by Maj Sjowall
The man threw an appealing look at Martin Beck and said, “Everything went so easily, as if of its own accord. I put on the glasses, but the coat was too small. I carried it over my arm and went through the passport control. I don’t remember much about the trip, but everything seemed just as simple.”
“How had you planned to get away from there?”
“I just knew that it would work out somehow. I thought that the best way would be to take the train to the Austrian border and try to get over illegally. I had my own passport in my pocket and could return home from Vienna on that. I’d been there before, so I knew they didn’t stamp the date of exit in your passport. But I was lucky again. I thought.”
Martin Beck nodded.
“There was a shortage of rooms there and Alfie had been booked into two different hotels, just the first night at the one. I don’t remember what it was called.”
“The Ifjuság.”
“Yes, maybe. Anyhow, I arrived there at the same time as a party of people speaking French. I gathered that they had come earlier the same day. They looked like students—several of the fellows had beards. When I turned in Alfie’s—Matsson’s passport, the porter was just sorting other passports into the pigeonholes. People who had already registered. I stayed on a moment in the vestibule and then when the porter stepped away for a minute, I got the chance to take one of those passports. I only had to look at three of them before I found one I thought was suitable—it was Belgian. The fellow was named Roederer or something like that. Anyway, the name reminded me of some kind of champagne.
Martin Beck looked carefully at his watch.
“And the next morning?”
“Then I was given back Alfie’s—Matsson’s passport and went to the other hotel. It was large and grand. The Duna, it was called. I handed in the passport, still Alfie’s, at the reception desk and put his bag up in the room. I didn’t stay longer than half an hour. Then I left. I’d got hold of a map and made my way to the railway station. On the way, I discovered I still had the room key in my pocket. It was large and a nuisance, so I threw it down outside a police station as I was walking past. I thought it was a good idea.”
“Not especially,” said Kollberg.
Gunnarsson smiled faintly.
“I managed to catch the express to Vienna and it took only four hours. First I took off Alfie’s glasses, of course, and rolled up the coat. At that point I used the Belgian passport and that worked just as well. The train was very crowded and the passport officer was in a hurry. It was a girl, by the way. In Vienna, I took a taxi from the Eastern Railway Station directly to the airport and got on the afternoon plane to Stockholm.”
“What did you do with Roeder’s passport?” said Martin Beck.
“Tore it up and flushed the pieces down a toilet at the Eastern Railway Station. The glasses too. I smashed the glass and broke up the frames.”
“And his coat?”
“I hung that up on a hook in the cafeteria on the station.”
“And by the evening you were back here again?”
“Yes, I went up to the office then and handed in two articles I’d written earlier.”
It was silent in the room. Finally Martin Beck said, “Did you try the bed?”
“Where?”
“At the Duna?”
“Yes. It creaked.”
Gunnarsson looked down at his hands again. Then he said quietly, “I was in a very difficult situation. Not only for myself.”
He looked quickly at the photograph.
“If nothing untoward had happened, I would have got married on Sunday. And …”
“Yes?”
“Actually it was an accident. Can you understand …”
“Yes,” said Martin Beck.
Kollberg had hardly moved during the last hour. Now he suddenly shrugged his shoulders and said irritably, “O.K. Come on, let’s go.”
The man who had killed Alf Matsson suddenly sagged.
“Yes, of course,” he said thickly. “I’m sorry.”
He rose quickly and went out to the bathroom. Neither of the other two men moved, but Martin Beck looked unhappily at the closed door. Kollberg followed his look and said, “There’s nothing in there he can hurt himself with. I’ve even taken away the toothbrush glass.”
“There was a box of sleeping pills on the night table. Twenty-five in it, at least.”
Kollberg went into the bedroom and came back.
“It’s gone,” he said.
He looked at the bathroom door.
“Shall we—”
“No,” said Martin Beck. “We’ll wait.”
