by Maj Sjowall
“Hi,” said the man.
“Hi,” said Martin Beck.
They shook hands.
She poured the wine and called out in her hoarse voice: “Ingela, we’ve some wine in here when you’ve finished.” Then, troubled, she looked at the man in the flannel shirt and said: “You look wretched. What’s up? Something more gone wrong?”
Kent took a swig of the wine and put his face in his hands. “Rhea,” he said, “what am I going to do?”
“Still no job?”
“Not a ghost of one. So here I am, with my exam in my pocket and no job. The devil only knows whether there’ll ever be one, either.” He reached out and tried to take her hand. This irritated her, and she withdrew it. “I’d a desperate idea, today,” he said. “I must ask you what you think about it.”
“And what does your idea look like?”
“To enter the Police Academy. Anyone can get in there, even if he’s retarded. They’re short of people, and with my credentials I ought to get in easily, as soon as I’ve learned to knock drunks on the head.”
“Do you feel like beating people up, then?”
“You know very well I don’t. But maybe one can do some good, somehow. Reform from the inside, after one’s got over the worst.”
“Though their activities are hardly aimed at drunks,” she said. “And meanwhile how are you going to support Stina and the kids?”
“I’ll have to borrow. I found out all about it today when I was there getting the application forms. Here, I’ve got them with me. I thought you’d like to look through them … you who understand everything.”
He took some folded forms and a recruiting brochure out of his hip pocket, pushed them across the table, and said: “If you think it’s crazy, say so.”
“Rather, I must say. On the whole I shouldn’t say the police are a scrap interested in people who use their brains, or who want to reform from within. How about your papers, politically? Are they clean?”
“Oh, I was in a leftist student group once, but that’s all, and now they’re accepting everyone, except members of left-wing parties … actual communists, that is.”
She reflected, took a big gulp of wine, and shrugged. “Why not? It seems crazy, but I guess it could be interesting.”
“The chief question is …” He drank. Then he said “skål” to Martin Beck, who also drank, cautiously to begin with.
“What’s the question?” she asked, irritated.
“Well, Rhea. Can anybody stand it in the long run? Can they?”
She threw Martin Beck a cunning look. Her irritation had been wiped out by a smile. “Ask Martin here. He’s an expert.”
The man looked at Martin Beck with an astonished and dubious expression. “D’you know something about this?”
“A little. The truth is the police need all the good applicants they can get. It’s a profession with plenty of variety to it, as you see from that brochure there, and with many forms of special duties. Anyone who’s interested in helicopters, for instance, or machinery, or organizational problems, or horses …”
Rhea struck the table with the flat of her hand so that the glasses jumped. “Don’t talk rubbish now,” she said angrily. “Goddammit, man, give him an honest answer!”
To his own astonishment Martin Beck replied: “You’ve a chance of sticking it out the first few years, if you’re prepared to associate with numbskulls and be shouted at by your superiors, who are either climbers, or obsessed by a sense of their own importance, or just idiots. You can’t have any opinions of your own. Afterwards you’ve every prospect of becoming one yourself.”
“Obviously you’ve no use for the police;” said Kent despondently. “But it can’t be as crazy as all that. There’s too much unmotivated hatred of the police, and that’s for sure. Or what do you think, Rhea?”
She gave an unusually hearty laugh. Then she said: “Try it. You’ll make a fine policeman, I’m sure. Everything else seems to be out of the question. And the competition is said to be not overwhelming.”
“Can you help me fill in the application?”
“Give me a pen.”
Martin Beck had one in his breast pocket and gave it to her at once.
The girl called Ingela had finished her washing and came in and sat down. She talked a bit about things in general, mostly food prices and the way they were cheating with the date marks in the dairy department. Obviously she worked in a supermarket.
The bell tinkled, the door opened, and someone came in with dragging footsteps. It was an elderly woman. She said: “The reception on my TV is awful.”
“If it’s the aerial I’ll get Eriksson to look at it tomorrow. Otherwise I guess we’ll just have to repair the set. It’s worn out, of course, but I’ve some friends who’ve got a spare one. If worst comes to worst we can borrow their old one. I’ll see to it tomorrow.”
