by Maj Sjowall
“When did you get that?” he asked.
“Yesterday morning,” said Rebecka. “The only address she had was my friend’s where I lived last summer, and it had been lying there for several days before they found me.”
“It’s not an especially friendly letter.”
“No.”
Rebecka sat in silence, looking at the letter in front of her on the desk. “I didn’t think Jim’s mother was like that,” she said at last. “So hard. Jim used to talk about his parents and he seemed to like them an awful lot. Maybe his dad most, of course. She shrugged again and added, “Though parents don’t necessarily always like their children.”
Martin Beck realized she was alluding to her own parents, but he felt personally affected. He had a son himself, Rolf, who would soon be twenty, and the contact between them had always been poor. Not until after his divorce, or perhaps not until he met Rhea, who had taught him to have the courage to be honest not only with others, but also with himself, had he dared admit that he did not really like Rolf. Now he looked at Rebecka’s bitter, stiff face and wondered what his lack of deeper feelings for his son had done to the boy’s own emotional life.
He pushed his thoughts about Rolf to one side and said to Rebecka, “Was it then that you decided? When you got the letter?”
She hesitated before answering. Martin Beck suspected that her hesitation was due more to a desire to be honest than to uncertainty. He thought he knew that much about her.
“Yes,” she said. “I decided then.”
“Where did you get the revolver?”
“I had it all the time. It was given to me a few years ago when my mother’s aunt died. She liked me, and I used to be with her a lot when I was little, so when she died I inherited a few of her things; that revolver was one of them. But I never gave it a thought until yesterday and didn’t even remember there were bullets for it. I’ve moved around so much that it’s been packed in a case all the time.”
“Have you ever fired it before?”
“No, never. I wasn’t even sure it worked. It’s pretty old, I think.”
“Yes,” said Martin Beck. “It’s at least eighty years old.”
Martin Beck was not especially interested in guns, and his knowledge of them was limited to what was absolutely necessary. If Kollberg had been there, he would have told them the gun was a Harrington and Richardson 32 single action, Remington model 1885. He would also have been able to identify the ammunition as unjacketed lead bullets in brass cases with short force-loading, manufactured in 1905.
“How did you keep from being discovered? The police blocked the whole of Riddarholm and checked everyone who went there.”
“I knew the Prime Minister was going to ride in a … a … what’s it called? I’ve forgotten.”
“Motorcade,” said Martin Beck. “A procession, or in this case, a row of cars.”
“Yes, with this American. So I read in the newspaper where they were going and what they were going to do, and the church seemed best. Last night, I went there and hid. I was there all night and all day today until they came. It wasn’t hard to hide and I had some yoghurt with me so I wouldn’t get thirsty or hungry. People came into the church, policemen maybe, but they didn’t see me.”
The clod squad, thought Martin Beck. Of course they didn’t see her.
“Is that all you’ve had to eat for almost twenty-four hours?” he asked. “Don’t you really want anything to eat now?”
“No, thanks. I’m not hungry. I don’t need much food. Most people in this country eat way too much. I’ve got sesame salt and dates in my bag if I need anything.”
“Okay, then, but tell me if there’s anything else you want.”
“Thank you,” said Rebecka politely.
“I don’t suppose you’ve slept much, either, over the last twenty-four hours.”
“No, not much. I slept for a while in the church last night. Not for long, an hour at the most. It was pretty cold.”
“We don’t need to talk much today,” said Martin Beck. “We can go on tomorrow when you’ve had a rest. If you like, I’ll get you something to make you sleep later.”
“I never take pills,” said Rebecka.
“The time must have gone slowly during all those hours inside the church. What did you do while you were waiting?”
“I was thinking. About Jim mostly. It’s hard to grasp that he’s dead. But in some way, I already knew that he would never endure being in prison. He couldn’t stand being shut in.”
“Jim was sentenced according to the laws of his country—”
“He was condemned here,” interrupted Rebecka, leaning forward in her chair. “When they tricked him into going home and assured him he wouldn’t be punished, then he was already condemned. Don’t say anything else, because I just won’t believe you.”
Martin Beck didn’t say anything. Rebecka sank back into her chair and tucked back a strand of hair that had fallen over her cheek. He waited for her to go on, not wishing to break her train of thought by asking questions or making knowing remarks. After a while, she began again, more slowly.
“I said before I’d decided to shoot the Prime Minister when I heard that Jim was dead. That’s true, but I think I’d really thought about it before. I’m not quite sure now.”
“But you said you’d never thought about how you owned a revolver until yesterday.”
Rebecka frowned. “That’s true. I didn’t think about that until yesterday.”
“If you thought about shooting him before, then you’d probably have remembered the revolver before, too.”
