The Laughing Policeman

by Maj Sjowall

  “Yes,” the young man mumbled, staring at Kollberg’s feet.

  “Good,” Kollberg said, turning his back on him.

  The young man slunk out of the door, closing it silently behind him.

  “Who was that?” Gunvald Larsson asked.

  Kollberg shrugged.

  “Reminded me of Stenström actually,” Gunvald Larsson said.

  Melander put down his pipe, opened the envelope and drew out some typewritten sheets bound in green covers. The booklet was about half an inch thick.

  “What’s that?” Martin Beck asked.

  Melander glanced through it.

  “The psychologists’ compendium,” he replied. “I’ve had it bound.”

  “A-ha,” Gunvald Larsson said. “And what brilliant theories have they come up with? That our poor mass murderer was once put off a bus during puberty because he couldn’t pay his fare and that this experience left such deep scars in his sensitive ment—”

  Martin Beck cut him short.

  “That is not amusing, Gunvald,” he snapped.

  Kollberg gave him a surprised glance and turned to Melander, “Well, Fredrik, what have you got out of that little opus?”

  Melander scratched at his pipe and emptied it onto a piece of paper, which he then folded up and threw into the waste-paper basket.

  “We have no Swedish precedents,” he said. “Unless we go back as far as the Nordlund massacre on the steamer Prins Carl. So they’ve had to base their research on American surveys that have been made during the last few decades.”

  He blew at his pipe to see if it was clear and then started to fill it as he went on. “Unlike us, the American psychologists have no lack of material to work on. The compendium here mentions the Boston strangler; Speck, who murdered eight nurses in Chicago; Whitman, who killed sixteen persons from a tower and wounded many more; Unruh, who rushed out onto a street in New Jersey and shot thirteen people dead in twelve minutes, and one or two more whom you’ve probably read about before.”

  He riffled through the compendium.

  “Mass murders seem to be an American specialty,” Gunvald Larsson said.

  “Yes,” Melander agreed. “And the compendium gives some plausible theories as to why it is so.”

  “The glorification of violence,” said Kollberg. “The career-centered society. The sale of firearms by mail order. The ruthless war in Vietnam.”

  Melander sucked at his pipe to get it burning and nodded.

  “Among other things,” he said.

  “I read somewhere that out of every thousand Americans, one or two are potential mass murderers,” Kollberg said. “Though don’t ask me how they arrived at that conclusion.”

  “Market research,” Gunvald Larsson said. “It’s another American specialty. They go around from house to house asking people if they could imagine themselves committing a mass murder. Two in a thousand say, ‘Oh yes, that would be nice.’ ”

  Martin Beck blew his nose and looked irritably at Gunvald Larsson with red eyes.

  Melander leaned back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him.

  “What do your psychologists have to say about the mass-murderer’s character?” Kollberg asked.

  Melander turned the pages to a certain passage and read out:

  “ ‘He is probably under thirty, often shy and reserved but regarded by those around him as well-behaved and diligent. It is possible that he drinks liquor, but it is more usual for him to be a teetotaler. He is likely to be small of stature or afflicted with disfigurement or some other physical deformity which sets him apart from ordinary people. He plays an insignificant part in the community and has grown up in straitened circumstances. In many cases his parents have been divorced or he is an orphan and has had an emotionally starved childhood. Often he has not previously committed any serious crime.’ ”

  Raising his eyes, he said, “This is based on a compilation of facts that have emerged from interrogations and mental examinations of American mass murderers.”

  “A mass murderer like this must be stark, raving mad,” Gunvald Larsson said. “Can’t people see that before he rushes out and kills a bunch of people?”

