by Maj Sjowall
In the middle of this thought Martin Beck fell asleep, suddenly, and without trying.
It rained the next day, too, and it was gray and sprinkling. The last yellow leaves of fall stuck sadly to the walls of the house and to the windowpanes.
Almost as if Martin Beck's night-time thoughts had reached him, Kafka sent a laconic telegram:
SEND AS MUCH MATERIAL AS POSSIBLE.
Two days later, Melander, who never forgot anything, took his pipe out of his mouth and said, tranquilly: "Uli
Mildenberger is in Hamburg. He was there all summer. Would you like to have him examined?"
Martin Beck thought about it for about five seconds. "No."
He was on the point of adding: "Make a note of his address," but stopped himself at the last minute, shrugged his shoulders and went on with his business.
During these days, he often had very little to do. The case had reached a point where it was going on its own pretty much at the same time as it was spreading itself out all over the globe. There was an open "hot line" between himself and Ahlberg in Motala. After that, it was spread like the rays of the sun all over the map from the North Cape in the north to Durban in the south and Ankara in the east. By far, the most important line of contact led to Kafka's office in Lincoln, nearly six thousand miles to the west. From there it branched out to a handful of geographically separated places on the American continent.
With so many widespread informants at their disposal, couldn't they ensnare and catch a murderer? The logical answer, unfortunately, was, No. Martin Beck had painful memories from a case involving another sex murder. It had taken place in a cellar in one of the Stockholm suburbs. The body had been found almost immediately and the police arrived on the scene less than an hour later. Several persons had seen the murderer and gave lengthy descriptions of him. The man had left his footprints, cigarette butts, matches, and even several other objects. In addition, he had handled the body with a particularly idiosyncratic perversity. But they had never been able to get him. Their optimism had slowly turned into frustration at their impotence. All the clues had led to nothing. Seven years later, the man was discovered in the act of attempted rape, and arrested. During the examination that followed, he suddenly broke down and admitted the earlier murder.
That crime and its solution seven years later had been only a small incident on the side for Martin Beck. But it had been of the utmost importance to one of his older colleagues. He remembered so well how that man had sat month after month, year after year, in his office late into the night, going through all the papers and rechecking the testimony for the five hundredth, or possibly the thousandth time. He had met that man many times in unexpected places and in surprising circumstances when the man should have been off duty or on vacation but was, instead, always looking for new angles in the case which had become the tragedy of his life. In time, he had become sick and was given his pension early, but even then, he hadn't given up the search. And then, finally, the case was cleared up when someone burst into tears before an astonished policeman down in Halland and confessed to the seven year old crime of strangulation. Martin Beck sometimes wondered if that solution, which came so late, had really given the old detective any peace.
It could happen that way. But that woman in the cellar had been all the things that Roseanna McGraw wasn't, a rootless, wandering person who was hardly a member of society and whose asociability was as indisputable as the contents of her handbag.
Martin Beck thought a great deal about this while he waited for something to happen.
Meanwhile, in Motala, Ahlberg was occupied in annoying the authorities by insisting that every square inch of the bottom of the canal should be dragged and gone over by frogmen. He rarely got in touch with Martin Beck himself but was constantly waiting for the telephone to ring.
After a week, a new telegram arrived from Kafka. The message was cryptic and surprising:
YOU WILL HAVE A BREAK ANY MINUTE NOW.
Martin Beck telephoned Ahlberg. "He says that there will be a break for us any time now." "He probably knows that we need one," said Ahlberg Kollberg added his dissenting opinion: "The man is nearsighted. He's suffering from the disease we call intuition." Melan4er didn't say anything at all.
In ten more days, they had received about fifty pictures and had about three times as many negatives printed. Many of the pictures were of poor quality and they could find Roseanna McGraw in only two of them. Both were taken at the Riddarholm pier and she was still standing alone in the stern of A deck, not very far from her cabin. One of the pictures showed her bending over and scratching her right ankle, but that was all. Otherwise they identified the twenty-three more passengers, bringing the total identified up to twenty-eight.
