Roseanna

'What?" asked the colonel. "Am I certain? Of course I am certain. She sat at the same table as we did at least four or five times. She never said anything though, if I remember correctly."

'But…"

'Yes, of course your colleague showed me her portrait, but you understand, it wasn't her face that I recognized. It's the dress, or more correctly, not exactly the dress, either."

He turned to the left and placed his powerful index finger on Martin Beck's chest.

'It was the decollete," he said in a thundering whisper.

18

It was a quarter past eleven and they were still sitting in the office at Kristineberg. The breeze was blowing freshly and small drops of rain splashed against the windows.

Twenty photographs were spread out on the table in front of Martin Beck. He had pushed nineteen of them aside and was studying the picture of Roseanna McGraw in the magnifying glass's circle of light for, perhaps, the fiftieth time. She looked just exactly as he had imagined her. Her glance seemed to be directed upward, probably in the direction off Riddarholm's tower. She looked healthy and alert and totally unconscious of the fact that she had only about thirty-sis hours left to live. On her left was cabin number A 7. The door was open but the picture didn't show enough for anyone to see how it looked inside.

'Do you realize that we were lucky today," said Kollberg. "It's the first time, too, since we started on this damned case. I One usually has some luck, sooner or later. This time though it was a lot later."

'We've had some bad luck also."

'You mean because she was sitting at a table with two deaf old men and three half-blind women? That's not bad luck. That's just the law of averages. Let's go home and go to bed now. I'll drop you off. Or would you rather take that| great gift to humanity, the subway?"

'We have to get a telegram off to Kafka first We can send the rest of it by letter tomorrow."

They were finished a half hour later. Kollberg drove quickly and carelessly through the rain but Martin Beck didn't I seem nervous, in spite of the fact that driving usually put him in a bad mood. They didn't speak at all during the trip. When they pulled up in front of the house where Martin Beck lived, Kollberg finally said: "Now you can go to bed and think about all this. So long."

It was quiet and dark in the apartment but when Martin Beck went past his daughter's room, he heard the sound of radio music. She was probably lying in bed with the transistor radio under her pillow. When he was a boy he had read sea adventure novels with a flashlight under the blankets.

There was some bread and butter and cheese on the kitchen table. He made a sandwich for himself and looked for a bottle of beer in the ice-box. There wasn't any. He stood at the sink, ate his frugal supper, and washed it down with half a glass of milk.

Then he went into the bedroom and got into bed, very carefully. His wife turned toward him, half asleep, and tried to say something. He lay quietly on his back and held his breath. After a few minutes her breath was even and unconscious again. He relaxed, closed his eyes and began to think.

Roseanna McGraw had been in one of the earliest photographs. In addition, these photographs had clearly identified five other people, two retired military couples and the widow Liebeneiner. He could easily expect to receive between twenty-five and thirty more sets of pictures, most of them with more photographs than this one. Each negative would be rooted out, every picture would be studied carefully to find out whom he, or she, knew in each picture. It had to work. Eventually, they could map out Roseanna McGraw's final trip. They should be able to see it in front of them like a film.

A great deal depended on Kafka and what he could obtain from eight households spread across the continent of North America. Americans were wasteful with film. Weren't they known for that? And then, if anyone other than the murderer had been in contact with the woman from Lincoln, wouldn't it very likely have been one of her own countrymen? Maybe they should look for the murderer mainly among the Americans on board. Maybe, one of these days, he would have the telephone pressed against his ear and hear Kafka say: "Yeah, I shot the bastard."

In the middle of this thought Martin Beck fell asleep, suddenly, and without trying.

It rained the next day, too, and it was gray and sprinkling. The last yellow leaves of fall stuck sadly to the walls of the house and to the windowpanes.

Almost as if Martin Beck's night-time thoughts had reached him, Kafka sent a laconic telegram:

SEND AS MUCH MATERIAL AS POSSIBLE.

Two days later, Melander, who never forgot anything, took his pipe out of his mouth and said, tranquilly: "Uli

Mildenberger is in Hamburg. He was there all summer. Would you like to have him examined?"

Martin Beck thought about it for about five seconds. "No."

He was on the point of adding: "Make a note of his address," but stopped himself at the last minute, shrugged his shoulders and went on with his business.

During these days, he often had very little to do. The case had reached a point where it was going on its own pretty much at the same time as it was spreading itself out all over the globe. There was an open "hot line" between himself and Ahlberg in Motala. After that, it was spread like the rays of the sun all over the map from the North Cape in the north to Durban in the south and Ankara in the east. By far, the most important line of contact led to Kafka's office in Lincoln, nearly six thousand miles to the west. From there it branched out to a handful of geographically separated places on the American continent.

With so many widespread informants at their disposal, couldn't they ensnare and catch a murderer? The logical answer, unfortunately, was, No. Martin Beck had painful memories from a case involving another sex murder. It had taken place in a cellar in one of the Stockholm suburbs. The body had been found almost immediately and the police arrived on the scene less than an hour later. Several persons had seen the murderer and gave lengthy descriptions of him. The man had left his footprints, cigarette butts, matches, and even several other objects. In addition, he had handled the body with a particularly idiosyncratic perversity. But they had never been able to get him. Their optimism had slowly turned into frustration at their impotence. All the clues had led to nothing. Seven years later, the man was discovered in the act of attempted rape, and arrested. During the examination that followed, he suddenly broke down and admitted the earlier murder.

That crime and its solution seven years later had been only a small incident on the side for Martin Beck. But it had been of the utmost importance to one of his older colleagues. He remembered so well how that man had sat month after month, year after year, in his office late into the night, going through all the papers and rechecking the testimony for the five hundredth, or possibly the thousandth time. He had met that man many times in unexpected places and in surprising circumstances when the man should have been off duty or on vacation but was, instead, always looking for new angles in the case which had become the tragedy of his life. In time, he had become sick and was given his pension early, but even then, he hadn't given up the search. And then, finally, the case was cleared up when someone burst into tears before an astonished policeman down in Halland and confessed to the seven year old crime of strangulation. Martin Beck sometimes wondered if that solution, which came so late, had really given the old detective any peace.

It could happen that way. But that woman in the cellar had been all the things that Roseanna McGraw wasn't, a rootless, wandering person who was hardly a member of society and whose asociability was as indisputable as the contents of her handbag.

Martin Beck thought a great deal about this while he waited for something to happen.

Meanwhile, in Motala, Ahlberg was occupied in annoying the authorities by insisting that every square inch of the bottom of the canal should be dragged and gone over by frogmen. He rarely got in touch with Martin Beck himself but was constantly waiting for the telephone to ring.

After a week, a new telegram arrived from Kafka. The message was cryptic and surprising:

YOU WILL HAVE A BREAK ANY MINUTE NOW.

Martin Beck telephoned Ahlberg. "He says that there will be a break for us any time now." "He probably knows that we need one," said Ahlberg Kollberg added his dissenting opinion: "The man is nearsighted. He's suffering from the disease we call intuition." Melan4er didn't say anything at all.

In ten more days, they had received about fifty pictures and had about three times as many negatives printed. Many of the pictures were of poor quality and they could find Roseanna McGraw in only two of them. Both were taken at the Riddarholm pier and she was still standing alone in the stern of A deck, not very far from her cabin. One of the pictures showed her bending over and scratching her right ankle, but that was all. Otherwise they identified the twenty-three more passengers, bringing the total identified up to twenty-eight.

Melander was in charge of scrutinizing the pictures and after he was through with them, he sent them to Kollberg who tried to place them in some kind of chronological order. Martin Beck studied all of them, hour after hour, but said nothing.

The next few days brought a few dozen more pictures but Roseanna McGraw wasn't to be seen on any of them.

On the other hand a letter arrived from Ankara, at last. It was on Martin Beck's desk the morning of the thirteenth day, but it took two more days before the Turkish Embassy presented them with a translation. Contrary to all expectations the contents of that letter seemed to represent the most progress in a long time.

