by Maj Sjowall
“Who questioned her?”
“Gunvald and Månsson. On different occasions. She says that—”
“Just a moment. Why did he take the bus?”
“Presumably because he’d had a lot to drink and didn’t dare to drive his own car. And he couldn’t get hold of a taxi because of the rain. The company’s central switchboard was overloaded and there wasn’t a vacant taxi in the whole of town.”
“O.K. What does the kept woman say?”
“That she thought Assarsson was a dirty old man, and almost impotent. That she did it for the money and to keep her job. Gunvald got the impression that she’s a bit of a slut and has other men as well, and is rather backward.”
“Mr. Larsson and women. I think I’ll write a novel and call it that.”
“She admitted as much to Månsson that she used to oblige Assarsson’s business acquaintances, as she put it. At his orders. Assarsson was born in Gothenburg and got on at Djurgårdsbron.”
“Thanks, old pal. That’s exactly how I’ll begin my novel. ‘He was born in Gothenburg and got on at Djurgårdsbron.’ Brilliant.”
“All the times fit,” Melander said, unperturbed.
Martin Beck broke into the conversation for the first time.
“So that leaves only Stenström and the unknown man?”
“Yes,” Melander said. “All we know about Stenström is that he came from Djurgården, oddly enough. And that he was armed. As regards the unidentified man, we know that he was a narcotics addict and between thirty-five and forty. Nothing more.”
“And all the others had a reason for being on the bus?” Martin Beck asked.
“Yes.”
“We have found out why they were there?”
“Yes.”
“The moment has come for the already classic question: What was Stenström doing on the bus?” Kollberg said.
“We must talk to the girl,” Martin Beck said.
Melander took his pipe out of his mouth.
“Åsa Torell? You’ve already talked to her, both of you. And since then we’ve questioned her again.”
“Who?” Martin Beck asked.
“Rönn, a little over a week ago.”
“No, not Rönn,” he murmured to himself.
“What do you mean?” said Melander.
“Rönn’s right enough in his way,” Martin Beck said. “But in this case he doesn’t quite understand what it’s all about. Besides, he had very little contact with Stenström.”
Kollberg and Martin Beck looked at each other for a long time. Neither of them said anything, and at last it was Melander who broke the silence.
“Well? What was Stenström doing on the bus?”
“He was going to meet a girl,” Kollberg said unconvincingly. “Or a pal.”
Kollberg’s part in these discussions was always to contradict, but this time he didn’t really believe in himself.
“One thing you’re forgetting,” Melander said. “We’ve been knocking at doors in that district for ten days. And not found a single person who has ever heard of Stenström.”
“That proves nothing. That part of town is full of odd little hideaways and shady boarding houses. At places like that the police are not very popular.”
“All the same, I think we can dismiss the girlfriend theory as far as Stenström is concerned,” Martin Beck said.
“On what grounds?” Kollberg asked quickly.
“I don’t believe in it.”
“But you admit that it’s quite possible?”
“Yes.”
“O.K. Dismiss it then. For the time being.”
“The key question therefore seems to be: What was Stenström doing on the bus?” Martin Beck said.
“Wait a minute,” Kollberg objected. “What was the unknown man doing on the bus?”
“Never mind the unknown man at the moment.”
“Why? His presence is just as remarkable as Stenström’s. Besides, we don’t know who he was or what business he had there.”
“Maybe he was just riding the bus.”
“Just riding the bus?”
“Yes. Many homeless people do. For one krona you can ride two trips. A couple of hours.”
“The subway is warmer,” Kollberg objected. “And there you can ride as long as you like, what’s more, provided you don’t pass through the gates but only change trains.”
“Yes, but—”
“And you’re forgetting something important. Not only did the unidentified man have crumbs of hash and pep pills in his pockets. He also had more money than all the passengers put together.”
“Which, incidentally, excludes the possibility of murder for the sake of robbery,” Melander put in.
“Furthermore,” added Martin Beck, “as you yourself said, that district is full of hide-outs and shady boarding houses. Perhaps he lived in one of those fleabags. No, back to the basic question: What was Stenström doing on the bus?”
They sat silent for at least a minute. In the next room the telephones kept ringing. Now and then they could hear voices, Gunvald Larsson’s or Rönn’s. At last Melander said, “What could Stenström do?”
All three knew the answer to that question. Melander nodded slowly and answered himself.
“Stenström could shadow.”
“Yes,” Martin Beck said. “That was his specialty. He was skillful and stubborn. He could go on shadowing a person for weeks.”
Kollberg scratched his neck and said, “I remember when he drove that sex murderer from the Göta Canal boat mad four years ago.”
“Baited him,” said Martin Beck.
No one answered.
“He had the knack even then,” said Martin Beck. “But he had learned a lot since then.”
“By the way, did you ask Hammar about that?” Kollberg said suddenly. “I mean about what Stenström did last summer when we went through unsolved cases.”
