by Maj Sjowall
Back in Sweden they had carried out a few modest bank robberies as well as knocking off two check-cashing establishments, which, for fiscal reasons of a technical nature, had not dared to contact the police.
The gross income from this activity was considerable, but they had had large expenses and were looking forward to considerably more expenses in the near future.
A large investment, however, yields large dividends. So much they had learned from Sweden’s half-socialist, half-capitalist economy, and the least one can say about Malmström’s and Mohrén’s goals was that they were extremely ambitious.
Malmström and Mohrén were working on an idea—an idea by no means new, but which did not for that reason lack appeal. They were going to do one more job and then retire. At long last they were going to stage their really big coup.
By and large their preparations were complete. All problems of finance had been solved, and the plan was as good as set. As yet they didn’t know when or where; but they did know the most important thing: how. Their goal was in sight.
Though far from being criminals of the first order, Malmström and Mohrén were, as has been said, rather good at their job. The big-time criminal doesn’t get caught. The big-time criminal doesn’t rob banks. He sits in an office and presses buttons. He takes no risks. He doesn’t disturb society’s sacred cows. Instead he devotes himself to some kind of legalized extortion, preying on private individuals.
Big-time criminals profit from everything—from poisoning nature and whole populations and then pretending to repair their ravages by inappropriate medicines; from purposely turning whole districts of cities into slums in order to pull them down and then rebuild others in their place. The new slums, of course, turn out to be far more deleterious to people’s health than the old ones had been. But above all they don’t get caught.
Malmström and Mohrén, on the other hand, had an almost pathetic knack for getting caught. But they now believed that they had caught on to the reason for this: they had operated on too small a scale.
“Do you know what I was thinking about when I was taking a shower?” Malmström said. Emerging from the bathroom, he carefully spread a towel on the floor in front of him; he was wearing two others—one wound around his hips and the other draped over his shoulders. Malmström had a mania for cleanliness. This was already the fourth shower he’d taken today.
“Sure,” said Mohrén. “Chicks.”
“How could you guess?”
Mohrén was sitting by the window, looking intently out over Stockholm. He was dressed in shorts and a thin white shirt and was holding up a pair of naval binoculars to his eyes.
The apartment where they were living was in one of the large apartment houses on Danvik Cliffs, and the view was by no means bad.
“Work and chicks don’t mix,” Mohrén said. “You’ve seen how that turns out, haven’t you?”
“I don’t mix things, ever,” Malmström said, offended. “Aren’t I even allowed to think nowadays, huh?”
“Sure,” said Mohrén magnanimously. “Just carry right on thinking; if you’re up to it.” He let his binoculars follow a white steamboat which was coming in toward The Stream.
“Yes, it’s the ‘Norrskär,’ ” he said. “Amazing that she’s still on the job.”
“Who’s still on what job?”
“No one you’re interested in. Which ones were you thinking about?”
“Those birds in Nairobi. Some sexpots, eh? I’ve always said there’s something special about Negroes.”
“Negroes?” Mohrén corrected him. “Negresses, in this case. Absolutely not Negroes.”
Malmström sprayed himself scrupulously under his arms and in certain other places.
“If you say so,” he said.
“Anyway there’s nothing special about Negresses,” Mohrén said. “If you happened to get that impression it was just because you were suffering from sex-starvation.”
“The devil I was!” Malmström disagreed. “By the way, did yours have a lot of hair on her cunt?”
“Yes,” said Mohrén. “As a matter of fact she did, now that I think of it. A bewildering abundance. And it was very stiff. Bushy and nasty.”
“And her tits?”
“Black,” said Mohrén. “And lightly hung.”
“I thought mine said she was a maîtresse, or else a mattress. Could that be right?”
“She said she was a waitress. I guess your English was a bit rusty. Anyway, she thought you were a train engineer.”
“Yes, well, anyway she was a tart. What was yours?”
“Keypunch operator.”
“Hmm.”