One of the Turkish passengers, a twenty-two year old medical student named Gϋnes Fratt said that he recognized the woman in the picture but he didn't know her name or her nationality. After a "forceful examination" conducted by a high level police officer with a very long name which seemed made up of only the letters ö, ϋ, and z, the witness had admitted that he had found the woman attractive and had made two "verbal overtures" to her in English during the first day of the trip, but that he had not been encouraged. The woman had not replied. Somewhat later on the trip, he thought he had seen her with a man and had drawn the conclusion that she was married and that she had only happened to appear alone. The only thing the witness could say about the man's appearance was that he was "presumably tall." During the latter part of the trip, the witness had not seen the woman. Gϋnes Fratt's uncle, who was examined "informally" by the official with that impossible name, stated that he had kept a watchful eye on his nephew during the entire trip and that the boy had not been left alone for more than ten minutes at a tune.

The embassy added the comment that both the travelers belonged to wealthy and highly respected families.

The letter did not particularly surprise Martin Beck. He had known all along that a letter containing that kind of information would appear sooner or later. Now they had moved a step forward and while he was getting the information together to send to Motala, he was mostly thinking about how it would feel to be "forcefully examined" by a high official of the Turkish police.

One flight up, Kollberg took the news in his stride.

M "The Turks? Yes, I've heard about their methods."

He looked through his lists.

'Picture number 23, 38, 102, 109…"

'That's enough."

Martin Beck looked through the pile of pictures until he found one which showed both of the men very clearly. He looked for a moment at the uncle's white mustache and then moved his eyes to Günes Fratt who was short, elegantly dressed, and had a small, dark mustache and even features. He didn't look so unattractive.

Unfortunately, Roseanna McGraw had thought differently.

This was the fifteenth day since they had thought of collecting photographs. By now they had definitely identified forty-one passengers who had appeared in one or another of the pictures. In addition, two more pictures of the woman from Lincoln had been added to the collection. Both of them had been taken while the boat was in the Södertälje canal. Roseanna McGraw was in the background of one of them, out of focus and with her back turned toward the camera. But in the other, she was seen in profile by the railing with a railroad bridge behind her. She was three hours nearer her death, and had taken off her sunglasses and was squinting up at the sun. The wind had blown her dark hair and her mouth was half-open, as if she were on the verge of saying something or had just yawned. Martin Beck looked at her for a long time through the magnifying glass. Finally he said:

'Who took this picture?"

'One of the Danes," answered Melander. "Vibeke Amdal from Copenhagen. She was traveling alone in a single cabin."

'Find out whatever you can about her."

A half hour later the bomb exploded.

'There's a cable from the United States," said the woman on the other end of the telephone. "Shall I read it to you?"

'STRUCK A GOLD MINE YESTERDAY. TEN ROLLS OF EIGHT MILLIMETER COLOR FILM AND 150 STILLS. YOU WILL SEE A LOT OF ROSEANNA MCGRAW. SOME UNKNOWN CHARACTER SEEMS TO BE WITH HER. PAN AMERICAN GUARANTEES DELIVERY STOCKHOLM THURSDAY.

KAFKA

'Shall I try to translate it?" "No thank you. That's okay for now."

Martin Beck fell into his chair. He rubbed his hairline and looked at his desk calendar. It was Wednesday, November 25.

Outside, it was raining, and it was chilly. It would soon begin to snow.

19

They showed the film at a studio right across the street from the North Station. It was crowded in the screening room and even at that moment Martin Beck had difficulty in getting over his aversion to groups of people.

His chief was there and so were the County Police Superintendent, the Public Prosecutor, Superintendent Larsson and Ahlberg. They had driven up from Motala. In addition, Kollberg, Stenström and Melander were there.

Even Hammar, who had seen more crime in his day than all the others put together, seemed quiet and tense and alert.

The lights were turned out.

The projector started to whirl.

'Oh, yes, yes… ah."

As usual it was hard for Kollberg to keep quiet.

The film started with a shot of the king's guard in Stockholm. They passed Gustaf Adolf's Square. Swung toward the North Bridge. The camera panned toward the Opera House.

'No style," said Kollberg. "They look like military police."

The County Police Superintendent whispered "shush."

Then came shots of pretty Swedish girls with turned up noses sitting in the sun on the steps of the Concert Hall. The tall buildings in the center of the city. A tourist poster in front of a Laplander's tent at Skansen's Park. Gripsholm Castle with a group of folk dancers in the foreground. Some middle-aged Americans with violet lips and sunglasses. The Hotel Reisen, Skepps Bridge, the stern of the Svea Jarl, shots from a boat trip to Djurgĺrden and of a large passenger ship anchored in Stockholm seen from a sightseeing boat.

'Which boat is that?" asked the County Police Superintendent.

'Moore-McCormack's Brazil," said Martin Beck. "It comes here every summer."

'What building is that?" asked the County Police Superintendent a little later.

'It's an old people's home," said Kollberg. "Haile Selassie saluted it once when he was here before the war. He thought it was the Royal Palace."

Seagulls, gracefully flapping their wings. Shots from the suburb Farsta, lines of people getting onto a bus with a plexiglass roof. Fishermen, sinisterly staring into the camera.

'Who took the pictures?" asked the County Police Superintendent.

'Wilfred S. Bellamy, Jr. from Klamath Falls, Oregon," said Martin Beck.

'Never heard of it," said the County Superintendent

Svartmans Street, the pump of Brunkeberg Street, underexposed.

'Now," said the County Police Superintendent.

The Diana at Riddarholm's pier. Directly from the stern. Roseanna McGraw in a recognizable pose with her eyes looking straight up.

'There she is," said the County Superintendent.

'Oh God," said Kollberg.

The woman with the violet lips moved in from the left, with a toothy smile. Everything except for the shipping company's flag and the City Hall tower could be seen. White dots. Flickerings. Red-brown shadows. Darkness.

The lights were turned on and the man in the white coat glanced at the door.

'Just one second. There's a little trouble with the projector."

Ahlberg turned around and looked at Martin Beck.

'Now it caught fire and burned up," said First Detective Assistant Lennart Kollberg, who was a mind reader.

At the same moment the lights went out.

'Let's get it in focus, now, boys," said the County Superintendent.

Some more shots of the city, the backs of tourists, West Bridge, a pan shot of the bridge. Whitecaps on the water, the Swedish flag, some sailboats in a race. A long sequence of Mrs. Bellamy with her eyes closed sunning herself in a deck chair.

'Watch the background," said the County Police Superintendent.

Martin Beck recognized several of the people on the film: none of them were Roseanna McGraw.

The Södertälje locks, a road bridge, a railroad bridge. The mast seen from below with the shipping line's flag blowing lightly in the breeze against a blue sky. A motor sailer coming toward them with fish piled up on its deck, someone waving. The same motor sailer seen from the stern. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled profile to the right in the picture.

Oxelösund, from the water, its modern church tower against the sky, the steel mill with billowing chimneys. The film rose and fell with the boat's slow, soft rolling and had a diffuse, gray-green tone.

'The weather is worse now," said the County Superintendent.

The entire screen looked light gray, a quick turn of the camera, a bit of the bridge deck which was empty. The City of Gothenburg's flag, wet and slack, on the bow ahead in the distance. The helmsman in the picture, balancing a tray on the way down a ladder.

'What now?" asked the County Police Superintendent.

'They're outside of Hävringe," said Martin Beck. "Sometime around five or six o'clock. They've stopped because of the fog."

A shot from the stern of the shelter deck, deserted deck chairs, light gray, damp. No people.

The camera to the right, then with a light turn, back again. Roseanna McGraw on the ladder-way leading up from A deck, still bare-legged and in sandals but with a thin, plastic raincoat over her dress and a scarf drawn over her hair. Past the lifeboat, right into the camera, a quick, indifferent look at the photographer, her face calm and relaxed, out of the picture to the right. A quick turn. Roseanna McGraw from the back, with her elbows on the railing, the weight of her body resting on her right foot, on her toes, scratching her left ankle with her right hand.

Just about twenty-four hours from her death. Martin Beck held his breath. No one in the room said anything. The woman from Lincoln faded away while white spots streamed over the screen. The film had come to an end.

The fog had disappeared. A strained, violet-lipped smile. Shots of an elderly couple in deck chairs with blankets over their knees. There was no sunshine but it was not raining either.