“Yes,” Martin Beck replied. “But I drew a blank. Stenström had discussed the matter with Hammar, who made one or two suggestions—which ones he didn’t remember, but they were ruled out by age. Not because the cases were too old but because Stenström was too young. He didn’t want anything that had happened when he was a boy of ten running around playing cops and robbers in Hallstahammar. At last he decided to look into that disappearance case that you too were working on.”
“I never heard anything from him,” Kollberg said. “I suppose he just went through what was written.”
“Probably.”
Silence, and Melander was again the one to break it. Getting up he said, “Hm, where have we got to?”
“Don’t quite know,” said Martin Beck.
“Excuse me,” Melander said and went out to the toilet.
When he had closed the door, Kollberg looked at Martin Beck and said, “Who’s going to see Åsa?”
“You. It’s a one-man job and of us two you’re best fitted for it.”
Kollberg made no answer.
“Don’t you want to?” Martin Beck asked.
“No, I don’t. But I will all the same.”
“This evening?”
“I have two matters to attend to first. One at Västberga and one at home. Call her up and say I’ll be along about seven thirty.”
An hour later Kollberg entered his apartment at Palandergatan. The time was five o’clock, but outside it had already been dark for a couple of hours.
His wife was busy painting the kitchen chairs in a pair of faded jeans and a checked flannel shirt. It was his, and discarded long ago. She had rolled up the sleeves and tied it carelessly around her waist. She had paint on her hands and arms and feet, and even on her forehead.
“Strip,” he said.
She stood quite still with the brush raised. Gave him a searching look.
“Is it urgent?” she asked mischievously.
“Yes.”
She grew serious at once.
“Must you go again?”
“Yes, I have an interrogation.�
��
She nodded and put the brush in the paint can. Wiped her hands.
“Åsa,” he said. “It’s going to be tricky in every way.”
“Do you need a vaccination?”
“Yes.”
“Mind you don’t get paint all over you,” she said, unbuttoning the shirt.
20
Outside a house on Klubbacken in Hägersten a snowy man stood looking thoughtfully at a scrap of paper. It was sopping wet and was coming apart; he had difficulty in making out the writing in the whirling snow and the dim light from the street lamps. However, it seemed as if he had at last found the right place. He shook himself like a wet dog and went up the steps. Stamped energetically on the porch and rang the doorbell. Knocked the wet white flakes off his hat and stood with it in his hand as he waited for something to happen.
The door was opened a few inches and a middle-aged woman peeped out. She was wearing a cleaning smock and apron and had flour on her hands.
“Police,” he said raucously. Clearing his throat, he went on, “Detective Inspector Nordin.”
The woman eyed him anxiously.
“Can you prove it?” she said at last. “I mean …”
With a heavy sigh, he transferred his hat to his left hand and unbuttoned his overcoat and jacket. Took out his wallet and showed his identification card.
The woman followed the procedure with alarm, as if expecting him to take out a bomb or a machine gun or a condom.
He kept hold of the card and she peered at it shortsightedly through the crack in the door.
“I thought detectives had badges,” she said doubtfully.
“Yes, madam, I have one,” he said gloomily.
He kept his badge in his hip pocket and wondered how he would get at it without laying down his hat or putting it on his head.
“Oh, I suppose this will do,” the woman said grudgingly. “Sundsvall? Have you come all the way from the north to talk to me?”
“I did have some other business in town as well.”
“I’m sorry, but you see … I mean …,” she faltered.
“Yes, madam?”
“I mean you can’t be too careful nowadays. You never know …”
Nordin wondered what on earth he was to do with his hat. The snow was falling thickly and the flakes were melting on his bald head. He could hardly go on standing with the identification card in one hand and his hat in the other. He might want to note something down. To replace the hat on his head seemed the most practical but might appear impolite. It would look silly putting it down on the steps. Perhaps he ought to ask if he might go inside. But then the woman would be faced with a decision. She would have to answer yes or no, and if he had judged her rightly, such a decision might take a long time.
Nordin came from a part of the country where it was customary to invite all strangers into the kitchen, offer them a cup of coffee and let them warm themselves by the stove. A nice, practical custom, he thought. Perhaps it wasn’t suitable in big cities. Collecting his thoughts, he said, “When you called up you mentioned a man and a garage, didn’t you?”
“I’m awfully sorry if I disturbed you …”
“Oh, we couldn’t be more grateful.”
She turned her head and looked in toward the apartment, almost closing the door as she did so. She was evidently worried about the ginger snaps in the oven.
“Delighted,” Nordin muttered to himself. “Deliriously happy. It’s almost unbearable.”
The woman opened the door again and said, “What did you say?”
“Er, that garage—”
“It’s over there.”
He followed her gaze and said, “I don’t see anything.”
“You can see it from upstairs,” the woman said.
“And this man?”
“Well, he seemed funny. And now I haven’t seen him for a couple of weeks. A short, dark man.”
“Do you keep a constant watch on the garage?”