Malmström picked up some sealed polyethylene bags containing underwear and socks, tore them open, and began to get dressed.
“You’re going to waste your whole fortune on underpants,” said Mohrén. “A most remarkable passion, I must say.”
“Yes, it’s goddam awful how expensive they’ve become.”
“Inflation,” said Mohrén. “And we’re partly to blame.”
“How the hell can that be?” asked Malmström. “We’ve been inside for years.”
“We spend a lot of money unnecessarily. Thieves are always goddam spendthrifts.”
“Not you.”
“No, but I’m a shining exception. Though I do spend a fair amount on food.”
“You didn’t even want to fork out for those birds down there in Africa. That’s why things turned out as they did. It was your fault we had to scrounge around for three days until we found a couple who’d do it free.”
“That wasn’t only for economic reasons,” Mohrén said. “And certainly it wasn’t to dampen inflation in Kenya. But as I see the matter, it’s public thievishness that’s undermining the value of money. If anyone should be put into Kumla it’s the government.”
“Hmm.”
“And the tycoons. I’ve been reading about an interesting example of the way inflation begins.”
“Oh?”
“When the British seized Damascus in October, 1918, the troops broke into the state bank and stole all the cash. Those soldiers hadn’t any idea what it was worth. Among other things, an Australian cavalryman gave half a million to a kid who held his horse for him when he took a piss.”
“Does a horse have to be held while it pisses?”
“Prices shot up a hundredfold, and only a few hours later a toilet roll was costing two hundred bucks.”
“Did they really have toilet paper out there in Australia? In those days?”
Mohrén sighed. Sometimes he felt his intellect was becoming numb from never talking to anyone except Malmström. “Damascus,” he said ponderously, “is in Arabia. Syria, to be more exact.”
“No kidding.” By now Malmström was dressed and was studying the results in a mirror. Muttering to himself, he fluffed up his beard and flicked some specks of dust, invisible to any normal person, off his blazer. Spreading out the towels side by side on the floor, he went over to the closet and got their weapons. Laying them out in a row, he got some cheesecloth and a can of cleaning liquid.
Mohrén cast a distraught glance at the arsenal. “How many times have you done that? It’s all new from the factory, or almost, anyway.”
“Have to keep our things in order,” Malmström said. “Firearms need looking after.”
They had enough there to start a minor war or, at the very least, a revolution. Two automatics, one revolver, two submachine guns, and three sawed-off shotguns. The submachine guns were standard Swedish Army equipment. All the others were foreign.
Both the automatics were of large caliber, a nine-millimeter Spanish Firebird and a Llama IX. The revolver, too, was Spanish, an Astra Cadix forty-five, and so was one of the shotguns, a Maritza. Both the others came from elsewhere on the Continent, a Belgian Continental Supra de Luxe and an Austrian Ferlach with the romantic name “Forever Yours.”
Having cleaned the pistols, Malmström picked up the Belgian rifle. “The person who s
awed off this rifle should be shot with it in the balls,” he said.
“I guess he didn’t acquire it like we did.”
“What? I don’t get you.”
“Didn’t acquire it honestly,” Mohrén said seriously. “Probably he stole it.” He turned back to the view of the river. “Stockholm sure is a spectacular city,” he observed.
“How do you mean?”
“It needs to be enjoyed from a distance. So it’s a good thing we don’t have to go out much.”
“Scared someone’ll knock you off in the subway?”
“Among other things. Or else of getting a dagger in my back. Or an axe through my skull. Or being kicked to death by a hysterical police horse. Really, I feel sorry for people.”
“People? What people?”
Mohrén made a sweeping gesture. “People down there. Imagine working your ass off to scrape together enough dough to pay off the installments on a car and a summer place while your kids are doping themselves to death. And your wife’s only got to stick her nose outdoors after six in the evening to be raped. And yourself, you don’t even dare to go to vespers.”
“Vespers?”
