The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

by Maj Sjowall

  “How did he behave?”

  “I didn’t make a note of that. But Kristiansson said—here, just a second—that his walk was unsteady and his voice was calm but occasionally slurred.”

  Martin Beck gave up. Kollberg was more obstinate.

  “What did he look like?”

  “I didn’t make any kind of note on that. But I remember that his apparel was neat and tidy.”

  “What happened when he was stabbed?”

  “It can be said that it is difficult to get a clear picture of the actual course of events. Their stories differ. If I remember rightly—yes, that’s right—Matsson stated that the injury was inflicted upon him at about midnight. On the other hand, Jönsson stated that the incident did not occur until after one o’clock. It was very difficult to get this point cleared up.”

  “Had he been assaulted?”

  “I have Jönsson’s statement here. Bengt Eilert Jönsson states that he and Matsson, whom he met through his profession, had been acquaintances for almost three years, and on the morning of January 5 he happened to meet Matsson, who was staying at the Savoy Hotel and was alone, so Jönsson invited him home to dinner, to commence at—”

  “Yes, but what did he say about the assault itself?”

  Backlund now began to appear a trifle irritated. He turned over a few more pages.

  “Jönsson denies intentional assault, but admits that at one fifteen he gave Matsson a shove, at which the latter may have fallen over and cut himself on a glass which he had been holding in his hand.”

  “But had he been stabbed?”

  “Well, that question is dealt with in an earlier section. I’ll have a look. Here it is. Matsson states that some time before eleven P.M. he had a scuffle with Bengt Jönsson and thus, probably from a knife he had previously seen in Jönsson’s home, he received an injury to his left arm. You can see for yourselves. Just before eleven P.M.! A quarter past one! A difference of two hours and twenty minutes! We also received a certificate from the doctor at the General Hospital. He describes the injury as a two-inch flesh wound, which was bleeding freely. The edges of the wound—”

  Kollberg leaned forward and stared hard at the man with the report.

  “We’re not so interested in all that. What do you think yourself? Something happened, anyway. Why? And how did it come about?”

  The other man could now conceal his irritation no longer. He removed his glasses and cleaned them feverishly.

  “Oh now, please—please,” he said. “ ‘Happened.’ Hm-mph. Everything is examined thoroughly here in these preliminary investigations. If I can’t present an account of it all, then I don’t see how I can clearly explain the case for you. You can go through the material for yourselves if you like.”

  He put the report down on the edge of the desk. Martin Beck leafed through it listlessly and looked at the photographs of the scene of the crime attached at the back. The photos showed a kitchen, a living room and some stone stairs. Everything was clean and tidy. On the stairs there were a few dark spots, hardly bigger than a one-öre piece. If they had not been marked with white arrows, they would have been scarcely visible. He handed the document over to Kollberg, drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and said, “Was Matsson questioned here?”

  “Yes, here in this room.”

  “You must have talked for a long time.”

  “Yes, he had to give a detailed statement.”

  “What sort of impression did he make—as a person, I mean?”

  Backlund was now so irritated that he could not sit still. He kept moving the objects on the bare varnished surface of his desk and putting them back in exactly the same places.

  “Impression!” he said. “Everything is covered thoroughly in the preliminary investigation. I’ve already told you that. Anyhow, the incident occurred on private property and when it came down to it, Matsson did not wish to bring a charge. I cannot understand what it is you want to know.”

  Kollberg put down the report without even having opened it. Then he made one last attempt.

  “We want to know your personal opinion of Alf Matsson.”

  “I haven’t got one,” said the man.

  When they left him, he was sitting at his desk reading the report of the preliminary investigation, his expression stiff and disapproving.

  “Some people,” said Kollberg in the elevator.

  24

  Bengt Jönsson’s house was a rather small bungalow with an open veranda and a garden. The gate was open and on the gravel path inside was a blond, suntanned man, poised on his haunches in front of a tricycle. His hands were covered with grease and he was trying to repair the chain, which had come off. A boy of about five was standing watching him, a wrench in his hand.

