The Locked Room

by Maj Sjowall

  At 8:52 Bulldozer Olsson stormed in through the door. Already he had attended two early morning meetings, one at the National Police Board and another with the people from Fraud, and by now he was well and truly on the warpath. “Good morning, good morning, good morning,” he exclaimed merrily. “Well, boys, and how are you all?”

  The boys felt more middle-aged than ever. Not one of them replied.

  “Roos made some smart countermoves yesterday,” Olsson said. “But that’s nothing for us to cry over. Let’s say we’ve lost a couple of bishops and a pawn.”

  “Looked more like stalemate to me,” said Kollberg, who was a chess player.

  “But now it’s our move,” cried Bulldozer. “Fetch in Mauritzon. Let’s feel his pulse! He has something up his sleeve! And he’s scared, gentlemen, scared! He knows Malmström and Mohrén’ll be out for his blood now, and at this moment the greatest disservice we could do him would be to let him go. As he knows full well.”

  Red-eyed, Rönn, Kollberg, and Gunvald Larsson stared at their leader. The notion of again going into action on Mauritzon’s instructions had little appeal.

  Bulldozer studied them rather more carefully. His eyes, too, were swollen and red around the rims. “I thought of something last night, boys,” he said. “What do you say? Shouldn’t we employ rather younger and fresher forces for such operations from now on? I mean, like yesterday’s?” After a brief pause he added: “It hardly seems right that middle-aged men who have long ago settled down and reached moderately high rank should be rushing about the place like this, firing off guns and so forth.”

  Gunvald Larsson gave a deep sigh and slumped down even more. He looked as if someone had just stuck a knife in his back.

  Sure, thought Kollberg, that’s dead right. But a second later he felt furious. Middle-aged? Settled down? What the hell?

  Rönn mumbled something.

  “What’s that you said, Einar?” Bulldozer asked amiably.

  “Well, it wasn’t us who fired.”

  “Be that as it may,” said Bulldozer. “Be that as it may. Well, now we must all pull ourselves together. Bring in Mauritzon!”

  Mauritzon had spent the night in the cells—admittedly in greater comfort than usual. He had, for instance, been given a chamber pot to himself and even blankets, and the guard had inquired whether he’d like a glass of water.

  Mauritzon had had nothing against these arrangements, and was said to have slept soundly. Not like the evening before, when he’d first been arrested. When they’d told him Malmström and Mohrén hadn’t been there, he’d seemed troubled, not to say astounded.

  C.I.D. methods, however, had revealed that they had been there only a little while earlier. There was an abundance of both men’s fingerprints and traces of Mauritzon’s right thumb and forefinger had even been found on one of the jam jars.

  “You realize what that means?” Bulldozer Olsson said inquisitorially.

  “Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson. “That he’s circumstantially linked to ajar of whortleberry jam.”

  “Right!” said Bulldozer, cheerfully surprised. “In fact, we’ve proof against him. Proof that’ll even hold up in court. But that wasn’t what I was thinking.”

  “What were you thinking?”

  “That it shows Mauritzon’s been telling the truth and will therefore probably go on telling us whatever he knows.”

  “Sure—about Malmström and Mohrén.”

  “And that’s all we’re really interested in just now, right?”

  Once again Mauritzon was seated in their midst, the same insignificant mild little man, decent to the core.

  “Well, my dear Mr. Mauritzon,” said Bulldozer amicably. “Things failed to turn out quite as we’d expected.”

  Mauritzon shook his head. “Queer,” he said. “I don’t get it. They must have had some sort of sixth sense.”

  “Sixth sense,” said Bulldozer dreamily. “Yes, at times one can almost believe it. Now if Roos …”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Mauritzon. Nothing. Just talking to myself. But there’s something else worrying me. Our private accounts don’t quite balance. I’ve done you a big service, Mr. Mauritzon, and I’m still waiting, as it were, for a quid pro quo.”

  Mauritzon thought long and deeply. Finally he said: “You mean that I’m still not at liberty?”