'Who are they?" asked the County Superintendent.

'Two other Americans," said Kollberg. "Their name is Anderson."

The boat in a lock. A picture from the bridge over the forward deck, a lot of backs. A member of the crew on land, bent forward, pushing the wheel for the lock chamber's gates. The camera flew on, the lock gates opened. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled, double chin seen from below with the bridge and the name of the ship in the background.

Another shot from the bridge. A new lock. The forward deck full of people. A change of scene to a man talking busily and wearing a straw hat.

'Cornfield, an American. He traveled alone," said Koll-berg.

Martin Beck wondered if he had been the only one to see Roseanna McGraw in the scene that had just passed. She had been standing by the starboard railing, leaning on her elbows as usual, dressed in slacks and a dark sweater.

Shots of the locks continued but she was not in any of them.

'Where would that be?" asked the County Superintendent.

'Karlsborg," answered Ahlberg. "Not at Lake Vättern though. This is ĺ bit west of Söderköping. They left Söderköping at a quarter to ten. This ought to have been around eleven o'clock."

A new lock. Another view of the forward deck. There she was again. Her sweater was black and had a turtleneck collar. A lot of people stood near her. She turned her face toward the camera and seemed to laugh. A fast change of scene. A shot of the water. A long sequence with Mrs. Bellamy and the Andersons. At one point the colonel from North Mälarstrand walked by, between the subject and the eye of the camera.

Martin Beck's neck was perspiring. Ten hours left. Had she laughed?

A short shot of the forward deck with only three or four persons on it. The boat was out on a lake. White spots. End of that roll.

The County Police Superintendent turned around.

'Roxen?"

'No, Asplĺngen," said Ahlberg.

A drawbridge. Buildings on the shore. People on shore, waving and staring.

'Norsholm," said Ahlberg. "It's a quarter after three now."

The camera stayed stubbornly on the shore. Trees, cows, houses. A little girl, seven or eight years old, walked on the path along the edge of the canal. A blue cotton summer dress, two pigtails and wooden shoes. Someone on board threw a coin on the path. She picked it up, curtsied shyly, and looked confused. More coins were thrown. The child picked them up. She ran a few steps to keep up. A woman's-hand with a shining half-dollar between two sinewy fingers with crimson colored fingernails. The camera came back again. Mrs. Bellamy with an exalted expression, throwing coins. The girl on the shore with her entire right hand full of money, totally confused, with her astonished blue eyes.

Martin Beck didn't see it. He heard Ahlberg take a deep breath, and Kollberg move in his chair.

In back of the do-gooding woman from Klamath Falls, Oregon, Roseanna McGraw had crossed the shelter deck from left to right. She had not been alone. At her left, and pressed closely to her, there had been another person. A man in a sport cap. He was a head taller than she and his profile could be seen during a brief tenth of a second against the light background.

Everyone had seen him.

'Stop the film," said the County Police Superintendent.

'No, no," said Ahlberg.

The camera did not return to the boat. A number of green shores glided past. Meadows, trees, tall grass blowing in the breeze, until the summer countryside faded away behind a lot of white spots.

Martin Beck took his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, crumpled it in his hands, and dried his neck.

The picture that covered the screen was new and surprising. The canal lay before and below them; it curved through a long, soft distance between tree-covered shores. Along the left side ran a path, and far off to the left some horses were grazing behind a fence. A group of people were walking along the path.

Ahlberg spoke before the County Superintendent had a chance to.

'This is west of Roxen now. The boat has passed Berg's locks. The photographer must have gone ahead to Ljungsbro during that time. There is the last lock before the one at Borensberg. It's about seven o'clock in the evening now."

The white bow with the Gothenburg flag appeared in the foreground far ahead. The people on the path came nearer.

'Thank God," said Ahlberg.

Only Martin Beck knew what he meant. The man who took the movie had an alternative. He could have gotten off the boat and gone with a guide who showed people around a monastery in Vreta during the time the boat was in the lock chamber.

Now there was a shot of the entire boat, moving slowly along the canal, inertly, with a gray-white plume of smoke which was reflected against the evening light.

But no one in the projection room looked at the boat any longer. The group of passengers on the path had come so close that separate individuals could be discerned. Martin Beck immediately identified Günes Fratt, the twenty-two year old medical student from Ankara. He walked ahead of the others, waving to the person who was following him.

Then he saw her.

About forty-five feet behind the main group there were two figures. One of them was Roseanna McGraw, still wearing light slacks and a dark sweater. Beside her, taking long steps, walked the man in the sport cap.

They were still quite far away.

'Let there be enough film," thought Martin Beck.

They came nearer. The position of the camera did not change.

Could they make out the faces?

He saw the tall man take her by the arm, as if to help her past a puddle of water in the path.

Saw them stop and look at the boat, which passed by and began to hide them from view. They were gone. But Mr. Bellamy from Klamath Falls was more stubborn than ever and held the position of his camera. Roseanna McGraw passed the boat, could be seen completely and clearly down on the path. She stopped walking and nodded her head, stretched out her right arm toward the person who was still bidden, but who then appeared. There.

The change of scene came as a shock. The sluice gate in the foreground, around and about, on the periphery, observers' legs. He thought he saw a pair of light trousers, feet in sandals and a pair of low shoes right beside them.

The picture was gone. It flickered slightly. Several people sighed. Martin Beck twisted his handkerchief between his fingers.

But it wasn't over yet. A somewhat underexposed shot of a face with violet lips and sunglasses filled the screen, and then disappeared to the right. Along the post side of A deck a waitress in a white blouse banged on a gong. Roseanna McGraw stepped out from behind her coming from the door to the dining room, wrinkled her forehead, looked up at the sky, laughed, and turned toward someone who was hidden. Not completely. They could see an arm in speckled tweed, a bit of a shoulder. Then came the white spots, and then the film faded and ended in gray, gray, gray.

She had laughed. He was certain of it. At seven o'clock on the evening of the fourth of July. Ten minutes later she had eaten beefsteak, fresh potatoes, strawberries and milk, while a Swedish colonel and a German major had exchanged viewpoints on the siege of Stalingrad.

The screen was flooded with light. More locks. A blue sky with floating clouds. The captain with his hand on the telegraph machine.

'Sjötorp," said Ahlberg. "Twelve o'clock the next day. Soon they'll be out in Lake Vĺnern."

Martin Beck remembered all the details. One hour later it had stopped raining. Roseanna McGraw was dead. Her body had been lying naked and violated in the mud near the breakwater at Borenshult for nearly twelve hours.

On the canal boat's deck people were stretched out in deck chairs, talking, laughing, and looking up at the sun. A wrinkled, upper class woman from Klamath Falls, Oregon, smiled violently toward the camera.

Now they were in Lake Vänern. People moved about here and there. The repulsive young man from the examination room in Motala emptied a sack of ashes into the lake. His face was sooty and he looked angrily at the photographer.

No woman in a dark sweater and light pants and sandals.

No tall man in a tweed jacket and a sport cap.

Roll after roll of film went by. Vänersborg in the evening sun. The Diana tied up there at the pier. A shot of a deck boy going on land. The Tröllhatten canal.

'There's a motor bike on the forward deck," said Ahlberg.

The boat lay tied up at Lilla Bomen in Gothenburg in the clear morning sun, at the stern of the full rigger, the Viking. A shot of the forward deck, people going down the gangway. The motor bike was no longer there.

Another shot, the woman with the violet lips sitting stiffly in one of Gothenburg's sightseeing boats, a pan over the Garden Association's flowers, white spots running vertically over the screen.

Fade-out. The end. The lights turned on.

After fifteen seconds of total silence Commissioner Ham-mar got out of his chair, looked from the County Police Superintendent to the Public Prosecutor and over at Larsson.

'Lunchtime, gentlemen. You are guests of the government."

He looked blandly at the others and said: "I guess that you will want to remain here for a little while."

Stenström left too. He was actually working on a different case.

Kollberg looked questioningly at Melander.

'No, I've never seen that man before."

Ahlberg held his right hand in front of his face.

'A deck passenger," he said.

