The Locked Room

by Maj Sjowall

  “Sure there were fingerprints. On the doorknob. But before we had time to lift them one of the bank people had been there and messed it all up. So we couldn’t use them.”

  “Any ballistic investigation?”

  “You bet your life there was. The experts got both the bullet and the cartridge. They say she shot him with a forty-five, presumably a Llama Auto.”

  “Big gun … especially for a girl.”

  “Yeah. According to Bulldozer that’s another bit of evidence on this Malmström and Mohrén and Roos gang. They always use big, heavy weapons, to cause alarm. But …”

  “But what?”

  “Malmström and Mohrén don’t shoot people. At least they’ve never done so yet. If someone causes trouble they just put a bullet in the ceiling, to restore order.”

  “Is there any point in holding this Roos guy?”

  “Hmm, well I guess Bulldozer’s reasoning goes like this: If Roos has one of his usual perfect alibis—for instance, if he was in Yokohama last Friday—then we can be dead sure he planned the job. On the other hand, if he was in Stockholm, then the thing’s more doubtful.”

  “What does Roos say himself? Doesn’t he get mad?”

  “Never. He says it’s true Malmström and Mohrén are old chums of his and he thinks it’s sad things should have turned out so badly for them in life. Last time he asked if we thought he could help his old chums in some way. Malm happened to be there. He almost had a brain hemorrhage.”

  “And Olsson?”

  “Bulldozer just roared. He loved it.”

  “What’s he waiting for, then?”

  “The next move, didn’t you hear? He thinks Roos is planning a major job which Malmström and Mohrén are going to carry out. Presumably Malmström and Mohrén want to scrape enough money together to emigrate quietly and live the rest of their lives on the proceeds.”

  “And it’s got to be a bank robbery?”

  “Bulldozer thinks everything except banks can go to the devil,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It’s his orders, so they say.”

  “What about the witness?”

  “Einar’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He was here this morning, looking at pictures. Didn’t recognize anyone.”

  “But he’s sure of the car?”

  “Damn right.”

  Gunvald Larsson sat silent, tugging at his fingers one after the other until the joints cracked. After a long while he said: “There’s something about that car that doesn’t jell.”

  11

  The day looked like it was going to be a hot one, and Martin Beck took his lightest suit out of the closet. It was pale blue. He’d bought it a month ago and only worn it once. As he pulled on his pants a big, sticky chocolate mark on the right trouser knee reminded him how, on that particular occasion, he’d been chatting with Kollberg’s two kids and how they’d indulged in an orgy of lollipops and Mums-Mums chocolate balls.

  Martin Beck climbed out of his trousers again, took them into the kitchen, and soaked one corner of a towel in hot water. Then he rubbed the towel against the stain, which immediately spread. Yet he didn’t give up. As he gritted his teeth and went on working away at the material he thought to himself it was really only in such situations that he missed Inga—which said a good deal about their former relationship. At least one of the trouser legs was thoroughly soaked, and the stain seemed at least partially to have disappeared. Squeezing his thumb and forefinger along the crease, he hung his pants over a chair in the sunshine which was flooding in through the open window.

  It was only eight o’clock, but already he’d been awake for several hours. In spite of everything, he’d fallen asleep early the previous evening, and his sleep had been unusually calm and free of dreams. True, though it had been his first real working day in a long time, it had not been a particularly strenuous one; even so, it had left him exhausted.

  Martin Beck opened the refrigerator door, inspected the milk carton, the stick of butter, and a solitary bottle of Ramlösa—reminding himself that on his way home tonight he must make some purchases, beer and yogurt. Or maybe he ought to stop having yogurt in the mornings; it really didn’t taste all that good. On the other hand, that would mean he’d have to think up something else for his breakfast. The doctor had said he must put back on every pound he’d lost since he’d come out of the hospital, and preferably a few more.

