The Locked Room

by Maj Sjowall

  Mauritzon buttoned up his jacket and grabbed his bag.

  “Are you going already?” his mother asked, disappointed. “And I who’ve baked you some buns. Cinnamon snails, which you’re so fond of …”

  He turned to her and said indignantly: “How can you stand here babbling about cinnamon buns when …” He broke off, cocking his ear toward the vestibule. He heard a vague mumble of voices. Now they were coming in to get him—or liquidate him on the spot. He broke into a cold sweat, looking desperately around the room. His mother lived on the seventh floor, so there was no question of jumping out the window; and the only door gave out onto the vestibule where Malmström and Mohrén were waiting for him.

  Going over to his mother, who was standing by the bed looking bewildered, he said: “Go on out. Tell ’em I’m coming, that I’ll only be a minute. Try to get ’em out into the kitchen. Offer them some buns. Hurry up. Get going!”

  He shoved her toward the door and stood with his back to the wall. After she’d gone out, closing the door behind her, he again pressed his ear against it. He could hear voices, and after a while footsteps coming closer. When they stopped outside the door instead of going on out toward his mother’s buns in the kitchen as he’d hoped, he suddenly knew the full meaning of the expression “my hair stood on end.”

  Silence. A metallic sound, perhaps a magazine being inserted into a pistol. Someone cleared his throat. Then a hard knock and a voice that said: “Come on out now, Mauritzon. This is the C.I.D.”

  Mauritzon opened the door and with a groan of relief practically fell into the arms of Detective Inspector Hogflykt of the Jönköping C.I.D., who was standing there with the handcuffs ready for him.

  Half an hour later Mauritzon was sitting on the plane to Stockholm with a large bag of cinnamon buns on his knee. He had convinced Högflykt that he was only too glad to cooperate, and the handcuffs had been removed. Staring down over the sunny plains of Östergötland he munched his buns. All things considered, he felt at peace with the world.

  Every once in a while he offered his bag to his companion, who shook his head more grimly each time: Detective Inspector Högflykt, always panic-stricken in airplanes, wasn’t feeling at all well.

  The plane landed on the dot at 10:25 at Bromma Airport, and twenty minutes later Mauritzon was once again inside the police headquarters on Kungsholmen. While the police car was driving into town he had anxiously begun to speculate over what Bulldozer might have in store for him; by now the feeling of liberation and relief that had followed the shock of his awakening that morning had completely gone—giving place to grim apprehensions.

  Bulldozer Olsson—in the company of select elements from the special squad, to wit Einar Rönn and Gunvald Larsson—was impatiently awaiting Mauritzon’s arrival. Under the direction of Kollberg, the squad’s other members were busy preparing their afternoon operation against the Mohrén gang. A complicated maneuver, it called for careful organizing.

  Bulldozer, informed of the find in the air raid shelter, had been almost beside himself with joy. He’d hardly slept a wink all night, so excited and expectant was he as the great day approached. Already he had Mauritzon where he wanted him—and Malmström and Mohrén as well, from the moment when they tried to stage their big grab. If it didn’t happen this Friday, then it certainly would the next, in which case today’s operations could be regarded as a useful general rehearsal. Once he had the whole Mohrén gang under lock and key it certainly wouldn’t be long before he also had Werner Roos on the hook.

  Bulldozer’s rosy dreams were interrupted by the telephone. He grabbed the receiver, listened for three seconds, and yelled: “Bring him in this moment!” He banged down the receiver, clapped the palms of his hands together, and said energetically: “Gentlemen, he is on his way. Are we ready?”

  Gunvald Larsson grunted, and Rönn said without much enthusiasm: “Sure.”

  Rönn knew very well that he and Gunvald Larsson were there mainly to act as an audience. Bulldozer loved to perform in front of an audience, and today the performance was unquestionably his. He was not only playing the leading role, he was also the producer. Among other things he had adjusted the position of his fellow actors’ chairs at least fifteen times until they were completely to his satisfaction.

  Bulldozer was now sitting in the judgment seat behind his desk. Gunvald Larsson sat in the corner over by the window, and Rönn was at the end of the table to his right. Mauritzon’s chair was placed directly in front of Bulldozer, but so far back from the table that it stood right in the middle of the open floor.

