by Maj Sjowall
She got up and sat down on the edge of the bed.
She didn’t move for a while. They still looked into each other’s eyes.
Martin Beck freed his left arm. His hand brushed against her slim fingers. He tugged lightly at her sash.
“There’s no hurry,” he said.
She looked deep into his eyes and said, “Yours are gray. Actually.”
“And yours are brown.”
Åsa Torell smiled without parting her lips. Then she raised her right hand, slowly undid the knot, half stood up and let the robe fall to the floor.
He pushed the sheet away, and she sat down again, her right leg raised so that her foot rested against the left side of his chest.
“Have you thought about this before?” she said.
“Yes. Have you?”
“Sometimes. Once in a while during the past year.”
They exchanged a few more words.
“Has it been a long time?”
“Terribly long. Not since—”
She broke off and said, “What about you?”
“Same here.”
“You’re good,” she said.
“You are, too.”
It was true. Åsa Torell was good, and he’d known it for a long time.
She was small but firm. Her breasts were small but the nipples were large, erect and dark brown. The skin over her midriff and abdomen was smooth and supple and the copious hair between her legs curly and almost coal black.
Her hand was lying spread out on his left leg and slid slowly upward. Her fingers were thin but long, strong and purposeful.
She was very open.
After a moment he moved his hands to her shoulders. She changed position and lay on top of him—soft, deep and wide open and soon filled with him.
She panted in short, quick breaths against his shoulder and soon afterward against his mouth.
When she was lying on her back she felt very solid and secure, and her legs were strong around his back and hips.
When she left it had been light for a couple of hours.
She put on her robe and slippers and said, “Bye and thanks.”
“Same to you.”
Thus it had happened, and would never happen again. Or maybe it would. He didn’t know.
He did know, however, that he was old enough to be her father, even if that place hadn’t been occupied for exactly twenty-seven years.
Martin Beck reflected that Wednesday hadn’t ended so badly, despite everything. Or could it be that Thursday had begun well?
Then he fell asleep.
They saw each other again several hours later, at the police station. In passing, Martin Beck said, “Who booked you the room at the Savoy?”
“I did. But Lennart told me to do it.”
Martin Beck smiled to himself.
Kollberg, of course. The schemer. Well, this time, anyway, he would never know for certain whether he’d been successful or not.
25
At nine o’clock on Thursday morning the situation in the tracking center was at a standstill. Martin Beck and Månsson were sitting across from each other at the large desk. Neither of them said anything. Martin Beck was smoking, and Månsson wasn’t doing anything. He’d used up his toothpicks.
At twelve minutes after nine, Benny Skacke made the first active contribution of the day by coming into the room with an enormously long strip of teletype in his hand. He stopped inside the door and started skimming through it.
“What’s that?” Martin Beck asked.
“The list from Copenhagen,” Månsson said dully. “They send out one like that every day. Missing persons, cars that’ve disappeared, things they’ve found, anything like that.”
“A whole lot of girls who’ve run away,” Skacke said. “Nine of them, no, ten.”
“Well, it’s that time of year,” Månsson said.
“Lisbeth Møller, twelve years old,” Skacke mumbled. “Missing from her home since Monday, drug addict. And she’s twelve years old?”
“Sometimes they turn up here,” Månsson explained. “Most of the time they don’t, of course.”
“Stolen cars,” Skacke said. “A Swedish passport, issued to Sven Olof Gustafsson, Svedala, fifty-six years old. Confiscated at a prostitute’s place in Nyhavn. His billfold, too.”
“Drunken pig,” said Månsson laconically.
“A steam shovel from a tunnel construction site. How can anybody swipe a steam shovel?”
“It’s been done,” Martin Beck said.
“Drunken pig,” said Månsson. “Is there anything under guns? They usually come toward the end.”
Skacke scanned down the listing.
“Sure,” he said. “Several of them. A Swedish army pistol, 9mm, Husqvarna, has to be old. A Beretta Jaguar … Box for an Arminius .22, five boxes of 7.65 mm ammunition …”
“Stop there,” Månsson said.
“Yes, what was that about a box?” Martin Beck said.
Skacke went back up the list.
“A box originally for an Arminius .22,” he said.
“Found where?”
“Floated ashore on the beach between Dragør and Kastrup. Found by a private individual and left with the police in Dragør. Last Tuesday.”
“Isn’t Arminius .22 on our list?” Martin Beck said.
“It sure is.”
Said Månsson, suddenly alert, his hand already on the telephone receiver.
“Yeah, sure,” Skacke said. “The box. The box on the bicycle …”
Månsson energetically harassed the Copenhagen police switchboard. It took a moment before he was connected with Mogensen.
Mogensen had never heard of the box.
“No, I appreciate that you can’t keep track of all that junk,” Månsson said patiently. “But it is on your own damn list. Wait a second …”
He looked at Skacke and said, “What number is it on the list?”
“Thirty-eight.”
“Thirty-eight. Three, eight,” Månsson said into the receiver. “Yes, it could be important for us …”
He listened a minute. Then he said, “By the way, do you know anything more about Aero-fragt and Ole Hoff-Jensen?”
