by Maj Sjowall
Martin Beck put the wallet back in his pocket.
“They may have been friends and—”
She shook her head vigorously.
“Britt was very correct, very shy and, as I said, almost afraid of men. Besides, she was head over heels in love with Bertil and would never have looked at another fellow. Neither as a friend nor anything else. What’s more, I was the only person on earth she confided in, except Bertil of course. She told me everything. I’m sorry, Superintendent, but this must be a mistake.”
Opening her handbag, she took out her purse.
“I must get back to my babies. I have seventeen at the moment.”
She started poking in her purse but Martin Beck put out his hand and checked her.
“This is on the national government,” he said.
When they were standing outside the hospital gates Monika Granholm said, “It is possible they might have known each other, been childhood playmates or schoolmates and met by chance. But that’s all I can think of. Britt lived in Eslöv until she was twenty. Where did this policeman come from?”
“Hallstahammar,” Martin Beck replied. “What is this doctor’s name besides Bertil?”
“Persson.”
“And where does he live?”
“Gillerbacken 22, Bandhagen.”
He held out his hand with some hesitation and for safety’s sake kept his glove on.
“My regards to the national government and thanks for the lunch,” Monika Granholm said, and strode off briskly down the slope.
16
Gunvald Larsson’s car was parked outside Tegnérgatan 40. Martin Beck looked at his watch and pushed open the street door.
The time was twenty minutes past three, which meant that Gunvald Larsson, who was always punctual, had already been with Mrs. Assarsson for twenty minutes. By this time he had probably found out the main events of her husband’s life ever since he started school; Gunvald Larsson’s interrogation technique was to begin at the beginning and uncover everything step by step. While the method could be effective, often it was merely tiresome and wasted time.
The door of the apartment was opened by a middle-aged man wearing a dark suit with a silver-white tie. Martin Beck introduced himself and showed his official badge. The man held out his hand.
“I’m Ture Assarsson, brother of the … of the dead man. Please come in, your colleague is already here.”
He waited while Martin Beck hung up his overcoat and then led the way through a pair of tall double doors.
“Märta, my dear, this is Superintendent Beck,” he said.
The living room was large and rather dark. In a low, oat-colored sofa, which was over three yards long, sat a lean woman in a black jersey coat and skirt, with a glass in her hand. Putting the glass down on a black marble table in front of the sofa, she held out her hand with gracefully bent wrist, as though expecting him to kiss it. Martin Beck took her dangling fingers clumsily and mumbled, “My condolences, Mrs. Assarsson.”
On the other side of the marble table stood a group of three low, pink easychairs, and in one of them sat Gunvald Larsson, looking peculiar. Only when Martin Beck, after a condescending gesture from Mrs. Assarsson, sat down himself did he realize Gunvald Larsson’s problem.
As the construction of the chair really permitted only an outstretched horizontal position, and it would look odd with a reclining interrogator, Gunvald Larsson had more or less folded himself double. He was red in the face from the discomfort and glared at Martin Beck between his knees, which stuck up like two alpine peaks in front of him.
Martin Beck twisted his legs first to the left, then to the right, then he tried to cross them and wedge them under the chair, but it was too low. At last he adopted the same position as Gunvald Larsson.
Meanwhile the widow had drained her glass and held it out to her brother-in-law to be refilled. He gave her a searching look and then went and fetched a carafe and a clean glass from a sideboard.
“You’ll have a glass of sherry, won’t you, Superintendent,” he said.
And before Martin Beck had time to protest the man had filled the glass and placed it on the table in front of him.
“I was just asking Mrs. Assarsson if she knew why her husband was on that bus on Monday night,” Gunvald Larsson said.
“And I gave the same reply to you as I did to the person who had the bad taste to question me about my husband only seconds after I had been informed of his death. That I don’t know.”
She raised her glass to Martin Beck and drained it in one gulp. Martin Beck made an attempt to reach his sherry glass but missed by about a foot and fell back into the chair.
“Do you know where your husband was earlier in the evening?” he asked.
Putting down her glass, she took an orange-colored cigarette with a gold tip out of a green glass box on the table. She fumbled with the cigarette and tapped it several times on the lid of the box before allowing her brother-in-law to light it for her. Martin Beck noticed that she was not quite sober.
“Yes, I do,” she said. “He was at a meeting. We had dinner at six o’clock, then he changed and went out about seven.”
Gunvald Larsson took a piece of paper and a ball-point pen out of his breast pocket and asked, as he dug at his ear with the pen, “A meeting? Where and with whom?”
Assarsson looked at his sister-in-law and when she didn’t answer he said, “It was an organization of old school friends. They called themselves the Camels. It consisted of nine members, who had kept in touch ever since they were at the naval cadet school together. They used to meet at the home of a businessman called Sjöberg on Narvavägen.”
“The Camels?” Gunvald Larsson exclaimed incredulously.
“Yes,” Assarsson replied. “They used to greet each other by saying: ‘Hi, old camel,’ so they took to calling themselves the Camels.”