Melander was in charge of scrutinizing the pictures and after he was through with them, he sent them to Kollberg who tried to place them in some kind of chronological order. Martin Beck studied all of them, hour after hour, but said nothing.
The next few days brought a few dozen more pictures but Roseanna McGraw wasn't to be seen on any of them.
On the other hand a letter arrived from Ankara, at last. It was on Martin Beck's desk the morning of the thirteenth day, but it took two more days before the Turkish Embassy presented them with a translation. Contrary to all expectations the contents of that letter seemed to represent the most progress in a long time.
One of the Turkish passengers, a twenty-two year old medical student named Gϋnes Fratt said that he recognized the woman in the picture but he didn't know her name or her nationality. After a "forceful examination" conducted by a high level police officer with a very long name which seemed made up of only the letters ö, ϋ, and z, the witness had admitted that he had found the woman attractive and had made two "verbal overtures" to her in English during the first day of the trip, but that he had not been encouraged. The woman had not replied. Somewhat later on the trip, he thought he had seen her with a man and had drawn the conclusion that she was married and that she had only happened to appear alone. The only thing the witness could say about the man's appearance was that he was "presumably tall." During the latter part of the trip, the witness had not seen the woman. Gϋnes Fratt's uncle, who was examined "informally" by the official with that impossible name, stated that he had kept a watchful eye on his nephew during the entire trip and that the boy had not been left alone for more than ten minutes at a tune.
The embassy added the comment that both the travelers belonged to wealthy and highly respected families.
The letter did not particularly surprise Martin Beck. He had known all along that a letter containing that kind of information would appear sooner or later. Now they had moved a step forward and while he was getting the information together to send to Motala, he was mostly thinking about how it would feel to be "forcefully examined" by a high official of the Turkish police.
One flight up, Kollberg took the news in his stride.
M "The Turks? Yes, I've heard about their methods."
He looked through his lists.
'Picture number 23, 38, 102, 109…"
'That's enough."
Martin Beck looked through the pile of pictures until he found one which showed both of the men very clearly. He looked for a moment at the uncle's white mustache and then moved his eyes to Günes Fratt who was short, elegantly dressed, and had a small, dark mustache and even features. He didn't look so unattractive.
Unfortunately, Roseanna McGraw had thought differently.
This was the fifteenth day since they had thought of collecting photographs. By now they had definitely identified forty-one passengers who had appeared in one or another of the pictures. In addition, two more pictures of the woman from Lincoln had been added to the collection. Both of them had been taken while the boat was in the Södertälje canal. Roseanna McGraw was in the background of one of them, out of focus and with her back turned toward the camera. But in the other, she was seen in profile by the railing with a railroad bridge behind he
r. She was three hours nearer her death, and had taken off her sunglasses and was squinting up at the sun. The wind had blown her dark hair and her mouth was half-open, as if she were on the verge of saying something or had just yawned. Martin Beck looked at her for a long time through the magnifying glass. Finally he said:
'Who took this picture?"
'One of the Danes," answered Melander. "Vibeke Amdal from Copenhagen. She was traveling alone in a single cabin."
'Find out whatever you can about her."
A half hour later the bomb exploded.
'There's a cable from the United States," said the woman on the other end of the telephone. "Shall I read it to you?"
'STRUCK A GOLD MINE YESTERDAY. TEN ROLLS OF EIGHT MILLIMETER COLOR FILM AND 150 STILLS. YOU WILL SEE A LOT OF ROSEANNA MCGRAW. SOME UNKNOWN CHARACTER SEEMS TO BE WITH HER. PAN AMERICAN GUARANTEES DELIVERY STOCKHOLM THURSDAY.
KAFKA
'Shall I try to translate it?" "No thank you. That's okay for now."
Martin Beck fell into his chair. He rubbed his hairline and looked at his desk calendar. It was Wednesday, November 25.
Outside, it was raining, and it was chilly. It would soon begin to snow.
