by Maj Sjowall
On the other side of the street a car engine started up. He let his eyes sweep along the row of parked vehicles but could not locate the noise. The engine was turning over slowly, purring. This continued for about thirty seconds. Then he heard the car being put into gear. A pair of parking lights went on. More than fifty yards ahead a car came out of the shadows and moved away from the edge of the pavement. It came in his direction, but on the other side of the street, and extremely slowly. A dark-green Skoda, and he had a feeling he had seen it before. The car came nearer. Martin Beck sat still on the stone wall and followed it with his eyes. Almost level with him, it began to turn to the left, as if the driver were going to turn around in the street. But the turn was not completed: the car was moving almost more slowly than before, straight at him. Obviously someone wanted to meet him, but his way of going about it was astounding. The idea could hardly be to run him down—not at that speed—and, besides, he could get to safety behind the wall in a second, if necessary. Provided no one was hiding in the back seat, there was only one person in the car.
Martin Beck put out his cigarette. He was in no way afraid, but very curious to know what was going to happen.
The green Skoda had stopped with its engine running and its right front wheel against the curb, only nine feet away from him. The driver switched on the headlights and everything was drowned in a flood of light. But only for a few seconds, then all the lights went out. The car door opened and a man stepped out onto the pavement.
Martin Beck had seen him often enough to be able to recognize him at once, despite the blinding effect of the light. The tall man with dark hair brushed back on his head. The man was empty-handed. He took a step nearer. The engine of the car purred slowly.
He sensed something. Not a shadow, nor even a sound, only a small movement in the air, just behind him. So faint that only the stillness of the night made it perceptible.
Martin Beck knew that he was no longer alone on the wall, that the car was only meant to distract his attention while someone silently approached down on the quay and heaved himself up onto the stone wall behind him.
And in the same second he also realized clearly and penetratingly that this was not shadowing, not a game, but deadly serious. And more than that. It was death: this time out for him, and not by chance, but in a cold, calculated, premeditated fashion.
Martin Beck was a bad fighter, but his reflex actions were remarkable. At the exact moment he felt the slight draft, he ducked his head down between his shoulders, put his right foot upon the edge of the wall, kicked away, twisted his body and threw himself backward, all in one lightning movement. The arm that had been on its way around his throat was pressed hard against the ridge of his nose and eyebrows before it slid away over his forehead. He felt a hot, astonished breath against his cheek and caught the swift glint of a knife blade, which had already missed its mark and was on its way away from him. He fell backward down onto the quay, hit his left shoulder hard on the stone paving and rolled around to give himself time, if possible, to get his balance and get onto his feet. On the wall he saw two figures, silhouetted against the starry sky. Then there was only one and while he still had one knee on the stone paving, the man with the knife was on him again. His left arm was temporarily paralyzed after his fall against the quay, but for a second or two the light was in his favor: he himself was low in the dark and the other man was etched against the background. His attacker missed and a second later Martin Beck managed to seize hold of the man’s right wrist. It was not a good grip and the wrist was unusually large, but he held on, very conscious of the fact that it was his only chance. For a tenth of a second or so, they stood up and he noted that the other man was shorter than himself, but considerably broader. Mechanically, he applied one of the hoary old method holds learned at police college and succeeded in getting his opponent onto the ground. The only thing wrong was that he did not dare let go of the hand with the knife and was himself drawn down in the fall. They rolled around once and were now extremely close to the edge of the quay, where the steps down to the water began. The paralysis in his left arm had let up and he got a hold on the man’s other wrist. But his opponent was stronger and slowly broke away. A hard kick in the head reminded him that he was not only physically but also numerically inferior. He was now lying on his back so close to the stairs that he felt the first step with his foot. The man with the knife was panting heavily in his face, smelling of sweat, shaving water and throat pastilles. His opponent began slowly but relentlessly to free his right hand.
Martin Beck felt it was all over—at least very nearly. Lightning bolts clashed in the throbbing haze, his heart seemed to swell more and more and more, like a purple tumor about to burst. His head was thumping like a pile driver. He thought he heard terrible roars, shots, piercing shrieks, and he saw the world drowned in a flood of blinding white light that obliterated all shapes and all life. His last conscious thought was that he was going to die here on a quay in a foreign city, just as Alf Matsson had presumably done, and without knowing why.
With a last reflex-like effort, Martin Beck gripped the other man’s right wrist with both hands as he kicked with his foot and tipped both himself and his opponent over the edge of the quay. He hit his head on the second step and lost consciousness.
Martin Beck opened his eyes after an epoch of time that seemed boundless, and that in any case must have been very long. Everything was bathed in a white light. He was lying on his back with his head to one side and his right ear against the stone paving. The first thing he saw was a pair of well-polished black shoes, which almost filled his field of vision. He turned his head and looked up.
Szluka, in a gray suit and with that silly hunting hat still on his head, bent down over him and said:
“Good evening.”
