by Maj Sjowall
'Shouldn't someone have noticed that she didn't get off in Gothenburg?"
'There is no set procedure for getting off when the boat lands there. They tie up at Lilla Bommen and the passengers grab their things and rush down the gangway. On this particular trip, most people were in a hurry because the ship had been delayed. In addition, contrary to usual, it was dark when they got in."
Martin Beck stopped speaking and gazed at the wall for a while.
'What irritates me most is that the passengers in the next cabin didn't notice anything," he said.
'I can explain that, I found out just two hours ago that a
Dutch couple had cabin A 3. Both were over seventy and nearly stone deaf."
Kollberg turned the page and scratched his head.
'Our so-called theory of how, when and where the crime took place is mainly built on principles of probability, logical assumptions and the application of some psychology. It certainly is weak on evidence. We have to hold to it in any case because it's all we have to go on. But we must also appraise the statistics in the same way, right?"
Martin Beck leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.
'Let's hear it," he said.
'We know the names of eighty-six people who were on board. Sixty-eight passengers plus the eighteen that made up the crew. Thus far we have located, or in some way been in contact with all of them, with the exception of eleven. But we know the nationalities, sexes, and—with three exceptions—the ages of all of them. Now, let's use a process of elimination. First of all we have to eliminate Roseanna McGraw. That leaves eighty-five. After that, all the women, eight in the crew and thirty-seven among the passengers. That leaves forty. Among these there are four boys under ten and seven men over seventy. That leaves twenty-nine. Furthermore, there was the captain and the helmsman. They were on watch between eight o'clock and midnight, giving each other alibis. They hardly had time to murder anyone. It's a bit less clear with the people in the engine room. Deduct those two and we have a grand total of twenty-seven. We have, however, the names of twenty-seven male persons between the ages of fourteen and sixty-eight. Twelve are Swedish, seven of whom were crew members, five Americans, three Germans, one Dane, one South African, an Englishman, a Frenchman, a Scot, a Turk and a Dutchman. The geographic spread is equally terrifying. One of the Americans lives in Texas, another in Oregon. The English-man lives in Nassau in the Bahamas, the South African in Durban, and the Turk in Ankara. It's going to be one hell of a trip for whoever examines them. In addition, there are four out of this twenty-seven whom we haven't been able to locate. One Dane, and three Swedes. We haven't been able to show that any of these passengers have traveled with the canal boats earlier, in spite of the fact that Melander has plowed through passenger lists for the past twenty-five years. My own theory is that none of the passengers could have done it. Only four of them were traveling in single cabins. The others ought to have been more or less observed by their spouses or whomever they shared a cabin with. None of them really knew their way around the boat well enough or the routine on board to have done it That leaves the eight men in the crew, the helmsman, the two firemen, a cook, and three deck boys. We have already eliminated the chief engineer, he fell by the wayside because of his age. My theory is that none of them could have done it either. They were under too much observance by each other and the possibilities of fraternizing with the passengers were quite limited. So my theory says that no one murdered Roseanna McGraw. And it must be wrong. My theories are always wrong. Oh, the perils of thought."
It was quiet for thirty seconds. Then Kollberg said:
'Now if it wasn't that creature Eriksson… Damn, but it was good luck that you got him arrested anyway… By the way, are you listening? Have you heard what I said?"
'Yes, of course," said Martin Beck absentmindedly. "Yes, I'm listening."
It was true. Martin Beck had been listening. But Kollberg's voice had sounded more and more distant during the last ten minutes. Two totally different ideas had suddenly occurred to him. One was an association with something he had heard someone say, and it had immediately penetrated the bottom of his unfulfilled and forgotten thoughts. The other was more tangible, a new plan of attack that could well be worked out.
'She must have met someone on board," he said to himself.
'Unless it was suicide," said Kollberg with a measure of irony.
'Someone who didn't plan to kill her, at least in the beginning, and who also had no reason to keep himself hidden…"
'Sure, that's what we think, but what difference does it make when we don't…"
Martin Beck saw clearly a scene from his last July day in Motala. The ugly vessel, Juno, as she rounded the dredger and nosed in toward the harbor chamber.
He straightened up, took out the old postcard, and stared at it.
'Lennart," he said to Kollberg. "How many cameras were used during those days? At least twenty-five, more likely thirty, maybe even forty. At each lock, people went on shore to take pictures of the boat and of each other. There must be pictures from that trip pasted into twenty or thirty family albums. All kinds of pictures. The first ones were probably taken right at the pier in Stockholm, and the last ones in Gothenburg. Let's say that twenty people took thirty pictures each during those three days. That's about one roll per person, and some might have taken more. Lennart, that means there must be at least six hundred photographs… Do you understand… six hundred photographs. Maybe even a thousand."
'Yes," said Kollberg slowly. "I understand what you mean."
17
"It will be a terrible job, of course," said Martin Beck.
'No worse than what we're already doing," answered Koll-berg.
'Maybe it's only a wild idea. I could be completely wrong."
This was a game that they had played many times before, Martin Beck doubting and needing support. He knew in advance what the answer would be and he also knew that Kollberg knew he knew. Even so, they stuck to their ritual.