  “Well,” said Bulldozer, “yes and no. When all’s said and done, dope pushing is a serious crime. I guess, Mr. Mauritzon, you’d get at least …” He broke off, counting on his fingers.

  “Well, I guess I can promise you eight months. Or at least six.”

  Mauritzon regarded him calmly.

  “But, on the other hand,” Bulldozer went on, his tone becoming livelier, “I’ve promised you absolution for this time, haven’t I? Provided I get something in exchange.” Bulldozer straightened his back, smacked his palms together in front of his face, and said brutally: “In other words, if you don’t immediately cough up everything you know about Malmström and Mohrén, we’ll have you inside as an accomplice. Your fingerprints were found in the flat. And then we’ll send you back to Jacobsson. And what’s more, we’ll see you get a damned good beating into the bargain.”

  Gunvald glanced appreciatively at the leader of the special squad and said: “Yeah, it’d be a personal pleasure for me to …” He left his sentence hanging in the air.

  Mauritzon didn’t bat an eyelash. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve something I guess you can use on Malmström and Mohrén—and on a few others besides.”

  Bulldozer Olsson brightened. “Interesting, Mr. Mauritzon! And what is this choice tidbit?”

  Mauritzon looked at Gunvald Larsson and said: “It’s so simple your cat could fix it.”

  “My cat?”

  “Sure. But don’t blame me if you screw it up again.”

  “My dear Mr. Mauritzon, no harsh words now! We’re all just as keen to get our paws on these lads as you are. But in heaven’s name, what is it you have on them?”

  “Their plan for their next job,” Mauritzon said tonelessly. “Timings and all.”

  For just a moment District Attorney Olsson’s eyes almost jumped out of his head. Three times he ran around Mauritzon’s chair shouting like a maniac: “Tell us, Mr. Mauritzon! Spill the beans! You’re already as good as free! We’ll even give you a police escort if you like. But tell us. Please Mr. Mauritzon, tell us everything!”

  Infected by his curiosity, the whole special squad had risen to their feet and were standing impatiently around the stool pigeon.

  “Okay,” Mauritzon said without more ado. “I’d promised to help Malmström and Mohrén with one thing and another. Purchases and so forth. They weren’t too keen on going out, see? And every day I was to go to a cigar store in the Birka district and ask for Mohrén’s mail.”

  “Which cigar store?” Kollberg demanded instantly.

  “Oh, I don’t mind telling you that too, though it won’t do you any good knowing it. I’ve checked up on that already. The shop’s kept by an old woman, and the letters had been handed in by old-age pensioners, a different one each time.”

  “Oh?” said Bulldozer. “Letters? What letters? How many letters?”

  “Altogether only three,” Mauritzon said.

  “And you delivered them?”

  “Sure. But not before I’d opened them.”

  “Didn’t Mohrén notice?”

  “No. People whose letters I open don’t notice. I’ve a perfect way of doing it, see? Chemical.”

  “Indeed, and what was in the letters?” It was more than Bulldozer could do to stand still. He kept skipping about the floor like an overplump bantam cock on a hot grill.

  “There was nothing at all interesting in the first two. They were about a couple of guys called ‘H’ and ‘H’ who were to come to a place called ‘Q’ and so forth. Just short messages. In some kind of a code. I stuck down the envelopes again and gave them to Mohrén.”

  “And the third one?�
�

  “The third one came the day before yesterday. And that was most interesting, indeed. The plans for their next job, as I’ve already said. Detailed.”

  “And you gave the paper to Mohrén?”

  “Papers. There were three big sheets. Sure I gave them to Mohrén. But not until I’d taken photostats, which I put away in a safe place.”

  “Oh, my dear Mr. Mauritzon,” said Bulldozer, overwhelmed. “But which place? And how soon can you go and get them?”

  “You can get them yourself. I don’t feel like it.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as I’ve told you where they are.”

  “And where’s that?”

  “Take it easy,” Mauritzon said. “This is the genuine thing, don’t you worry. But first there’s a couple of things I want.”

  “And what are they?”

  “First that paper from Jacobsson, the one you’ve got in your pocket. The one where it says I’m not suspected of narcotics offenses, and that the preliminary investigation’s been abandoned for lack of evidence and so on.”