He turned around and looked at Martin Beck.

'Do you remember the man that showed us around the boat in Bohus? The draperies that could be drawn if any of the deck passengers wanted to sleep on one of the sofas?"

Martin Beck nodded.

'The motor bike wasn't there in the beginning. The first time I saw it was in the locks after Söderköping," said Melander.

He took his pipe out of his mouth and emptied it.

'The guy in the sport cap could be seen there too," he said. "Once, from the back."

When they ran the film the next time, they saw that he was right.

20

The first snow of winter had begun to fall. It flew against the windows in large, white flakes which melted immediately and ran down the window panes in broad rills. It murmured in the rain gutters and heavy drops splashed against the metal window sills.

In spite of the fact that it was twelve noon, it was so dark in the room that Martin Beck had to turn on his reading light. It spread a pleasant light over his desk and the open file in front of him. The rest of the room lay in darkness.

Martin Beck put out his last cigarette, lifted up the ash tray and blew the ashes from the top of his desk.

He felt hungry and regretted that he had not gone to the cafeteria with Kollberg and Melander.

Ten days had passed since they had seen Kafka's film and they were still waiting for something to happen. Just as everything else in this case had, the new clue had disappeared in a jungle of question marks and doubtful testimony. Examination of witnesses had been conducted almost completely by Ahlberg and his staff, very carefully and with a great deal of energy. But the results had been meager. The most positive thing that could be said was that they had not heard anything to negate their theory that a deck passenger had come on board the boat in Mem, Söderköping or Norsholm, and had stayed on the boat all the way to Gothenburg. Nor was there anything to contradict their assumption that this deck passenger had been a man of average build, somewhat above average height, and that he had been wearing a sport cap, a gray speckled tweed jacket, gray gabardine trousers, and brownish shoes. Or, in addition, that he had a blue Monark motor bike.

The first mate, whose testimony was the most helpful, thought that he had sold a ticket to someone who reminded him of the man in the pictures. He did not know when. He wasn't even sure if it had been this past summer. It could have been one of the previous summers. He did have a weak recollection, however, that the man, if indeed it was the same one that they meant, could have had a bicycle or a motor bike with him and, in addition, some fishing equipment and other stuff which could point to the fact that he was a sport fisherman.

Ahlberg had heard this testimony himself and had pushed the witness to the boundary of the conceivable. A copy of the record was in Martin Beck's files.

AHLBERG: Is it usual to carry deck passengers on a cruise?

WITNESS : It was more usual in past years but there are always a few.

A: Where do they usually get on?

W: Wherever the boat stops, or at the locks.

A: What is the most natural stretch for deck passengers to stay on board?

W: Any part of the trip. A lot of people on bicycles or hikers get on in Motala or Vadstena to get across Lake Vättern.

A: And others?

W: Yes, what shall I say. We used to take vacationers from Stockholm to Oxelösund, and from Lidköping to Vĺnersborg, but we stopped that.

A: Why?

W: It got too crowded. The regular passengers have paid a good price. They shouldn't have to be crowded out by a bunch of old women and young people running around with their thermoses and lunch baskets.

A: Is there anything to contradict the fact that a deck passenger could have come on board at Söderköping?

W: Not at all. He could have come on board anyplace. At any lock, too. There are sixty-five locks on the way. In addition, we tie up at several different places.

A: How many deck passengers could you take on board?

W: At one time? Nowadays, seldom more than ten. Most of the time only two or three. Sometimes none at all.

A: What kind of people are they? Are they usually Swedish?

W: No, not at all. They are often foreigners. They can be anyone at all, although most of them are the kind that like boats and take the trouble to find out what the time-table is.

A: And their names are not placed on the passenger lists?

W: No.

A: Do the deck passengers have a chance to eat meals on board?

W: Yes, they can eat like the others if they want to. Often, in an extra sitting after the others have finished. There are fixed prices for the cost of the meal. A la carte, so to speak.

A: You said earlier that you haven't the slightest recollection of the woman on this photograph, and now you say that you think you recognize this man. There was no purser on board and as the first mate, didn't you have the responsibility . to take care of the passengers?

W: I take their tickets when they come on board and I welcome them. After that they are left in peace. The idea of this trip isn't to shout out a lot of tourist information. They get enough of that in other places.

A: Isn't it odd that you don't recognize these people? You spent nearly three days with them.

W: All the passengers look alike to me. Remember, I see two thousand of them every summer. In ten years that makes twenty thousand. And while I'm working I am on the bridge. There are only two of us who can take watches. That makes twelve hours a day.

A: This trip was a special one, anyway, with unusual events.

W: I still had a watch on the bridge for twelve hours in any case. And, anyway, I had my wife with me on that trip.

A: Her name isn't on the passenger list.

W: No, why should it be? Members of the crew have the right to take their dependents along on some of the trips.

A: Then information that there were eighty-six people on board for this is not reliable. With deck passengers and dependents it could just as well have been one hundred?

W: Yes, of course.

A: Well, the man with the motor bike, the man on this picture, when did he leave the boat?

W: If I'm not even sure that I've seen him, how the devil should I know when he got off? A number of people who were in a hurry to catch trains, or planes, or other boats debarked at three o'clock in the morning as soon as we got to Lilla Bommen. Others stayed on and slept through the night and waited to debark in the morning.

A: Where did your wife get on board?

W: Here in Motala. We live here.

A: In Motala? In the middle of the night?

W: No, on the way up to Stockholm five days earlier. Then she left the boat on the next trip up, the eighth of July at four o'clock in the afternoon. Are you satisfied now?

A: How do you react when you think about what happened on that trip?

W. I don't believe that it happened as you say it did.

A: Why not?

W: Someone would have noticed it. Think about it, one hundred people on a small boat which is ninety feet long and fifteen feet wide. In a cabin which is as big as a rat trap.

A: Have you ever had anything other than a professional relationship with the passengers?

W: Yes, with my wife.

Martin Beck took the three photographs out of his inner pocket. Two of them had been made directly from the movie film, one was a partial blow-up of a black and white amateur picture from a group that Kafka had sent. They had two things in common: they depicted a tall man in a sport cap and a tweed jacket and they were both of very poor quality.

At this juncture hundreds of policemen in Stockholm, Gothenberg, Söderköping and Linköping had received copies of these pictures. In addition they had been sent to every public prosecutor's office and almost every police station from one end of the country to the other, and to several places in other countries.

They were poor photographs but anyone who was really acquainted with the man ought to have recognized him.

Maybe. But at their last meeting Hammar had said: "I think it looks like Melander."

He had also said: "This is no case. It is a guessing contest. Have we any reason to believe that the man is a Swede?"

'The motor bike."

'Which we are not sure was his."

'Yes."

'Is that all?"

'Yes."

Martin Beck put the pictures back in his inner pocket. He took Ahlberg's record of the hearing and looked back through several answers until he found the one he was looking for:

W: Yes, they can eat like the others, if they want to. Often, in an extra sitting after the others have finished…

He thumbed through the papers and took out a list of the canal boats' personnel for the last five years. He read through the list, took his pen from the desk holder and placed a mark next to one of the names. It read:

Göta Isaksson, waitress, Polhems Street 7, Stockholm. Employed at the SHT Restaurant from October 15, 1964. The Diana, 1959-1961, the Juno, 1962, the Diana, 1963, the Juno, 1964.

There was no notation that either Melander or Kollberg had examined her.

Both telephone numbers for the taxi companies were busy and after he had dismissed the thought of getting hold of a radio car, he put on his hat and coat, turned up his collar and walked through the slush to the subway.

The headwaiter at the SHT Restaurant seemed harassed and irritated, but showed him to one of Miss Göta's tables right next to the swinging doors which led to the kitchen. Martin Beck sat down on the banquette and picked up the menu. While he was reading it, he looked out over the restaurant.

Almost all the tables were taken and only a few of the patrons were women. At several tables there were men sitting alone, most of them in late middle age. To judge by their familiar manner with the waitresses most of them ate there quite often.

Martin Beck watched the waitresses who rushed in and out through the swinging doors. He wondered which of them was Miss Göta and it took almost twenty minutes before he found out.