  The telephone in the bedroom rang. Martin Beck closed the refrigerator, and going in, picked up the receiver. It was Sister Birgit at the old people’s home.

  “Mrs. Beck is worse,” she said. “This morning she had a high temperature, well over 101. I thought you’d want to know, Inspector.”

  “Sure. Of course. Is she awake now?”

  “She was, five minutes ago. But she’s very tired.”

  “I’ll be over immediately,” Martin Beck said.

  “We’ve had to move her into a room where we can have her under better observation,” Sister Birgit said. “But come to my office first.”

  Martin Beck’s mother was eighty-two and had spent the last two years in the sick ward of the old people’s home. Her illness had been of long duration. Its first signs had been slight attacks of dizziness. As time had gone by, these had become more severe and occurred at closer intervals. In the end she’d become partially paralyzed. All last year she’d only been able to sit up in a wheelchair, and since the end of April hadn’t left her bed.

  Martin Beck had visited her quite often during his own convalescence, but it pained him to see her slowly wasting away as her age and illness slowly dazed her. The last few times he’d been to see her she’d taken him for her husband. His father had been dead twenty-two years.

  To see how lonely she’d become in her sickroom, and how utterly cut off from the outside world too, had pained him. Right up to the time when the spells of dizziness had started she’d gone out, even gone into town, just to visit stores and see people around her, or to call on those few of her friends who were still alive. Often she’d gone out to see Inga and Rolf in Bagarmossen or visited her granddaughter Ingrid, who lived by herself out at Stocksund. Naturally, even before her illness, she’d often been bored and lonely in the old people’s home, but as long as she’d been healthy and on her feet she still had an occasional chance to see something besides invalids and old people. She’d still read the papers, watched TV, and listened to the radio—occasionally she had even gone to a concert or the movies. She kept in touch with the world around her and been able to interest herself in what was going on in it. But once isolation had been forced upon her, there had been rapid mental deterioration.

  Martin Beck had watched her becoming slow-witted, ceasing to interest herself in life outside the sickroom walls, until in the end she’d lost all touch with reality and the present. It must be some defense mechanism of her mind, he assumed, which nowadays tied her consciousness to the past: there was nothing heartening about her present reality.

  When he had realized how her days passed, even as long as she’d still be able to sit up in a wheelchair, he’d been shocked—even though she had seemed happy to see him and aware of his visits. Every morning she was washed and dressed, put into her wheelchair, and given her breakfast. Then she just sat there all alone in her room. Since her hearing had deteriorated she no longer listened to the radio. Reading had become too strenuous, and her hands had become too weak to hold any needlework. At noon she was given her lunch, and at three the attendants finished their working day by undressing her and putting her back to bed. Later she was given a light evening meal, but she had no appetite and often refused to eat at all. Once she’d told him the attendants were cross with her for not eating. But it didn’t matter. At least it had meant someone had come and talked to her.

  Martin Beck knew that a lack of staff constituted a difficult problem for the old people’s home, not least the shortage of nurses and ward assistants. He also knew that such personnel as did exist were friendly and considerate to the old
folk—despite wretchedly low wages and inconveniently long working hours—and that they did their best for them. He’d given a great deal of thought to how he could make existence more tolerable for her, maybe by having her moved to a private nursing home where people would devote more time and attention to her; but he’d quickly come to the conclusion that she could not expect much better care than where she was already. All he could do for her was to visit her as often as possible. During his examination of the possibilities for improving his mother’s situation he’d discovered how much worse off an incredible number of other old people were.

  To grow old alone and in poverty, unable to look after oneself, meant that after a long and active life one was suddenly stripped of one’s dignity and identity—fated to await the end in an institution in the company of other old people, equally outcast and annihilated.

  Today they were not even called “institutions,” or even “old people’s homes.” Nowadays they were called “pensioners’ homes,” or even “pensioners’ hotels,” to gloss over the fact that in practice most people weren’t there voluntarily, but had quite simply been condemned to it by a so-called Welfare State that no longer wished to know about them. It was a cruel sentence, and the crime was being too old. As a worn-out cog in the social machine, one was dumped on the garbage heap.