  “ ‘A person who is a psychopath can appear quite normal until the moment when something happens to trigger off his abnormality. Psychopathy implies that one or more of this person’s traits are abnormally developed, while in other respects he is quite normal—for instance as regards aptitude, working capacity, etc. And in fact, most of these people who have suddenly committed a mass murder, recklessly and apparently without any motive, are described by neighbors and friends as considerate, kind and polite, and the last people on earth one would expect to act in this manner. Several of these American cases have told that they have been aware of their disease for some time and have tried to suppress their destructive tendencies, until at last they gave way to them. A mass murderer can suffer from persecution mania or megalomania or have a morbid guilt complex. It is not unusual for him to explain his actions by saying simply that he wanted to become famous and see his name in big headlines. Almost always, a desire for revenge or self-assertion lies behind the crime. He feels belittled, misunderstood and badly treated. In almost every case he has great sexual problems.’ ”

  When Melander finished reading there was silence in the room. Martin Beck stared out of the window. He was pale and hollow-eyed and stooped more than usual.

  Kollberg sat on Gunvald Larsson’s desk, linking his paper clips together into a long chain. Irritated, Gunvald Larsson pulled the box of clips toward him. Kollberg broke the silence.

  “That man Whitman, who shot a lot of people from the university tower in Austin,” he said. “I read a book about him yesterday, in which an Austrian psychology professor stated that Whitman’s sexual problem really was that he wanted to have intercourse with his mother. Instead of boring into her with his penis, he wrote, he stuck a knife into her. I haven’t Fredrik’s memory, but the last sentence of the book went like this: ‘Then he climbed the erect tower—a distinct phallic symbol—and discharged his deathly seed like arrows of love over Mother Earth.’ ”

  Månsson entered the room, his everlasting toothpick in the corner of his mouth.

  “What the blazes are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Maybe the bus is some sort of sex symbol,” Gunvald Larsson said reflectingly. “Horizontal, though.”

  Månsson goggled at him.

  Martin Beck got up, went over to Melander and picked up the green booklet.

  “I’ll borrow this and read through it in peace and quiet,” he said. “Without any witty comments.”

  He walked toward the door but was stopped by Månsson, who took his toothpick out of his mouth and said, “What am I to do now?”

  “I don’t know. Ask Kollberg,” Martin Beck said curtly and left the room.

  “You can go and talk to that Arab’s landlady,” Kollberg said.

  He wrote the name and address on a piece of paper, which he gave to Månsson.

  “What’s bothering Martin?” Gunvald Larsson asked. “Why’s he so sore?”

  Kollberg shrugged.

  “I expect he has his reasons,” he said.

  It took Månsson a good half hour to make his way through the Stockholm traffic to Norra Stationsgatan. As he parked the car opposite the terminus of route 47 the time was a few minutes past four and it was already dark.

  There were two tenants called Karlsson in the building, but Månsson had no difficulty working out which was the right one.

  On the door were eight cards, fastened with thumb tacks. Two of them were printed, the others were written in a variety of hands and all bore foreign names. The name Mohammed Boussie was not among them.

  Månsson rang the bell and the door was opened by a swarthy man in wrinkled pants and white undervest.

  “May I speak to Mrs. Karlsson?” Månsson said.

  The man showed white teeth in a broad smile and flung out his arms.

&nbs
p; “Mrs. Karlsson not home,” he said in broken Swedish. “Back soon.”

  “Then I’ll wait here,” Månsson said, stepping into the hall.

  Unbuttoning his coat he looked at the smiling man.

  “Did you know Mohammed Boussie who lived here?” he asked.

  The smile was wiped off the man’s face.

  “Yes,” he said. “It goddam terrible. Awful. He be my friend, Mohammed.”

  “Are you an Arab too?” Månsson asked.

  “No. Turk. You foreigner too?”

  “No,” Månsson replied. “Swedish.”

  “Oh, I thought you had a little accent,” the Turk said.

  As Månsson did have a broad Skåne accent, it was not surprising that the Turk took him for a foreigner.

  “I’m a policeman,” Månsson said, looking at the man sternly. “I’d like to look around if you don’t mind. Is there anyone else at home?”

  “No, only me. I sick.”