  Gunvald Larsson was picking his teeth with a fragment of matchstick, meanwhile casting surreptitious glances at Bulldozer’s gay summer getup: a mustard-yellow suit, blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a tie with a pattern of green Michaelmas daisies on an orange background.

  There was a knock at the door, and Mauritzon was brought in. By this time he had begun to feel rather ill at ease, and the sight of the now familiar faces in Bulldozer’s room did nothing to calm him. They all looked grim.

  That big blond guy, Larsson or whatever his name was, did not entertain very warm feelings towards him; so much he had already realized. As for that northerner with the drinker’s nose, he seemed to be a glum fellow at best. What boded no good, however, was that even Bulldozer, who at their last meeting had been as benign as Father Christmas, was now contemplating him with harsh disapproval.

  Mauritzon sat down on the chair indicated, looked around the room, and said: “Good morning.”

  No one returned his greeting. He went on: “There was nothing in those papers you gave me, Mr. District Attorney, which said I couldn’t leave town, and as far as I know there was nothing of that sort in our agreement, either.”

  Bulldozer raised his eyebrows, and Mauritzon added hastily: “But naturally I’ll help you in any way I can.”

  Bulldozer leaned forward, clasped his hands on the desk top, looked at him awhile, and said in a mild voice: “Really, Mr. Mauritzon? So you will help us in any way you can. That is really most kind of you, Mr. Mauritzon. But now we have no more services to ask of you, Mr. Mauritzon. No! Now it’s our turn to do you a service. You have not been quite honest with us, Mr. Mauritzon, have you? We realize how heavily this must weigh on you, and that is why we have gone to the trouble of arranging this little meeting—so that you can unburden yourself to us in peace and quiet.”

  Mauritzon threw an uncertain look at Bulldozer and said: “I don’t understand.…”

  “No? If I say that it’s about last Friday, then perhaps, Mr. Mauritzon, you will understand.”

  “Last Friday?” Mauritzon’s gaze wavered. He wriggled in his chair. He looked from Bulldozer to Rönn and back to Bulldozer, met Gunvald Larsson’s cold china-blue gaze, and finally looked down at the floor. It was dead silent in the room.

  Bulldozer went on: “Last Friday, a week ago, yes! Surely it’s impossible, Mr. Mauritzon, that you don’t recall what you were up to then? If nothing else, Mr. Mauritzon, you can’t have forgotten the day’s take. Ninety thousand isn’t peanuts, whichever way you look at it. Or what do you say?”

  “Ninety thousand … ninety thousand what? I don’t know about any ninety thousand.”

  Mauritzon sounded bolder now, and Bulldozer’s voice was not quite so silky-smooth as he said: “Naturally, Mr. Mauritzon, you haven’t any idea what I’m talking about?”

  Mauritzon shook his head. “No,” he said. “I haven’t.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Mauritzon, you would like me to express myself more clearly? Would you?”

  “Yes, please,” said Mauritzon humbly.

  Gunvald Larsson straightened his back and said irritably: “Don’t sit there playing dumb! You know very well what it’s all about.”

  “Of course he does,” Bulldozer said good-naturedly. “Mr. Mauritzon is only trying to show us how smart he can be. It’s all part of the game, as it were. But it’ll soon pass over. Of course he may be experiencing some difficulty in express
ing himself.”

  “He didn’t have any when it was a question of squealing on his pals,” Gunvald Larsson said acidly.

  “Well, we’ll see,” Bulldozer said. He leaned forward and looked Mauritzon between the eyes. “You want me to express myself more clearly? Okay, then I shall. We know very well that it was you who robbed that bank on Hornsgatan last Friday, and you’ll get nowhere by denying it, since we’ve got proof. Regrettably, however, you didn’t stop at robbery, something which in itself is a pretty serious matter, and I hardly need to point out what a very nasty situation you’re in. Now, of course you can maintain that you were taken by surprise, didn’t shoot to kill. The fact nevertheless remains: the man is unquestionably dead.”