She had a round, friendly face, large teeth, short rumpled hair, the color of which Martin Beck described as "hair color."

He ordered small sandwiches, meatballs and an Amstel beer and ate slowly while he waited for the lunchtime rush to ebb away. When he had finished eating and had downed four cups of coffee, Miss Göta's other tables were empty and she came over to his.

He told her why he had come and showed her the photograph. She looked at it for a while, laid it down on the table, and took a breath before answering.

'Yes," she said. "I recognize him. I don't have any idea of who he is but he has traveled with the boats several times. Both the Juno and the Diana, I believe."

Martin Beck took the picture and held it up before her.

'Are you certain?" he asked. "The picture isn't very clear, it could be someone else."

'Yes, I'm certain. He was always dressed like that, by the way. I recognize the jacket and that cap."

'Do you remember if you saw him this past summer? You were on the Juno then, weren't you?"

'Yes. Let me think. I don't really think so. I see so many people. But the summer before last. I know that I saw him several times. Twice, in any case. I was on the Diana then and the girl I worked with, the other waitress, knew him. I remember that they used to talk to each other. He wasn't a regular passenger. I think he only went part of the way. He was a deck passenger. In any event he used to eat at the second or third sitting and he didn't come to all of the meals. But I think he usually got off in Gothenburg."

'Where does your friend live?"

'I wouldn't exactly call her my friend, we only worked together. I don't know where she lives, but she usually went to Växjö at the end of the season."

Miss Göta shifted her weight to the other foot and crossed her hands over her stomach as she looked up at the ceiling.

'Yes, that's right. Växjö. I think she lives there."

'Do you know how well she knew this man?"

'No, I really don't. I think she was a bit taken with him. She used to meet him sometimes when we were off duty although we weren't actually supposed to mix with the passengers. He looked quite pleasant. Attractive in a way…"

'Can you describe him? I mean hair color, the color of his eyes, height, age, and so forth."

'Well, he was pretty tall. Taller than you are, I think. Not thin, not fat, but stockily built, one could say. He had rather broad shoulders, and I think he had blue eyes. I'm not sure about that, of course. Light hair, the kind called ash blond, a little lighter than mine. I didn't see his hair very much because he usually had that cap on. And he had nice teeth, I do remember that. His eyes were round… I mean I think he was a little popeyed. But he was definitely good looking. He could be between thirty-five and forty."

Martin Beck asked a few more questions but didn't get much more information. When he got back to his office he looked through the list again and soon found the name he was looking for. There was no address given, only a notation that she had worked on the Diana from 1960 until 1963.

It took him only a few minutes to find her name in the Växjö telephone book but he had to wait a long time before she answered the telephone. She seemed very unwilling to meet him but she couldn't really refuse.

Martin Beck took the night train and arrived in Växjö at 6:30 a.m. It was still dark and the air was mild and hazy. He walked through the streets and watched the city awaken. At a quarter of eight he was back at the railroad station. He had forgotten his galoshes and the dampness had begun to penetrate the thin soles of his shoes. He bought a newspaper at the kiosk and read it, sitting on a bench in the waiting room with his feet up against a radiator. After a while he went out, looked for a cafe which was open, drank some coffee and waited.

At nine o'clock he got up and paid his check. Four minutes later he was standing in front of the woman's door. The name Larsson was on a metal plate and above it was a calling card with the name Siv Svensson printed in an ornate style. The door was opened by a large woman in a light blue bathrobe.

'Miss Larsson?" said Martin Beck.

The woman tittered and disappeared. From inside the apartment he heard her voice: "Karin, there's a man at the door asking for you."

He didn't hear an answer but the large woman came back and asked him to come in. Then she disappeared.

He stood in the small, dark hall with his hat in his hand. It was several minutes before a pair of drapes were pushed aside and a voice said to him, "Come in."

'I wasn't expecting you this early," said the woman who was standing inside.

She had gray streaks in her dark hair which was swept up sloppily from her neck. Her face was thin and seemed small in relation to her body. Her features were even and pretty but her skin was sallow and she had not had time to put on any make-up. There were still traces of mascara around her eyes, which were brown and slightly slanted. Her green jersey dress was tight across her breasts and her broad hips.

'I work late every night so I usually sleep late in the morning," she said with some annoyance.

'I beg your pardon," said Martin Beck. "I have come to ask your help in a matter which has a connection with your employment on the Diana. Did you work there last summer too?"

'No, last summer I was on a boat that went to Leningrad." answered the woman.

She was still standing up and looked at Martin Beck cautiously. He sat down in one of the flowery easy chairs. Then he gave her the picture. She took it and looked at it. A nearly imperceptible change crossed her face, her eyes widened for a fraction of a second, but when he handed the picture back to him her face was stiff and dismissing.

'Yes?"

'You know this man, don't you?"

'No," she answered, without the slightest hesitation.

She walked across the room and took a cigarette out of a glass box which lay on the tile table in front of the window. She lit the cigarette and sat down on the sofa across from Martin Beck.

'What do you mean? I've never seen him. Why are you asking?"

Her voice was calm. Martin Beck looked at her for a while. Then he said:

'I know that you know him. You met him on the Diana the summer before last."

'No, I've never seen him. You had better go now. I have to get some sleep."

'Why are you lying?"

'You have no right to come here and be impertinent. You had better leave now, as I said."

'Miss Larsson. Why won't you admit that you know who he is? I know that you are not telling the truth. If you don't tell the truth now, it could be unpleasant for you later on."

'I don't know him."

'Since I can prove that you have been seen with this man several times, it would be better to tell the truth. I want to know who the man on the photograph is and you can tell me. Be reasonable."

'This is a mistake. You must be wrong. I don't know who he is. Please leave me alone."

During the conversation Martin Beck looked steadily at the woman. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa and constantly tapping her index finger against her cigarette although there wasn't any ash to knock off. Her face was tense and he saw how her jawbones moved under her skin.

She was frightened.

He stayed in the flowery chair and tried to get her to talk. But now, she said nothing at all, only sat stiffly on the sofa and peeled pieces of orange colored nail polish off her fingernails. Finally she got up and walked back and forth across the room. After a while Martin Beck also got up, took his hat, and said goodbye. She didn't answer. She stood there stiff and dismissing with her back turned toward him.

'You will hear from me again," he said.

Before he left he laid his card on the table.

It was evening before he got back to Stockholm. He went directly to the subway and went home.

The next morning he telephoned Göta Isaksson. She wasn't going to work until the afternoon shift so that he was welcome to stop by whenever he wanted. One hour later he sat in her small apartment. She made some coffee in the kitchenette and when she had poured it and sat down opposite him, he said:

'I went down to Växjö yesterday and talked with your colleague. She denied that she had known the man. And she seemed frightened. Do you know why she won't admit that she knew him?"

'I have no idea. I actually know very little about her. She wasn't particularly talkative. We did work together for three summers but she seldom said anything about herself."

'Do you remember if she used to talk about men during the time you were together?"

'Only one. I remember that she said she had met a nice man on the boat. That must have been the second summer we worked together."

She cocked her head and counted to herself.

'Yes, it must have been the summer of '61."

'Did she speak about him often?"

'She mentioned him from time to time. It seemed as if she was seeing him too now and then. He must have been on several trips or else have met her in Stockholm or Gothenburg. Maybe he was a passenger. Maybe he was there because of her. What do I know?"

'You never saw him?"

'No. I've really never thought about it until now when you started asking questions. It could have been the same man as the one in the picture although it seemed as if she hadn't met him until two summers ago. And then she never said anything."

'What did she say about him the first summer? 1961?"

'Oh, nothing special. That he was nice. I think that she said that he was refined in some way. I suspect that she meant that he was well mannered and polite and so forth, as if ordinary people weren't good enough for her. But then she stopped talking about him. I think it was over or else something happened between them because she seemed rather depressed toward the end of that summer."

'The following summer, did you see each other then?"

'No, she was still on the Diana then and I was working on the Juno. We saw each other a few times in Vadstena, I think. The boats meet there, but we never spoke. Won't you have some more coffee?"

Martin Beck could feel his stomach reacting but he couldn't bring himself to say no.