She nodded. “Yes, maybe,” she said. “I don’t know. All I know is now that Jim’s dead, nothing matters anymore. I don’t care what happens to me. The only thing that matters to me is Camilla. I love her, but I have no means of giving her anything but love. It’s terrible to live in a world where people just tell lies to each other. How can someone who’s a scoundrel and traitor be allowed to make decisions for a whole country? Because that’s what he was. A rotten traitor. Not that I think that whoever takes his place will be any better—I’m not that stupid. But I’d like to show them, all of them who sit there governing and deciding, that they can’t go on cheating people forever. I think lots of people know perfectly well they’re being cheated and betrayed, but most people are too scared or too comfortable to say anything. It doesn’t help to protest or complain, either, because the people in power don’t pay any attention. They don’t care about anything except their own importance, they don’t care about ordinary people. That’s why I shot him. So that maybe they’ll get scared and understand that people aren’t so feeble as they think. They don’t care if people need help and they don’t care if people complain and make a fuss when they don’t get help, but they do care about their own lives. I—”
The telephone rang, interrupting her, and Martin Beck regretted not having given orders that they should not be disturbed. It was probably extremely unusual for Rebecka to be so loquacious; when he had seen her before, she had been shy and quiet.
He picked up the receiver. The operator notified him that they were still looking for Braxén, so far without result.
Martin Beck replaced the receiver, and at that moment there was a knock on the door and Hedobald Braxén came into the room.
“Good day,” he said briefly to Martin Beck and went straight over to Rebecka. “There you are then, Roberta. I heard on the radio that the Prime Minister had been shot, and by the description of the so-called perpetrator, I realized who it was and rushed right over.”
“Hello,” said Rebecka.
“We’ve been looking for you,” said Martin Beck.
“I’ve been with a client,” said Crasher. “A highly interesting man, incidentally. Immensely knowledgeable in a whole range of fascinating subjects. His father was a famous expert on Flemish weaving. That was where I heard the news on the radio.”
Braxen was wearing a long greenish-yellowish speckled overcoat stretc
hed tightly across his imposing stomach. He struggled out of it and flung it on a chair. As he put his briefcase on the desk, he caught sight of the revolver. “Mmm,” he said. “Not bad. Hitting someone with that isn’t easy. I remember once, just before the war, I think, a similar weapon was mixed up in a case against twin brothers. If you’ve finished here, may I talk to Rebecka for a while?” Crasher rummaged in his briefcase and extracted an old brass cigar case, opened it and took out the chewed stump of a cigar.
Martin Beck got up from the chair behind his desk. “Here you are,” he said. “I’ll be back in a while.”
As he walked to the door, he heard Crasher say, “Well, Rebecka, my dear, this isn’t so good, but we’ll manage. Chin up. I remember a girl of your age in Kristianstad, it was, in the spring of 1946, the same year as …”
Martin Beck shut the door behind him with a sigh.
24
Martin Beck had judged correctly when he told the Commissioner that the chances of another attempt on the Senator’s life were minimal. One of ULAG’s principles was that they should strike swiftly, and then disappear without a trace. Repeating an unsuccessful operation immediately in order to achieve better results was considered a dangerous violation of this principle.
In the apartment in Kapellgatan, Levallois had already begun to pack up his equipment, reckoning his chances of getting out of the country to be pretty good as long as he moved quickly. As far as he was concerned, he only needed to get himself to Denmark to feel relatively secure. The Frenchman did not think very much about what had happened. He was not that kind of person.
The situation was quite different for Reinhard Heydt, because the police had his description and would be watching for him.
It was warm in the apartment and he was lying on his back on his bed in an undershirt and white briefs. He had just showered. He had not yet begun to think seriously about how he was going to leave the country. He would probably have to lie low for quite a long time in this room, waiting for the right moment to go.
The two Japanese had similar instructions. They were to stay in the apartment in Södermalm until they could leave it without risk—which meant when the police had given up looking for them and everything was back to normal. Like Heydt, they had laid in a store of canned foods which would keep them alive for over a month. The only difference was that Heydt would not have been able to survive more than a few days on their peculiar food, while his own assortment was to his liking and should last one person a long time, a whole year if necessary.
At the moment he was thinking about something else. How was it possible that they had failed? Way back when he was still in training camp, he had learned that there would inevitably be reverses and casualties; the most important thing was to be sure that neither unsuccessful actions nor dead agents could be traced to ULAG. Still, Levallois was certain the bomb had detonated, and he was almost never wrong. That the two Japanese might have mounted the charge in the wrong place could be considered out of the question.
Heydt was used to making correct calculations and also to solving complex problems. He had not lain on his bed for more than twenty minutes before he realized what must have happened. He got up and went into the operations center. Levallois had already packed his meager belongings and was just putting on his overcoat.
“Now I know what happened,” said Heydt.
The Frenchman looked at him inquiringly.
“They fooled us, quite simply. Radio and television were not broadcasting direct; there was a time lag of up to half an hour. When we went into action, the motorcade had already passed.”
“Mmm,” said Levallois. “Sounds plausible.”
“And that explains why the police kept radio silence. The police radio would have revealed the bluff with the radio and television broadcasts.”
The Frenchman smiled. “Pretty slick, you must admit.”
“I did underestimate the police,” said Heydt. “Obviously they’re not all fools.”
Levallois looked around the room. “Well, these things happen,” he said. “I’m off now.”
“You can take the car,” said Heydt. “I’ve no use for it now.”