  Mauritzon had turned pale. Little beads of sweat began to break out around his hairline. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bulldozer went on:

  “I hope you appreciate that your situation is so serious that nothing is to be gained by playing tricks, and that the best you can do not to make things worse is to show a willingness to cooperate. Do I make myself clear?”

  Mauritzon, gaping, shook his head. Finally he said, stammering: “I … I don’t know what … what you’re talking about.”

  Bulldozer got up and began walking to and fro in front of Mauritzon. “My dear Mauritzon. I have endless patience when patience is necessary. But sheer stupidity is something I find hard to tolerate,” he said in a tone of voice that implied that even the most infinite patience has its limits.

  As Bulldozer went on speaking, pacing gravely to and fro between Mauritzon and the desk, Mauritzon again shook his head.

  “I fancy I’ve expressed myself with all possible clarity, but I repeat: We know that you, alone, went into that bank on Hornsgatan, that you shot and killed a male customer, and that you managed to get away with ninety thousand in cash. We know this, and you will gain nothing by denying it. On the other hand, you can to some extent—not very much, admittedly, but to some extent—improve your situation by confessing without more ado and by also showing a little good will. You will do best by giving us a full account of the events of that day—by telling us what you’ve done with the money, how you got away from the scene of the crime, and who your accomplices were. Well, have I expressed myself clearly enough?”

  Breaking off his promenade, Bulldozer sat down again behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair and threw a glance first at Rönn and then at Gunvald Larsson—inviting their silent applause. Rönn merely looked dubious, and Gunvald Larsson absent-mindedly picked his nose. Bulldozer, who had been expecting their faces to light up with admiration at this model of a concise and psychological harangue, thought resignedly: “Pearls before swine.” Again he turned to Mauritzon.

  The latter stared at him with mingled suspicion and terror.

  “But I’ve nothing to do with all that,” he said excitedly. “I haven’t the faintest idea about any bank robbery.”

  “Don’t beat around the bush, now. You heard very well what I said. We have proof.”

  “What sort of proof? I haven’t robbed any bank or shot anyone. The whole thing’s grotesque.”

  With a sigh Gunvald Larsson got up and stood in front of the window with his back to the room. “It’s senseless, trying to talk in a friendly way to a guy like that,” he said over his shoulder. “A smack in the face is the only thing he’ll understand.”

  Bulldozer waved a calming hand at him, and said: “Wait a little, Gunvald.” Placing his elbows on the desk he put his chin in his hands and gazed in a troubled way at Mauritzon.

  “Well, Mauritzon? It’s up to you.”

  Mauritzon threw out his hands. “But I haven’t done it. I promise you! I swear!”

  Bulldozer went on looking at him in a troubled manner. Then, bending down, he pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk as he said: “Really? But I reserve at least the right to doubt it.” Straightening his back, he flung the green American army shoulder bag on the table and looked triumphantly at Mauritzon, who looked at the bag, astounded. “As you see, Mauritzon, we’ve got it all here.”

  One at a time he took the things out of the bag and set them out on the table in a row. “The wig, the shirt, the glasses, the hat, and last but not least, the pistol. Well, what do you say now?”

  At first Mauritzon stared uncomprehendingly at the various objects. Then his expression changed and he stared at the table, turning slowly whiter in the face. “What … what’s all that?” he said. His voice did not quite convince. He cleared his throat, repeated his question.

  Bulldozer threw him a weary look and turned to Rönn. “Einar,” he said. “Would you go and check that our witnesses are here?”

  “Sure,” said Rönn. He got up and went.

  After a few minutes he came back, stopped in the doorway, and said: “Sure.”

  Bulldozer flew up out of his chair. “Good,” he said. “Then we’re on our way.”

  Rönn disappeared again, and Bulldozer put the things back into the bag. He said: “Come along then, Mauritzon. We’re going across to another room. We’re going to have a little fashion show. Coming, Gunvald?” He rushed to the door, clutching the bag. Gunvald Larsson followed him, pushing Mauritzon roughly ahead of him. They went into a room further down the corridor.

  The room differed little from the other offices. There was a desk, chairs, a filing cabinet, and a typewriter stand. A mirror was mounted on the wall. On the other side of the wall this mirror acted as a window, so that it was possible to watch from the next room.