Pause.
“Yes, that’d be fine,” Månsson said and hung up.
He looked at the other two.
“They’re going to check it out and then call us back.”
“When?” Martin Beck asked.
“Morgensen is usually pretty fast,” Månsson said and returned to his reflections.
The call from Copenhagen came in less than an hour.
Månsson mostly listened. He looked happier and happier.
“Fantastic,” he said finally.
“Well?” said Martin Beck.
“Well, the box was with their Technical Squad. At first the guy in Dragør was going to throw it away, but yesterday he put it in a plastic bag and sent it to Copenhagen. We’ll get it on the hydrofoil that leaves the Nyhavn canal at eleven.”
He glanced at his watch and said to Skacke, “See that a patrol car meets the boat.”
“What did he know about Hoff-Jensen?” Martin Beck asked.
“Most everything. Evidently, he’s well-known over there. A shady character. But untouchable. He doesn’t make his crooked deals in Denmark. Everything he does there is legal.”
“Palmgren’s crooked deals, in other words.”
“Right. And apparently they’re big stuff. Mogensen said that both Palmgren’s and Hoff-Jensen’s names had figured in connection with illegal traffic in weapons and airplanes to countries that are covered by weapon embargoes. He knows that from Interpol. But they can’t do anything, either.”
“Or maybe don’t want to,” Martin Beck said.
“Quite likely,” Månsson said.
He yawned.
They waited. There wasn’t much else to do.
At ten to twelve the box lay on the desk.
They slipped it out of the plastic wrapper. Experience
had taught them to handle such things with great care, even though this one had already received rough treatment and clearly had gone through many hands.
Martin Beck lifted the lid, put his fist to his chin and examined the molded sections for the revolver and the extra butt.
“Yes,” he said, “you’re probably right.”
Månsson nodded. He opened and closed the lid several times.
“Opens pretty easily,” he said.
They turned the box over and examined it from all angles. It was dry now and reasonably well preserved.
“Can’t have been in the water too long,” Martin Beck said.
“Five days,” Månsson said.
“Here,” Martin Beck said, “we’ve got something here.”
He ran his finger over the bottom of the cardboard box, which had obviously been covered with paper. It had been soaked off by now, however, and was completely gone in places.
“Yes,” said Månsson. “There was something written on the paper. Probably with a ballpoint pen. Wait a second.”
He took a magnifying glass out of one of his desk drawers and handed it to Martin Beck.
“Hmm,” Martin Beck said. “The imprint is visible. ‘B’ and an ‘S.’ They show up fairly clearly. Maybe something else.”
“Okay,” said Månsson, “we have people who work with things a bit more precise than my old magnifying glass. I’ll have them take a look at it.”
“This revolver is, or rather was, a target weapon,” Martin Beck said.
“Yes, I’ve gone into that. An unusual make, too.”
Månsson drummed with his fingers on the table.
“Okay, we’ll leave this with the Technical Squad,” he said. “We’ll have Skacke canvass the rifle clubs. And we’ll go out and eat lunch. Not a bad division of labor, uh?”
“Sounds good,” Martin Beck said.
“I can show you Malmö at the same time. Have you been in the bar at Översten?”
“No.”
“Well, it’s about time.”
The Restaurant Översten is on the twenty-sixth floor of the Crown Prince Building. Viewing the city from its bar windows far surpassed Martin Beck’s memories of similar experiences.
The whole city spread out below them, as if seen from an airplane. They gazed over Öresund, Saltholm and the Danish coast. To the north, Landskrona, Ven and even Helsingborg were visible in the startlingly clear air.
A blond bartender in a blue jacket served them minute steaks and cold Amstel. Månsson ate voraciously, then took all the toothpicks from the condiment rack, stuck one into his mouth and the rest into his pocket.
“Hmm,” he said. “As far as I can see, it all fits together.”
Martin Beck, who’d been more interested in the view than the food, reluctantly tore his eyes from the panorama.
“Yes,” he said, “it looks like it. Maybe you were right all along. Although you were guessing.”
“Guessing and guessing,” Månsson said.
“Now we just have to guess where he is, too.”
“Here somewhere,” said Månsson with a leisurely gesture over his city. “But who could have hated Palmgren that much?”
“Thousands of people,” said Martin Beck. “Palmgren and his cronies were ruthless. They crushed everyone and everything around them. For example, he ran a whole lot of different companies for longer or shorter periods of time. As long as they were profitable. Then when the profits weren’t fat enough, they were simply closed down, and many of the people who worked there were just laid off without a cent. How many people do you suppose have been ruined just by ‘legal’ loan sharks like Broberg?”
Månsson said nothing.
“But I think you’re right,” Martin Beck said. “The guy has to be here, provided he hasn’t left town.”
“Or left town and come back,” Månsson said.
“Maybe. Then it must have been unpremeditated. Nobody who’d planned a murder, and above all no hired killer, would ride up on a bicycle one summer evening with a target practice gun in a box on the package rack. Bigger than a shoe box, too.”