  When Kollberg and Martin Beck came through the gate, the man rose and wiped his hands on the back of his trousers. He was about thirty and wearing a checked shirt, dirty khaki trousers and wooden-soled shoes.

  “Bengt Jönsson?” said Kollberg.

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  The man looked at them suspiciously.

  “We’re from the Stockholm police,” said Martin Beck. “We’ve come to ask for some information about a friend of yours—Alf Matsson.”

  “Friend,” said the man. “I’d hardly call him that. Is it about what happened last winter? I thought that was all dead and buried a long time ago.”

  “Yes, it is. The case is closed and won’t be taken up again. It’s not your part in the affair we’re interested in, but Alf Matsson’s,” said Martin Beck.

  “I saw in the papers that he’s disappeared,” said Bengt Jönsson. “He was in on some kind of narcotics ring, it said. I didn’t know he used drugs.”

  “Perhaps he didn’t, either. He sold them.”

  “Oh, Christ,” said Bengt Jönsson. “What sort of information do you want? I don’t know anything about that drug business.”

  “You can help us get a general picture of him,” said Martin Beck.

  “What do you want to know?” asked the fair-haired man.

  “Everything you know about Alf Matsson,” said Kollberg.

  “That’s not much,” said Jönsson. “I hardly knew him, although we’d been acquainted for three years. I’d only met him a few times before that time last winter. I’m a journalist too, and we met when we were on a job together.”

  “Would you tell us what really happened last winter?” said Martin Beck.

  “We might as well sit down,” said Jönsson, going up onto the veranda. Martin Beck and Kollberg followed him. There were a table and four basket chairs, and Martin Beck sat down and offered Jönsson a cigarette. Kollberg looked at his chair suspiciously before cautiously sitting down in it. The chair creaked precariously beneath his weight.

  “You’ll understand that what you tell us is of no interest to us except as a testimony on Alf Matsson’s character. Neither we nor the Malmö police have any reason to take up the case again,” said Martin Beck. “What happened?”

  “I met Alf Matsson by chance in the street. He was staying at a hotel in Malmö and I invited him home to dinner. I didn’t really like him much, but he was on his own in town and wanted me to go out drinking with him, so I thought it’d be better if he came out to our place. He came in a taxi and I think he was sober then. Almost, anyhow. Then we ate and I offered him schnapps with the food and both of us drank quite a bit. After the meal we listened to records and drank whisky and sat talking. He got drunk pretty quickly and then he was unpleasant. My wife had a friend in at the same time and suddenly Alfie said to her, “Say, d’you mind if I fuck you?”

  Bengt Jönsson fell silent, and Martin Beck nodded and said, “Go on.”

  “Well, that’s what he said. My wife’s friend was very upset, because she’s not at all used to being spoken to like that. And my wife got angry and told Alfie he was a boor, and then he called my wife a whore and was damned rude. Then I got angry and told him to watch his mouth and the girls went into another roo
m.”

  He fell silent again and Kollberg asked, “Was he usually unpleasant like that when he was drunk?”

  “I don’t know. I’d never seen him drunk before.”

  “What happened then?” said Martin Beck.

  “Well, then we went on drinking. I didn’t drink all that much myself, in fact, and didn’t feel high at all. But Alfie got drunker and drunker, sitting there, hiccuping and belching and singing, and then suddenly he vomited all over the floor. I got him out to the bathroom and after a while he was all right again and appeared a bit more sober. When I said we should try to wipe up the mess, he said, ‘That whore you’re married to can do that.’ That made me really mad and I told him he’d have to go, that I didn’t want him in the house. But he just laughed and sat belching in the chair. When I said I was going to phone for a taxi for him, he said he was going to stay and sleep with my wife. Then I hit him and when he got up and said something dirty about my wife again, I hit him one more time so that he fell over the table and broke two glasses. Then I went on trying to get him out of the house, but he refused to go. Finally my wife called the police—it seemed the only way to get rid of him.”

  “He injured his hand, I understand,” said Kollberg. “How did that happen?”