“I’ve been baking today, and I’ve brought you a loaf, Rhea.”
“Thanks. Very nice of you. I’ll fix that TV of yours, auntie, you’ll see.”
She had finished the application forms and gave them to the man in the flannel shirt. She had filled them in with amazing swiftness.
Now she looked at Martin Beck again, the same steady gaze as before. “As a landlord one has to function as a caretaker,” she said. “You see? It’s needed, but not many people think like that. Almost everyone speculates and is stingy as can be. They don’t think any further than their noses, and that’s swinish. I try to do my best here; people who live in the same building must feel they belong together and that it’s their home. These apartments are fine now, but I can’t afford repairs to the outside. Naturally I don’t want to raise the rents more than necessary this autumn. Though I’ll have to put them up a bit. If a house is to be looked after properly there’s a lot to see to. After all, one is responsible to one’s tenants.”
Martin Beck felt in a surprisingly good mood. He had no desire to leave this kitchen. He was also a trifle sleepy. Due to the wine. For fifteen months he’d drunk nothing.
“Oh yes, to be sure,” she said. “This business about Svärd.”
“Did he keep any valuables at home?”
“No. Two chairs, and a table, and a bed. A filthy carpet, and only the most indispensable things in the kitchen. Hardly any clothes, even. That’s why that lock business can only have been a phobia. He avoided everyone. It’s true he used to talk to me, but only when it was absolutely necessary.”
“He was as poor as can be, as far as I know.”
She looked meditative, filled her glass, and drank. “I’m not so sure about that,” she said. “Mostly he seemed stingy to the point of lunacy. True, he always paid his rent, though he grumbled about it. Even though it was only eighty a month. And as far as I know he never bought himself anything but dog food. Well, cat food. Didn’t drink. Had no expensive habits at all. So even if he only had his old-age pension he ought to have been able to indulge in a sausage now and again. It’s true all too many old people live on dog food, but usually they have higher rents to pay and place rather higher demands on existence, for example half a bottle of wine with their dinner sometimes. Svärd didn’t even have a radio. When I was studying psychology I read about people who live on potato peelings, and go about in fifty-year-old clothes, and have hundreds of thousands of kronor stuffed inside their mattress. Well, everyone knows about them. A psychological phenomenon, I forget what it’s called.”
“But there was no money in Svärd’s mattress.”
“And he moved out, which wasn’t like him. His new place must have cost him more, and to move his belongings must have cost something too. It doesn’t make sense.”
Martin Beck emptied his wineglass. He would have liked to have stayed among these people; but now he had to be off. He had got food for thought. “Well, I’m off now.”
“I was going to make spaghetti bolognese. It’s not bad when one makes the sauce oneself. Stay, by all means.”
“No. I must go now.”
>
She followed him out on her bare feet. They passed the nursery, and he cast a glance inside.
“Yes,” she said. “The kids are out in the country. I’m divorced.” After a moment’s pause, she added: “You too, eh?”
“Yes.”
At the door she said: “So long, then. Come back. I’ve lectures at the summer university in the daytime, but I’m always home after six.” Brief pause. She threw him an intriguing glance and said: “We can talk about Svärd, can’t we?”
A fat man in slippers and unpressed gray trousers came down the stairs. He was wearing a red-yellow-and-blue Viet Cong badge on his shirt. “Rhea,” he said, “the light in the attic’s gone out.”
“Get a new bulb from the cleaning cupboard,” she said. “Seventy-five watts’ll do.”
“You want to stay,” she said to Martin Beck. “So stay.”
“No. I’m off now. Thanks for the tea, sandwiches, and wine.”
He saw that for just a moment she was thinking of exerting some kind of influence over him, presumably using the spaghetti as a lever.
But she refrained and said: “Well, good-bye, then. Again.”
“ ’Bye.”
Neither of them said, See you again.