“Well, I can see it from the bedroom window.”
She flushed. What have I done wrong now, Nordin wondered.
“Some foreigner has it. All sorts of queer characters hang about there. And what I’d like to know is—”
It was impossible to know whether she broke off or went on talking in such a low voice that he couldn’t catch the words.
“What was strange about this short, dark man?”
“Well … he laughed.”
“Laughed?”
“Yes. Awfully loud.”
“Do you know if there’s anyone in the garage now?”
“There was a light not long ago. When I went up and had a look.”
Nordin sighed and put on his hat.
“Well, I’ll go and make inquiries,” he said. “Thank you, madam.”
“Won’t you … come in?”
“No thanks.”
She opened the door another few inches, gave him a quick glance and said graspingly, “Is there any reward?”
“For what?”
“Er … I don’t know.”
“Good-bye.”
He trudged off in the direction she had indicated. It felt as if someone had put a fomentation on his head. The woman had shut the door at once and had now presumably taken up her post at the bedroom window.
The garage, a small building standing by itself, had fibrous cement walls and a corrugated iron roof. There was room for two cars at the most. Above the doors was an electric light.
He opened one half of the double doors and went in.
The car standing inside was a green Skoda Octavia, 1959 model. It might fetch 400 kronor if the engine wasn’t too worn out. Thought Nordin, who had spent a great deal of his time as policeman on motor vehicles and shady car deals. It was propped up on low trestles and the hood was open. A man lay on his back under the chassis, quite still. All that could be seen of him was a pair of legs in blue overalls.
Dead, thought Nordin, going up to the car and poking the man with his right foot.
The figure under the car started as though at an electric shock, crawled out and got to his feet. Stood with the hand lamp in his right hand staring in amazement at the visitor.
“The police,” Nordin said.
“My papers are in order,” the man said quickly.
“I don’t doubt it,” Nordin retorted.
The garage owner was about thirty, a slender man with brown eyes, wavy dark hair and well-combed sideburns.
“Are you Italian?” Nordin asked. He was not much of an expert at foreign accents except Finnish.
“Swiss. From German Switzerland. The canton of Graubünden.”
“You speak good Swedish.”
“I’ve lived here for six years. What is it you want?”
“We’re trying to get in touch with a pal of yours.”
“Who?”
“We don’t know his name.”
Eyeing the man in the dungarees Nordin said, “He’s not quite as tall as you but a bit fatter. Dark hair, rather long, and brown eyes. About thirty-five.”
The other shook his head.
“I’ve no pal that looks like that. I don’t meet much people.”
“Many people,” Nordin corrected amiably.
“Yes, of course. ‘Many people.’ ”
“But I’ve heard there are usually a lot of people out here at the garage.”
“Guys come with cars. They want me to fix when there is something wrong.”
He thought hard, then said by way of information:
“I am a mechanic. Work at a garage in Ringweg … Ringvägen. Now only in the mornings. All these Germans and Austrians know that I have this garage. So they come out and want repairs free. Many I do not know at all. There are many in Stockholm.”
“Well,” Nordin said, “this man we want to get hold of might have been dressed in a black nylon coat and a beige suit.”
“That tells me nothing. I do not remember anyone like that. That’s certain.”
“Who are your
buddies?”
“Friends? A few Germans and Austrians.”
“Have any of them been here today?”
“No. They know all I am busy. I work day and night on this.”
He pointed to the car with an oily thumb and said, “I get it fixed up by Christmas, so I can drive home and see my parents.”
“To Switzerland?”
“Yes.”
“Some drive.”
“Yes. I pay only 100 kronor for this car. But I get it ready. I good mechanic.”
“What’s your name?”
“Horst. Horst Dieke.”
“Mine’s Ulf. Ulf Nordin.”
The Swiss smiled, showing perfect white teeth. He seemed a pleasant, steady-going young man.
“Well, Horst, so you don’t know who I mean?”
Dieke shook his head.
“No. I’m sorry.”
Nordin was in no way disappointed. He had simply drawn the blank that everyone expected. If there hadn’t been such a scarcity of clues, this tip would never have been followed up at all. But he was not prepared to give in yet, and besides he didn’t fancy the subway with its horde of unfriendly people in damp clothes. The Swiss was evidently trying to be helpful. He said, “There is nothing else? About that guy, I mean?”
Nordin considered. At last he said, “He laughed. Loud.”
The man’s face brightened at once.
“Ah, I think I know. He laughs like this.”
Dieke opened his mouth and emitted a bleating sound, shrill and harsh as the cry of a snipe.
It came as an utter surprise and about ten seconds passed before Nordin could say, “Yes, perhaps.”
“Yes, yes,” Dieke said. “I know now who you mean. Little dark guy.”
Nordin waited expectantly.
“He has been here four or five times. Maybe more. But his name, I do not know it. He came with a Spaniard who wanted to sell me spare parts. He came several times. But I did not buy.”
“Why not?”
“Cheap. I think stolen.”