  “I saw he was bleeding, but I didn’t think it was serious. I was so angry, anyway, I didn’t care. He cut himself on a glass when he fell. Then he claimed I’d stabbed him, which was a lie. I didn’t have a knife. Then I was questioned at the police station for the rest of the night. A hellish business all around.”

  “Have you met Alf Matsson since that night?” said Kollberg.

  “Oh, good God, no. Not since that morning at the police station. He was sitting in the corridor when I came out from seeing that cop—sorry, policeman—who was questioning me. And then that bastard had the nerve to say, “Hey, you’ve got a bit left. Let’s go back to your place and finish it off later.” I didn’t even answer and thank God, I haven’t seen him since.”

  Bengt Jönsson rose and went down to the boy, who was standing hitting the tricycle with the wrench. He crouched down and went on working on the chain.

  “I’ve nothing else to tell you about it all. That was exactly what happened,” he said over his shoulder.

  Martin Beck and Kollberg got up, and he nodded to them as they went out through the gate.

  On the way into Malmö, Kollberg said, “Nice guy, our friend Matsson. I don’t think humanity has suffered any great loss if something really has happened to him. If so, then it’s only your holiday that suffered.”

  25

  Kollberg was staying at the St. Jörgen Hotel on Gustav Adolf’s Square, so after they had picked up Martin Beck’s suitcase at the police station, they went there. The hotel was full, but Kollberg used his powers of persuasion and it was not long before he had arranged for a room.

  Martin Beck did not bother to unpack his suitcase. He considered phoning his wife out on the island, but realized that it was too late. She would hardly be pleased at having to row across the sound in the dark in order to hear him tell her that he did not know when he could get there.

  He undressed and went into the bathroom. As he stood under the shower, he heard Kollberg’s characteristic thumping on the door to the corridor. As he had forgotten to take the key out from the outside, a second or two elapsed before Kollberg rushed into the room, calling out to him.

  Martin Beck turned off the shower, swept a bath towel around himself and went out to Kollberg.

  “A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me,” said Kollberg. “It’s five days since the opening of the crayfish season and you probably haven’t had a single one. Or do they have crayfish in Hungary?”

  “Not so far as I know,” said Martin Beck. “I didn’t see any.”

  “Get yourself dressed. I’ve ordered a table.”

  The dining room was crowded, but a corner table had been reserved for them and laid for a crayfish dinner. On each of their plates lay a paper hat and a bib, and each of the bibs had a verse printed in red across it. They sat down and Martin Beck looked dismally at his hat, made of blue crepe paper, with a shiny paper visor and POLICE in gold letters above the visor.

  The crayfish were delicious, and the men did not talk much as they ate. When they had finished them, Kollberg was still hungry—an almost permanent state of affairs—so he ordered a steak fillet. While they waited for it, he said:

  “There were four guys and a broad together with him that night before he left. I made a list for you. It’s up in my room.”

  “Good,” said Martin Beck. “Was it difficult?”

  “Not especially. I got some help from Melander.”

  “Melander, yes. What’s the time?”

  “Half past nine.”

  Martin Beck got up and left Kollberg alone with his steak.

  Of course, Melander had already gone to bed and Martin Beck waited patiently through several rings before the telephone was answered.

  “Were you asleep in bed?”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t matter. Are you back?”

  “In Malmö. How did things go with Alf Matsson?”

  “I found out what you asked me to. Do you want to know now?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Wait a moment.”

  Melander went away, but returned very shortly.

  “I wrote a report, but it’s still at the office. Perhaps I can tell you from memory,” he said.

  “I’m sure you can,” said Martin Beck.

  “It deals with Thursday, the twenty-first of July. In the morning Alf Matsson first went up to the magazine, where he picked up his tickets from the office and four hundred kronor from the cash desk. Then he left almost at once and collected his passport and visa from the Hungarian Embassy. After that, he went back to Fleminggatan and, I imagine, packed his suitcase. Anyhow, he changed clothes. In the morning he had been wearing gray trousers, a gray jersey sweater, a blue machine-knit blazer with no lapels and beige suede shoes. In the afternoon and evening, he was wearing a lead-gray suit of thin flannel, a white shirt, black knit tie, black shoes and a gray-beige poplin coat.”