They did not need to wait more than thirty seconds. Åke Gunnarsson came out unbidden. He smiled weakly and said, “Can we go now?”
No one answered him. Kollberg went into the bathroom, got up on the toilet, lifted the lid of the tank, thrust his hand down and pulled out the empty pillbox. He read the label on it as he walked back into the study.
“Vesperax,” he said. “A dangerous sort.”
Then he looked at Gunnarsson and said in a troubled voice, “That was rather unnecessary, wasn’t it? Now we’ve got to take you to the hospital. They’ll put a bib on you which reaches all the way down to your feet and then they stick a rubber tube down your throat. Tomorrow you won’t be able to eat or talk.”
Martin Beck phoned for a radio car.
They walked swiftly down the stairs, all driven by the same wish to get away quickly.
The radio car was already there.
“Stomach-pump case,” said Kollberg. “It’s quite urgent. We’ll follow you.”
When Gunnarsson was already seated in the car, Kollberg seemed to remember something. He held the door open for a moment and said, “When you went from the hotel to the train, did you go to the wrong station at first?”
The man who had killed Alf Matsson looked at him with eyes that had already begun to look glazed and unnatural.
“Yes. How did you know that?”
Kollberg shut the door. The car drove away. The policeman at the wheel switched on the siren at the first corner.
Policemen in gray overalls were moving carefully among heaps of ash and charred beams on the site of the burnt-out house. A small group of Sunday walkers with baby carriages and pastry cartons had gathered outside the roped-off area and were staring inquisitively. It was already past four o’clock.
As soon as Martin Beck and Kollberg got out of the car, Stenström detached himself from a group of policemen and came over to them.
“You were right,” he said. “He’s in there, but there isn’t much left of him.”
An hour later they were again on their way into the city. As they passed the old city limit Kollberg said, “In a week the firm that is building there would have driven over it all with a bulldozer.”
Martin Beck nodded.
“He did his best,” said Kollberg philosophically. “And it wasn’t that bad. If he’d known a little more about Matsson, and gone to the trouble of looking to see what was in the bag, and left the plane in Copenhagen instead of taking the risk of rubbing things out in his passport …”
He left the sentence unfinished. Martin Beck looked at him sideways.
“Then what? Do you mean he might have got away with it?”
“No,” said Kollberg. “Of course not.”
Despite the debatable summer weather, there were crowds of people at Vanadis Baths. As they passed it, Kollberg cleared his throat and said, “I don’t see why you should go on with this any longer. Why, you’re supposed to be on holiday.”
Martin Beck looked at his watch. He would not have time to get out to the island today.
“You can drop me at Odengatan,” he said.
Kollberg stopped in front of a movie theater on the corner.
“G’by, then,” he said.
“Bye.”
They did not even shake hands. Martin Beck stood on the pavement watching the car drive away. Then he walked diagonally acro
ss the street, around the corner and into a restaurant there, the Metropole. The lighting in the bar was subdued and pleasant and at one of the corner tables a low-keyed conversation was going on.
He sat down at the bar.
“Whisky,” he said.
The barman was a large man with calm eyes, swift movements and a snow-white jacket.
“Icewater?”
“Yes, why not?”
“Right,” said the barman. “Great. Double whisky with ice-water. Can’t be beat.”
Martin Beck stayed on the bar stool for four hours. He did not speak again, but now and again pointed at his glass. The man in the white jacket did not say anything either. It was better that way.
Martin Beck looked at his own face in the smoky mirror behind the row of bottles. When the image began to blur, he called for a taxi and went home. He began to undress while he was still in the hall.
30
Martin Beck woke up with a start from a deep and dreamless sleep. The blanket and sheet had fallen to the floor and he was cold. When he got up to shut the balcony door, he saw stars before his eyes. His head thumped and his mouth felt stiff and dry. He went out into the bathroom and with difficulty swallowed two anodyne tablets, which he rinsed down with a tumbler of water. Then he went back to bed, pulled the sheet and blanket over him and tried to go back to sleep. After a couple hours half-sleep filled with nightmares, he got up and stood under the shower for a long time before dressing slowly. Then he went out onto the balcony and stood there with his elbows on the balcony rail, his chin in his hands.
