The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

by Maj Sjowall

  “And?”

  “We came here on the twenty-first. That was a Thursday. But he never turned up.”

  “He was here in Budapest. He came on the twenty-second in the evening. He left his hotel on the twenty-third, in the morning. Where were you going to meet?”

  “In Újpest. At Ari’s place.”

  “So he went there on the twenty-third in the morning.”

  “No, I tell you. He never turned up. We waited, but he didn’t come. Then we phoned the hotel, but he wasn’t there.”

  “Who called?”

  “Theo and I did, and Ari. We took turns.”

  “Did you call from Újpest?”

  “No. From different places. He didn’t come, I tell you. We sat there waiting.”

  “You claim you haven’t seen him since he came here, in other words?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let’s pretend that I believe you. You haven’t met Matsson. But that doesn’t stop Fröbe or Miss Boeck from having contacted him, does it?”

  “No, I know they haven’t.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Radeberger’s expression began to grow slightly desperate. He was sweating freely. It was very hot in the room.

  “Now listen,” he said. “I don’t know what you think, but that other man seems to believe we got rid of him. But why should we do that? We made money off him, a lot of money.”

  “Did you give Miss Boeck money too?”

  “Oh, yes. She helped and got her share. Enough so that she didn’t have to work.”

  Martin Beck stared at the man for a long time. Finally he said, “Did you kill him?”

  “No, I keep telling you. Would we have stayed on here for three weeks with nearly that whole supply of stuff if we’d done that?”

  His voice had grown shrill and tense.

  “Did you like Alf Matsson?”

  The man’s eyes flickered.

  “Please answer when I ask you something,” said Martin Beck seriously.

  “Of course.”

  “Miss Boeck appears to have said at her interrogation that neither you nor Theo Fröbe liked Matsson.”

  “He was nasty when he drank. He … despised us because we were Germans.”

  He turned an appealing blue look upon Martin Beck and said, “And that’s not fair, is it?”

  There was a silent pause. Tetz Radeberger did not like it. He fidgeted and pulled nervously at the joints of his fingers.

  “We haven’t killed anyone,” he said. “We’re not that kind.”

  “You tried to kill me last night.”

  “That was different.”

  The man said this in such a low voice that his words were almost inaudible.

  “In what way?”

  “It was our only chance.”

  “Chance to what? To be hanged? Or to get a life sentence in prison?”

  The German gave him a shattered look.

  “You’ll probably get that anyway,” said Martin Beck, in a friendly way. “Have you been to prison before?”

  “Yes. At home.”

  “Well, what did you mean by your only chance being to try to kill me?”

  “Don’t you see? When you came to Újpest and had his—Matsson’s—passport with you, we thought at first that he hadn’t been able to come and had sent you instead. But you didn’t say anything, and besides you weren’t the right type. So Matsson must have been caught and spilled the beans. But we didn’t know who you were. We’d already been here twenty days, and we had the whole consignment lying around, and we were getting nervous about it. And after three weeks we’d have to get our visas extended. So Theo followed you when you went and …”

  “Yes, go on.”

  “And I took the car apart and hid the stuff. Theo couldn’t figure out who you were, so we agreed that Ari should find out. The next day, Theo followed you to those baths. He phoned Ari from there and she went and watched for you outside. Then Theo saw you together with that guy in the pool. Afterward he followed the other guy and saw him go into the police station. So it was obvious. All that afternoon and evening we waited and nothing happened. We figured you hadn’t said anything yet or else the police would already have been there. Then Ari came back during the night.”

  “What had she found out?”

  “I don’t know, but it was something. She just said, ‘Fix that bastard, and quick.’ She was in a bad mood. Then she went into her room and slammed the door behind her.”

  “Oh?”

  “Next day we watched you all the time. We were in a hell of a situation. We had to keep you quiet before you went to the police. We didn’t get a chance and had almost given up hope when you went out in the night. Theo followed you across the bridge and I drove around with the car across the other bridge, Lanc-híd. Then we changed over. Theo didn’t dare do it. And I’m the strongest. I’ve always looked after my body.”

  He fell silent for a moment then said appealingly, as if this were some excuse, “We didn’t know you were the police.”

  Martin Beck did not reply.

  “Are you a policeman?”

  “Yes, I’m a policeman. Let’s go back to Alf Matsson. You said that you met him through Miss Boeck. Had they known each other long?”

  “Awhile. Ari had been on some athletic team in Sweden, swimming, and she met him there. Then she wasn’t allowed to swim any more, but he looked her up when he came here.”

  “Are Matsson and Miss Boeck good friends?”

  “Fairly.”

  “Do they often have intimate relations with each other?”

  “Do you mean do they sleep together? Of course.”

  “Do you sleep with Miss Boeck too?”

  “Of course. When I feel like it. Theo too. Ari is a nymphomaniac. There’s not much you can do about it. Obviously Matsson slept with her when he was here. Once we all three had a go at her, in the same room. Ari does anything in that line. Otherwise she’s a good girl.”

  “Good?”

