The Locked Room

by Maj Sjowall

  But how had it all happened, then? How could Svärd have been shot if no one had been in the apartment and he hadn’t done it himself?

  When Martin Beck had first discovered how carelessly the whole matter had been handled he’d been convinced that even this mystery could be explained in terms of someone’s carelessness; but now he was beginning to feel sure there’d never been a weapon in the room, that Svärd had locked the door behind him, and that consequently his death appeared utterly inexplicable.

  Once again Martin Beck went through the apartment with meticulous care; but there was nothing there to explain what had happened. Finally he left, intending to find out whether the other tenants had anything to tell him.

  Three-quarters of an hour later, none the wiser, he came out into the street. Obviously the sixty-two-year-old ex-warehouseman, Karl Edvin Svärd, had been a very solitary person. He had lived in the apartment for three months, and only a few of the other tenants had even been aware of his existence. Those who had seen him come and go had never seen him with anyone else. None of them had ever exchanged a word with him. He had never been seen drunk, nor had they heard any disturbing sounds or noises coming from his apartment.

  Martin Beck remained standing outside the main entrance. He looked up at the park, which rose up green and leafy, on the other side of the street. He had a mind to go up there and sit awhile beneath the linden trees; but then he recalled his decision to examine the little street on the hillside.

  “Olof Gjödingsgatan.” He read the name on the street sign and recalled that many years ago he had found out that Olof Gjöding had been a teacher in the Kungsholmen School back in the eighteenth century. He wondered whether the school had stood on the same site as the high school down on Hantverkargatan.

  On the slope down to Polhemsgatan was a cigar store. He went in and bought a pack of filter cigarettes. On his way to Kungsholmsgatan he lit one and thought it tasted bad. He thought about Karl Edvin Svärd. He felt none too well and rather confused.

  13

  When the midday flight from Amsterdam landed at Arlanda that Tuesday there were two plainclothes policemen stationed in the arrival lounge to meet the plane’s purser. They had orders to behave discreetly and take no unnecessary measures; and when, finally, the purser came walking across the tarmac in the company of a stewardess they decided to bide their time and stand aside.

  Werner Roos, however, spotted them at once. Either he recognized them from some earlier occasion, or simply sensed them to be police, instantly comprehending that their presence there had something to do with him. He stopped, said a few words to the stewardess, and then walked into the arrival lounge through the glass doors.

  With firm steps Werner Roos went up to the two policemen. Tall, broad-shouldered, suntanned, he was wearing his dark blue uniform. In one hand he held his cap, in the other a black leather bag with broad straps. He had blond hair with long sideburns and a tousled fringe, and his bushy eyebrows frowned threateningly. Thrusting forward his chin he gave them a cold, blue look. “Well, and what kind of reception committee is this?” he asked.

  “District Attorney Olsson would like to have a little talk with you, so if you’d be so kind as to accompany us to Kungsholmsgatan …” one of the policemen said.

  Roos said: “Is he crazy? I was there only two weeks ago, and I’ve nothing more to add today to what I said then.”

  “Okay, okay,” said the older of the two. “You’ll have to talk to him about that, we’re only following instructions.”

  Roos shrugged his shoulders in annoyance and started walking towards the exit. When they got to the car he said: “And you’ll damn well have to drive me home to Märsta first, so I can change my clothes. You know the address.” Then he sat down in the back seat with a grim look on his face and his arms crossed over his chest.

  The younger policeman, who was driving, protested at being ordered about like a cab driver; but his colleague calmed him down and gave him the Märsta address.

  Following Roos up to his apartment, they waited in the foyer while he changed into light gray pants, a turtleneck sweater, and a suede jacket. Then they drove back to Stockholm and the police station on Kungsholmsgatan, where they escorted him to the room in which Bulldozer Olsson was waiting.

  As the door opened Bulldozer sprang up from his chair, dismissed the two plainclothesmen with a wave of his hand, and drew up a chair for Werner Roos. Then, settling down behind the desk, he said cheerfully: “Well, Mr. Roos, and who would have thought we’d meet again so soon!”