'Has she done anything? I mean, you're asking so many questions."

'No," said Martin Beck. "She hasn't done anything but we want to get hold of the man in the photograph. Do you remember if she said or did anything the summer before last which could have any connection with the man in this picture?"

'No, not that I remember. We shared a cabin and she was sometimes out at night. I suspect that she was meeting some man, but I'm not the type that meddles in other people's business. But I know that she wasn't particularly happy. I mean that if she was in love with someone, she should have seemed happy. But she wasn't. To the contrary, she was nervous and sad. Almost a bit strange. But that could have been because she was sick. She quit before the end of the season, a month early, I think. She just didn't show up one morning and I had to work alone the whole day before they found a replacement. They said that she had gone to the hospital, but no one knew what was wrong with her. She didn't come back that summer in any event. I haven't seen her since."

She poured some more coffee and offered Martin Beck some cookies, while she continued to talk, freely and a great deal, about her work routine, her fellow employees, and some passengers she remembered. It was another full hour

• before he left there.

The weather had gotten better. The streets were nearly dry and the sun shone down from a clear sky. Martin Beck didn't feel too well, due to the coffee, and he walked back to his office at Kristineberg. While he walked along the water at North Mälarstrand he thought about what he had learned of the two waitresses.

He hadn't learned anything at all from Karin Larsson but the visit to Växjö had convinced him that she knew the man but didn't dare talk about it.

From Göta Isaksson he had learned that:

Karin Larsson had met a man on board the Diana during the summer of 1961. Probably a deck passenger, who had possibly traveled with the boat several times that summer.

That two summers later, the summer of 1963, she had met a man, probably a deck passenger, who traveled with the boat now and then. The man could well have been identical to the one on the photograph, according to Göta Isaksson.

That she had seemed depressed and nervous that summer and had quit her job before the end of the season sometime at the beginning of August, and had gone into the hospital.

He didn't know why. Nor did he know which hospital she had gone to and how long she had stayed. The only chance seemed to be to ask her directly.

He dialed the number in Växjö as soon as he got back to his office but didn't get any answer. He suspected that she was asleep or else was working on an early shift.

During the course of the afternoon he called again several times and also a few times during the evening.

On his seventh attempt at two o'clock in the afternoon the following day, a voice which he thought belonged to the large woman in the blue bathrobe answered.

'No, she's away."

'When?"

'She left last night. Who's calling?"

'A good friend. Where did she go?"

'She didn't say. But I heard her call and ask about the trains to Gothenburg."

'Did you hear anything else?"

'It sounded as if she was thinking about working on some boat."

'When did she decide to go?"

'She must have decided awfully quickly. There was some man here yesterday morning and right after that she made up her mind to leave. She seemed changed."

'Do you know which boat she was going to begin working on?"

'No, I didn't hear."

'Will she be gone long?"

'She didn't say. Can I give her any message if I hear from her?"

'No, thank you."

She had gone away, in a great hurry. He was sure that she was already on some boat going far out of reach. And now he was certain of what had before been only a guess.

She was frightened to death of someone or something and he had to find out why.

21

The office at the Växjö hospital was quick in getting the information.

'Larsson, Karin Elisabeth, yes, that's right, someone by that name did enter the women's clinic on August 9 and stayed until October 1 last year. For what? You will have to talk to the doctor about that."

The doctor at the women's clinic said: "Yes, it's quite possible that I remember. I'll call you back after I've looked at the records."

While Martin Beck waited he looked at the photographs and read through the description which they had made up after his conversation with Göta Isaksson. It was imperfect but a great deal better than the one they had a few hours earlier.

Height: approximately 6' I". Body build: normal. Hair color: ash blond. Eyes: presumably blue (green or gray), round, slightly protrudent. Teeth: white, healthy.

The phone call came an hour later. The doctor had located the records.

'Yes, it was just as I thought. She came here on her own the evening of August 9. I remember that I was just going to go home when they called me to take a look at her. They had taken her into the examining room and she was bleeding pretty heavily from her genitals. She had obviously been bleeding heavily for quite a while because she had lost a lot of blood and was in pretty bad shape. No direct danger of course. When I asked her what had happened, she refused to answer. It is not unusual in my department that the patient won't discuss the reason for their bleeding. You can figure the reason out yourself and anyway, it usually comes out sooner or later. But this one didn't say anything at all in the beginning and later on she lied. Do you want me to read directly from the record for you? Otherwise I can tell you in layman's language."

'Yes, please do," said Martin Beck. "My Latin isn't very good."

'Mine neither," said the doctor.

He came from southern Sweden and spoke calmly, evenly and methodically.

'As I said, she bled profusely and had pain, so we gave her an injection. The bleeding came partially from the mouth of the uterus and partly from a wound in the vagina. At the mouth of the uterus and on the back part of the walls of the vagina were wounds which must have been made by a hard, sharp object. Around the muscles at the opening of the vagina there were splits which showed that the instrument must also have been terribly coarse. It isn't unusual for a woman who has undergone a careless or badly performed abortion, or has tried to do the abortion herself, to end up with bad wounds. But I can state that I have never seen anything like her condition in connection with an abortion. It seems totally impossible that she could have made such an attack on herself."

'Did she say that she had, that she had done it herself?"

'Yes, that's what she claimed when she finally said something. I tried to get her to tell me how it had happened but she kept on saying that she had done it herself. I didn't believe her and she knew that I didn't believe her and finally she didn't even try to convince me but just kept repeating what she had already said; 'I did it myself, I did it myself like a broken phonograph record. The strange part of it was that she hadn't even been pregnant. The uterus was damaged but if she had been pregnant it must have been in such an early stage that she couldn't possibly have known it herself."

'What do you think had happened?"

'Some perverse maniac. It sounds crazy to say it right out but I am almost sure she was trying to protect someone. I was worried about her so we kept her here until October 1 although we could well have let her go earlier. In addition, I hadn't given up hope that she might speak up and tell us about it. But she kept on denying everything else and finally we had to let her go home. There was nothing more I could do. I did speak about it to some acquaintances in the police force here, and they must have done something, but never came up with anything."

Martin Beck said nothing.

'As I told you I don't know exactly what happened," said the doctor. "But it was some kind of a weapon, it's not easy to say what. Maybe a bottle. Has something happened to her?"

'No, I only wanted to talk with her."

'That isn't going to be particularly easy."

'No," said Martin Beck. "Thank you for the help."

He put his pen back in his pocket without having made a single note.

Martin Beck rubbed his hairline with the tips of his fingers while he looked at the picture of the man in the sport cap.

He thought about the woman in Växjö whose fear had caused her to hide the truth so stubbornly and carefully and had now driven her to flee from all questions. He stared at the photograph and mumbled, "Why?" But he knew already that there was only one answer to that question.

The telephone rang. It was the doctor.

'I forgot something that might be of interest to you. The patient in question had been in the hospital earlier, at the end of December 1962, to be exact. I forgot it, partly because I was on vacation then, partly because she was in another section of the hospital. But I read about it in her record when I took care of her. That time she had broken two fingers, the index finger and the middle finger on her left hand. That time, too, she refused to say how it had happened. Someone asked her if she had fallen down some stairs and at first she had replied that it had happened that way. But according to the doctor who took care of her at the time, that wasn't likely. The fingers had been broken backwards, toward the back side of her hand, but otherwise there were no other wounds at all. I don't know much more than that. She was treated as usual with gypsum and the like and she healed normally."

Martin Beck thanked him and hung up the receiver. He picked it up immediately again and dialed the number of the SHT Restaurant. He heard a lot of noise from the kitchen and someone calling out "Three beef ĺ la Lindström!" right next to the receiver. A few minutes later Göta Isaksson answered.

'It's so noisy here," she said. "Where were we when she got sick? Yes, I do remember that. We were in Gothenburg then. She wasn't there when the boat left in the morning and then they didn't get a replacement for her until we got into Töreboda."

'Where did you stay in Gothenburg?"

'I used to stay at the Salvation Army Hotel on Post Street but I don't know where she stayed. Presumably on board or at some other hotel. I'm sorry but I have to go now. The customers are waiting."

