The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

by Maj Sjowall

  F: I travel a lot. It’s my job. And he traveled a lot too. It turned out that we met there.

  SZ: Why did you meet?

  F: We just met. We were good friends.

  SZ: Now you are saying that you’ve been meeting him over a year in at least five different cities because you are good friends. A moment ago you were saying that you knew him only slightly. Why didn’t you want to admit that you knew him?

  F: I was nervous from sitting here being questioned. And I’m awfully tired. And my leg hurts, too.

  SZ: Oh yes. So you’re very tired. Was Tetz Radeberger also with you when you met Alf Matsson at all these different places?

  F: Yes, we work for the same agency and travel together.

  SZ: How did it happen, do you think, that Radeberger didn’t want to admit at once to knowing Alf Matsson either? Was he awfully tired, too, perhaps?

  F: I don’t know anything about that.

  SZ: Do you know where Alf Matsson is right now?

  F: No, I have no idea.

  SZ: Do you want me to tell you?

  F: Yes.

  SZ: I’m not going to do it, however. How long have you been employed at this Winkler’s travel agency?

  F: For six years.

  SZ: Is it a well-paid job?

  F: Not especially. But I get everything free when I’m traveling. Food, keep and fares.

  SZ: But the salary isn’t high?

  F: No. But I manage.

  SZ: It seems so. You have enough so that you manage.

  F: What do you mean by that?

  SZ: You have in fact fifteen hundred dollars, eight hundred and thirty pounds and ten thousand marks. That’s a lot of money. Where did you get it from?

  F: That’s nothing to do with you.

  SZ: Answer my question and don’t use that tone of voice.

  F: It’s not your business where I get my money from.

  SZ: It’s possible and also very likely that you haven’t half the sense I thought you had, but even with the very slightest intelligence, you ought to be able to see that you would be wiser to answer my questions. Well, where did you get the money from?

  F: I did extra jobs and earned it all over a long period.

  SZ: What sort of jobs?

  F: Different things.

  Szluka looked at Fröbe and opened a drawer in his desk. Out of the drawer he took a package wrapped up in plastic. The package was about eight inches long and four inches wide and fastened with adhesive tape. Szluka put the package down on the desk between himself and Fröbe. All the while he was looking at Fröbe, whose eyes wavered, trying to avoid looking at the package. Szluka looked straight at him and Fröbe wiped away the sweat that had appeared in little beads around his nose. Then Szluka added, “Uh-huh. Different things. As for example, smuggling and selling hashish. A profitable occupation, but not in the long run, Herr Fröbe.”

  F: I don’t understand what you’re talking about.

  SZ: No? And you don’t recognize this little package either?

  F: No, I don’t. Why should I?

  SZ: And not the fifteen similar packages that were found hidden in the doors and upholstery of Radeberger’s car, either?

  F: ….

  SZ: There’s quite a lot of hashish in just one little package like this. We’re not accustomed to such things here, so I in fact don’t know what price it would bring in today. By how much would you have increased your capital when you’d sold your little supply?

  F: I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.

  SZ: I see in your passport here that you often travel to Turkey. You’ve been there seven times this year alone.

  F: Winkler’s arrange tours to Turkey. As a group guide I have to travel there quite often.

  SZ: Yes, and it suits you very well, doesn’t it? In Turkey hashish is fairly cheap and quite easy to get hold of. Isn’t it, Mr. Fröbe?

  F: ….

  SZ: If you prefer to say nothing it will be the worse for you. We already have enough evidence, and in addition to that a witness.

  F: The dirty skunk squealed after all!

  SZ: Exactly.

  F: That god-damned bastard Swede!

  SZ: Perhaps you realize that it is serving no useful purpose to keep this up any longer. Start talking now, Fröbe! I want to hear the whole thing, with all the facts you can remember, names, dates and figures. You can begin by telling me when you began smuggling narcotics.