“Just an example. If you’ve more than a ten-kronor bill on you, you get robbed; and if you’ve got less, the muggers stick a knife in your back out of sheer disappointment. The other day I read in the newspapers that even the cops don’t dare go out alone any more. There are fewer cops on the streets, and it’s becoming harder and harder to keep order. Something like that. It was some big shot in the Ministry of Justice who said so. No, it’ll be nice to get out of here and never come back.”
“And never see the Rangers again,” Malmström said gloomily.
“You and your vulgarity. Anyway, you’re not allowed that in Kumla, either.”
“Still we get a glimpse of it on TV, now and then.”
“Don’t mention our horrible cellmate,” Mohrén said. He got up and opened the window. Stretching out his arms, he threw his head back—as if directly addressing the masses. “Hello down there,” he shouted, “as Lyndon Johnson said when he held his election speech from a helicopter.”
“Who?” Malmström asked.
The doorbell rang. The signal was a complicated one; they listened carefully.
“Guess it’s Mauritzon,” Mohrén said, looking at his watch. “He’s even on time.”
“I don’t trust that bastard,” Malmström said. “This time we’re taking no chances.” He slipped the magazine into one of the machine guns. “Here,” he said.
Mohrén took the weapon.
Picking up the Astra, Malmström went out to the front door. Holding the revolver in his left hand he unlocked the various chains with his right. Malmström was left-handed. Mohrén stood six feet behind him.
Then, as abruptly as he could, Malmström jerked open the door.
The man outside had expected this. “Hello,” he said, staring nervously at the revolver.
“Hi,” said Malmström.
“Come in, come in,” Mohrén said. “Dear Mauritzon, you are welcome.”
The man who entered was laden with bags and packages of food. As he put down these groceries he cast a sideways glance at the display of weaponry.
“You guys planning a revolution?” he said.
“That’s always been our line of business,” Mohrén said. “Though right now the situation’s not ripe for one. Did you get us any crawfish?”
“How the devil d’you expect me to get hold of crawfish on the fourth of July?”
“What d’you think we’re paying you for?” Malmström said threateningly.
“A most legitimate question,” Mohrén said. “That you can’t get us what we tell you to is more than I can understand.”
“But there are limits,” Mauritzon said. “Haven’t I got you everything, for God’s sake? Apartments, cars, passports, tickets. But crawfish! Not even the king could fix himself some crawfish in July.”
“I guess not,” Mohrén said. “But what do you think they’re doing out at Harpsund? The whole bloody government’s probably sitting there gulping down crawfish. Palme, and Geijer, and Calle P.—the whole bunch of them. No, we’re not accepting such excuses.”
“As for that shaving lotion, it just doesn’t exist,” Mauritzon said hastily. “I’ve been rushing around town like a poisoned rat, but no one’s heard of it for several years now.”
Malmström’s countenance darkened noticeably.
“But I’ve fixed everything else,” Mauritzon went on. “And here’s today’s mail.”
He brought out a brown unaddressed envelope and handed it to Mohrén, who stuffed it indifferently into his hip pocket.
This Mauritzon was a wholly different type from the others. A man in his forties, shorter than average, slim and well built, he was clean-shaven and had short blond hair. Most people, especially women, thought he seemed nice. His way of dressing and behaving suggested moderation in all things, and he was not remarkable in any way. As a type, he could have been called ordinary and was therefore difficult to remember or notice. All this had stood him in good stead. He hadn’t been inside for several years, and at the moment he was neither wanted nor even under surveillance.
He had three different lines of business, all profitable: narcotics, pornography, and procurement. As a businessman he was efficient, energetic, and markedly systematic.
Thanks to an apparently well-meaning law, pornography of every conceivable form could now be produced perfectly legally and imported in unlimited quantities for re-export—mainly to Spain and Italy, where it sold at a good profit. His other line was smuggling, mainly amphetamines and other drugs, but he also accepted orders for weapons.