Martin Beck called Motala and Ahlberg listened silently.

'She must have gone to the hospital in Växjö directly from Gothenburg," he said, finally. "We had better find out where she stayed on the night of the eighth and ninth of August. It must have happened then."

'She was in pretty bad shape," said Martin Beck. "It's strange that she could get herself to Växjö in that condition."

'Maybe the man that did it lived in Gothenburg. In that case it must have happened in his house."

He was silent for a moment. Then he said:

'If he does it one more time, we'll get him. Even though she wouldn't say who he was, she knew his name."

'She's frightened," said Martin Beck. "Frightened to death as a matter of fact."

'Do you think it's too late to get hold of her?"

'Yes," replied Martin Beck. "She knew what she was doing when she ran off. As far as we are concerned she can be out of reach for years. We also know what she did."

'What did she do?" asked Ahlberg.

'She fled for her life," said Martin Beck.

22

The trampled, dirty snow was packed on the streets. Melting snow fell from the rooftops and dropped from the large, yellow star which hung between the buildings on either side of Regering Street. The star had been hanging there for a few weeks in spite of the fact that Christmas was still almost a month away.

Hurried people crowded the sidewalks and a steady stream of traffic filled the streets. Now and then a car would increase its speed and sneak into an opening in the line of cars, spraying muddy snow with its wheels.

Patrolman Lundberg seemed to be the only person who was not in a hurry. With his hands behind his back he walked down Regering Street toward the south staying close to the rows of Christmas decorated windows. Melting snow from the rooftops fell in heavy drops on his patrolman's hat and the slush squeaked under his galoshes. -Near NK, he turned off onto Smĺland Street where the crowds and the traffic weren't as heavy. He walked carefully down the hill and outside of the house where the Jakob Police Station once stood. He stopped and shook the water from his hat. He was young and new to the police force and didn't remember the old police station which had been torn down several years ago and whose district is now part of the Klara Police Station.

Constable Lundberg belonged to the Klara police force and had an errand on Smĺland Street. At the corner of Norrland Street was a cafe. He entered it. He had been told to collect an envelope from one of the waitresses there.

While he waited, he leaned against the counter and looked around. It was ten o'clock in the morning and only three or four tables were occupied. Directly across from him, a man was sitting with a cup of coffee. Lundberg thought that his face looked familiar and searched his memory. The man began to reach for money in his trouser pocket, and while he was doing so he looked away from the constable.

Lundberg felt the hair on his neck stiffen.

The man on the Göta Canal!

He was almost sure that it was he. He had seen the photograph up at the station house several times and his picture was etched in his memory. In his eagerness he almost forgot the envelope, which was given to him the same second as the man got up and left a few coins on the table. The man was bare-headed and wasn't wearing an overcoat. He moved toward the door and Lundberg established that he was the same height and had the same build and hair coloring as the description.

Through the glass doors he could see the man turn to the right and, with a quick tip of his hat to the waitress, he hurried after him. About thirty feet up the street the man went into a driveway door and Lundberg reached it just in time to see the door close after the man. There was a sign on the door which said: J. A. ERIKSSON MOVING COMPANY.,'OFFICE. In the upper part of the door there was a glass window. Lundberg went up to the doorway slowly. He tried to look into the glass window as he went by but was only able to make out another glass window at a right angle to the door. Inside were two trucks with J. A. ERIKSSON MOVING COMPANY painted on their doors.

He passed the office door again, more slowly this time. With his neck outstretched, he looked in more carefully. Inside the glass windows were two or three partitions with doors leading to a corridor. On the nearest door which led to the smallest partitioned area and had a window in the glass, he could read the word CASHIER. On the next door there was a sign saying OFFICE—Mr. F. Bengtsson.

The tall man was standing there behind the counter, talking on the telephone. He stood turned toward the window with his back to Lundberg. He had changed from his jacket into a thin, black office coat and was standing with one hand in his pocket. A man in a windbreaker and a fur cap came in through the door farthest back on the short side of the corridor. He had some papers in his hands. When he opened the office door he looked toward the outer door and saw Lundberg who continued calmly out the doorway.

He had done his first shadowing.

'Now damn it," said Kollberg. "We can begin." "Presumably he has his lunch hour at twelve o'clock," said Martin Beck. "If you hurry, you can get there. Clever boy, that Lundberg, if he's right. Call in when you can this afternoon so that Stenström can relieve you."

'I think I can manage myself today. Stenström can jump in this evening. So long."

At a quarter of twelve Kollberg was at his place. There was a bar right across the street from the moving company and he sat down there by the window. On the table in front of him was a cup of coffee and a small, red vase with a tired tulip in it, a twig of evergreen, and a dusty, plastic Santa Claus. He drank his coffee slowly and never took his eyes off the driveway across the street. He guessed that the five windows to the left of the driveway door belonged to the moving company, but he couldn't distinguish anything behind the glass due to the fact that the bottom halves of the windows were painted white.

When a truck with the moving company's name on the doors came out of the driveway, Kollberg looked at the clock. Three minutes to twelve. Two minutes later the office door opened and a tall man in a dark gray coat and a black hat came out. Kollberg put the money for his coffee on the table, got up, took his hat as he followed the man with his eyes. The man stepped off the curb, and crossed the street past the bar. When Kollberg came out on to the street he saw the man turn the corner onto Norrland Street He followed him but didn't have to go far. There was a cafeteria about sixty feet from the corner which the man entered.

There was a line in front of the counter where the man waited patiently. When he got there he took a tray, grabbed a small container of milk, some bread and butter, ordered something at the window, paid, and sat down at an empty table with his back to Kollberg.

When the girl at the window shouted "One salmon!" he got up and went to get his plate. He ate slowly and with concentration and only looked up when he drank his milk. Kollberg had gotten a cup of coffee and placed himself so that he could see the man's face. After a while he was even more convinced that this really was the man on the film.

He neither drank coffee nor smoked after his meal. He wiped his mouth carefully, took his hat and coat and left. Kollberg followed him down to Hamn Street where he crossed over to the King's Gardens. He walked rather quickly and Kollberg stayed about sixty feet behind through the East Allé. At Mollin's fountain he turned to the right, passed the fountain which was half filled with dirty, gray snow, and continued up on the West Allé. Kollberg followed him past the "Victoria and Blanche" cafe, across the street to NK, down Hamn Street to Smĺland Street, where he crossed the street and disappeared into the driveway door.

'Oh yes," thought Kollberg, "that was certainly exciting."

He looked at his watch. Lunch and the walk had taken exactly three-quarters of an hour.

Nothing particular happened during the afternoon. The trucks returned, still empty. People went in and out of doors. A station wagon drove out and came back. Both trucks went out again and when one of them came back it almost collided with the station wagon which was on its way out.

Five minutes before five one of the truck drivers came out of the driveway door with a heavy, gray-haired woman. At five o'clock the other driver came out. The third had still not come back with his truck. Three more men followed him out and crossed the street. They entered the bar and loudly ordered their beers which they received and drank in silence.

Five minutes after five, the tall man came out. He stood in front of the door, took out a key ring from his pocket, and locked the door. Then he placed the key ring back in his pocket, checked to see if the door was properly locked, and walked out onto the street.

While Kollberg was putting his coat on he heard one of the beer drinkers say: "Folke's going home now."

And one of the others: "What does he have to do at home when he isn't hooked. He doesn't know how good he has it. You should have heard my old lady when I came home last night… What a time just because a man goes and has a few beers before he goes home after work. I swear…"

Kollberg didn't hear any more. The tall man who, without a doubt, was named Folke Bengtsson had disappeared out of sight. Kollberg caught up with him on Norrland Street again. The man was walking through the crowds toward Hamn Start and he continued on to the bus stop right across the street from NK.

By the time Kollberg got there four people were in line behind Bengtsson. He hoped that the bus wouldn't be too full to take them both. Bengtsson looked straight ahead of him the entire time and seemed to be looking at the Christmas decorations in NK's windows. When the bus arrived he hopped up on the step and Kollberg just managed to get on himself before the doors closed.