  Martin Beck realized that in spite of everything his mother was better off than most of the other old and sick people. She had saved and stinted and put aside money in order to be secure in her old age and not become a burden to anyone. Although inflation had catastrophically devalued her money, she still received medical care, fairly nutritious food, and, in her large and airy sickroom, which she was spared from sharing with anyone else, she still had her own intimate belongings around her. This much at least she had been able to buy with her savings.

  Now his pants had dried slowly in the sunny window and the stain had disappeared almost completely. He dressed and rang for a taxi.

  The park around the old people’s home was spacious and well kept, with tall, leafy trees and cool, shady paths winding between the arbors, flowerbeds, and terraces. Before his mother had fallen sick she had liked to walk there, leaning on his arm.

  Martin Beck went straight to the office; but neither Sister Birgit nor anyone else was there. In the corridor he met a maid carrying a tray with thermos bottles. He asked after Sister Birgit, and the assistant informed him in sing-song Finnish-Swedish that Sister Birgit was occupied at the moment with a patient. He asked her which was Mrs. Beck’s room. She nodded toward a door further down the corridor and went off with her tray.

  Martin Beck looked in at the door. The room was smaller than the one his mother had had before and looked more like a sickroom. Inside, everything was white except the bouquet of red tulips he’d given her two days ago, which were now standing on a table beside the window. His mother was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling with eyes that seemed to grow larger every time he visited her. Her skinny hands plucked at the bedspread. Standing by the bed, he took her hand, and she moved her eyes slowly up to his face. “Have you come all this way?” she whispered in a scarcely audible voice.

  “Don’t tire yourself by talking, Mom,” Martin Beck said, releasing her hand. He sat looking at the tired face with the wide feverish eyes. “How are you, Mom?” he asked.

  She didn’t answer immediately—just looked at him and blinked once or twice, as though her eyelids were so heavy it was an effort to lift them. “I’m cold,” she said at last.

  Martin Beck looked around the room. A blanket lay on a chair at the foot of the bed. He picked it up and spread it over her.

  “Thank you, my dear,” she whispered.

  Again he sat quiet, looking at her. Not knowing what to say, he just held her thin, cold hand in his.

  There was a faint rattle in her throat as she breathed. Gradually her breathing became more calm, and she closed her eyes. He went on sitting there, holding her hand. A blackbird sang outside the window. Otherwise all was quiet.

  When he had sat there, quite still, a long while, he gently let go of her hand and got up. He stroked her cheek. It was hot and dry. Just as he took a step toward the door, still looking down at her face, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

  “Put your woollen cap on,” she whispered, “it’s cold out.” And again she closed her eyes.

  After a while Martin Beck bent down, kissed her on the forehead, and left.

  12

  Today Kenneth Kvastmo, one of the two patrolmen who had broken into Svärd’s apartment, had to give evidence again in the district court. Martin Beck looked in on him where he sat waiting in a corridor of City Hall and had time to get answers to two of his most important questions before Kvastmo was called into court.

  Then Martin Beck left City Hall and walked the two blocks to the house where Svärd had lived. It was a short stretch, but as he walked down it, he passed the two large building sites on either side of the police building. Outside the south wing the new subway line to Järvafältet was being excavated, and further up the hill blasting and drilling operations were going on into the bedrock for the foundation of the new police building, where soon he would have his office. Right now he was grateful that his office was in the South Police Headquarters and not here. The noise of traffic from Södertäljevägen outside his window was no more than a quiet hum compared to this cacophony arising from excavations, pneumatic drills, and trucks.

  The front door to the first-floor apartment had been put back and sealed. Martin Beck broke the seal and walked in.

  The window over the street was closed, and he perceived a slight but penetrating smell of putrefaction that had bitten its way into the room’s walls and sparse furniture.