The sky was high and clear and the cool morning air held an omen of autumn. For a while, he watched a fat dachshund leisurely making its way through the tree trunks in the little green arc outside the building. It was called a grove, but hardly lived up to its name. The ground between the evergreens was covered with pine needles and trash, and the little grass that had been there in the early summer had long since been trampled away.
Martin Beck went back into the bedroom and made his bed. Then he walked restlessly through the rooms for a while, putting a few trifles and books into his briefcase before leaving the flat.
He took the subway to the quay. The boat was not due to leave for an hour, so he strolled slowly along the quay toward the bridge. His boat was in and the gangway down: a couple of the crew were piling boxes on the foredeck. Martin Beck did not go on board but continued walking and then stopped for a cup of tea, which immediately made him feel even worse.
A quarter of an hour before the time of departure, he boarded the island boat, which had now got up steam and was belching white smoke out of its funnel. He went up on deck and sat in the same place he had sat when he had begun his holiday, scarcely two weeks ago. Now nothing would stop him completing it, he thought, but he no longer felt any pleasure or enthusiasm at the thought of his holiday or the island.
The engine thumped, the boat backed out, the whistle sounded out and Martin Beck leaned over the railing, staring down into the foaming whirlpools of water. The sense of a summer holiday was gone and he felt nothing but misery.
After a while, he went into the saloon and drank a mineral water. When he came out on deck again, his place had been taken by a fat, red-faced gentleman in a sportsuit and a beret. Before Martin Beck had time to retreat, the fat man introduced himself and let loose a gushing stream of words on the beauty of the archipelago, which he knew intimately. Martin Beck listened apathetically while the man pointed out the islands they passed and gave their names. Finally managing to break off the one-sided conversation, Martin Beck fled to the aft saloon.
For the rest of the journey he lay in the half-light on one of the hard, plush-upholstered benches, looking at the dust swirling in the shaft of greenish light from the scuttle.
Nygren was sitting waiting in his motorboat at the steamer jetty. As they approached the island, he switched off the motor and let the boat glide past the little jetty so that Martin could jump ashore. Then he switched on the motor again, waved his hand and vanished around the point.
Martin Beck walked up to the cottage. His wife was lying in the lee behind the house, sunbathing naked on a blanket.
“Hi.”
“Hi, I didn’t hear you coming.”
“Where are the kids?”
“Out with the boat.”
“Oh.”
“How was Budapest?”
“Very beautiful. Didn’t you get the postcard I sent?”
“No.”
“It’ll come later, I suppose.”
He went on into the cottage, drank a scoop of water and stood still, staring at the wall. He thought of the fair-haired woman with the chain necklace and wondered whether she had stood for a long time ringing the bell without anyone coming to open the door. Or whether she had come so late that the apartment had already been crawling with policemen with tweezers and cans of powder.
He heard his wife coming into the room.
“How are you, really?”
“Not well,” said Martin Beck.
Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö
Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö, her husband and coauthor, wrote ten Martin Beck mysteries. Mr Wahlöö, who died in 1975, was a reporter for several Swedish newspapers and magazines and wrote numerous radio and television plays, film scripts, short stories, and novels. Maj Sjöwall is also a poet.
