The Locked Room

by Maj Sjowall

  “Not me,” said Kollberg. He refused, on principle, ever to carry arms.

  By now Bulldozer was almost lyrical. “The criminals are disarmed and handcuffed. Then I myself enter the apartment and warn them that they’re under arrest. Then they’re taken away.” For a few moments he pondered these promising prospects. Then said animatedly: “Then we have the interesting third possibility: Malmström and Mohrén don’t open up at all. They’re extremely cautious and pay close attention to the doorbell signal. Now let’s think about this. If they didn’t answer, Mauritzon said the plan was for him to withdraw, wait nearby, return exactly twelve minutes later, and repeat the signal. And we’ll do the same. Wait twelve minutes and ring again. Then either situation one or situation two will automatically occur. And we’ve already analyzed them.”

  Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson exchanged a glance of mutual comprehension.

  “Alternative four …” Bulldozer began.

  But he was interrupted by Kollberg, who said: “An alternative can only be one of two.”

  “I couldn’t care less. Alternative four is that Malmström and Mohrén still don’t open up. In that case you break down the door and—”

  “And force our way in with our guns at the ready and surround the criminals,” Gunvald Larsson finished with a deep sigh.

  “Precisely,” said Bulldozer. “That’s precisely how it’s going to be. Then I come into the room and arrest them. Perfect! You know this backwards. And all the possibilities have been exhausted. Right?”

  For a while there was silence. Then Zachrisson mumbled: “Fifth alternative: the gangsters open the door and mow us all down with their submachine guns, after which they take to their heels.”

  “Idiot,” said Gunvald Larsson. “For one thing Malmström and Mohrén’ve been arrested any number of times without anyone ever getting hurt. For another, there’s only two of them, and there’s going to be six policemen and one dog outside the door, and ten more men in the stairway, and twenty out on the street, and a district attorney in the attic or wherever he figures on hanging out.”

  Zachrisson looked crestfallen but couldn’t refrain from adding a final misanthropic word: “One can never be really sure about anything in this world.”

  “Shall I come too?” asked the computer man.

  “No,” said Bulldozer. “I don’t see that there’s anything for you to do.”

  “Without your machine you’re helpless,” Kollberg said.

  “Perhaps we could hoist it up there for him with a crane,” said Gunvald Larsson.

  “You know all about the apartment’s layout and existing entrances and exits,” Bulldozer summed up. “The house has been under discreet observation for three hours and, as expected, nothing’s happened. Malmström and Mohrén can’t possibly know what’s in store for them. Gentlemen, we are ready.” He produced an antique silver watch from his breast pocket, flipped open the watchcase, and said: “In thirty-two minutes we strike.”

  “Isn’t it conceivable that they’ll try to beat it through the window?” Zachrisson suggested.

  “Okay by me,” said Gunvald Larsson. “The apartment’s four flights up, as you know, and there’s no fire escape.”

  “Alternative six in that case,” said Zachrisson.

  Bulldozer now turned to Mauritzon, who had been following the debate with indifference. “I don’t suppose you’d care to accompany us, Mr. Mauritzon? Perhaps you’d like to meet your pals?”

  Mauritzon answered with something between a shrug and a shudder.

  “Then I suggest we put you somewhere nice and peaceful until the matter’s been cleared up. After all, you’re a businessman, Mr. Mauritzon, and so you should understand that, in a manner of speaking, I am too. Should it appear you’ve tricked us in some way, our bargaining position will be a different one.”

  Mauritzon nodded. “All right,” he said. “But I know they’re there.”

  “I think Mr. Mauritzon’s a goddam rat,” said Gunvald Larsson to no one in particular.

  Kollberg and Rönn studied the plans of the apartment one last time. The sketch had been drawn up according to Mauritzon’s directions and was fairly accurate. Kollberg folded the paper and put it in his pocket. “Okay, then we’ll get going,” he said.

  Mauritzon raised his voice and said: “As a friend, I’d just like to say Malmström and Mohrén are more dangerous than you think. They’re sure to try and fight their way out. So don’t take any risks.”