The widow looked critically at her brother-in-law.
“It’s an idealistic association,” she said. “It does a lot for charity.”
“Oh?” Gunvald Larsson said. “As for instance?”
“It’s secret,” Mrs. Assarsson replied. “Not even we wives were allowed to know. Some societies do that. Work sub rosa, so to say.”
Feeling Gunvald Larsson’s eyes on him, Martin Beck said, “Mrs. Assarsson, do you know when your husband left Narvavägen?”
“Well, I couldn’t get to sleep, so I got up about two o’clock in the morning to take a little nightcap, and when I saw that Gösta hadn’t come home I called up the Screw—that’s what they call Mr. Sjöberg—and the Screw said that Gösta had left about half-past ten.”
She stubbed out her cigarette.
“Where do you think he was going with the 47 bus?” Martin Beck asked.
Assarsson gave him an anxious look.
“He was on his way to some business acquaintance, of course. My husband was very energetic and worked very hard with his firm—that’s to say, Ture here is also part-owner, of course—and it wasn’t at all unusual for him to have business dealings at night. For instance, when people came up from the provinces and were only in Stockholm overnight and then, er …”
She seemed to lose the thread. She picked up her empty glass and twiddled it between her fingers.
Gunvald Larsson was busy writing on his scrap of paper. Martin Beck stretched one leg and massaged his knee.
“Have you any children, Mrs. Assarsson?” he asked.
Mrs. Assarsson put her glass in front of her brother-in-law to be refilled, but he immediately took it to the sideboard without looking at her. She gave him a resentful look, stood up with an effort and brushed some cigarette ash off her skirt.
“No, Superintendent Peck, I haven’t. Unfortunately my husband couldn’t give me any children.”
She stared vacantly at a point beyond Martin Beck’s left ear. He could see now that she was pretty well stewed. She blinked slowly a couple of times and then looked at him.
“Are your parents American, Superi
ntendent Peck?” she asked.
“No,” Martin Beck replied.
Gunvald Larsson was still scribbling. Martin Beck craned his neck and looked at the piece of paper. It was covered with camels.
“If Superintendents Peck and Larsson will excuse me, I must retire,” Mrs. Assarsson said, walking unsteadily toward the door.
“Good-bye, it’s been so nice,” she said vaguely, and closed the door behind her.
Gunvald Larsson put away his pen and the paper with the camels and struggled out of the chair.
“Whom did he sleep with?” he asked, without looking at Assarsson.
Assarsson glanced at the closed door.
“Eivor Olsson,” he replied. “A girl at the office.”
17
There was little to be said in favor of this repulsive Wednesday.
Not surprisingly, the evening papers had ferreted out the story of Schwerin, splashing it across the front pages and larding it with details and sarcastic gibes at the police.
The investigation was already at a deadlock. The police had smuggled away the only important witness. The police had lied to the press and the public.
If the press and the Great Detective the General Public were not given correct information, how could the police count on help?
The only thing the papers didn’t say was that Schwerin had died, but that was probably only because they had been so early going to press.
They had also managed somehow to nose out the dismal truth about the state in which the forensic laboratory technicians had found the scene of the crime.
Valuable time had been lost.
Unhappily, too, the mass murder had coincided with a raid—decided on several weeks earlier—on kiosks and tobacco shops in an attempt to confiscate pornographic literature.
One of the newspapers was kind enough to point out in a prominent place that a maniac mass-murderer was running amok in town and that the public was panic-stricken.
And, it went on, while the scent grew cold a whole army of Swedish style Keystone Cops were plodding about looking at porno pictures, scratching their heads and trying to make out the ministry of justice’s hazy instructions as to what could be considered offensive to public decency.
When Kollberg arrived at Kungsholmsgatan at about four o’clock in the afternoon, he had ice crystals in his hair and eyebrows, a grim expression on his face and the evening papers under his arm.
“If we had as many stoolies as local rags, we’d never have to lift a finger,” he said.
“It’s a question of money,” Melander said.
“I know that. Does that make it any better?”
“No,” Melander said. “But it’s as simple as that.”
He knocked out his pipe and returned to his papers.
“Have you finished talking to the psychologists?” Kollberg asked sourly.
“Yes,” Melander replied without looking up. “The compendium is being typed out.”
A new face was to be seen at investigation headquarters. One third of the promised reinforcements had arrived. Månsson from Malmö.
Månsson was almost as big as Gunvald Larsson but he showed a much more peaceable front to the world. He had driven up from Skåne during the night in his own car. Not in order to be able to collect the paltry mileage allowance for gasoline, but because he correctly considered it might be an advantage to have at his disposal a car with an M license plate from the Malmö area.
He was standing now by the window, gazing out and chewing at a toothpick.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asked.
“Yes. There are one or two we haven’t had time to interrogate yet. Here, for instance. Mrs. Ester Källström. She is the widow of one of the victims.”
“Johan Källström, the foreman?”
