Murder at the Savoy

by Maj Sjowall

  She shook her head.

  “No, we didn’t belong to anything like that. There wasn’t anything to do, anyway, so we had to move.”

  “Where did you live after that?”

  “I got hold of a one-room apartment for us to sublet. I lived there until I moved here, but Bertil had to go to a bachelor’s hotel when we got divorced. Now he lives in Malmö.”

  “Hmm,” Kollberg said. “When did you see him last?”

  Eva Svensson drew her fingers through her hair at the back of her head, reflected a moment and said, “Last Thursday, I think it was. He came here real suddenly, but I made him leave after about an hour, because I had to work. He was on vacation, he said, and was going to be in Stockholm for a few days. I even got a little money from him.”

  “You haven’t heard from him since then?”

  “No. He must’ve gone back to Malmö after that, I suppose. I’ve seen nothing of him, anyway.”

  She turned around and glanced at the alarm clock standing on the refrigerator.

  “I have to go get Tomas now,” she said. “They don’t like it if you leave the kids there too long.”

  She got up and went into her room, but left the door open.

  “Why did you get divorced?” Kollberg said, standing up.

  “We were tired of each other. Everything was such a mess. We did nothing but quarrel toward the end. And Bertil was home all the time, grumbling and feeling sorry for himself. I couldn’t stand to look at him finally.”

  She came out into the kitchen. She’d combed her hair and put on sandals.

  “I really have to go now,” she said.

  “Just one more question,” said Kollberg. “Did your husband know the big boss, Mr. Palmgren?”

  “Oh no, I don’t even think he’d ever seen him,” she said. “Palmgren sat up in an office and managed everything. I don’t think he ever went to his companies. They were run by other bosses, sort of managers.”

  She took a string bag that was hanging on a hook by the stove and opened the kitchen door. Kollberg held the door open and let her walk out into the hall in front of him. Then he closed the door and said, “What newspapers and magazines do you read?”

  “Expressen sometimes. Especially on Sunday. And Hennes and Hela Världen every week. Magazines are so expensive, I think. Why’d you ask?”

  “I just wondered,” Kollberg said.

  They parted outside of the door, and he watched her walk away toward Odenplan, small and thin in her sleazy dress.

  It was afternoon by the time Kollberg called Malmö to announce the results of his inquiries. During the last half an hour, Martin Beck had been pacing back and forth in the corridor, waiting impatiently for the call, and when it finally came he grabbed the receiver before the first signal had died away.

  He started the tape recorder, which was hooked up to the telephone, and let Kollberg talk without interrupting him or making any comments. When Kollberg had finished Martin Beck said, “Good work, Lennart. Now I probably won’t have to bother you any more.”

  “Okay,” Kollberg said. “It looks like you’ve found the right guy. Now I have to go back to my work, but let me hear from you—to know how it went. Say ‘hi’ to the people who deserve it. Bye.”

  Martin Beck took the tape recorder with him to Månsson’s room. They listened through the tape together.

  “What do you think?” Martin Beck asked.

  “Well,” said Månsson, “the motive’s there. First laid off after more than twelve years with Palmgren’s company, then evicted by the same Palmgren and finally divorced into the bargain. And then he had to move away from Stockholm to get a job, a job that’s socially and economically worse than the one he had before. All because of Palmgren.”

  Martin Beck nodded and Månsson continued, “Furthermore, he was in Stockholm last Thursday. I never really did understand why they didn’t have time to pick him up at Haga terminal. If they’d just pulled that off, we would’ve had him when Palmgren passed away. It makes you mad to think about it.”

  “I know why they didn’t make it,” Martin Beck said, “but I’ll tell you about it some other time. You’ll be even madder when you hear it.”

  “Okay, save it,” Månsson said.

  Martin Beck lit a cigarette and sat in silence for a while.

  Then he said, “There’s something rotten about this eviction. It was apparently the real estate agency that put the various authorities onto him.”

  “With the help of a cooperative neighbor, yes.”