  It was warm in the phone booth. Martin Beck had got a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling down some notes as Melander was talking.

  “Yes, go on,” he said.

  “At quarter past twelve, he took a taxi from Fleminggatan to the Tankard, where he had lunch with Sven-Erik Molin, Per Kronkvist and Pia Bolt. Her name’s Ingrid, but she’s called Pia. He drank several steins of beer during and after the meal. At three o’clock, Pia Bolt left and the three men stayed on. About an hour later that is, about four o’clock—Stig Lund and Åke Gunnarsson came in and sat down at their table. They went over to drinking whisky then. Alf Matsson drank whisky and water. The conversation at the table was shop talk, but the waitress remembers that Alf Matsson said he was going away. Where to, she didn’t hear.”

  “Was he drunk?” said Martin Beck.

  “Must have been a little, but not noticeably. Not then. Can you hang on a moment?”

  Melander went away again and Martin Beck opened the door of the telephone booth wide to let in a little air while he waited. Then Melander came back.

  “Just getting my dressing gown on. Where was I? Yes, of course, at the Tankard. At six o’clock, they left—that’s Kronkvist, Lund, Gunnarsson, Molin and Matsson—and took a taxi to the Golden Peace and had dinner and drinks. The conversation was mostly about various mutual acquaintances and liquor and girls. Alf Matsson was beginning to get very high and made loud comments about female guests there. Among other things, he’s said to have shouted to a middle-aged woman artist, who was sitting at the other side of the room, something like, “Stunning pair of tits you’ve got there. Can I rest my head on them?” At half past nine they all moved on to the Opera House bar by taxi. There, they went on drinking whisky. Alf Matsson was drinking whisky and soda. Pia Bolt, who was already at the Opera House bar, joined Matsson and the other
four men. At about midnight, Kronkvist and Lund left the restaurant, and shortly before one, Pia Bolt left with Molin. They were all drunk. Matsson and Gunnarsson stayed until the place closed and they were both very drunk. Matsson could not walk straight and accosted several women. I haven’t managed to find out what happened after that, but presume he went home in a taxi.”

  “Didn’t anyone notice when he left?”

  “No, no one I talked to. Most of the guests leaving at that time were more or less drunk, and the staff were in a hurry to get home.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Martin Beck. “Will you do me another favor? Go up to Matsson’s flat early tomorrow morning and see if you can find that lead-gray suit he was wearing that evening.”

  “Didn’t you go there?” said Melander. “Before you went to Hungary?”

  “Yes,” said Martin Beck, “but I haven’t got the memory of an elephant, like you. Go to bed and sleep now. I’ll phone you tomorrow morning.”

  He returned to Kollberg, who had already polished off the steak and a dessert which had left sticky pink traces behind it on the plate in front of him.

  “Had he found anything?”

  “I don’t know,” said Martin Beck. “Perhaps.”

  They had coffee and Martin Beck told Kollberg about Budapest and Szluka and about Ari Boeck and her German friends. Then they took the elevator up and Martin Beck fetched Kollberg’s typed report before going to bed.

  He undressed, switched on the bed lamp and turned out the overhead light. Then he got into bed and began to read.

  Ingrid (Pia) Bolt, born 1939 in Norrköping, unmarried, secretary, own flat at Strindbergsgatan 51.

  Is included in the same gang as Matsson, but doesn’t like M. much and has probably never had relations with him. Has gone around with Stig Lund for a year until quite recently. Nowadays seems to go around with Molin. Secretary at a fashion firm, Studio 45.

  Per Kronkvist, born 1936 in Luleå, divorced, reporter on evening paper. Shares a flat with Lund, Sveavägen 88.

  One of the gang, but no great friend of Matsson’s. Divorced in 1936 in Luleå, since then a resident in Stockholm. Drinks quite a bit, nervous and restless. Appears stupid, but a nice guy. Found guilty of drunken driving in May 1965.