19
They showed the film at a studio right across the street from the North Station. It was crowded in the screening room and even at that moment Martin Beck had difficulty in getting over his aversion to groups of people.
His chief was there and so were the County Police Superintendent, the Public Prosecutor, Superintendent Larsson and Ahlberg. They had driven up from Motala. In addition, Kollberg, Stenström and Melander were there.
Even Hammar, who had seen more crime in his day than all the others put together, seemed quiet and tense and alert.
The lights were turned out.
The projector started to whirl.
'Oh, yes, yes… ah."
As usual it was hard for Kollberg to keep quiet.
The film started with a shot of the king's guard in Stockholm. They passed Gustaf Adolf's Square. Swung toward the North Bridge. The camera panned toward the Opera House.
'No style," said Kollberg. "They look like military police."
The County Police Superintendent whispered "shush."
Then came shots of pretty Swedish girls with turned up noses sitting in the sun on the steps of the Concert Hall. The tall buildings in the center of the city. A tourist poster in front of a Laplander's tent at Skansen's Park. Gripsholm Castle with a group of folk dancers in the foreground. Some middle-aged Americans with violet lips and sunglasses. The Hotel Reisen, Skepps Bridge, the stern of the Svea Jarl, shots from a boat trip to Djurgĺrden and of a large passenger ship anchored in Stockholm seen from a sightseeing boat.
'Which boat is that?" asked the County Police Superintendent.
'Moore-McCormack's Brazil," said Martin Beck. "It comes here every summer."
'What building is that?" asked the County Police Superintendent a little later.
'It's an old people's home," said Kollberg. "Haile Selassie saluted it once when he was here before the war. He thought it was the Royal Palace."
Seagulls, gracefully flapping their wings. Shots from the suburb Farsta, lines of people getting onto a bus with a plexiglass roof. Fishermen, sinisterly staring into the camera.
'Who took the pictures?" asked the County Police Superintendent.
'Wilfred S. Bellamy, Jr. from Klamath Falls, Oregon," said Martin Beck.
'Never heard of it," said the County Superintendent
Svartmans Street, the pump of Brunkeberg Street, underexposed.
'Now," said the County Police Superintendent.
The Diana at Riddarholm's pier. Directly from the stern. Roseanna McGraw in a recognizable pose with her eyes looking straight up.
'There she is," said the County Superintendent.
'Oh God," said Kollberg.
The woman with the violet lips moved in from the left, with a toothy smile. Everything except for the shipping company's flag and the City Hall tower could be seen. White dots. Flickerings. Red-brown shadows. Darkness.
The lights were turned on and the man in the white coat glanced at the door.
'Just one second. There's a little trouble with the projector."
Ahlberg turned around and looked at Martin Beck.
'Now it caught fire and burned up," said First Detective Assistant Lennart Kollberg, who was a mind reader.
At the same moment the lights went out.
'Let's get it in focus, now, boys," said the County Superintendent.
Some more shots of the city, the backs of tourists, West Bridge, a pan shot of the bridge. Whitecaps on the water, the Swedish flag, some sailboats in a race. A long sequence of Mrs. Bellamy with her eyes closed sunning herself in a deck chair.
'Watch the background," said the County Police Superintendent.
Martin Beck recognized several of the people on the film: none of them were Roseanna McGraw.
The Södertälje locks, a road bridge, a railroad bridge. The mast seen from below with the shipping line's flag blowing lightly in the breeze against a blue sky. A motor sailer coming toward them with fish piled up on its deck, someone waving. The same motor sailer seen from the stern. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled profile to the right in the picture.
Oxelösund, from the water, its modern church tower against the sky, the steel mill with billowing chimneys. The film rose and fell with the boat's slow, soft rolling and had a diffuse, gray-green tone.
'The weather is worse now," said the County Superintendent.
The entire screen looked light gray, a quick turn of the camera, a bit of the bridge deck which was empty. The City of Gothenburg's flag, wet and slack, on the bow ahead in the distance. The helmsman in the picture, balancing a tray on the way down a ladder.