'It will have tö give us something," said Kollberg stubbornly.
And after a few seconds he added: "Anyway, we have a head start. We already know where they are with a few exceptions, and we've already had contact with most of them."
It was easy for Kollberg to sound convinced. That was one of his specialties.
After a while Martin Beck asked: "What time is it?"
'Ten minutes after seven."
'Is there anyone on the list who lives in the vicinity?"
Kollberg studied his notebook.
'Nearer than you think," he said. "On North Malar-strand. A retired colonel and his wife."
'Who's been there? You?"
'No, Melander. Nice people," he said.
'Was that all?"
'Yes."
The street was wet and slippery and Kollberg swore bitterly when his back wheels skidded. Three minutes later they were there.
The colonel's wife opened the door.
'Axel, there are two gentlemen from the police here," she called in towards the living room in a very loud voice.
'Ask them to come in," roared the colonel. "Or would you rather I came out and stood in the hall?"
Martin Beck shook the rain off his hat and walked in. Kollberg wiped his feet energetically.
'We are having maneuver weather," bellowed the colonel. "Please excuse me, gentlemen, for not getting up."
On the low table in front of him was a half-played game of dominoes, a cognac glass, and a bottle of Rémy Martin. Nearby, the television was blaring away deafeningly.
'Maneuver weather, as I said. Would you gentlemen like to have some cognac? That's the only thing that helps."
'I'm driving," shouted Kollberg as he looked seriously at the bottle.
It took ten seconds before Martin Beck's feelings of solidarity won out. He shook his head.
'You do the talking," he said to Kollberg.
'What was that?" the colonel screamed.
Martin
Beck managed a smile and made a nonchalant gesture. He was convinced that the least attempt to enter into the discussion would ruin his voice for a whole week. The conversation continued.
'Photographs? No, we never take pictures any more. I see so poorly and Axel always forgets to wind the film after he's taken a picture. That nice young man who was here two weeks ago asked the same thing. He was such a nice boy."
Martin Beck and Kollberg exchanged a quick look, not only in astonishment, over the remarkable statement about Melander.
'But strangely enough," thundered the colonel, "Major Jentsch… But of course, naturally you don't know who he is. We sat with him and his wife during the trip. A procurement officer, a most pleasant man. As a matter of fact we were commissioned the same year but the unfortunate end of the campaign against the Bolsheviks put an end to his career. You know, the promotions came quickly as long as the war continued, but after 1945, that was that. Well, it wasn't so serious for Jentsch. He was a procurement officer and they were worth their weight in gold right after the war. I remember he received a Director's position with a food company in Osnabrϋck. Yes, we had some things in common, a lot to talk about, and the time passed quickly. A great deal, as I said. For nine months, maybe it was eleven as a matter of fact, well, in any case he had been the liaison officer with the Blue Division. You know about the Blue Division? The Spanish elite troops that Franco put in against the opposition. And I must say, we often tear apart the Italians and Greeks and Spaniards and others here at home… yes, we rip them up pretty well, but I must say, as I have said, that these boys in the Blue Division, in other words, they really could…"
Martin Beck turned his head and looked with despair at the television screen which was now showing a program that must have been at least one month old about picking beets in southern Sweden. The colonel's wife was watching the program attentively and seemed unconscious of her surroundings.
'I understand," Kollberg screamed.
Then he took a deep breath and with admirable strength of voice and direction continued:
'What was it you began to say about photographs?"
'What? Oh yes, I was saying that strangely enough Major Jentsch was an expert in handling a camera, in spite of the fact that he doesn't hear or see any better than we do. He took a lot of photographs on the trip and just a few days ago we received a whole envelope full of them from him. I think that was very thoughtful of him. It must have been expensive for him to have them printed for us. They are very good photographs. Pleasant memories no matter what."
Martin Beck moved toward the television and lowered the volume a little. It had happened instinctively, in self-protection, without his really having been conscious of what he had done. The colonel's wife looked at him uncomprehend-ingly.
'What? Yes, naturally. Missan, will you get the photographs we received from Germany. I would like to show them to these gentlemen."
Martin Beck watched the woman who was called Missan from under knotted eyebrows as she got out of her TV chair.
The pictures were in color and about 3 by 4 inches in size. There were about fifteen of them in the envelope and the man in the easy chair held them between his thumb and his index finger. Martin Beck and Kollberg stood bent forward, one on either side of him.
'This is us and here is Major Jentsch's wife, oh yes, and you can see my wife here__yes, and here am I. This photograph was taken from the command bridge. That was the first day out. I'm talking to the captain, as you probably can see. And here… unfortunately I don't see too well either… will you give me the magnifying glass, darling…?" The colonel wiped off the magnifying glass slowly and carefully before he continued.
'Yes, here we are. Now you can see Major Jentsch himself, and then me and my wife…Major Jentsch's wife must have taken this photograph. It looks a bit dimmer than the rest. And here we are again, in the same place but from a slightly different angle, it seems to me. And… let me see… the lady that I am talking to here was a Frau Lieben-einer, she was German too. She ate at our table, too, a very charming and fine woman, but, unfortunately, a bit elderly. She lost her husband at El Alamein."