Martin Beck propped himself up on his elbow. The flood of light was coming from two police cars, one on the quay and the other driven up to the stone wall on the street above. About ten feet away from Szluka stood a policeman in a visored cap, black leather boots and a light-gray-blue uniform. He was holding a black night stick in his right hand and looking thoughtfully at a person lying at his feet. It was Tetz Radeberger, the man who had played with Ari Boeck’s bathing suit in the house in Újpest. He was now on his back, deeply unconscious, with blood on his forehead and in his blond hair.
“The other one,” said Martin Beck. “Where is he?”
“Shot,” said Szluka. “Carefully, of course. In the leg.”
A number of windows had been thrown open in the houses along the street and people were peering inquisitively down toward the quay.
“Lie still,” said Szluka. “The ambulance will be here soon.”
“No need,” said Martin Beck, beginning to get up.
Exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since he had been sitting on the stone wall and had felt that draft at the back of his neck.
17
The car was a blue-and-white 1962 model Warsvawa. It had a flashing blue light on the roof and the siren sounded in a subdued, melancholy wail along the empty night streets. The word RENDŐRSÉG was painted in block capitals in the white band across the front door. It meant police.
Martin Beck was sitting in the back seat. At his side sat a uniformed officer. Szluka was sitting in the front seat, to the right of the driver.
“You did well,” said Szluka. “Rather dangerous young men, those two.”
“Who put Radeberger out of action?”
“He’s sitting beside you,” said Szluka. Martin Beck turned his head. The policeman had a narrow black mustache and brown eyes with a sympathetic look in them.
“He speaks only Hungarian,” said Szluka.
“What’s his name?”
“Foti.”
Martin Beck put out his hand.
“Thanks, Foti,” he said.
“He had to give it to them pretty hard,” said Szluka. “Hadn’t much time.”
“Lucky he was around,” said
Martin Beck.
“We’re usually around,” said Szluka. “Except in the cartoons.”
“They have their hangout in Újpest,” said Martin Beck. “A boarding house on Venetianer út.”
“We know that.”
Szluka sat quietly a moment. Then he asked, “How did you come into contact with them?”
“Through a woman named Boeck. Matsson had asked for her address. And she had been in Stockholm. Competing as a swimmer. There could be a connection. That’s why I looked her up.”
“And what did she say?”
“That she was studying at the university and working at a museum. And that she had never heard of Matsson.”
They had reached the police station at Deák Ferenc Tér. The car swung into a concrete yard and stopped. Martin Beck followed Szluka up to his office. It was very spacious and the wall was covered with a large map of Budapest, but to all intents and purposes it reminded him of his own office back in Stockholm. Szluka hung up his hunting hat and pointed to a chair. He opened his mouth, but before he had time to say anything, the telephone rang. He went over to his desk and answered. Martin Beck thought he could make out a torrent of words. It went on for a long time. Now and again Szluka replied in monosyllables. After a while he looked at his watch, exploded in a rapid, irritated harangue and put down the receiver.
“My wife,” he said.
He went over to the map and studied the northern part of the city, with his back to his visitor.
“Being a policeman,” said Szluka, “is not a profession. And it’s certainly not a vocation either. It’s a curse.”
A little later he turned around and said:
“Of course, I don’t mean that. Only think it sometimes. Are you married?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know.”
A policeman in uniform came in and put down a tray with two cups of coffee on it. They drank. Szluka looked at his watch.
“We’re searching the place up there at the moment. The report should soon be here.”
“How did you manage to be around?” said Martin Beck.
Szluka replied with exactly the same sentence as in the car.
“We’re usually around.”
Then he smiled and said, “It was what you said about being shadowed. Naturally it wasn’t us watching you. Why should we do that?”
Martin Beck poked his nose, a little conscience-stricken.
“People imagine so many things,” said Szluka. “But of course you’re a policeman, and policemen seldom do. So we began to watch the man who was tailing you. Backtailing as the Americans call it, if I remember rightly. This afternoon our man saw that there were two men watching you. He thought it looked peculiar and sounded the alarm. It’s as simple as that.”
Martin Beck nodded. Szluka looked at him thoughtfully.
“And yet it was all so quick we just barely got there in time.”
He finished his coffee and carefully put his cup down.
“Backtailing,” he said, as if savoring the word. “Have you ever been to America?”
“No.”
“Neither have I.”
“I worked with them on a case, two years ago. With someone called Kafka.”
“Sounds Czech.”
“It was an American tourist who got murdered in Sweden. Ugly story. Complicated investigation.”
Szluka sat silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, “How did it go?”
“O.K.,” said Martin Beck.
“I’ve only read about the American police. They have a peculiar organization. Difficult to understand.”
Martin Beck nodded.
“And a lot to do,” said Szluka. “They have as many murders in New York in a week as we have in the whole country in a year.”
A uniformed police officer with two stars on his shoulder straps came into the room. He discussed something with Szluka, saluted Martin Beck and left. While the door was standing open, Ari Boeck walked along the corridor outside, with a woman guard. She was wearing the same white dress and the same sandals as the day before, but had a shawl over her shoulders. She threw a flat, vacant look at Martin Beck.