  “Yes, she does what you tell her. As long as you fuck her now and then. I don’t do it so much now. It’s not really very good for you to do it too much. But Theo is always at it. So he’s got no energy for anything.”

  “Have you never quarreled with Matsson?”

  “About Ari? She’s nothing to fight over.”

  “But about other things?”

  “Not about business. He was good at the business.”

  “Otherwise then?”

  “Once he kicked up such a fuss I had to smack him. He was drunk at the time, of course. Then Ari took him in hand and calmed him down. That was a long time ago.”

  “Where do you think Matsson is now?”

  Radeberger shook his head helplessly.

  “I don’t know. Here somewhere.”

  “Didn’t he associate with other people here?”

  “He just came, collected his consignment and paid. And then he did some kind of magazine article to make it all watertight. Three or four days later he went back.”

  Martin Beck sat silently for a while, looking at the man who had tried to kill him.

  “I think that’ll do now,” he said, switching off the tape recorder.

  Evidently the German still had something on his mind.

  “Say, that business yesterday … Can you forgive me?”

  “No. I can’t. Good-bye.”

  He made a sign to the policeman, who rose, took Radeberger by the arm and led him toward the door. Martin Beck watched the blond Teuton thoughtfully. Then he said, “One moment, Herr Radeberger. This is nothing to do with me personally. Yesterday you tried to murder a person to save your own skin. You had planned the murder as best you could and it was no thanks to you that it didn’t succeed. That’s not only illegal, but it’s also a breach of a basic rule of life and an important principle. That’s why it’s unforgivable. That’s all. Think about it.”

  Martin Beck rewound the tape, put it into the cassette and returned to Szluka.

 
; “I think you’re probably right. Perhaps they haven’t killed him.”

  “No,” said Szluka. “It doesn’t seem like it. We’ve got all the stops out now, looking for him.”

  “So have we.”

  “Has your assignment become official yet?”

  “Not so far as I know.”

  Szluka scratched the back of his neck.

  “Peculiar,” he said.

  “What?”

  “That we can’t locate him.”

  Half an hour later, Martin Beck returned to his hotel. It was already time for dinner. Dusk fell over the Danube, and on the other side of the river he saw the quay and the stone wall and the steps.

  21

  Martin Beck had just finished dressing and was on his way to the dining room when the telephone rang.

  “From Stockholm,” said the telephone operator. “A Mr. Eriksson.”

  The name was familiar to him: it was Alf Matsson’s boss, the editor in chief of the aggressive weekly.

  A pompous voice came over the line.

  “That’s Beck, is it? This is Eriksson, the editor in chief here.”

  “This is Inspector Beck.”

  The man ignored this and went on. “Well, as you are probably aware, I know all about your assignment. I was the one to put you on the track. And I’ve good connections with the Foreign Office, too.”

  So his hideous namesake had not been able to keep his mouth shut either.

  “Are you still there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perhaps we’d better be a little careful what we say, if you know what I mean. But first I must ask: have you found the man you’re looking for?”

  “Matsson? No, not yet.”

  “No clue at all?”

  “No.”

  “It’s absolutely unheard-of.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, how can I put it now … How’s the atmosphere down there?”

  “It’s hot. A little misty in the mornings.”

  “What d’you say? Misty in the mornings? Yes, I think I understand. Yes, exactly. Now, however, I think the time has come when in all good conscience we can’t keep this thing under wraps any longer. Why, what’s happened is perfectly incredible—it could lead to dreadful things. We have a great responsibility for Matsson personally too. He’s one of our best people, an excellent man, thoroughly honest and loyal. I’ve had him on my general staff for a couple of years now, and I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Where?”

  “What?”

  “Where have you had him?”

  “Oh, that. On my general staff. We say that, you know. Editorial general staff. I know what I’m talking about. I’d stake my life on that man and that makes my responsibility even greater.”

  Martin Beck stood thinking about something else. He was trying to imagine what Eriksson looked like. Probably a fat, bumptious little man with pig eyes and a red beard.

  “So today I’ve decided to publish our first article on the Alf Matsson case in next week’s issue. This coming Monday, without further delay. The moment has come to focus public attention on this story. I just wanted to know whether you’d found any trace of him, as I said.”

  “I think you should take your article and—”

  Martin Beck stopped himself just in time and said, “… throw it into the wastebasket.”

  “What? What did you say? I don’t understand.”

  “Read the papers in the morning,” said Martin Beck and put down the receiver.

  His appetite had vanished during the conversation. He took out his bottle and poured himself a stiff whisky. Then he sat down and thought. He was in a bad temper and had a headache, and on top of that he had been discourteous. But that was not what he was thinking about.

  Alf Matsson had come to Budapest on the twenty-second of July. He had been seen at the passport control. He had taken a taxi to the Hotel Ifjuság and stayed there for one night. Someone at the reception desk must have dealt with him. The following morning, Saturday the twenty-third, he had, again by taxi, moved to the Hotel Duna and stayed there for half an hour. At about ten o’clock in the morning he had gone out. The people at the reception desk had noticed him.