The tall, blond bartender was standing beside their table.
“Telephone call for you, Inspector,” he said to Månsson. “Will there be coffee?”
“It’s the guy from the lab,” Månsson said. “Coffee? Yes, please. Two calypsos.”
Martin Beck caught himself thinking about the fact that Månsson was known at the restaurant. Would he be recognized at any restaurant in Stockholm? Maybe, from television and pictures in the newspapers. Then he thought about all the people who’d been mistreated and made to pay through the nose in Palmgren’s scandalously bad apartment houses. He should really get a list of the tenants over the last few years.
“Well,” Månsson said, “there had been a name on the bottom of the cardboard box. ‘B’ and ‘S,’ we could see that ourselves. The rest was hard to decipher. The guy at the lab found that, too. But he claims that there used to be a name there, probably the owner’s.”
“And what did he make it out to be?”
“B. Svensson.”
The man who operated the target range looked thoughtfully at Benny Skacke. Then he said, “Arminius .22? Yeah, there’s probably two or three guys around here who use that kind. I can’t tell you right off who they are.
“Somebody who was here last Wednesday? I can’t possibly keep track of everybody who shoots here. But ask the guy who’s standing over there. He’s been banging away there for ten days—ever since the beginning of vacation.”
As Skacke walked over to the range, the man added, “Ask him how he can afford to buy so much ammunition, too.”
The marksman had finished one round, reckoned his points and was in the process of pasting up black and white paper when Skacke approached him.
“Arminius .22?” he said. “Yeah. I know one at least. But he hasn’t been here since the middle of last week. Good shot, too. If he’d use one like this instead …”
The man weighed his Beretta Jetfire automatic in his hand.
“Do you know his name?”
“Bertil something or other … Olsson or Svensson, I don’t really know. But he works at Kockum’s.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. Some real lousy job. A janitor, I think.”
“Thanks,” Skacke said. “By the way, how can you afford to shoot up so much ammunition?”
“This is the only hobby I’ve got,” the man said and shoved a new magazine into the pistol.
At the manager’s cabin he was given a slip of paper with three names on it.
“These are the only Arminius owners I can think of.”
Skacke walked back to the police car. Before starting the engine he looked at the list:
Tommy Lind, Kenneth Axelsson, Bertil Svensson
At the police station Månsson put a question to Martin Beck: “What are we going to do with the Broberg and Hansson duo?”
“Send them back to Stockholm. That is, if Åsa’s done with her work.”
“Yes, I’m done with what I came for,” Åsa Torell said and looked at him with clear brown eyes.
The investigation now became routine. Two hours after they’d made inquiries at the police station in Handen the teletype machine spewed out the list of tenants in Palmgren’s apartment houses.
It was in alphabetical order, and Martin Beck promptly put his finger on the right line:
Svensson, Bertil Olof Emanuel, lease terminated September 15, 1968. “In other words, he got evicted,” Månsson said.
Martin Beck located the number of Broberg’s office in Stockholm. He dialed it, and a woman, who had to be Broberg’s secretary, answered. Just in case, he asked, “Is this Mrs. Moberg?”
“Yes.”
He told her who he was.
“Well, what can I do for you?” she asked.
“Mrs. Moberg, do you know if Mr. Palmgren closed down or discontinued any of his operations recently?”
; “Well, that depends on what you mean by recently. Two years ago he closed down a factory that he had in Solna, if that’s what you mean.”
“What kind of factory?” Martin Beck asked.
“It was a rather small precision tool factory that made special machine parts. Springs and things like that, I think.”
“Why was it closed down?”
“It was running at a loss. The companies that bought the parts must have built their machines or bought new ones, I don’t really know. Anyway, there was no market for the products and instead of reorganizing production, they stopped manufacturing and sold the factory.”
“And that happened two years ago?”
“Yes. In the fall of ’67. I think he had a similar company that was closed down several years earlier, but that was before my time. I know about the other one because Mr. Broberg handled the liquidation of the firm.”
“What happened to the employees?”
“They were given notice,” Sara Moberg said.
“How many employees were involved?”
“I don’t remember. But the papers are here somewhere. I can get them if you want.”
“That’d be kind of you. I’d like to have the names of the employees.”
“Just a minute,” she said.
Martin Beck waited. Several minutes passed before she returned.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know exactly where the papers were. Should I read off the names?”
“How many are there?” Martin Beck asked.
“Twenty-eight.”
“Did all of them have to quit? Couldn’t they be transferred to one of the other companies?”
“No. They were all laid off. Except for one. He was a foreman and became a company janitor, but he quit after six months. Must have found a better job.”
Martin Beck had found paper and pencil.
“Okay,” he said. “Please read the names now.”
He wrote while she read, but when she reached the ninth name, he raised the pencil and said, “Stop. Give me that last one again.”
“Bertil Svensson, office worker.”
“Is there anything more about him?”
“No, only that.”
“Thanks, that’s enough,” Martin Beck said. “Good-bye and thanks for the help.”
He went to see Månsson immediately.