“Nothing of importance in Újpest,” said Szluka. “We’re taking the car apart now. When Radeberger comes around and the other one has been patched up, we’ll tackle them. There’s quite a bit I still don’t understand.”
He fell silent, hesitantly.
“But things will clear up soon.”
The telephone rang and he was occupied for a while. Martin Beck understood nothing of the conversation except now and again the word “Svéd” and “Svédország” which he knew meant Swede or Swedish and Sweden. Szluka put down the receiver and said, “This must have something to do with your compatriot, Matsson.”
“Yes, of course.”
“The girl lied to you, by the way. She’s not studied at the university and doesn’t work at a museum. She doesn’t really seem to do anything. Got suspended from competitive swimming because she didn’t behave herself.”
“There must be some connection.”
“Yes, but where? Oh well, we’ll see.”
Szluka shrugged his shoulders. Martin Beck turned and twisted his mangled body. It ached in his shoulders and arms, and his head was far from what it ought to be. He felt very tired and found it difficult to think, and yet did not want to go home to bed at the hotel, all the same.
The telephone rang again. Szluka listened with a frown, and then his eyes cleared.
“Things are beginning to move,” he said. “We’ve found something. And one of them is all right now, the tall one. His name’s Fröbe, by the way. Now we’ll see. Are you coming along?”
Martin Beck began to get up.
“Or perhaps you’d rather rest for a while.”
“No, thank you,” said Martin Beck.
18
Szluka sat down behind the desk with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, a passport with a green cover at his right elbow.
The tall man in the chair opposite Szluka had dark shadows under his eyes. Martin Beck knew that he had not had much sleep during the last twenty-four hours. The man was sitting up straight in the chair, looking down at his hands.
Szluka nodded at the stenographer and began.
The man raised his eyes and looked at Szluka.
“Your name?”
“Theodor Fröbe.”
SZLUKA: When were you born?
FRÖBE: Twenty-first of April, 1936, in Hanover.
SZ: And you are a West German citizen. Living where?
F: In Hamburg. Hermannstrasse 12.
SZ: What is your occupation?
F: Travel guide. Or to be more correct, travel-agency official.
SZ: Where are you employed?
F: At a travel agency called Winkler’s.
SZ: Where do you live in Budapest?
F: At a boarding house in Újpest. Venetianer út 6.
SZ: And why are you in Budapest?
F: I represent the travel agency and look after parties traveling to and from Budapest.
SZ: Earlier tonight you and a man called Tetz Radeberger were caught in the act of attacking a man on Groza Peter Rakpart. You were both armed and your intention to injure or kill the man was obvious. Do you know this man?
F: No.
SZ: Have you seen him before?
F: …
SZ: Answer me!
F: No.
SZ: Do you know who he is?
F: No.
SZ: You don’t know him, you’ve never seen him before and don’t know who he is. Why did you attack him?
F: ….
SZ: Explain why you attacked him!
F: We … needed money and …
SZ: And?
F: And then we saw him down there on the quay and—
SZ: You’re lying. Please don’t lie to me. It’s no good. The attack was planned and you were armed. In addition, it is a lie that you’ve not seen him before. You have been followi
ng him for two days. Why? Answer me!
F: We thought he was someone else.
SZ: That he was who?
F: Someone who … who …
SZ: Who?
F: Who owed us money.
SZ: And so you followed him and attacked him?
F: Yes.
SZ: I’ve already warned you once. It is extremely unwise of you to lie. I know exactly when you are lying. Do you know a Swede called Alf Matsson?
F: No.
SZ: Your friends Radeberger and Boeck have already said that you know him.
F: I know him only slightly. I didn’t remember that that was his name.
SZ: When did you last see Alf Matsson?
F: In May, I think it was.
SZ: Where did you meet him?
F: Here in Budapest.
SZ: And you haven’t seen him since then?
F: No.
SZ: Three days ago this man was at your boarding house asking for Alf Matsson. Since then you have followed him and tonight you tried to kill him. Why?
F: Not kill him!
SZ: Why?
F: We didn’t try to kill him!
SZ: But you attacked him, didn’t you? And you were armed with a knife.
F: Yes, but it was a mistake. Nothing happened to him, did it? He wasn’t injured, was he? You’ve no right to question me like this.
SZ: How long have you known Alf Matsson?
F: About a year. I don’t remember exactly.
SZ: How did you meet?
F: At a mutual friend’s place here in Budapest.
SZ: What’s your friend’s name?
F: Ari Boeck.
SZ: Have you met him several times since then?
F: A few times. Not very many.
SZ: Did you always meet here in Budapest?
F: We’ve met in Prague too. And in Warsaw.
SZ: And in Bratislava.
F: Yes.
SZ: And in Constanta?
F: ….
SZ: Didn’t you?
F: Yes.
SZ: How did it happen? That you met in all those cities where none of you lived?