  He went over to the window and examined it. It was an old-fashioned type, opening outwards and fitted with a clasp whose ring-shaped swinging latch hung from a fitting in the window frame and fit over a catch when the window is fastened. There were two latches, but the lower catch was missing. The paint had worn off, and the woodwork of the lower part of the window frame and sill had been damaged. Presumably both rain and wind entered through the crack.

  Martin Beck pulled down the blind. Originally dark blue, it was old and faded. He went over to the door and looked into the room. This was how it had looked when the two patrolmen had broken in, at least according to Kvastmo. He went back to the window, gave the cord a slight jerk, and with a tired creak the blind rolled up. Then he opened the window and looked out.

  On his right was the noisy building site, and beyond it he could see among other things the windows of the C.I.D. in the Kungsholmsgatan building. To his left Bergsgatan went on a little further, then just above the fire station the street came to an end. A short stretch of street joined Bergsgatan and Hantverkargatan. Martin Beck reflected that that was the way he’d walk after finishing his inspection. He couldn’t recall what the street was called or ever having walked along it.

  Opposite the window was Kronoberg Park. Like most other Stockholm parks, it was laid out on a natural rise in the ground. In the days when he’d worked at Kristineberg, Martin Beck remembered often taking a short cut across it. It had been his habit to cross the park between the stone steps in the corner by Polhemsgatan and the old Jewish cemetery on the far side. Sometimes he’d stopped to smoke a cigarette on a bench beneath the linden trees at the top of the hill.

  Feeling a craving for a cigarette, he felt in his pockets, knowing full well he had none on him. He gave a resigned sigh and reflected that he should start chewing gum or sucking cough drops instead. Or chewing toothpicks, like Månsson down in Malmö.

  He went out into the kitchen. Its window was in an even worse state than the one in the room; but here the window cracks had been plugged with strips of tape.

  Everything in the apartment seemed worn, not only the paint and wallpaper but also the furniture. Looking around the apartment, Martin Beck felt a dull feeling of infinite sadness. He opened all the drawers and clos
ets. There wasn’t much there, only the basic household utensils.

  Going out into the narrow foyer, he opened the door to the toilet. There was no wash basin or shower. Then he examined the front door and found it was fitted with the various locks mentioned in the report. It seemed probable that they had all been locked when the door had finally been lifted out of the way, or “forced” as it was called in police jargon.

  It was all really most perplexing. Door and both windows had been locked. Kvastmo had said there was no weapon to be seen anywhere in the apartment when he and Kristiansson had gone in. Moreover, he had said that the apartment had been under constant guard and that for anyone to have been there and removed anything was out of the question.

  Once again Martin Beck stood in the doorway looking into the room. Along the inner wall was a bed, and beside it a shelf. Above the shelf was a lamp with a crinkled yellow cloth shade, a broken green glass ash tray, and a large box of matches. On the shelf lay a pair of much-thumbed magazines and three books. By the right-hand wall stood a chair upholstered in green and white striped material with spots on its seat, and against the far wall were a brown table and a straight wooden chair. On the floor stood an electric heater with a black cord coiling away to a wall socket. The plug had been pulled out. There had been a carpet too, but it had been sent to the lab, where, among innumerable other stains and particles of dirt, they’d found three bloodstains of Svärd’s blood type.

  A closet adjoined the room. On its floor were a dirty flannel shirt of uncertain color, three dirty socks, and an empty worn brown canvas bag. On a hanger hung a fairly new poplin coat, and on hooks in the wall were a pair of flannel trousers with empty pockets, a knitted green sweater, and a gray vest with full-length sleeves. That was all.

  That Svärd could have been shot somewhere else, then come into his apartment, locked and bolted the door behind him, and then lain down to die, was—according to the pathologist—something that could not wholly be ruled out. Martin Beck, admittedly, was only a layman; but he’d had enough experience to see she was right.