  “Who was no doubt also employed by Palmgren or Broberg or both. It’s a fact that Palmgren wanted him out of the apartment when he didn’t employ him any longer. In Stockholm an apartment like that is worth big money. Dirty money.”

  “You mean to say that Palmgren told his employees in the realty company to find a pretext for evicting him,” Månsson said.

  “Yeah. I’m convinced of it. Through Broberg, of course. And Bertil Svensson must’ve understood the connection himself. It’s hardly surprising he hated Palmgren.”

  Månsson scratched the back of his head and pulled a face.

  “No, that’s true,” he said. “But to go so far as to shoot him …”

  “You have to remember that Svensson had been having a rough time for quite some time. When he began to realize that it wasn’t just his own hard luck, but that he was being treated unjustly by one man or perhaps by a social group, his hate must have become an obsession. Practically everything was taken away from him bit by bit.”

  “And Palmgren represented just that social group,” said Månsson and nodded.

  Martin Beck stood up and said, “I think the safest thing is to send somebody out who can keep an eye on him for the time being, so we don’t miss him again. Somebody who doesn’t chase after little piggies on the job.”

  Månsson stared at him in amazement.

  28

  The man whose name was Bertil Svensson lived in Kirsebergsstaden, close to the eastern city limit. The area is also called Bulltofta Hills or just the Hills, since, compared to the topography of the rest of the city, there are marked differences in elevation.

  Living “out in the Hills” had always been looked down upon by the Malmö bourgeoisie, but many Kirseberg residents were proud of their section and enjoyed living there, even though their homes not infrequently lacked modern conveniences or were in general below average, since no one bothered to maintain or repair them. People who ended up in the poorest apartments either weren’t wanted in the smarter residential areas or weren’t considered to be in need of a higher standard of living. It was no accident that many of the foreign factory workers who’d come to Malmö during recent years lived in this area.

  This was a working-class neighborhood, and few Malmö residents of the category that Viktor Palmgren, for example, belonged to, had ever set their foot there or were even aware that the area existed.

  It was here that Benny Skacke rode his bicycle on Friday afternoon. He had instructions from Martin Beck to find out if Bertil Svensson was at home, and, if that were the case, to keep watch on him without arousing his suspicion. Skacke also had to communicate with Månsson or Martin Beck once every hour.

  If all went well they were planning to arrest Svensson the same night; only a couple details were missing, Martin Beck had said.

  According to what the man had told his employer and the rifle club, he should live on Vattenverksvägen, a street that cuts across Kirsebergsstaden from Lundavägen in the west to Simrishamn railroad in the east. From Lundavägen, the street sloped up to a hill, and Skacke preferred to get off his bicycle before he came to the crown. He walked his bicycle past the old, round water tower, which had been converted many years before into a residence. Skacke wondered if the apartments inside looked like pieces of pie. He recalled that he’d read a newspaper article on the scandalous sanitary conditions prevalent in the building, and that it was inhabited almost exclusively by Yugoslavs.

  He left his bicyc
le on Kirseberg Square and hoped it wouldn’t be stolen. He’d used black tape to cover the word POLICE on the frame, a cautionary measure he always took when he thought he should remain anonymous.

  The building he was going to watch was an old two-story apartment house. He observed it for a moment from the sidewalk opposite. It had nine windows on the street, two on each side of the door and five on the floor above. There were also three attic windows, but the attic didn’t seem to be lived in; the windows were thick with dirt and, as far as he could see, had no curtains.

  Skacke walked rapidly across the street and opened the door. On the door to the right of the stairs he saw a piece of cardboard with the name B. SVENSSON printed on it with a ballpoint pen.

  Skacke went back to the square and found a bench from which he could watch the building. He took out the evening newspaper he’d bought on his way from the police station, opened it to the center spread and pretended to read.