  Fröbe closed his eyes and fell to one side off the chair. Martin Beck saw him put his hand out before he actually fell prostrate onto the floor.

  Szluka rose and nodded to the stenographer, who closed the notebook and vanished out the door.

  Szluka looked down at the man lying on the floor.

  “He’s bluffing,” said Martin Beck. “He didn’t faint.”

  “I know,” said Szluka. “But I’ll let him rest for a while before I go on.”

  He went up to Fröbe and poked him with the tip of his shoe.

  “Get up, Fröbe.”

  Fröbe did not move, but his eyelids quivered. Szluka went over to the door, opened it and called out something into the corridor. A policeman came in and Szluka said something to him. The policeman took Fröbe by the arm and Szluka said, “Don’t lie there cluttering up the place, Fröbe. We’ll get a bunk for you to lie on. It’s much more comfortable.”

  Fröbe got up and looked offendedly at Szluka. Then he limped out behind the policeman. Martin Beck watched him go.

  “How is his leg?”

  “No danger,” said Szluka. “Only a flesh wound. We don’t often need to shoot, but when it’s necessary, we shoot accurately.”

  “So that’s what he was up to. Hashish smuggling,” said Martin Beck. “I wonder what they’ve done with him.”

  “Alf Matsson? I expect we’ll get it out of them. But it’s best to wait until they’ve had a bit of rest. You must be tired yourself,” said Szluka, sitting down behind his desk.

  Martin Beck felt very tired indeed. It was already morning. He felt bruised and battered.

  “Go back to the hotel and sleep for a few hours,” said Szluka. “I’ll phone you later. Go down to the entrance and I’ll get a car sent around for you.”

  Martin Beck had no objections. He shook hands with Szluka and left him. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Szluka speaking into the telephone.

  The car was already waiting for him when he got down to the street.

  19

  The cleaning woman had been into his room and switched off the light and closed the shutters. He did not bother to open them again. Now he knew that there would be no tall, dark man outside looking up at his window.

  Martin Beck switched on the overhead light and undressed. His head and left arm ached. He looked in the long mirror in the wardrobe. He had a large bruise above his right knee, and his left shoulder was swollen and black and blue. He ran his hand over his head and felt a large bump at the back of it. He could not find any more injuries.

  The bed looked soft and cool and inviting. He switched off the light and crept down between the sheets. He lay on his back for a while and tried to think as he stared out into the half-light. Then he turned over on his side and fell asleep.

  It was nearly two o’clock when he woke to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was Szluka.

  “Have you slept?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Can you come over?”

  “Yes. Now?”

  “I’ll send a car. It’ll be there in half an hour. Is that all right?”

  “Yes. I’ll be down in half an hour.”

  He showered and dressed and opened the shutters. The sun was blazing and the sharp light stung his eyes. He looked toward the quay on the other side of the river. The past night seemed unreal and remote to him.

  The car, with the same driver as before, was waiting. He found his way to Szluka’s room by himself and knocked before opening the door and going in.

  Szluka was alo
ne. He was sitting behind his desk with a sheaf of papers and the indispensable coffee cup in front of him. He nodded and motioned toward the chair Fröbe had sat in. Then he lifted the receiver, said something and put it back again.

  “How are you feeling?” he said, looking at Martin Beck.

  “Fine. I’ve slept. And you? How’s it going?”

  A policeman came in and placed two cups of coffee on the table. Then he took Szluka’s empty cup and left.

  “It’s all finished now. I’ve got everything here,” said Szluka, picking up the sheaf of papers.

  “And Alf Matsson?” said Martin Beck.

  “Well,” said Szluka. “That’s the only point that’s not clear yet. I haven’t managed to get anything there. They insist that they don’t know where he is.”

  “But he was one of the gang?”

  “Yes, in a way. He was their middleman. The whole thing was organised by Fröbe and Radeberger. The girl was just used as a sort of clearinghouse for the whole business. Boeck, whatever her first name is.”