  Gunvald Larsson looked at Mauritzon grimly and said: “By that you mean you’d rather we shot both your pals dead on the spot, so you won’t have to go around being scared to death of them for the rest of your life.”

  “I only wanted to warn you,” said Mauritzon. “No need to take offense.”

  “Shut your face, you bloody pig,” said Gunvald Larsson. He loathed being regarded as a colleague by people he despised. And that went for everyone, from informers to members of the National Police Board.

  “Everything’s ready,” Bulldozer said with ill-concealed eagerness. “The action’s on. Now we’ll get going.”

  In the house on Danvik Cliffs all was as expected. What Mauritzon had said seemed to fit: for example, the name “S. Andersson” was on the doorplate.

  Gunvald Larsson and Rönn were standing on either side of the door, pressed against the wall. Both had pistols in their hands: Gunvald Larsson his private Smith & Wesson thirty-eight Master, and Rönn his usual 7.65 millimeter Walther. Between them stood Kollberg, and the stairway behind him was crammed with people: Zachrisson and the tear gas man, the dog handler and the dog, both the new detective sergeants, plus several uniformed patrolmen holding submachine guns and wearing bullet-proof vests. Bulldozer Olsson, supposedly, was in the elevator.

  A world under arms, thought Kollberg, as his eyes followed the second hand on Gunvald Larsson’s timepiece. He himself, of course, was unarmed.

  Thirty-four seconds still to go. Gunvald Larsson’s timepiece was a luxury watch. It always kept strict time.

  Kollberg wasn’t the slightest bit frightened. He’d been a cop far too long to be afraid of people like Malmström and Mohrén. On the other hand, he was wondering what they were thinking and talking about in there, isolated with their weapons, their supply of underpants, and mountains of goose-liver pâté and Russian caviar.

  Sixteen seconds.

  One of them, probably Mohrén, was obviously a gourmet of the first order, if Mauritzon was to be believed. Kollberg understood such an inclination very well: he himself was a lover of good food.

  Eight seconds.

  What would become of all that delicious grub when Mohrén and Malmström had been handcuffed and taken away? Maybe he could buy it off Mohrén cheap? Or would that be receiving stolen goods?

  Two seconds.

  Russian caviar, the kind with the golden lid, thought Lennart Kollberg.

  One second.

  Zero.

  He put his right index finger on the doorbell: very short — long — pause — short — short — short — short — pause—long—very short.

  Everyone waited.

  Someone audibly drew his breath.

  A shoe creaked.

  Zachrisson, in some unknown way, managed to make his pistol rattle. How the hell can a pistol rattle?

  Pistolrattle. Interesting word, thought Kollberg. His stomach rumbled. Probably at the thought of Russian caviar. Something in keeping with Pavlov’s dogs.

  But this was all that happened. After two minutes there had still been no reaction to the bell from inside. According to the plan, they were now to wait ten minutes and then ring again.

  Kollberg raised his right hand as a signal to those behind him to withdraw. Only Zachrisson, the dog, the dog handler, and the tear gas specialist remained within view; the first three went upstairs, and the latter down. Rönn and Gunvald Larsson stayed put.

  Kollberg knew the plan down to the last detail, but he also knew Gunvald Larsson hadn’t the faintest intention
of following it. So he moved slightly to one side.

  Gunvald Larsson also moved, placing himself right in front of the door and viewing it appraisingly. The thing didn’t look impossible.

  Larsson’s got a mania for knocking down doors, thought Kollberg. True, he nearly always succeeded, but Kollberg disliked the method on principle and therefore shook his head and made a negative grimace.

  As he expected, Gunvald Larsson took not the slightest notice. Instead, he backed away toward the wall and supported himself against it with his right shoulder.

  Rönn appeared to be in on the idea.

  Gunvald Larsson, hunched over and with his left shoulder protruding, made ready to fling himself against the door, a living battering ram—six feet three-and-one-half inches long and weighing 238 pounds.

  Things having taken this turn, Kollberg too, of course, was in on it. No one, however, could have foreseen what was to happen within the next moment.

  Gunvald Larsson flung himself forward, and the door, as though it hadn’t even existed, flew open with inconceivable celerity.