  Månsson looked about him. The hall was dark and narrow; it was furnished with a kitchen chair, a small table and an umbrella stand of metal. On the table lay a couple of newspapers and some letters with foreign stamps. In addition to the front door, there were five doors in the hall; two of these, smaller than the others, probably belonged to a toilet and a clothes closet. One of them was a double door; Månsson went over to it and opened one half.

  “Mrs. Karlsson’s private room,” the man in the undervest cried out in alarm. “To go in, forbidden.”

  Månsson glanced into the room, which was cluttered with furniture and evidently served as both bedroom and living room.

  The next door led to the kitchen, which was large and had been modernized.

  “Forbidden to go in kitchen,” said the Turk behind him.

  “How many rooms are there?” Månsson asked.

  “Mrs. Karlsson’s and the kitchen and the room for us,” said the man. “And the toilet and closet.”

  Månsson frowned.

  “Two rooms and kitchen, that is,” he said to himself.

  “You look our room,” the Turk said, holding open the door.

  The room measured about 23 feet by 16. It had two windows on to the street with flimsy, faded curtains. Along the walls stood beds of various types and between the windows was a narrow couch with the head to the wall.

  Månsson counted six beds. Three of them were unmade. The room was littered with shoes, clothes, books and newspapers. The center of the floor was occupied by a round, white-lacquered table, surrounded by five odd chairs. The remaining piece of furniture was a tall, dark-stained chest of drawers, which stood against the wall by one of the windows.

  The room had two more doors. A bed was placed in front of one of them, which without doubt led to Mrs. Karlsson’s room and was locked. Inside the other was a small closet, stuffed with clothes and suitcases.

  “Do six of you sleep here?” Månsson asked.

  “No, eight,” the Turk replied.

  Walking over to the bed in front of the door, he half drew out a trundle bed and pointed to one of the other beds.

  “Two like this,” he said. “Mohammed had that one.”

  “Who are the other seven?” Månsson asked. “Turks like you?”

  “No, we three Turks, two—one Arab, two Spanish men, one Finnish man, and the new one, he Greek.”

  “Do you eat here too?”

  The Turk glided swiftly across the room and moved the pillow on one of the beds. Månsson caught a glimpse of a pornographic magazine before it was hidden by the pillow.

  “Excuse, please,” the Turk said. “Here it is … it is not so tidy. Do we eat here? No, cooking, forbidden. Forbidden to use kitchen, forbidden to have electric hot plate in room. We not allowed to cook, not allowed to make coffee.”

  “How much rent do you pay?”

  “We pay 350 kronor each,” said the Turk.

  “A month?”

  “Yes. All months 350 kronor.”

  He nodded and scratched himself in the thick black growth resembling horsehair on his chest, visible above the low-necked vest.

  “I earn lot of money,” he said. “One hundred seventy kronor a week. I am truck driver. Before, I work restaurant and not earn so good.”

  “Do you know whether Mohammed Boussie had any relations?” Månsson asked. “Parents or brothers and sisters?” The Turk shook his head.

  “No, I not know. We were much pals, but Mohammed not say much. He very afraid.”

  Månsson stood by the window looking at a knot of shivering people who stood waiting for the bus at the terminus.

  He turned around.

  “Afraid?”

  “Not afraid. What do you say? Ah yes, shuy.”

  “Shy, uh-huh,” Månsson said. “Do you know how long he lived here?”

  The Turk sat down on the couch between the windows and shook his head.

  “No, I not know. I come here last month and Mohammed—he already live here.”

  Månsson had broken into a sweat under his thick overcoat. The air seemed thick with the smell that had oozed from the room’s eight inmates.

  Månsson wished fervently that he were back in Malmö, in his nice tidy apartment.

  Fishing his last toothpick out of his pocket, he asked, “When will Mrs. Karlsson be back?”

  The Turk shrugged.

  “I not know. Soon.”

  Månsson stuck the toothpick in his mouth, sat down at the round table and waited.