  Einar Rönn was standing in that room, watching unobserved as Bulldozer helped Mauritzon put on the blue shirt, stuck the wig of long blond hair onto his head, and gave him the hat and sunglasses. Mauritzon went up to the mirror and stared bewildered at his own image; while Rönn on the other side of the wall had an unpleasant feeling of invisibility as he looked straight into the other man’s eyes through the back of the mirror. Then Mauritzon donned the sunglasses and hat. Everything seemed to fit perfectly.

  Rönn went out and fetched the first witness—the woman who was chief cashier at the Hornsgatan bank. Mauritzon stood in the middle of the floor with the bag hanging over his shoulder, and when Bulldozer said something to him he began walking to and fro in the room.

  The witness looked at him through the glass pane, then looked at Rönn and nodded.

  “Take a good look,” Rönn said.

  “It’s certainly her,” the cashier said. “There’s no question of it. I think she had narrower pants on then. That’s the only difference.”

  “Are you quite sure?”

  “Oh yes. One hundred percent.”

  The next witness was the bank manager. He threw a glance at Mauritzon. “It’s her,” he said, without a trace of doubt in his voice.

  “You must take a careful look,” Rönn said. “We don’t want any mistakes.”

  The bank manager looked at Mauritzon for a while as he walked about in the other room. “Sure, sure. I recognize her. The walk, the attitude, the hair … sure, I’m certain.” He shook his head. “Pity,” he said. “Such a pretty girl.”

  Bulldozer devoted the rest of the morning to Mauritzon, but as one o’clock approached he broke off the examination without having gotten a confession out of him. But Bulldozer was counting on Mauritzon’s defenses collapsing soon, and anyway the evidence against him was certainly adequate. Mauritzon was allowed to call a lawyer, whereafter he was put into custody until such time as he could be formally placed under arrest.

  All things considered, Bulldozer felt happy about his morning. He grabbed a quick lunch of flounder and mashed potatoes in the canteen and with renewed energy flung himself into his next task: the capture of the Mohrén gang.

  Kollberg had had his work cut out. Major forces had been mobilized at the two main spots where the attack was expected: Rosenlundsgatan and the vicinity of the bank.

  The mobile forces had orders to stand by around these two areas and at the same time to avoid drawing attention to the
mselves. Along the getaway route, too, vehicles were stationed that could quickly block it if the bank robbers, against all expectations, should get that far.

  In the police headquarters on Kungsholmen there was not so much as a motorcycle. Parking lot and garage stood empty. All vehicles had been stationed in tactical positions about the town.

  At the critical moment Bulldozer was to be in the police building, where he would be able to follow events over the radio and also receive the gangsters when they were brought in.

  The members of the special squad were to be in and around the bank itself—all but Rönn. It was to be his job to keep an eye on Rosenlundsgatan.

  At two o’clock Bulldozer drove around on a tour of inspection in a gray “T”-registered Volvo Amazon. Perhaps there were a few too many police cars to be seen in the streets around Rosenlundsgatan, but around the bank there were no signs at all that it was under observation, and police cars were not noticeably numerous. Fully satisfied with these arrangements, Bulldozer drove back to Kungsholmsgatan to await the critical hour.

  Now it was 2:45; but at Rosenlundsgatan all was quiet. One minute later nothing had happened at the police headquarters. When it was 2:50 and the bank, too, had not been attacked, it was clear this was not the day of the big coup.

  For safety’s sake Bulldozer waited until 3:30 before calling off the operation, whose planning and details they now had a whole week to polish up and correct. They all agreed, however, that things had gone according to plan: they all had done their jobs satisfactorily; the time schedule had worked; everyone had been at the right place at the right moment.

  Only the day was wrong. But in a week’s time it would all be repeated—if possible with even greater precision and efficiency.

  Then, it was to be hoped, Malmström and Mohrén, too, would put in an appearance.

  On that Friday, however, the very thing that everyone feared most of all occurred. The National Police Commissioner got it into his head that someone was going to throw an egg at the United States ambassador, or perhaps a tomato at the embassy, or set fire to the Star-Spangled Banner.