  “You, I suppose,” said Roos. “Really it’s not my fault. I’d like to know what reason you may have for arresting me this time.”

  “Oh, don’t let’s take it all so solemnly, Mr. Roos. We could say I want a little information from you. At least to start with.”

  “I also regard it as unnecessary to send out your henchmen to bring me from my place of work. Besides which I might very well at this moment have had a flight, and I’ve really no desire to lose my job just because it suddenly amuses you to sit there talking nonsense to me.”

  “Don’t take it so hard. I know you’re off duty for forty-eight hours, Mr. Roos. Isn’t that so? So we’ve plenty of time, and there’s no harm done,” Bulldozer said amiably.

  “You can’t keep me here for more than six hours,” said Werner Roos, glancing at his watch.

  “Twelve, Mr. Roos. Even longer, if circumstances demand it.”

  “In that case would you be so kind, Mr. District Attorney, as to tell me what I’m suspected of,” Werner Roos said arrogantly.

  Bulldozer extended a pack of Prince cigarettes to Roos, who scornfully shook his head and took a pack of Benson & Hedges out of his pocket. He lit his cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter and waited while Bulldozer Olsson struck a match and lit his own filter cigarette.

  “As yet I haven’t said I suspect you of anything, Mr. Roos,” he said, pushing forward the ash tray. “It was merely my intention we should have a little talk about this job of last Friday.”

  “Job? What job?” said Werner Roos, pretending to look mystified.

  “At that bank on Hornsgatan. A successful job, in so far as ninety thousand is a tidy sum, but less successful at least for the bank customer who unfortunately got shot,” said Bulldozer Olsson drily.

  Werner Roos stared at him in amazement. Slowly he shook his head. “Now you’re really out on a limb,” he said. “Last Friday, did you say?”

  “Exactly,” said Bulldozer. “At which time you, Mr. Roos, were of course on your travels. Flying, I should say. Where were we last Friday, then?” Bulldozer Olsson leaned back in his chair and looked at Werner Roos in amusement.

  “Where you were last Friday, Mr. Olsson, I do not know. For my part I was in Lisbon. You’re welcome to check with the airline. We landed in Lisbon at 14:45 hours, after being delayed ten minutes. At 9:10 on Saturday morning we took off and arrived at Arlanda at 15:30. Last Friday I had dinner and slept at the Hotel Tivoli, another fact you’re welcome to check up on.” Werner Roos, too, sat back in his chair and looked triumphantly at Bulldozer, who was beaming with delight.

  “Pretty!” he said. “A very pretty alibi indeed, Mr. Roos.” Leaning forward, he stubbed his cigarette in the ash tray and went on maliciously: “But surely Messrs. Malmström and Mohrén weren’t in Lisbon, were they?”

  “What the hell should they be in Lisbon for? Anyway, it isn’t my business to keep track of what Malmström and Mohrén may be up to.”

  “Isn’t it, Mr. Roos?”

  “No, as I’ve told you many times before. And as far as this job of last Friday is concerned, I haven’t even had time to read the Swedish newspapers these last few days, so I know nothing whatever about any bank robbery.”

  “Then I can inform you, Mr. Roos, that the job was carried out at closing time by someone who, disguised as a woman, first appropriated ninety thousand kronor in cash, then shot down a man who was a client of the bank, and then fled from the sc
ene in a Renault. This shooting business of course places the crime in quite another category, as you, Mr. Roos, will appreciate.”

  “What I don’t understand is how I am supposed to have anything to do with all this,” Roos said irritably.

  “Mr. Roos, when did you last meet our friends Malmström and Mohrén?” Bulldozer inquired.

  “I told you that last time, didn’t I? I haven’t seen them since.”

  “And you’ve no idea of their whereabouts?”

  “None. All I know about them is what you’ve just been telling me. I’ve not seen them since before they were put away in Kumla.”

  Bulldozer gave Werner Roos a straight look, then wrote something down on a pad in front of him, closed it, and got up.

  “Oh well,” he said nonchalantly. “That shouldn’t be so hard to find out.” He went over to the window and lowered the blinds against the afternoon sun, which had begun to shine into the room.