  After half an hour he tossed the chewed remains of the toothpick into the ashtray. Two more of Mrs. Karlsson’s lodgers had arrived, but there was still no sign of the landlady herself.

  The newcomers were the two Spaniards, and since their knowledge of Swedish was scanty and Månsson didn’t know one word of Spanish, he soon gave up trying to question them. The only information he got was that their names were Ramón and Juan and that they worked as busboys at a grill bar.

  The Turk had thrown himself on the couch and was leafing idly through a German magazine. The Spaniards talked animatedly while they changed their clothes for an evening out; their plans seemed to include a girl called Kerstin, whom they were evidently discussing.

  Månsson kept looking at his watch. He had made up his mind not to wait a minute longer than half-past five.

  At twenty-eight minutes past five Mrs. Karlsson returned.

  She placed Månsson in her best sofa, offered him a glass of port and burst into a jeremiad concerning her trials as a landlady.

  “It’s not at all nice, I can tell you, for a poor lone woman to have the house full of men,” she whined. “And foreigners, what’s more. But what is a poor hard-up widow to do?”

  Månsson made a rough estimate. The hard-up widow raked in nearly 3,000 kronor a month in rent.

  “That Mohammed,” she said, pursing her lips. “He owed me a month’s rent. Perhaps you could arrange for me to get it? He had money in the bank all right.”

  To Månsson’s question about her impression of Mohammed, she replied, “Well, for an Arab he was quite nice, really. They’re usually so dirty and unreliable, you know. But he was nice and quiet and seemed to behave himself all right—he didn’t drink and I don’t think he brought girls in. But as I said, he owes me a month’s rent.”

  She appeared to be well informed about the private lives of her lodgers; sure enough, Ramón was going with a slut called Kerstin, but she could tell him little about Mohammed.

  He had a married sister in Paris, who used to send him letters, but she couldn’t read them because they were written in Arabic.

  Mrs. Karlsson fetched a bundle of letters and gave them to Månsson. The sister’s name and address were written on the backs of the envelopes.

  All Mohammed Boussie’s worldly possessions had been packed into a canvas suitcase. Månsson took this with him as well.

  Mrs. Karlsson reminded him once more of the unpaid rent before shutting the door after him.

  “My God, what an old bitch,” Månsson mumbled t
o himself as he went down the stairs to the street and his car.

  19

  Monday. Snow. Wind. Bitter cold.

  “Fine track snow,” Rönn said.

  He was standing by the window, looking dreamily out over the street and the rooftops, which were only just visible in the floating white haze.

  Gunvald Larsson glared at him suspiciously and said, “Is that meant to be a joke?”

  “No. I was just thinking how it felt when I was a boy.”

  “Extremely constructive. You wouldn’t care to do something a little more worthwhile? To help the investigation along?”

  “Sure,” Rönn said. “But …”

  “But what?”

  “That’s just what I was going to say. But what?”

  “Nine people have been murdered,” Gunvald Larsson said. “And here you stand not knowing what to do with yourself. You’re a detective, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, detect, for Christ’s sake.”

  “Where?”

  “I don’t know. Do something.”

  “What are you doing yourself?”

  “Can’t you see? I’m sitting here reading this psychological bilge that Melander and the doctors have concocted.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. How can I know everything?”

  A week had passed since the bloodbath in the bus. The state of the investigation was unchanged and the lack of constructive ideas was making itself felt. Even the spate of useless tips from the general public had begun to dry up.

  The consumer society and its harassed citizens had other things to think of. Although it was over a month to Christmas, the advertising orgy had begun and the buying hysteria spread as swiftly and ruthlessly as the Black Death along the festooned shopping streets. The epidemic swept all before it and there was no escape. It ate its way into houses and apartments, poisoning and breaking down everything and everyone in its path. Children were already howling from exhaustion and fathers of families were plunged into debt until their next vacation. The gigantic legalized confidence trick claimed victims everywhere. The hospitals had a boom in cardiac infarctions, nervous breakdowns and burst stomach ulcers.