The Frenchman thought for a moment. The whole country, especially the area around Stockholm, was probably lousy with police barricades by this time. Although the car was not likely to be traced, it would be a risk.
“No,” he said. “I’ll go by train. So long.”
“So long,” said Heydt. “See you sometime.”
“Hope so.”
Levallois had calculated correctly. He arrived unchallenged at Ängelholm the next morning, and from there took the bus to Torekov. The fishing boat was already waiting in the harbor, as agreed. He went aboard at once, but they did not sail until darkness had fallen.
He was in Copenhagen the next morning and thus fairly secure. He went directly to the railway station, and it was while he was waiting there that he saw the morning’s headlines.
After Levallois had gone, Reinhard Heydt remained lying on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head. He half listened to the radio as he pondered his first fundamental failure. Someone had tricked him, despite the fact that their preparations had been carried out perfectly. Who was it who’d been cunning enough to blacken his eye with such skill?
When a special news bulletin began, he sat up in bed and listened with astonishment. To crown everything, they were now involved in an almost comical coincidence. Heydt found himself laughing.
What was less laughable was the fact that now, more than ever, he could not run the risk of trying to get out. Heydt was glad that he had been sufficiently farsighted to furnish himself with good books, the kind that could be read many times and thought about. It would probably be a long time before he saw Pietermaritzburg again, and being a typical outdoorsman, the waiting might be difficult.
Nevertheless, he did not feel depressed. A person in his position could not really afford things like depressions.
For Martin Beck, this astonishing day was crowned by a telephone call from Herrgott Content, who said he was free but unfortunately had no idea where he was.
“Isn’t there anyone there who knows?” asked Martin Beck.
“No, they’re all from Skåne here.”
“How did you get there, then?”
“By police bus,” said Content. “But it’s gone now and isn’t coming back to fetch us until early tomorrow morning. All I know is that there’s a railway not far from here. The trains are green.”
“The subway,” said Martin Beck thoughtfully. “Somewhere in the suburbs.”
“No, no, these trains aren’t underground.”
“Tell him to go out and walk to the nearest corner and look at the name,” said Rhea, who always eavesdropped on telephone calls.
“That a ghost?” said Content, laughing.
“Not exactly.”
“I heard what she said,” said Content. “Wait a moment.”
He was back in exactly four minutes. “Lysviksgatan. Does that mean anything to you?”
It meant nothing whatsoever to Martin Beck, but Rhea immediately butted in again. “He’s in Farsta,” she said. “Actually, it’ll be murder trying to find his way here—the streets go all over the place. Tell him to wait on the same street corner and I’ll pick him up in twenty minutes.”
“I heard, I heard,” said Content.
Rhea had already gotten her red rubber boots on and was buttoning up her duffle coat as she opened the front door. “Bye,” she said, “and may you roast in hell if you as much as touch the switches on the stove.”
“That’s a polite lady you’ve got there,” laughed Content. “What’s her name?”
“Ask her yourself,” said Martin Beck. “See you later.”
Exactly forty-four minutes later, she returned with Content. Their first meeting had clearly been successful, as Martin Beck heard them laughing and both talking at once as they got into the elevator. As soon as she came in, she flung off her outdoo
r clothes, glanced at the clock and hurtled out into the kitchen.
Content inspected the apartment and finally said, “Not so bad living in Stockholm.” And then, “What really happened today? A policeman in this town just doesn’t know a goddamn thing. You just stand there where they tell you to.”
He was right. In situations like this, the policemen in the streets knew just about as much as the soldier in the field—in other words, nothing whatsoever.
“A girl shot the Prime Minister. She’d hidden inside Riddarholm Church and the security men who were supposed to be covering the area slipped up.”
“I can’t say I was one of his admirers,” said Content. “But it does seem a bit pointless. They’ll find another one just like him inside half an hour.”
Martin Beck nodded, then asked, “Has anything been happening in Anderslöv?”
“Lots,” said Content. “But only nice things. Kalle and I saved the liquor store, for instance. Someone wanted to close it, but against such powerful foes as the priest and the chief of police, most people fight in vain.”
“And how’s Folke Bengtsson?”
“Well, I think. He seems the same as ever. But some crazy Stockholmer bought Sigbrit Mård’s home as a summer place.” He laughed loudly. “And something peculiar happened to Bertil Mård.”
“What?”
“I was going to ask him a few questions about the estate and all that. But it turned out he’d sold the house and the café and every single thing he possessed and gone to sea again. I wonder what prompted him to do that.”
Martin Beck did not reply. He himself had done the prompting.
“Well, we sent out all sorts of inquiries, and in the end we got a fantastically grand letter from a shipping company in Taipei in Taiwan. They said that Captain Mård had been hired by them four months earlier in Liberia and was now captain of the M.S. Taiwan Sun, which was on its way from Sfax to Botafogo with a cargo of esparto grass. Then I gave up. But I did wonder just one thing. Mård had almost drunk himself to death and couldn’t have gotten a clean bill of health. How the hell could he become captain of a goddamn huge boat like that?”