  Werner Roos waited until he had sat down again. Then he said: “This much I can say, anyway. If there was any shooting involved, then Malmström and Mohrén weren’t mixed up in it. They’re not that stupid.”

  “It’s possible Malmström and Mohrén wouldn’t start shooting; but that doesn’t rule out their being mixed up in it—like sitting outside in the getaway car, for example. Eh?”

  Roos shrugged his shoulders and glared at the floor, his chin buried firmly in the collar of his sweater.

  “Moreover, it’s not beyond the limits of possibility that they used a companion, a female companion maybe,” Bulldozer went on enthusiastically. “It’s a possibility we must take into account, yes. Wasn’t it Malmström’s fiancée who was in on that job they were put away for last time?” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Gunilla Bergström, yes! She got one-and-a-half years, so we know where we have her,” he said.

  Roos glanced at him without raising his head.

  “She hasn’t escaped yet,” Bulldozer explained parenthetically. “But there are plenty of other girls, and obviously these gentlemen have nothing against female accomplices. Or what do you say, Mr. Roos?”

  Again Werner Roos shrugged his shoulders, straightening his back. “Hmm, what should I say?” he said indifferently. “After all, it’s no concern of mine.”

  “No, of course not,” said Bulldozer, nodding thoughtfully, his eyes on Roos. Then he leaned forward and laid the palms of his hands before him on the desk top. “So you maintain you haven’t met Malmström and Mohrén or even heard from them in the last six months?”

  “Yes, I do,” said Werner Roos. “As I’ve said before, I’m not responsible for anything they may be up to. We’ve known each other since grade school, we never denied that. Since then we’ve gone around together from time to time, that’s something else I’ve never tried to conceal. But that doesn’t mean we bump into each other every quarter of an hour or that they tell me where they’re going or what they’re up to. I’m the first to be sorry if they’ve gone off the rails, but as to any criminal activities, I’ve nothing to do with them. And as I’ve said before, I’d be glad to help them back onto the straight and narrow path. But anyway, it’s a long time since I ran into them.”

  “You do realize, Mr. Roos, that what you’re saying could become extremely incriminating and that you may also find yourself in a highly suspect position if it turns out that you’ve been in touch with these two?”

  “I can’t see why.”

  Bulldozer smiled at him amiably. “Oh yes, I’m sure you can!” He banged his palms down on the desk and got up. “Now I’ve some other matters to see to,” he said. “We’ll have to interrupt our talk and resume it a little later. If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Roos?” Bulldozer walked briskly out of the room, throwing a glance at Werner Roos before closing the door behind him.

  Roos had impressed him as being very troubled and disconcerted. Bulldozer rubbed his hands together in delight as he hurried off down the corridor.

  After the door had closed behind Bulldozer Olsson, Werner Roos got up, drifted over to the window, and peered out through the venetian blinds, whistling slowly and melodiously to himself. Then he glanced at his Rolex, frowned, quickly went over to Bulldozer’s chair, and sat down. Drawing the telephone toward him, he lifted the receiver and dialed a number. While he was waiting he opened the drawers of the desk and looked through them one by one.

  Someone answered and Roos said: “Hi kid, it’s me. Look, can we meet a little later this evening, instead? I’ve got to have a talk with a guy, and it may take a couple of hours.”

  Roos took a pen marked “state property” out of a drawer and picked his other ear with it as he listened. “Sure,” he said, “and then we’ll go out and eat. I’m hungry as hell.” He scrutinized the pen, tossed it back, and shut the drawer. “No, I’m in the bar now. It’s a kind of hotel; but the grub’s lousy here, so I’ll wait and eat when we meet. Seven, okay? Good, then I’ll pick you up at seven. So long for now.”

  Roos put down the receiver, got up, thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, and started to saunter around the room—whistling.

  Bulldozer went in to Gunvald Larsson. “I’ve got Roos here now,” he said.

  “Well, where was he last Friday, then? Was he in Kuala Lumpur or Singapore?”

  “In Lisbon,” Bulldozer said delightedly. “He’s sure got himself the perfect cover job for a gangster. Who else could come up with such fantastic alibis?”