  He had to wait only twenty minutes. The door opened, and a man came out on the sidewalk. His appearance fitted the description of the gunman at the Savoy fairly well, though he was shorter than Skacke had imagined. Even his clothes—a dark brown sport coat and lighter brown pants, a beige shirt and a tie with red and brown stripes—seemed to match the description.

  Skacke kept his eyes on the man, but took his time. He folded the newspaper, stood up, put it in his pocket and began to follow the man slowly. He turned on a cross street and walked at a fairly brisk pace toward the prison at the bottom of the hill.

  Skacke suddenly pitied the man walking ahead of him, wholly ignorant of how close the day was when he would be sent inside the grim walls of that ancient penitentiary. Maybe he was already confident he’d get away with it.

  The man turned right by the prison and then left onto Gevaldigergatan, where he stopped beside the fence of the soccer field directly across from the prison walls.

  Skacke stopped, too. A match was taking place on the grass field, and Skacke immediately recognized both of the teams—B.K. Flagg in red jerseys and F.K. Balkan in blue. It looked like a lively game was going on, and Skacke had nothing against staying to watch, but the man set off again almost immediately.

  They continued out onto Lundavägen, and when they’d passed Dalhem Field the man in brown went into a sandwich shop. Skacke looked sideways through the display window as he walked past and saw the man standing in front of the counter. He waited in a doorway farther down the street. The man came out again after a moment with a box in one hand and a bag in the other and returned the same way he’d come.

  Skacke could now afford to keep his distance, since he assumed that the other man was on his way home. As he passed the soccer field Balkan had just scored a goal, and a howl of joy rose in unison from the crowd, which seemed to consist mainly of Balkan supporters. A man with a small child on his shoulders was cheering vociferously, but Skacke didn’t understand a word, since the man spoke Yugoslav.

  The man he was shadowing went home, as he’d expected.

  As Skacke walked past on the sidewalk across the street he could see the man take a can of beer out of the bag.

  Skacke took advantage of the moment, went into a phone booth and called the police station. Martin Beck answered.

  “Well?”

  “He’s back home. He went out just now to buy beer and sandwiches.”

  “Good. Stay there and call if he goes some place.”

  Skacke went back to his post on the bench. After half an hour he walked to a newsstand in the neighborhood, bought the other evening newspapers and a chocolate bar and returned to the bench.

  Now and then he got up and walked up and down the sidewalk, but he didn’t dare pass the window too often. It was dark now, and the man inside had turned on the light. He’d taken off his jacket, eaten the sandwiches and drunk two beers, and now he was moving back and forth in the room. Sometimes he sat down at a table by the window.

  By ten-twenty Skacke had read the three newspapers several times, eaten four chocolate bars and drunk two bottles of cider; he’d had all he could take and was ready to scream.

  Then the light was turned off in the room to the right of the door. Skacke waited five minutes, then called the police station. Neither Månsson nor Martin Beck was there. He called the Savoy. Inspector Beck had gone out. He called Månsson’s home. They were there.

  “Oh, so you’re still out there,” Månsson said.

  “Of course, I’m still here. Should I have gone home, maybe? Why aren’t you coming?”

  Skacke sounded as if he were on the verge of tears.

  “Oh,” said Månsson nonchalantly, “I thought you knew. We’re waiting until tomorrow. By the way, what’s he doing now?”

  Skacke gnashed his teeth.

  “He’s turned out the light. Probably going to bed.”

  Månsson didn’t answer right away. Skacke heard a suspicious bubbling sound, a soft clinking and someone say, “Ah.”

  “I think you should do that, too,” said Månsson. “Go home to bed. He didn’t see you, for God’s sake, did he?”

  “No,” said Skacke curtly, and hung up.

  He threw himself on his bicycle and literally flew down the hill toward Lundavägen. Ten minutes later he was standing in the hallway outside of his room, dialing Monica’s number.

  At five after eight on Saturday morning Martin Beck and Månsson knocked on Bertil Svensson’s door.

  He answered the door in pyjamas. When he saw their identification cards he just nodded, walked back into the apartment and got dressed.