Martin Beck paid closer attention and saw a very old woman in a flowered dress with a pink hat. She stood next to one of the lifeboats with a cup of coffee in one hand and a piece of pastry in the other.
The inspection continued. The shots were all the same. Martin Beck began to get a pain in his back. He knew now, without doubt, just how Major Jentsch's wife looked.
The last picture lay on the mahogany table in front of the colonel. It was one of those which Martin Beck had already spoken of. The Diana seen directly from the stern, tied up at the pier in Stockholm, with the City Hall in the background and two taxis right up at the gangway.
The picture must have been taken just before the boat sailed because there were at lot of people already on board. To the stern of the port lifeboat on the shelter deck, Major Jentsch's wife from Osnabrϋck could be seen. Directly below her stood Roseanna McGraw. She was bending forward with her arms resting on the railing and her feet spread apart. She had sandals on, and sunglasses. She wore a full yellow dress with shoulder straps. Martin Beck bent as far over as he could and tried to make out the people standing next to her. At the same time he heard Kollberg whistle through his teeth.
'Oh yes, oh yes," said the colonel undisturbed. "This is the ship, here at Riddarholm. There is the City Hall tower. And there is Hildegard Jentsch. That was before we met. And, yes, that was strange. This young girl also sat at our table a few times. She was English or Dutch, I think. They must have moved her to another table later so that we old folks could have a little more room for our elbows."
A strong, wrinkled index finger, with a lot of white hairs enlarged under the magnifying glass, rested on the girl in the sandals and the loose, yellow dress.
Martin Beck took a breath in order to say something, but Kollberg was quicker.
'What?" asked the colonel. "Am I certain? Of course I am certain. She sat at the same table as we did at least four or five times. She never said anything though, if I remember correctly."
'But…"
'Yes, of course your colleague showed me her portrait, but you understand, it wasn't her face that I recognized. It's the dress, or more correctly, not exactly the dress, either."
He turned to the left and placed his powerful index finger on Martin Beck's chest.
'It was the decollete," he said in a thundering whisper.
18
It was a quarter past eleven and they were still sitting in the office at Kristineberg. The breeze was blowing freshly and small drops of rain splashed against the windows.
Twenty photographs were spread out on the table in front of Martin Beck. He had pushed nineteen of them aside and was studying the picture of Roseanna McGraw in the magnifying glass's circle of light for, perhaps, the fiftieth time. She looked just exactly as he had imagined her. Her glance seemed to be directed upward, probably in the direction off Riddarholm's tower. She looked healthy and alert and totally unconscious of the fact that she had only about thirty-sis hours left to live. On her left was cabin number A 7. The door was open but the picture didn't show enough for anyone to see how it looked inside.
'Do you realize that we were lucky today," said Kollberg. "It's the first time, too, since we started on this damned case. I One usually has some luck, sooner or later. This time though it was a lot later."
'We've had some bad luck also."
'You mean because she was sitting at a table with two deaf old men and three half-blind women? That's not bad luck. That's just the law of averages. Let's go home and go to bed now. I'll drop you off. Or would you rather take that| great gift to humanity, the subway?"
'We have to get a telegram off to Kafka first We can send the rest of it by letter tomorrow."
They were finished a half hour later. Kollberg drove quickly and carelessly through the rain but Martin Beck didn't I seem nervous, in spite of the fact that driv
ing usually put him in a bad mood. They didn't speak at all during the trip. When they pulled up in front of the house where Martin Beck lived, Kollberg finally said: "Now you can go to bed and think about all this. So long."
It was quiet and dark in the apartment but when Martin Beck went past his daughter's room, he heard the sound of radio music. She was probably lying in bed with the transistor radio under her pillow. When he was a boy he had read sea adventure novels with a flashlight under the blankets.
There was some bread and butter and cheese on the kitchen table. He made a sandwich for himself and looked for a bottle of beer in the ice-box. There wasn't any. He stood at the sink, ate his frugal supper, and washed it down with half a glass of milk.
Then he went into the bedroom and got into bed, very carefully. His wife turned toward him, half asleep, and tried to say something. He lay quietly on his back and held his breath. After a few minutes her breath was even and unconscious again. He relaxed, closed his eyes and began to think.
Roseanna McGraw had been in one of the earliest photographs. In addition, these photographs had clearly identified five other people, two retired military couples and the widow Liebeneiner. He could easily expect to receive between twenty-five and thirty more sets of pictures, most of them with more photographs than this one. Each negative would be rooted out, every picture would be studied carefully to find out whom he, or she, knew in each picture. It had to work. Eventually, they could map out Roseanna McGraw's final trip. They should be able to see it in front of them like a film.
A great deal depended on Kafka and what he could obtain from eight households spread across the continent of North America. Americans were wasteful with film. Weren't they known for that? And then, if anyone other than the murderer had been in contact with the woman from Lincoln, wouldn't it very likely have been one of her own countrymen? Maybe they should look for the murderer mainly among the Americans on board. Maybe, one of these days, he would have the telephone pressed against his ear and hear Kafka say: "Yeah, I shot the bastard."