In inside circles Mauritzon was regarded as a man who could fix anything. A rumor was even going the rounds that he’d managed to smuggle in a couple of elephants he’d received from an Arabian sheik in part payment for two fourteen-year-old Finnish virgins and a drawerful of trick condoms. Moreover, the virgins were said to have been bogus—their maidenheads being a mixture of plastic and Karlsson’s glue—and the elephants white. Unfortunately, there was no truth to this story.
“New shoulder holsters too?” Malmström asked.
“Sure. They’re lying at the bottom of the food bag. May I ask what was wrong with the old ones?”
“Useless,” Malmström said.
“Utterly worthless,” Mohren said. “Where did you get them?”
“Police Supply Division. These new ones are Italian.”
“Sounds better,” said Malmström.
“Will there be anything else?”
“Yeah, here’s the list.”
Glancing at it fleetingly, Mauritzon reeled off: “One dozen underpants, fifteen pairs of nylon socks, six net undershirts, a pound of black caviar, four Donald Duck rubber masks, two packets of nine-millimeter automatic ammunition, six pairs of rubber gloves, preserved Appenzeller cheese, one can of cocktail onions, cotton wool, one astrolabe … what in Christ’s name is that?”
“An instrument for measuring the altitude of stars,” Mohrén said. “I guess you’ll have to look around in the antique shops.”
“I see. I’ll do my best.”
“Exactly,” said Malmström.
“Nothing else you want?”
Mohrén shook his head, but Malmström frowned thoughtfully and said: “Yes, foot spray.”
“Any special kind?”
“The most expensive.”
“I see. No chicks?”
No one answered, a silence which Mauritzon interpreted as hesitation.
“I can fix you up with any sort you want. It’s not good for you guys sitting here every evening like a pair of owls. A couple of lively chicks would speed up your metabolism.”
“My metabolism’s real fine,” Mohrén said. “And the only ladies I could think of are distinct security risks. No plastic hymens for me, thank you.”
“Come off it, there’s loads of crazy chicks who’d be more than pleased t
o …”
“I take that as a direct insult,” Mohrén said. “No, and again no.”
Malmström, however, still appeared to waver. “Though …”
“Yes?”
“This so-called assistant of yours, I’ll bet she knows what she’s doing.” He made a deprecatory gesture.
Mauritzon said: “Monita? She’s not your type, I’m sure. Not pretty or particularly good at it. General standard caliber. My tastes are simple when it comes to women. In a word, she’s just average.”
“If you say so,” said Malmström, disappointed.
“Besides which she’s gone away. She has a sister she visits now and then.”
“So that’s that,” Mohrén said. “There’s a time for everything, and the days are close at hand when …”
“What days?” said Malmström, mystified.
“The days when we shall once more be able to satisfy our lusts in a dignified manner and choose our own company. I hereby declare this meeting closed. Adjourned until the same time tomorrow.”
“Okay,” Mauritzon said. “Let me out, then.”
“Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“What d’you call yourself nowadays?”
“The usual. Lennart Holm.”
“Just in case anything should happen, and we need to get hold of you quick.”
“You know where I hang out.”
“And I’m still waiting for those crawfish.”
Mauritzon shrugged and left.
“Goddam sonofabitch,” Malmström said.
“What was that? Don’t you appreciate our trusty pal?”
“He smells of armpits,” Malmström said condemningly.
“Mauritzon’s a skunk,” Mohrén said. “I don’t dig his activities. Oh no, I don’t mean him running errands for us, naturally. But this giving dope to kids and selling pornography to illiterate Catholics. It’s dishonorable.”
“I don’t trust him,” Malmström said.
Mohrén had taken the brown envelope out of his pocket and was scrutinizing it closely. “What’s more, my friend,” he said, “you’re right. The guy’s useful but not wholly reliable. Look, today he’s opened this letter again. Wonder how he manages to get it unstuck? Some refined way of steaming it, I guess. If Roos didn’t use this hair trick no one’d notice someone’d been messing about with the envelope. Considering what we’re paying him it’s really unjustifiable. Why’s he so inquisitive?”