  After that, as far as was known, no one had seen or spoken to Alf Matsson. He had left one single clue behind him: the key to his hotel room, which, according to Szluka, had been found on the steps outside the police station.

  Assuming that Fröbe and Radeberger were telling the truth, he had not turned up at the meeting place in Újpest and, consequently, they had not been able either to kidnap or kill him.

  So for some unknown reason, Alf Matsson had gone up in smoke.

  The existing material was extremely thin but, nevertheless, it was all there was to work on.

  Five people, it was established, had had contact with Alf Matsson on Hungarian soil and could be regarded as witnesses.

  A passport officer, two taxi drivers and two hotel receptionists.

  If something wholly unexpected had happened to him—if, for instance, he had been attacked, kidnapped or killed in an accident or gone insane—then their testimonies were useless. But, on the other hand, if he had made himself invisible of his own free will, then those people might have observed some detail in his appearance or behavior which might be important to the investigation.

  Martin Beck had personally been in contact with two of these hypothetical witnesses. Considering the language difficulties, however, it was uncertain whether he had been able to exploit them fully. Neither the taxi drivers nor the passport official could be located, and even if he found them, he would presumably not be able to speak to them.

  The only substantial material he had to go on was Matsson’s passport and luggage. Neither told him anything.

  This was his summary of the Alf Matsson case. Extremely depressing insofar as it showed that, as far as he was concerned, the investigation had ended in complete deadlock. If, despite everything, Matsson’s disappearance was connected with the gang of smugglers—and it was difficult to believe that it was not—then Szluka would sooner or later clear the matter up. In that case, the best support he could give the Hungarian police would be to go home, bring in the Narcotics Squad and help wind up the Swedish end of the case.

  Martin Beck came to a decision and converted it immediately into action by means of two telephone calls.

  First, the well-dressed young man from the Swedish Embassy.

  “Have you managed to find him?”

  “No.”

  “Nothing new, in other words.”

  “Matsson was a narcotics smuggler. The Hungarian police are looking for him. For our part, we’ll put out a description through Interpol.”

  “How very unpleasant.”

  “Yes.”

  “And what is this going to mean for you?”

  “That I go home. Tomorrow, if it can be arranged. I’d like some help with that little matter.”

  “It may be difficult, but I’ll do my best.”

  “Yes, do that. It’s very important.”

  “I’ll phone early tomorrow morning.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Good-bye. I hope you’ve had a nice time these few days, all the same.”

  “Yes, very nice. Good-bye.”

  After that, Szluka. He was at police headquarters.

  “I’m going back to Sweden tomorrow.”

  “Oh, yes. Have a good trip.”

  “You’ll get our report eventually.”

  “And you’ll get ours. We’ve still not found Matsson.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Very. Frankly, I’ve never seen anything like it. But we’ll get him soon.”

  “Have you checked the camping sites?”

  “We’re doing that. Takes a little time. Fröbe’s tried to kill himself, by the way.”

  “And?”

  “Didn’t succeed, of course. He threw himself at the wall head first. Got a bump on his skull. I’ve had him
transferred to the psychiatric department. The doctor says he’s a manic-depressive. The question is whether we’ll have to let the girl go the same way.”

  “And Radeberger?”

  “All right. Asking whether there’s a gymnasium in the prison. There is.”

  “Could I ask you something?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “We know that Matsson had contact with five people here in Budapest from Friday evening until Saturday morning.”

  “Two hotel receptionists and two taxi drivers. Where do we get the fifth from?”

  “The passport control officer.”

  “My only excuse is that I haven’t been home for thirty-six hours. So you want him questioned?”

  “Yes. Everything he can remember. What he said, how he behaved, what he was wearing.”

  “I see.”

  “Can you get the report done in German or English and airmail it to Stockholm?”

  “Telex is better. Anyhow, perhaps there’ll be time to get it to you before you leave.”

  “Hardly. I’ll probably be going about eleven.”

  “We’re famous for our speed. The wife of the Minister of Trade had her bag snatched at Nep Stadium last autumn. She took a taxi here to report it. When she got here, she was handed back her bag at the desk downstairs. That kept us in good shape for a long time. Well, we’ll see.”

  “Thanks then. And good-bye.”

  “Good-bye. Pity there wasn’t time to meet a little more informally.”

  Martin Beck paused briefly to think. Then he set up a call to Stockholm. The call came through in ten minutes.

  “Lennart’s away,” said Kollberg’s wife. “As usual, he didn’t say where he was going. ‘Duty calls, be back on Sunday, take care of yourself.’ He took the car with him. To hell with policemen.”

  Melander next. This time it took only five minutes.

  “Hi! Did I disturb you?”

  “I’d just gone to bed.”

  Melander was famous for his memory, his ten hours’ sleep a night and a singular capacity for constantly being in the W. C.

  “Are you in on the Matsson case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Find out what he did the night before he left. In detail. How he behaved, what he said, what he was wearing.”

  “Tonight?”

  “Tomorrow will do.”

  “Uh-huh.”