  “What else did he have to say?”

  “Nothing. He knows nothing at all. Anyway nothing about the bank robbery, and he hasn’t met Malmström and Mohrén for ages. He’s slippery as an eel, crafty as a crayfish, and lies as fast as a horse can trot.”

  “In other words he’s a traveling menagerie,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Well, what are you going to do with him?”

  Bulldozer sat down in the chair in front of Gunvald Larsson. “I intend to let him go,” he said. “And I intend to have him shadowed. Can you get someone to shadow Roos, someone he won’t recognize?”

  “Where’s he got to be shadowed to? Honolulu? In that case I’ll volunteer myself.”

  “I’m serious,” said Bulldozer.

  Gunvald Larsson sighed. “I guess I’ll have to arrange it,” he said. “When’s he to begin?”

  “Now,” said Bulldozer. “I’ll let Roos go at once. He’s off duty until Thursday afternoon, and before then he’ll have shown us where Malmström and Mohrén are hiding out, just so long as we don’t let him out of our sight.”

  “Thursday afternoon,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Then we’ll need at least two men who can relieve each other.”

  “And they’ll have to be damned good at shadowing,” said Bulldozer. “He mustn’t notice anything, or all will be lost.”

  “Give me fifteen minutes,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I’ll call you when it’s all fixed.”

  When Werner Roos climbed into a cab on Kungsholmsgatan twenty minutes later, Detective Sergeant Rune Ek was sitting at the wheel of a gray Volvo.

  Rune Ek was a corpulent man in his fifties. He had white hair, glasses, and ulcers, and his doctor had just put him on a strict diet. This was why he didn’t get much out of the four hours he spent at a table for one in the Opera Cellar restaurant, though Werner Roos and his red-haired lady friend apparently denied themselves nothing, whether dry or wet, at their window table on the veranda.

  Ek passed the long, light summer night in an elder grove out at Hässelby, furtively watching the redhead’s breasts, which were to be observed intermittently bobbing up and down on the waves of Lake Mälaren, as Werner Roos, like a latter-day Tarzan, did the crawl.

  Later, as the morning sun shone down between the treetops, Ek continued this activity among some bushes outside a Hässelby bungalow. Having ascertained that the newly bathed couple were alone in the house, he devoted the following half hour to picking ticks out of his hair and clothes.

  When, some hours later, Rune Ek was relieved, Werner Roos still hadn’t put in an appearance. As f
ar as anyone could see, it might take several hours before he dragged himself out of the redhead’s arms in order, it was to be hoped, to look up his friends Malmström and Mohrén.

  14

  Anyone who had been in a position to compare the bank robbery squad to the robbers themselves would have found that in many ways they were evenly matched. The squad had enormous technical resources at its disposal, but its opponents possessed a large amount of working capital and also held the initiative.

  Very likely Malmström and Mohrén would have made good policemen if anyone could have induced them to devote themselves to so dubious a career. Their physical qualities were formidable, nor was there much wrong with their intelligence.

  Neither of them had ever occupied himself with anything except crime, and now, aged thirty-three and thirty-five respectively, they could rightly be described as able professional criminals. But since only a narrow group of citizens regarded the robbery business as respectable, they had adopted other professions on the side. On passports, driving licenses, and other means of identification they described themselves as “engineer” or “executive,” well-chosen labels in a country that literally swarms with engineers and executives. All their documents were made up in totally different names. The documents were forgeries, but with a particularly convincing appearance, both at first and second sight. Their passports, for example, had already passed a series of tests, both at Swedish and foreign border crossings.

  Personally, both Malmström and Mohrén seemed if possible even more trustworthy. They made a pleasant, straightforward impression and seemed healthy and vigorous. Four months of freedom had to some extent modified their appearance; both were now deeply tanned. Malmström had grown a beard, and Mohrén wore not only a moustache but also side-whiskers.

  The suntan did not derive from any ordinary tourist trap like Majorca or the Canary Islands but from a three-week so-called photo safari in East Africa. This had been pure recreation. Later they’d made a couple of business trips, one to Italy to complete their equipment and the other to Frankfurt to hire a couple of efficient aides.