He was thinking of Svärd. He was thinking of Rhea. He was in a more cheerful mood than he’d been in for a long time, a very very long time; though as yet he was not conscious of it.
22
Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson were sitting facing each other at the latter’s desk. Both looked thoughtful.
It was still Thursday and they had left Bulldozer Olsson alone with his dreams of the impending day of happiness when he’d be able to put Werner Roos behind bars.
“What the devil’s up with Bulldozer?” Gunvald Larsson said. “Is he really thinking of letting Mauritzon go, just like that?”
Kollberg shrugged. “That’s the way it would seem,” he said.
“But not even having him shadowed, that’s what I don’t understand,” Gunvald Larsson went on. “There’s every prospect of it yielding high dividends. Or do you think Bulldozer’s got his sights on something even more brilliant?”
Kollberg shook his head thoughtfully and said: “No, it’s like this, I guess: Bulldozer’d sooner sacrifice what he might gain by shadowing Mauritzon than lose something else he values more.”
Gunvald Larsson frowned. “And what might that be?” he asked. “Surely no one’s more eager to get his mitts on this gang than Bulldozer.”
“No, that’s for sure,” Kollberg said. “But has it occurred to you that hardly any of us has such first-class sources of information as Bulldozer? He knows any number of informers and crooks, and they really trust him because he never cheats them and always keeps his word. They rely on him and know he never promises something he can’t perform. Bulldozer’s stool pigeons are his chief asset.”
“What you mean to say is, if it gets around that he tails his stool pigeons when they’ve been here giving him some tips, that’ll be the end of their confidence in him and all those nice tips too?”
“Precisely,” Kollberg said.
“Anyway I think it’s goddam stupid to let this opportunity slip,” Gunvald Larsson said. “Suppose we keep a quiet check on where Mauritzon goes and what he gets up to next. That needn’t trouble Bulldozer, need it?” He threw Kollberg a questioning glance.
“Okay,” Kollberg said. “I too am pretty curious as to what Mr. Faithful Mauritzon has in mind. By the way, is Faithful a Christian name or a surname?”
“It’s a dog’s name,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Maybe he sometimes disguises himself as a dog. But we’ll have to get started, because I imagine he’s being let out any moment now. Who starts?”
Kollberg looked at his new wristwatch, which was of the same make and model as the one that had gone through the washing machine. He hadn’t eaten for a couple of hours and had begun to feel ravenous. Anyone who’s trying to get his weight down, he’d read somewhere, should eat a little, but often; the latter part of this advice he had accepted with pleasure.
“I suggest you do,” he said. “I’ll stick around the phone here, so you just call me if you need any help or want me to relieve you. Take my car. It’s not such an eyesore as yours.” He took out his keys and handed them to Gunvald Larsson.
“Good,” said Gunvald Larsson. He got up and buttoned his jacket. In the doorway he turned and said: “If Bulldozer asks after me, think of something. You’ll be hearing from me. So long.”
Kollberg waited two minutes, then went down to the cafeteria for his dietetic repast.
Gunvald Larsson didn’t have to wait very long. Mauritzon came out onto the stairway, hesitated a moment, and set off for Agnegatan. He turned off to the right, went up to Hantverkargatan, swung off to the left, and went on to the bus stop on Kungsholmstorg, where he stood waiting.
In a doorway, not far off, Gunvald Larsson also waited. He was well aware of the difficulty of this enterprise. For one thing, his height and bulk were not easily concealed, even in a crowd. And for another, Mauritzon would recognize him if he so much as looked in his direction. If Mauritzon was thinking of taking the bus, Gunvald Larsson could hardly get on the same one without being recognized. At the taxi stand, diagonally across the street, an empty cab was waiting, and he hoped no one would take it before he needed to.
The Sixty-two stopped at the bus stop and Mauritzon got on.
Before going over to the cab Gunvald Larsson waited until the bus had gone far enough for Mauritzon not to recognize him through the rear window. He left Kollberg’s car standing where it was.
The cab driver was a young woman with tousled blond hair and lively brown eyes. When Gunvald Larsson showed her his identity card and asked her to follow the bus, she lit up with enthusiasm.