  “Sure, immediately,” said Bulldozer, putting his hand into his inside pocket.

  “Further, I want a similar paper, signed by yourself, about this business of my being an accomplice of Malmström and Mohrén. That the thing’s been looked into and that I’ve been acting in good faith and so forth.”

  Bulldozer Olsson flew to his typewriter. The document was ready in less than two minutes. Mauritzon took both, read through their texts, and said: “Good. The letter with the copies is at the Sheraton.”

  “The hotel?”

  “Yes. I sent it there. It’s with the desk clerk. Poste restante.”

  “Under what name?”

  “Count Philip von Brandenburg,” said Mauritzon bashfully. “Philip spelt with a ‘ph.’ ”

  They all looked at him astounded.

  Then Bulldozer said: “Oh, my dear Mr. Mauritzon, admirable, admirable! Wouldn’t you like to sit in another room just for a little while where you can have a cup of coffee and a Danish pastry or something?”

  “Tea, thanks,” said Mauritzon.

  “Tea,” said Bulldozer absent-mindedly. “Einar, would you kindly see to it that Mr. Mauritzon gets some tea and a Danish pastry … and … some company.”

  Rönn went out with Mauritzon and after less than a minute came back again.

  “And what,” said Kollberg, “do we do now?”

  “Fetch that letter,” said Bulldozer. “On the double. The simplest way would be if one of you went there and said you’re Count von Brandenburg and asked for his mail. You for example, Gunvald.”

  Gunvald Larsson stared stiffly at him out of his china-blue eyes. “Me? Not on your life. I’d sooner hand in my resignation on the spot.”

  “Then you’ll have to do it, Einar. If we tell the truth it’ll only lead to a fuss. Maybe they’d refuse to hand over the Count’s mail and so on. We can lose a lot of valuable time.”

  “Sure,” said Rönn. “Philip von Brandenburg, Count. Here, I’ve got one of Mauritzon’s calling cards he’s given me. Had them in a kind of secret pocket in his wallet. They look most aristocratic.”

  The calling card was printed in a grayish print with a silver monogram in one corner.

  “Get going,” said Bulldozer impatiently. “Beat it!”

  Rönn went.

  “I’m thinking of something queer,” Kollberg said. “If I go into the grocer’s where I’ve shopped these ten years and ask to buy a pint of milk on account, they’ll turn me down. But if a guy like Mauritzon walks into one of the smartest jewelers in town and says he’s the Duke of Malexander he can walk out with two diamond rings and ten pearl necklaces on approval.”

  “Well, that’s the way it is,” said Gunvald Larsson. “We live in a class society … pure and simple.”

  Bulldozer Olsson nodded absent-mindedly. He wasn’t interested in questions concerning the social structure.

  The desk clerk looked at the letter he was holding in his hand, then at the visiting card, and lastly at Rönn. “Are you really Count von Brandenburg?” he asked suspiciously.

  “Sure,” said Rönn uneasily. “Or rather, that’s to say … I’m his messenger.”

  “Aha,” said the porter. “Like that, is it? Here you are, then. And tell the count we’re always honored to have him as our guest.”

  Anyone who knew Bulldozer Olsson would probably have thought him seriously ill or at least out of his wits. For more than an hour he’d been in a state of utter euphoria. This feeling of abnormal well-being expressed itself less in his words than in his actions—or rather in his gestures and movements. It was more than he could do to sit still for more than three seconds at a time. He seemed to float about in the room, as if his crumpled blue suit had not been the envelope of a district attorney but of a zeppelin, and his plump little body had been filled with helium.

  In the long run this little outburst of joy became trying. On the other hand, the three sheets of paper addressed to the “Count” were fascinating to study, and Kollberg, Rönn, and Gunvald Larsson were still examining them with quite as much interest as when their eyes had first fallen on them a good hour ago.

  There could be no doubt about it. What lay on the special squad’s table were photostats of virtually the entire plan for Malmström’s and Mohrén’s next bank robbery.