“Precisely. Karlbergsvägen 89.”
“Where’s Karlbergsvägen?”
“There’s a map on the wall over there,” Kollberg said wearily.
Månsson laid the chewed toothpick in Melander’s ashtray, took a new one out of his breast pocket and looked at it apathetically. He studied the map for a while, then put on his overcoat. In the doorway he turned and looked at Kollberg.
“Say …”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Do you know of any shop where you can buy flavored toothpicks?”
“No, I really don’t.”
“Oh,” Månsson said dejectedly.
Then he added informatively, “I’m told they do exist. I’m trying to give up smoking.”
When the door had closed behind him Kollberg looked at Melander and said, “I’ve only met that guy once before. In Malmö in the summer of last year. And he said exactly the same thing then.”
“About the toothpicks?”
“Yes.”
“Extraordinary.”
“What?”
“Not being able to find out about them after more than a year.”
“Oh, you’re hopeless,” Kollberg exclaimed.
“Are you in a bad mood?”
“What the hell do you expect?” Kollberg snapped.
“There’s no point in losing your temper. It only makes things worse.”
“I like that, coming from you. You haven’t any temper to lose.”
Melander didn’t reply to this, and the conversation came to an end.
Despite all statements to the contrary, the Great Detective the General Public was hard at work during the afternoon.
Several hundred people called up or looked in personally to say they thought they had ridden on that very bus.
All these statements had to be ground through the investigation mill and for once this tedious work turned out to be not entirely wasted.
A man who had boarded a doubledecker bus at Djurgårdsbron about ten o’clock on Monday evening said he was willing to swear that he had seen Stenström. He said this on the telephone and he was passed along to Melander, who immediately asked him to come up.
The man was about fifty. He seemed quite sure.
“So you saw Detective Inspector Stenström?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“When I got on at Djurgårdsbron. He was sitting on the left near the stairs behind the driver.”
Melander nodded to himself. No details had as yet leaked out to the press about how the victims had been sitting in relation to each other.
“Are you sure it was Stenström?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I recognized him. I’ve been a night watchman.”
“Yes,” Melander said. “A couple of years ago you sat in the vestibule of the old police headquarters on Agnegatan. I remember you.”
“Why, so I did,” the man said in astonishment. “But I don’t recognize you.”
“I only saw you twice,” Melander replied. “And we didn’t speak to each other.”
“But I remember Stenström very well, because …”
He hesitated.
“Yes?” Melander prompted in a friendly tone. “Because …?”
“Well, he looked so young, and he was wearing jeans and a sportshirt, so I thought he didn’t belong there. I asked him to prove his identity. And …”
“Yes?”
“About a week later I made the same mistake. Very annoying.”
“Oh, well, it easily happens. When you saw him the night before last, did he recognize you?”
“No, definitely not.”
“Was anyone sitting beside him?”
“No, the seat was empty. I remember particularly, because I thought I’d say hello to him and sit there. But then I felt sort of awkward.”
“Pity,” Melander said. “And you got off at Sergels torg?”
“Yes, I changed to the subway.”
“Was Stenström still there?”
“I think so. I hadn’t seen him get off at any rate. Though of course I was sitting upstairs.”
“Would you like a cup of coffee?”
“Would you be good enough to look at some pictures?” Melander asked. “But I’m afraid they’re not very pleasant.”
“No, I suppose not,” the man mumbled.
He looked through the pictures, turning pale and swallowing once or twice. But the only person he recognized was Stenström.
Not long afterward Martin Beck, Gunvald Larsson and Rönn arrived practically at the same time.
“What?” said Kollberg. “Has Schwerin …?”
“Yes,” Rönn said. “He’s dead.”
“And?”
“He said something.”
“What?”
“Don’t know,” Rönn replied, placing the tape recorder on the desk.
They stood around the desk listening.
“Who did the shooting?”
“Dnrk.”
“What did he look like?”
“Koleson.”
“Is that really all you can get out of this questioning?”
“Now listen to me, my good man, this is Detective Inspector Ullholm speaking—”
“He’s dead.”
“Jesus Christ,” Gunvald Larsson exclaimed. “The very sound of that voice makes me want to throw up. He once reported me for breach of duty.”
“What had you done?” Rönn asked.
“Said ‘cunt’ in the guardroom at Klara police station. A couple of the boys came in dragging a naked whore. She was loaded to the gills and was howling and had torn all her clothes off in the car. I tried to make them see that they should at least cover up her—well, wrap a blanket around her or something before carting her off to headquarters. Ullholm made out that I had caused mental injury to a girl who was not yet of age by using coarse and offensive language. He was the officer on duty. Then he applied for a transfer to Solna, to get closer to nature.”
“Nature?”
“Yes, his wife, I presume.”
Martin Beck played back the tape.
“Who did the shooting?”
“Dnrk.”
“What did he look like?”
“Koleson.”
“Are the questions your own idea?” Gunvald Larsson asked.
“Yes,” Rönn replied modestly.
“Fantastic.”