“Great!” she said. “This guy you’re chasing, is he a dangerous gangster?”
Gunvald Larsson didn’t reply.
“I understand—it’s secret. Don’t worry, I’ll be as silent as the grave.”
Silence, however, turned out to be the one thing she was incapable of.
“We’d better take it easy,” she said, “so we can stay behind that bus at the bus stops.”
“Yes,” Gunvald Larsson said, as curtly as possible. “But keep your distance.”
“I get it,” she said. “You don’t want to be seen. Pull down the sun visor so you can’t be seen from above.”
Gunvald Larsson pulled it down. She threw him a conspiratorial glance, caught sight of his bandaged hand, and exclaimed: “How did that happen? Been in a fight, eh?”
Gunvald Larsson grunted.
“It’s a dangerous profession, being a policeman,” she went on. “But terribly exciting, of course. Before I started driving a cab I thought of joining the force. Best of all I’d have liked to be a detective, but my husband was against it.”
Gunvald Larsson said nothing.
“Though it can have its moments of excitement, driving a cab, too. Like now, for instance.” She beamed at Gunvald Larsson, and with an effort he smiled back a twisted smile.
All the time she was keeping a medium distance from the bus. Altogether, she drove exceptionally well, and this had to make up for her talkativeness.
Gunvald Larsson uttered no more than an occasional monosyllable, while his driver had time for no small amount of talk before Mauritzon finally got off the bus on Erik Dahlbergsgatan. He was the only passenger to do so, and while Gunvald Larsson was taking out his money the girl at the wheel gave Mauritzon a curious stare.
“He doesn’t look at all like a crook to me,” she said, disappointed. She took her money and quickly scribbled a receipt. “Anyway, good luck,” she added, and slowly drove off.
Mauritzon crossed the street diagonally and turned off onto Armfeldtsgatan. When he’d disappeared around the corner, Gunvald Larsson made haste to reach it and peeped around just as Mauritzon was vanishing into a doorway.
After a while Gunvald Larsson opened the door.
Somewhere inside the building he heard another door slam. Then he went in and inspected the list of tenants.
At once his glance was caught by the name Mauritzon. Astonished, he raised his eyebrows. So—Filip Faithful Mauritzon lived here under his own name! Gunvald Larsson recalled that while he’d been questioned he’d given an address on Vickergatan, where he lived under the name of Lennart Holm. Most practical, Gunvald Larsson thought to himself. Hearing the elevator start up, he hastily betook himself out into the street again.
Not daring to cross the street for fear Mauritzon might catch sight of him through a window, he hugged the wall of the building as he made his way back to the corner of Erik Dahlbergsgatan. There he took up his post, peeping cautiously out to keep an eye on Mauritzon’s doorway.
After a while the cut under his knee began to ache. It was too early to ring Kollberg, and anyway he didn’t dare leave his observation post in case Mauritzon should put in an appearance.
When Gunvald Larsson had been standing there waiting at the street corner for three-quarters of an hour, Mauritzon suddenly emerged from the doorway. Gunvald Larsson just had time to realize that the fellow was walking towards him before pulling abruptly back out of sight. Hoping Mauritzon hadn’t seen him, he ran limping down the street and into the nearest doorway.
Mauritzon, looking straight ahead of him, walked briskly by. He had changed his suit and was carrying a little black suitcase. He crossed Valhallavägen, and Gunvald Larsson followed at as great a distance as possible without losing sight of him.
Mauritzon went quickly down towards Karlaplan. Twice he turned and looked nervously behind him; the first time Gunvald Larsson took cover behind a parked truck, and the second time he dived into a doorway.
As Gunvald Larsson had already guessed, Mauritzon was on his way to the subway. Only a few people were waiting on the platform, and Gunvald Larsson found it hard to keep out of sight. But there was nothing to suggest Mauritzon had spotted him. He boarded a southbound train, and Gunvald Larsson got into the next car.
At Hötorget they both got off, and Mauritzon disappeared into the crowds.