  Szluka fumbled in his papers.

  “Ari,” said Martin Beck. “Aranka.”

  “Yes, Ari Boeck. Fröbe and Radeberger had already been smuggling hashish from Turkey some time before they met her. Both of them seem to have had relations with her. After a while, they realized they could use her in another way and told her about the narcotics smuggling. She had no objections to joining in on it. Then they both lived with her when she moved to Újpest. She seems to be a fairly loose sort of creature.”

  “Yes,” said Martin Beck. “I suppose so.”

  “Radeberger and Fröbe went to Turkey as travel guides. In Turkey they got hold of the hashish, which is quite cheap and easily obtainable there, and then smuggled it into Hungary. It was fairly easy, especially since they were group guides and had to deal with all the luggage belonging to the party. Ari Boeck made contact with the middlemen and helped sell the drugs here in Budapest. Radeberger and Fröbe also traveled to other countries such as Poland, Czechoslovakia, Rumania and Bulgaria with hashish for their pushers.”

  “And Alf Matsson was one of them?” said Martin Beck.

  “Alf Matsson was one of the pushers,” said Szluka. “They had some others who came from England, Germany and Holland, either here or to some other East European country where they met Radeberger and Fröbe. They paid in Western currencies—pounds, dollars or marks—and got their hashish, which they then took back home with them and sold there.”

  “So everyone profited a good deal from the business, except the people who in the end bought the junk to use,” said Martin Beck. “It’s odd that they’ve managed to get away with this for so long without being discovered.”

  Szluka rose and went across to the window. He stood there for a while, his hands behind his back, looking out onto the street. Then he went back and sat down again.

  “No,” he said. “It’s not really that strange. So long as none of the stuff was sold here or in any other socialist country, except to the middlemen, then they had every chance of getting away with it. In the capitalist countries concerned, they don’t think there’s anything worth smuggling out of Eastern Bloc countries, so customs control hardly exists for travelers from these countries. On the other hand, if they’d tried to find a market for their goods here, they’d have soon been caught. But that wouldn’t have been worth their while, either. It’s Western currencies they want.”

  “They must have made a good deal of money,” said Martin Beck.

  “Yes,” said Szluka. “But the pushers made a lot out of it too. The whole thing was quite cleverly organized, actually. If you hadn’t come out here looking for Alf Matsson, it might have been a long time before we’d found all this out.”

  “What do they say about Alf Matsson?”

  “They’ve admitted he was their pusher in Sweden. Over a period of a year he’d bought quite a lot of hashish from them. But they maintain they haven’t seen him since May, when he was here to pick up a consignment. He didn’t get as much as he wanted at that time, so he’d communicated with Ari Boeck again fairly soon. They say that they’d agreed to meet him here in Budapest almost three weeks ago, but he never turned up. They claim that the stuff hidden in the car was put aside for him.”

  Martin Beck sat in silence for a moment. Then he said:

  “He might have quarreled with them for one reason or another and threatened to report them. Then they might have got scared and done away with him. The way they tried to get rid of me last night.”

  Szluka sat in silence. After a while Martin Beck went on, quietly, as if talking to himself, “That’s what must have happened.”

  Szluka got up and paced the floor for a bit. Then he said, “That’s what I thought had happened too.”

  He fell silent again and stopped in front of the map.

  “What do you think now?” said Martin Beck.

  Szluka turned and looked at him.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I thought perhaps you’d like to talk to one of them yourself. This Radeberger. The one you fought with last night. He’s talkative and I have an impression that he’s too stupid to be able to lie well. Would you like to question him? Perhaps you’d do better than I did.”

  “Yes, please,” said Martin Beck. “I’d very much like to question him.”

  20

  Tetz Radeberger came into the room. He was dressed as he had been the previous night, in a snug pullover, thin Dacron trousers with elastic at the waist and light, rubber-soled cloth shoes. Dressed to kill. He stopped inside the door and bowed. The policeman escorting him prodded him lightly in the back.