  This unexpected lack of any resistance caused Gunvald Larsson to rush straight through the entrance without any chance whatever of braking. Utterly off balance and in a pronouncedly forward-leaning posture, he flew straight across the room like a bolting crane and struck his head hard against the window frame opposite. The remainder of his enormous mass of mortal clay, however, went on following the laws of gravity. It swung around, unfortunately in the wrong direction, in such a manner that his backside, forcing out the windowpane, fell backwards out of the window in a cloud of splintering glass.

  At the very last second he let go of his pistol and grabbed hold of the window ledge with his huge fist. He was thus left dangling five stories up from the ground with the larger part of his body outside the window—to which he clung desperately with his right hand and the hollow of his knee. Blood was already gushing from deep cuts in his hand, and his trouser leg, too, was beginning to turn red.

  Rönn didn’t move quite so fast but was still quick enough on his feet to get across the threshold the very second the door slammed shut again on its screeching hinges. It struck him with full force in the forehead. He dropped his pistol and fell backwards out onto the landing.

  When the door flew open for the second time—after its collision with Rönn—Kollberg, too, succeeded in hurling himself into the apartment. A hasty survey showed that the only traces of human life in the room were one of Gunvald Larsson’s hands and his right shank. Kollberg darted forward and grabbed hold of the leg with both hands.

  There was imminent risk of Gunvald Larsson falling to his death. Kollberg leaned the considerable weight of his body against the leg and with his right hand succeeded in clasping his colleague’s wildly gesticulating left arm. For a few seconds it seemed as though the weight ratio was wrong, and that they would both be catapulted out of the window. But Gunvald Larsson’s lacerated right hand did not let go its grip, and, exerting all his strength, Kollberg finally succeeded in heaving up his distressed colleague to a point where he was at least halfway in again, torn to shreds and bleeding, but almost in safety.

  By now Rönn, who had not lost consciousness, was crawling over the threshold on all fours, fumbling as he did so for his pistol which he’d dropped as he fell.

  The next man to appear on the scene was Zachrisson, immediately followed by the dog, which bounded forward. Zachrisson saw Rönn crawling around on all fours, blood dripping down from his head onto the pistol, which was lying on the floor. He also saw Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson bloodily intertwined by the smashed window and obviously out of action.

  Zachrisson yelled: “Stop! Police!” Then he cocked his pistol and fired off a shot which hit the ceiling light. A white glass globe, it exploded with an ear-shattering report. Then, turning on his heel, he shot the dog. The beast sunk down onto its hind legs and gave a howl of agony, which pierced through bone and marrow. Zachrisson’s third shot went through the open door of the bathroom, perforating the hot water pipe. A long jet of hot water spouted into the room. He fired another shot; but the pistol misfired and the mechanism jammed.

  Wild-eyed, the dog handler rushed in. “The bastards have shot Boy,” he yelled piercingly, drawing his regulation pistol. Flourishing it, he looked furiously around for someone on whom he could wreak vengeance.

  The dog howled worse than ever.

  A patrolman in a blue-green bullet-proof vest ran in through the open doorway with a loaded submachine gun but stumbled over Rönn and flopped to the floor. His weapon flew across the parquet flooring. The dog, obviously mortally wounded, sank its fangs into one of his thighs. The patrolman began yelling for help.

  By now Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson were indoors again, lacerated and exhausted but with two conclusions lucidly in their heads. Primo: there hadn’t been anybody in the apartment, neither Malmström nor Mohrén nor anyone else. Secundo: the door had not been locked nor presumably even properly closed.

  By now the jet of hot water from the bathroom was scalding and steaming. It struck Zachrisson full in the face.

  The policeman who was wearing the bullet-proof vest crawled over to his submachine gun. The dog, refusing to let go, snuffled after him, teeth sunk deeply into its victim’s meaty leg.

  Raising his bleeding hand, Gunvald Larsson roared: “Stop!”

  And at that very instant the tear gas specialist hurled two grenades in quick succession through the door. They landed on the floor, between Rönn and the dog handler, and instantly exploded.