'What now?" asked the County Police Superintendent.
'They're outside of Hävringe," said Martin Beck. "Sometime around five or six o'clock. They've stopped because of the fog."
A shot from the stern of the shelter deck, deserted deck chairs, light gray, damp. No people.
The camera to the right, then with a light turn, back again. Roseanna McGraw on the ladder-way leading up from A deck, still bare-legged and in sandals but with a thin, plastic raincoat over her dress and a scarf drawn over her hair. Past the lifeboat, right into the camera, a quick, indifferent look at the photographer, her face calm and relaxed, out of the picture to the right. A quick turn. Roseanna McGraw from the back, with her elbows on the railing, the weight of her body resting on her right foot, on her toes, scratching her left ankle with her right hand.
Just about twenty-four hours from her death. Martin Beck held his breath. No one in the room said anything. The woman from Lincoln faded away while white spots streamed over the screen. The film had come to an end.
The fog had disappeared. A strained, violet-lipped smile. Shots of an elderly couple in deck chairs with blankets over their knees. There was no sunshine but it was not raining either.
'Who are they?" asked the County Superintendent.
'Two other Americans," said Kollberg. "Their name is Anderson."
The boat in a lock. A picture from the bridge over the forward deck, a lot of backs. A member of the crew on land, bent forward, pushing the wheel for the lock chamber's gates. The camera flew on, the lock gates opened. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled, double chin seen from below with the bridge and the name of the ship in the background.
Another shot from the bridge. A new lock. The forward deck full of people. A change of scene to a man talking busily and wearing a straw hat.
'Cornfield, an American. He traveled alone," said Koll-berg.
Martin Beck wondered if he had been the only one to see Roseanna McGraw in the scene that had just passed. She had been standing by the starboard railing, leaning on her elbows as usual, dressed in slacks and a dark sweater.
Shots of the locks continued but she was not in any of them.
'Where would that be?" asked the
County Superintendent.
'Karlsborg," answered Ahlberg. "Not at Lake Vättern though. This is ĺ bit west of Söderköping. They left Söderköping at a quarter to ten. This ought to have been around eleven o'clock."
A new lock. Another view of the forward deck. There she was again. Her sweater was black and had a turtleneck collar. A lot of people stood near her. She turned her face toward the camera and seemed to laugh. A fast change of scene. A shot of the water. A long sequence with Mrs. Bellamy and the Andersons. At one point the colonel from North Mälarstrand walked by, between the subject and the eye of the camera.
Martin Beck's neck was perspiring. Ten hours left. Had she laughed?
A short shot of the forward deck with only three or four persons on it. The boat was out on a lake. White spots. End of that roll.
The County Police Superintendent turned around.
'Roxen?"
'No, Asplĺngen," said Ahlberg.
A drawbridge. Buildings on the shore. People on shore, waving and staring.
'Norsholm," said Ahlberg. "It's a quarter after three now."
The camera stayed stubbornly on the shore. Trees, cows, houses. A little girl, seven or eight years old, walked on the path along the edge of the canal. A blue cotton summer dress, two pigtails and wooden shoes. Someone on board threw a coin on the path. She picked it up, curtsied shyly, and looked confused. More coins were thrown. The child picked them up. She ran a few steps to keep up. A woman's-hand with a shining half-dollar between two sinewy fingers with crimson colored fingernails. The camera came back again. Mrs. Bellamy with an exalted expression, throwing coins. The girl on the shore with her entire right hand full of money, totally confused, with her astonished blue eyes.
Martin Beck didn't see it. He heard Ahlberg take a deep breath, and Kollberg move in his chair.
In back of the do-gooding woman from Klamath Falls, Oregon, Roseanna McGraw had crossed the shelter deck from left to right. She had not been alone. At her left, and pressed closely to her, there had been another person. A man in a sport cap. He was a head taller than she and his profile could be seen during a brief tenth of a second against the light background.