

  “Half an hour. I promise.”

  “Good. Bye now.”

  “Bye,” Martin Beck said and hung up.

  He sat for a long time with his elbows on the desk, his head buried in his hands.

  After a while the picture grew clearer.

  Hampus Broberg had converted all his assets into cash in Sweden and tried to escape from the country. He’d first got his family to safety. Everything suggested that his situation had become untenable the moment Palmgren died.

  Why?

  In all likelihood, because he’d embezzled large sums of money during the course of many years from the Palmgren enterprises he controlled, primarily the real estate agency, the stock transactions and the finance company.

  Viktor Palmgren had trusted Broberg, who could consequently feel relatively secure as long as the head of the company was alive.

  But with Palmgren gone, he didn’t dare remain longer than was absolutely necessary. Thus he’d felt in danger, if not of his life, at least of financial ruin and perhaps a long prison term.

  In danger from whom?

  Hardly the authorities, for it didn’t seem likely that the police or Internal Revenue could ever straighten out Palmgren’s tangled affairs. Even if it were possible, it would in any case take a very long time, probably years.

  The one who had best access was Mats Linder naturally.

  Or possibly Hoff-Jensen.

  But Linder’s aversion to Broberg was so strong that he’d been unable to conceal it during the police enquiry.

  Hadn’t he strongly hinted that Broberg was a swindler? That Palmgren had trusted his man in Stockholm too much?

  In any case, Linder had the best chances in an eventual struggle for power over the Palmgren millions.

  If Broberg had embezzled large amounts, Linder was in the position of being able to demand an immediate audit of the various companies’ accounts and bring a charge against him.

  However, Linder had as yet taken no action, even though he must know or at least suspect that he didn’t have much time.

  The police had stopped Broberg instead, but it had happened almost by accident.

  Which could indicate that Linder was in a precarious position himself and didn’t dare take the risk of possible recriminations.

  Anyhow, Broberg didn’t seem to have had anything to gain from Palmgren’s death, and above all he hadn’t expected it.

  Everything he had done since Friday had been relative to Palmgren’s sudden death, as Kollberg had quite correctly pointed out, but everything indicated that he had acted quickly, almost in panic, and so must have been virtually unprepared.

  Then didn’t this clear Broberg of any suspicion concerning the murder proper?

  Martin Beck felt convinced of one thing—if there really had been a conspiracy behind the act of violence, that conspiracy was economic, not political.

  Then who had something to gain from doing away with Palmgren?

  There could be only one answer.

  Mats Linder.

>   The man who’d already managed to win Palmgren’s wife and who held the best cards in the financial power game.

  Charlotte Palmgren was much too content with her existence to get involved in plots at such a high level. Besides, she was simply too stupid.

  Hoff-Jensen certainly didn’t have sufficient control of the Palmgren business empire.

  But would Linder really take such an obvious risk?

  Why not?

  When you play for high stakes you have to take big risks.

  It would be interesting to confront Hampus Broberg with Mats Linder and hear what the two gentlemen had to say to each other.

  What about the girl?

  Had Helena Hansson only been a paid pawn? Clearly a functional one, useful as secretary, smuggling courier and bedmate.

  Her own statements indicated that, and there wasn’t actually any reason to doubt them.

  But lengthy experience showed that a great deal was revealed in bed. And Broberg was one of her regular clients.

  Martin Beck’s thoughts matured into a decision.

  He got up and left the room. Took the elevator down to the ground floor, where the public prosecution authorities had their offices.

  Ten minutes later he was sitting behind the desk in his borrowed room again, dialing the number to Västberga.

  “Fabulous!” Kollberg said. “You’re right on the dot.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And?”

  “Have them booked.”

  “Both of them?”

  “Yes. We need them as witnesses down here. They’re essential to the investigation of the murder.”

  “Really?”

  Kollberg sounded skeptical.

  “They should be sent here as soon as possible,” Martin Beck said with conviction.

  “Okay,” Kollberg said. “Just one more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Can I be dropped from this damn case from now on?”

  “I think so.”

  After the telephone conversation, Martin Beck remained seated for a while, still deep in thought. But now he was more preoccupied with Kollberg and the hint of doubt in his voice.

  Were these people really essential to the investigation of the murder?