  Somebody fired one last shot—who, it isn’t known for sure. Probably the man with the dog. The bullet struck the heating radiator half an inch from one of Kollberg’s knees, ricocheted whining out into the stairway, and hit the tear gas man in the shoulder.

  Kollberg tried to yell: “We give in! We give in!” But he only produced a hoarse croak.

  Spreading swiftly, the gas mingled with steam and the smoke of the grenades until it filled the room and no one could any longer see anyone else. Inside, six men and a dog were groaning, crying, and coughing.

  Outside, on the stairs, the gas expert sat whimpering, the palm of his right hand pressed against his left shoulder.

  Rushing down from the floor above, Bulldozer Olsson asked indignantly: “What’s happened? What’s going on? What’s up?”

  Horrible sounds were coming out of the gas-filled room: strangled howls, cries for help, and crude, incomprehensible curses.

  “Stop the whole operation,” Bulldozer ordered in a faint voice, himself beginning to cough hoarsely and shrilly. He retreated upwards out of the gas cloud, which followed him. Straightening his back, he turned to the now hardly discernible doorway. “Malmström and Mohrén,” he said in a voice of authority, but with the tears streaming down his face, “throw away your guns and come out with your hands up. You’re under arrest.”

  19

  On the morning of Thursday, July 6, 1972, the members of the special squad were pale but composed. In their headquarters a glum silence reigned. No one felt particularly merry after yesterday’s events. Least of all Gunvald Larsson. In a film, maybe, there’s something comic about tumbling out of a window and dangling five stories above the ground. In reality there certainly isn’t. Torn hands and clothes aren’t particularly funny either.

  Indeed, Gunvald was more annoyed about his clothes than about anything else. He was always scrupulous in the selection of his wardrobe, which also swallowed up a good slice of his salary. And now, for the umpteenth time, some of his most highly valued garments had fallen victim to his duties.

  Nor was Einar Rönn happy. And even Kollberg was finding it hard to appreciate the comic elements in the situation, glaring though they were. He still recollected very clearly those butterflies in his stomach at the moment when he’d truly believed that both he and Gunvald Larsson only had five more seconds to live before being dashed to pieces on the ground. Nor was he religious. Kollberg did not believe in some huge poli
ce headquarters up in the sky, inhabited by winged detectives.

  Though the battle of Danvik Cliffs had been analyzed in great detail, their written report was oddly vague and evasive. It was Kollberg who had written it.

  But their losses could not be argued away. Three men had been taken off to the hospital, admittedly in no danger for their lives or with any risk of permanent harm. The tear gas expert had a flesh wound in his shoulder, and Zachrisson had burns on his face. The doctors also alleged that he was suffering from shock, seemed “queer,” and found it hard to give straightforward answers to simple questions. This, however, might be because they didn’t know him and overestimated his intelligence—to underestimate it seemed virtually impossible. The patrolman who’d been bitten by the dog could look forward to several weeks’ sick leave. Torn muscles and ripped tendons don’t heal in a hurry.

  Worst off was the dog. The Veterinary College surgical clinic reported that, although they had managed to remove the bullet, if infection were to set in they might still have to put him away. But Boy was a young and strong beast, they added, and his general condition was satisfactory. To anyone familiar with Veterinary College jargon this inspired little hope.

  Rönn had an enormous bandage on his forehead and two magnificent bruises, which only lent added effect to the red nose with which nature had endowed him.

  Gunvald Larsson should really have stayed at home. No one with a tightly bandaged right hand and knee can really be declared fit for duty. He also had a big lump on his head.

  As for Kollberg, though troubled by a heavy, aching head (due, in his view, to the unhealthy air of the battlefield), he was in somewhat better condition. A special cure chiefly consisting of cognac, aspirin, and his wife’s loving and erotically tinged care, ably provided, had had a positive—if transient—effect.

  The enemy’s losses, too, were insignificant. They had not even been present at the battle. Several objects in the flat had been seized, but not even Bulldozer Olsson could claim the loss of a roll of toilet paper, a cardboard box containing string, two jars of whortleberry jam, and an improbable quantity of used underpants was likely to upset Malmström and Mohrén to any serious degree. Nor would it place any grave obstacles in the way of their future operations.