  They didn’t find a weapon in the apartment, which consisted of one room and a kitchen.

  Bertil Svensson followed them out and got into the car without a word; he was silent the whole way to Davidshall Square.

  As they went into Månsson’s room he looked at the telephone and spoke for the first time.

  “May I call my wife?”

  “Later,” Martin Beck said. “We’re going to have a little talk first.”

  29

  The whole of that morning and a good bit of the afternoon Martin Beck and Månsson sat listening to the history of Bertil Svensson, who was now being held in custody. He seemed glad of the chance to talk, was anxious for them to understand him and looked quite annoyed when he had to take a break for lunch. His story largely confirmed their reconstruction and even their theories about the motive.

  After he’d been evicted, forced to move, laid off from work and finally divorced, he would sit in his lonely room in Malmö thinking over his situation. It became clearer and clearer to him who was the cause of all his troubles: Viktor Palmgren, the bloodsucker, who lined his purse at the expense of other human beings, the big shot, who didn’t give a damn about the welfare of his employees or tenants.

  He began to hate this man as he’d never thought it possible to hate any human being.

  A couple of times during the interrogation he broke down and began to cry, but soon pulled himself together and assured them that he was thankful for the opportunity to explain himself. He also said several times that he was glad they’d come to pick him up. If they hadn’t found him, he said, he probably couldn’t have held out much longer, but would have turned himself in.

  He didn’t regret what he’d done.

  It didn’t make any difference to him that he would be sent to prison; his life was ruined, anyway, and he didn’t have the strength to start over.

  When they were through, and there was nothing more to be said he shook hands with Martin Beck and Månsson and thanked them before he was taken to jail.

  It was quiet in the room for a long time after the door closed behind him. At last Månsson stood up, walked over to the window and gazed out over the yard.

  “Goddamn,” he mumbled.

  “Hope he gets a light sentence,” Martin Beck said.

  There was a knock on the door and Skacke came in.

  “How did it go?” he said.

  No one answered for a minute. Then Må
nsson said, “Oh, it was about like we thought.”

  “He must have been a cold-blooded bastard just to barge in like that and shoot the guy,” Skacke said. “Why did he do it like that? I’d have gone to his house and shot him through the garden hedge when he was lying out in the sun or something like that …”

  “It didn’t really happen like that,” Martin Beck said. “You can hear for yourself in a minute.”

  He wound back the tape on the machine, which had been running all through the interrogation.

  “I think it’s here.”

  He pressed a button, and the spools began to hum.

  “But how did you know that Palmgren was at the Savoy at that moment?”

  That was Månsson’s voice.

  “I didn’t. I just happened to be passing.”

  Bertil Svensson.

  “Maybe you’d better start from the beginning. Tell us what you did that Wednesday.”

  That was Martin Beck.

  BS: My vacation had begun on Monday, so I was off work. In the morning I didn’t do anything much, just messed around at home. Washed out some shirts and underclothes—when it’s this hot you have to change pretty often. Then I had a couple fried eggs and some coffee for lunch, washed the dishes and went out shopping. I walked down to Tempo on Värnhem Square; it wasn’t the closest store, but I wanted to kill some time. I don’t know too many people in Malmö, just a couple guys from work, but it was vacation time, and everybody had left town with their families. After I’d done some shopping I walked back home. It was real hot, and I didn’t want to go out again, so I just lay on the bed reading a book I’d bought in Tempo. It was called Till Death, by Ed McBain. It got a bit cooler in the evening, and at about six-thirty I rode my bike out to the rifle range.

  MB: Which rifle range?

  BS: Where I usually shoot. In Limhamn.

  PM: Did you have the revolver with you?

  BS: Yeah. If you want you can have it locked up in the club house, but I always take it home with me.

  PM: Okay, go on.

  BS: Then I shot for an hour or so. I can’t really afford it. It gets pretty expensive with the ammunition and the membership fee and all, but you gotta have some fun.