  It was to be a robbery of no ordinary dimensions. It was a real knockout job, the one they’d been expecting for weeks. And now—all of a sudden—they knew almost everything! It was to take place on a Friday, at 2:45 P.M. In all probability either Friday the 7th—which was to say tomorrow—or else a week later, i.e. Friday, July 14.

  There was much to suggest the latter alternative. This would give them a whole week, more than enough for all imaginable preparations. But even if Malmström and Mohrén went to work at once, the papers revealed so much that it would be mere routine to make a shambles of all their meticulous plans and grab them red-handed.

  On one of the sheets was a detailed sketch of the bank itself, with every detail drawn in. This seemed to include everything related to the actual methods to be employed: the points at which the various individuals should stand, the location of the getaway cars, and their routes out of town. All was specified in detail.

  Bulldozer Olsson, who knew everything about every bank in the entire Stockholm region, only needed to cast a glance at the sketch to be able to state on the spot which bank it was they intended to plunder: one of the largest and most modern in downtown Stockholm.

  The plan, in all its simplicity, was so clever that it could only have one author: Werner Roos. Of that Bulldozer was sure.

  The actual robbery was divided up into three independent actions. The first was to be a diversion.

  The second was to be a prophylactic operation, aimed directly at the main enemy, viz., the police. The third was the robbery itself.

  To carry out their plan, Malmström and Mohrén would need at least four field assistants. Of these, two were even mentioned by name: Hauser and Hoff. As far as could be seen, they were to stand guard during the actual coup. The two—or possibly more than two—others were to be responsible for the diversion and for the preventive aspect. These persons were described as “enterprisers.”

  The diversionary maneuver was to commence at 2:40 and take place on Rosenlundsgatan, on the South Side of the city. Included among the props were at least two cars and a very heavy charge of dynamite.

  Everything suggested that this diversion was designed to draw maximum attention to itself, as well as almost all the patrol cars circulating in the center of the city and its southern suburbs. Precisely how it was to be carried out was not made clear. But there seemed to be every reason to suppose it would comprise a violent explosion, either at a gas station or inside a house. The man responsible for this was “Enterpriser A.”

  A minute later, as was tactically correct, the prophylactic measures were to be unleashed. This part of the plan
was as ingenious as it was impudent. All the exits for the riot squads and other emergency vehicles always held in reserve at the Kungsholmen police station were to be blocked. Just how this was to be done was hard to imagine; but a central police force that was unprepared would certainly have some unpleasant surprises in store for it. Direct command of this part of the scheme lay with “Enterpriser B.”

  By 2:45, assuming these two primary operations had gone off according to plan, far and away the greater part of the mobile police forces would be tied up at the commotion on Rosenlundsgatan, on the South Side, while the tactical reserve of emergency personnel would be stuck in the central police building on Kungsholmen.

  At that moment Malmström and Mohrén, assisted by the mysterious and unknown Messrs. Hoff and Hauser, would carry out the actual coup against the bank, with excellent prospects of remaining undisturbed by the police.

  This, then, was to be the long-expected job, the job with a very big “J.”

  Two vehicles were to be employed as getaway cars and would later be exchanged for four others, with only one man in each. In view of the fact that by this time almost all mobile police would have been lured off to the southern parts of the city and the rest would be tied up on Kungsholmen, all four cars were to retreat northwards.

  Even the booty’s putative size was stated for the sake of completeness. It was estimated at a sum equivalent to two-and-a-half million Swedish kronor. It was this last detail that suggested Friday the 14th. A conversation with the bank had indicated that a sum of about that size would be easily accessible, in all kinds of currency, on that particular day. If, on the other hand, the gang struck tomorrow, its haul would be a good deal smaller.

  Most of the instructions were in plain Swedish or were at least fairly easy to interpret.

  “Jean has a long moustache,” said Kollberg. “Everyone knows what that means. It was used over the radio to the French Maquis on the eve of D-day in World War II.” Kollberg saw Rönn’s inquiring glance and became explicit. “It means, quite simply: ‘Okay, boys, let’s get going.’ ”