  Martin Beck gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk, and the German sat down. There was an expectant and uncertain look in his deep-blue eyes. He had a bandage on his forehead and there was a blue swelling at his hairline. Otherwise he looked well and strong and fairly intact.

  “We’re going to talk about Alf Matsson,” said Martin Beck.

  “I don’t know where he is,” said Radeberger immediately.

  “Possibly. But we’re going to talk about him all the same.”

  Szluka had got out a tape recorder. It was standing on the right of the desk and Martin Beck stretched out his hand and switched it on. The German kept a close watch on his movements.

  “When did you meet Alf Matsson for the first time?”

  “Two years ago.”

  “Where?”

  “Here in Budapest. At a place called the Ifjuság. A sort of young people’s hotel.”

  “How did you meet him?”

  “Through Ari Boeck. She worked there. That was long before she moved to Újpest.”

  “What happened then?”

  “Nothing special. Theo and I had just come back from Turkey. We arranged trips there for tourists. From resorts in Rumania and Bulgaria. We brought a little stuff back with us from Istanbul.”

  “Had you already begun to smuggle drugs then?”

  “Only a little. For our own use, so to speak. But we didn’t use it all that often. We never use it now.” He paused briefly, and then said, “It’s not good for you.”

  “What did you want it for then?”

  “Well, for broads and all that. It’s good for broads. They get … more … inclined …”

  “Matsson, then? Where does he come into the picture?”

  “We offered him some to smoke. He wasn’t all that interested either. Drank liquor mostly.”

  He thought for a moment, and then said foolishly, “That’s not good for your body either.”

  “Did you sell narcotics to Matsson that time?”

  “No, but he got a little. We hadn’t got all that much. He grew interested when he heard how easy it was to buy in Istanbul.”

  “Had you yourselves already thought about smuggling on a large scale at that time?”

  “We’d talked about it. The difficulty was getting the stuff into the countries where it paid you to sell it.”

  “
Where, for instance?”

  “Scandinavia, Holland, at home in Germany. The customs and the police are on the alert there, especially when they know you come from countries like Turkey. Or North Africa and Spain too, for that matter.”

  “Did Matsson offer to become a pusher?”

  “Yes. He said that when you traveled from Eastern Europe, the customs people were hardly ever interested in your luggage, especially if you were flying. It wasn’t difficult for us to get the stuff out of Turkey, to here, for instance. We were travel guides, after all. But then we couldn’t get much farther with it. The risks were too great. And you can’t sell it here. You’d get caught, and anyhow, it isn’t worth it.”

  He thought about this for a moment.

  “We didn’t want to get caught,” he said.

  “I can see that. Did you make an agreement with Matsson then?”

  “Yes. He had a good idea. We were to meet at different places—ones that suited Theo and me. We let him know and then he went there for his magazine. It was a good cover-up. Looked innocent.”

  “How did he pay you?”

  “In dollars—cash. It was a fine plan, and we built up our organization that summer. Got hold of more pushers—a Dutchman we met in Prague and—”

  This was Szluka’s department. Martin Beck said, “Where did you and Matsson meet next time?”

  “In Constanta, in Rumania, three weeks later. Everything went very smoothly.”

  “Was Miss Boeck in on it then too?”

  “Ari? No, what use would she have been?”

  “But she knew what you were doing?”

  “Yes, part of it anyhow.”

  “How many times did you and Matsson meet altogether?”

  “Ten, maybe fifteen. It worked beautifully. He always paid what we asked and must have earned a lot himself.”

  “How much, do you think?”

  “Don’t know, but he always had plenty of money.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, it’s true. We met here in May, when Ari had moved to Újpest. He stayed at that young people’s hotel. He got a shipment at that point. He said he had a big market, and we decided that we should meet here again on the twenty-third of July.”