Books by MAJ SJÖWALL and PER WAHLÖÖ
Roseanna
The Man Who Went Up in Smoke
The Man on the Balcony
The Laughing Policeman
The Fire Engine That Disappeared
Murder at the Savoy
The Abominable Man
Cop Killer
The Terrorists
ALSO BY MAJ SJÖWALL AND PER WAHLÖÖ
ROSEANNA
On a July afternoon, a young woman’s body is dredged from Sweden’s beautiful Lake Vättern. With no clues, Beck begins an investigation not only to uncover a murderer but also to discover who the victim was. Three months later, all Beck knows is that her name was Roseanna and that she could have been strangled by any one of eighty-five people on a cruise. As the melancholic Beck narrows the list of suspects, he is drawn increasingly to the enigma of the victim, a free-spirited traveler with a penchant for casual sex, and to the psychopathology of a murderer with a distinctive—indeed, terrifying—sense of propriety.
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39046-2
THE MAN WHO WENT UP IN SMOKE
Inspector Martin Beck of the Stockholm Homicide Squad has his vacation abruptly terminated when the top brass at the foreign office pack him off to Budapest to search for Alf Matsson, who has vanished. Beck investigates viperous Eastern European underworld figures and—at the risk of his life—stumbles upon the international racket in which Matsson was involved. With the coolly efficient local police on his side and a predatory nymphet on his tail, Beck pursues a case whose international implications grow with each new clue.
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39048-6
THE MAN ON THE BALCONY
In the once peaceful parks of Stockholm, a killer is stalking young girls and disposing of their bodies. The city is on edge, and an undercurrent of fear has gripped its residents. Martin Beck, now a superintendent, has two possible witnesses: a silent, stone-cold mugger and a mute three-year-old boy. With the likelihood of another murder growing as each day passes, the police force works night and day. But their efforts have offered little insight into the methodology of the killer. Then a distant memory resurfaces in Beck’s mind, and he may just have the break he needs.
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39047-9
THE LAUGHING POLICEMAN
On a cold and rainy Stockholm night, nine bus riders are gunned down by a mysterious assassin. The press portrays it as a freak attack and dubs the killer a madman. But Superintendent Martin Beck thinks otherwise—one of his most ambitious young detectives was among those killed—and he suspects it was more than coincidence. Beck seeks out the girlfriend of the murd
ered detective, and with her help Beck reconstructs the steps that led to his murder. The police comb the country for the killer, only to find that this attack may be connected to a much older cold-case murder.
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39050-9
THE FIRE ENGINE THAT DISAPPEARED
The cunning incendiary device that blew the roof off a Stockholm apartment building not only interrupted the small, peaceful orgy underway inside, it nearly took the lives of the eleven occupants. And if one of Martin Beck’s colleagues hadn’t been on the scene, the explosion would have led to a major catastrophe since—for reasons nobody could satisfactorily explain—a regulation fire truck has vanished. Was it terrorism, suicide, or simply a gas leak? And what, if anything, did the explosion have to do with the peculiar death earlier that day of a forty-six-year-old bachelor whose cryptic suicide note consisted of only two words: “Martin Beck”?
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39092-9
MURDER AT THE SAVOY
When Viktor Palmgren, a powerful Swedish industrialist, is shot during his after-dinner speech in the luxurious Hotel Savoy, it sends a shiver down the spine of the international money markets and terrifies the tiny town of Malmö. No one in the restaurant can identify the gunman, and local police are sheepishly baffled. That’s when Beck takes over the scene and quickly picks through Palmgren’s background. What he finds is a web of vice so despicable that it’s hard for him to imagine who wouldn’t want Palmgren dead, but that doesn’t stop him and his team of dedicated detectives from tackling one of their most intriguing cases yet.
Crime Fiction/978-0-307-39091-2
THE ABOMINABLE MAN
The gruesome murder of a police captain in his hospital room reveals the unsavory history of a man who spent forty years practicing a horrible blend of strong-arm police work and sheer brutality. Beck and his colleagues comb Stockholm for the murderer, a demented and deadly rifleman, who has plans for even more chaos. As the tension builds and a feeling of imminent danger grips Beck, his investigation unearths evidence of police corruption. That’s when an even stronger sense of responsibility and something like shame urge him into taking a series of drastic steps, which lead to a shocking disaster.