The man got off at St. Erik's Square. The traffic was tight and it took him a few minutes to get by all the traffic lights and cross to the other side of the square. On Rörstand Street he walked into a supermarket.

He continued along Rörstand Street, passed Birk Street, slunk across the street and went through a door. After a while Kollberg followed him and read the names on the mailboxes. There were two entrances to the house, one from the street and the other from the garden. Kollberg congratulated himself and his luck when he saw that Bengtsson lived in an apartment facing the street, two flights up.

He stationed himself in a doorway across the street and looked up at the third floor. In four of the windows there were frilly tulle curtains and a number of potted plants. Thanks to the man in the bar, Kollberg knew that Bengtsson was a bachelor and doubted that these windows belonged to his apartment. He concentrated his attention on the other two windows. One of them was open and while he was watching it, a light was turned on in the second one, which he presumed was the kitchen window. He saw the ceiling and the upper part of the walls which were white. A few times he could see someone moving about inside but not quite clearly enough to be sure it was Bengtsson.

After twenty minutes it was dark in the kitchen and a light was turned on in the other room. A little later Bengtsson appeared in the window. He opened it wide and leaned out. Then he closed it again, and closed the Venetian blinds. They were yellow and let light come through and Kollberg saw Bengtsson's silhouette disappear inside the room. The windows were without drapes because on both sides of the blinds broad streams of light appeared.

Kollberg went and telephoned to Stenström.

'He's home now. If I don't call you back before nine come and take over."

Eight minutes after nine, Stenström arrived. Nothing had happened except that the light had been turned off at eight o'clock and after that there had been only a weak, cold blue stream of light from between the blinds.

Stenström had an evening paper in his pocket and announced that the man was probably looking at a long, American film on the television.

'That's fine," said Kollberg. "I saw it ten or fifteen years ago. It has a wonderful ending. Everyone dies except the girl. I'll run along now and maybe I'll get to see some of it If you call me before six I'll come over here."

It was a cold and clear morning. Ten hours later Sten ström hurried off toward St. Erik's Square. Since the light had been turned off at ten-thirty in the room on the third floor, nothing had happened.

'Be careful that you don't freeze," Stenström had said before he left. When the door opened and the tall man came out, Kollberg was thankful for a chance to move.

Bengtsson had on the same overcoat as he had the day before but he had changed his hat to a gray Crimea cap. He walked quickly and the breath from his mouth looked like white smoke. At St. Erik's Square he took a bus to Hamn Street and a few minutes before eight Kollberg saw him disappear behind the door to the moving company.

A few hours later he came out again, walked the few steps to the cafe in the house next door, drank a cup of coffee and ate two sandwiches. At twelve o'clock he went to the cafeteria and when he had eaten, he took his walk through the city and went back to his office. At a few minutes after five he locked the door behind him, took the bus to St. Erik's Square, bought some bread in a bakery, and went home.

At twenty minutes after seven he came out of his front door again. At St. Erik's Square he walked to the right, and continued over the bridge and finally swung in to Kungsholm Street where he disappeared into a doorway. Kollberg stood for a while outside the door where the word BOWLING shone in large, red letters. Then he opened the door and went in.

The bowling hall had seven lanes and in back of a railing was a bar with small, round tables and some chairs. Echoes of voices and laughter filled the room. Now and then he heard the sound of rolling balls and the bang that followed.

Kollberg couldn't see Bengtsson anywhere. On the other hand he immediately spotted two of the three men from the bar the previous day. They sat at a table in the bar and Kollberg drew back toward the door in order not to be recognized. After a while the third man came toward the table together with Bengtsson. When they had begun to bowl, Kollberg left.

After a few hours the four bowlers came out. They separated at the trolley stop at St. Erik's Square and Bengtsson walked back the way he had come, alone.

At eleven o'clock it got dark in Bengtsson's apartment but by that time Kollberg was already home and in bed, while his bundled up colleague paced back and forth on Burk Street. Stenström had a cold.

The next day was a Wednesday and it went by pretty much as the earlier days. Stenström nursed his cold and spent the major part of the day in the cafe on Smĺland Street.

That evening Bengtsson went to the movies. Five rows in back of him Kollberg watched while a blond, half naked Mr. America struggled with an ancient monster in cinemascope.

The next two days were similar. Stenström and Kollberg took turns following the man's uneventful and highly regimented life. Kollberg visited the bowling alley again and found out that Bengtsson played well and that for years he had played every Tuesday with his three friends from work.

The seventh day was a Sunday and according to Stenström the only interesting thing that happened during the entire day was a hockey match between Sweden and Czechoslovakia which, together with Bengtsson and ten thousand others, he attended.

Kollberg found a new door to stand in on Sunday night.

When, for the second Saturday in a row, he saw Bengtsson come out of his office, lock the door at two minutes after twelve and begin to walk toward Regering Street, he thought: "Now we'll go to the Löwenbräu, and have a beer." When Bengtsson opened the door to the Löwenbräu, Kollberg stood at the corner of Drottning Street and hated him.

That evening he went up to his office at Kristineberg and looked at some pictures from the film. He didn't know how many times he had looked at them.

He looked at each picture for a long time and very carefully, but in spite of the fact that it was hard to believe, he still saw the man whose quiet life he had witnessed for two weeks.

23

'It must be the wrong guy," said Kollberg.

'Are you getting tired?"

'Don't misunderstand me. I have nothing against standing and sleeping in a doorway on Birk Street night after night, but…"

'But what?"

'For ten out of fourteen days this is exactly what has happened: at seven o'clock he opens the blinds. At one minute after seven he opens the window. At twenty-five minutes to eight he shuts the window. At twenty minutes to eight he walks out of his front door, walks over to St. Erik's Square and takes the number 56 bus to the corner of Regering Street and Hamn Street, walks to the moving company and unlocks the door at one half minute before eight. At ten o'clock he goes down to the City Cafe, drinks two cups of coffee and eats a cheese sandwich. At one minute after twelve he goes to either one of two cafeterias. He eats…"

'What does he eat?" asked Martin Beck.

'Fish or fried meat. He is finished at twenty minutes past twelve, takes a quick walk through the middle of town, and goes back to work. At five minutes past five he locks up and goes home. If the weather is terrible he takes the number 56 bus. Otherwise he walks up Regering Street, King Street, Queen Street, Barnhus Street, Uppland Street, Observatory Street, through Vasa Park, across St. Erik's Square, past Birk Street and home. On the way he sometimes shops in some supermarket where there aren't too many people. He buys milk and cake every day and every few days he gets bread, butter, cheese and marmalade. He has stayed home and looked at the boob tube eight evenings out of the fourteen. On Wednesdays he has gone to the seven o'clock show at the movies. Fanciful nonsense films, both times. I was the one that had to sit through them. On the way home he stuffs a frankfurter into himself, with both mustard and catsup. Two Sundays in a row he has taken the subway to the stadium to see the ice hockey games. Stenström got to see those. Two

Tuesdays in a row he has gone bowling with three men from his company. On Saturdays he works until twelve. Then he goes to the Löwenbräu and drinks a stein of beer. In addition, he eats a portion of frankfurter salad. Then he goes home. He doesn't look at the girls on the street. Sometimes he stops and looks at the posters in front of the movie houses or in the shop windows, mostly sporting goods and hardware stores. He doesn't buy any newspapers and doesn't subscribe to any either. On the other hand he does buy two magazines, Rekord-Magasinet and some kind of fishing magazine. I've forgotten what it is called. Garbage! There is no blue Monark motor bike in the cellar of the apartment house he lives in but there is a red one made by Svalen. It's his. He rarely gets any mail. He doesn't mix with his neighbors but does greet them on the stairs."

'What is he like?"

'How the devil should I know?" Kollberg said.

'Seriously."

'He seems healthy, calm, strong and dull. He keeps his window open every night. Moves naturally and without trouble, dresses well, doesn't seem nervous. He never seems to be in a hurry but doesn't drag. He ought to smoke a pipe. But doesn't."

'Has he noticed you?"

'I don't think so. Not me, in any case."

They sat quietly for a while watching the snow which came down in large, wet flakes.

'You understand," Kollberg said, "I have a feeling that we could keep on like this right up until he has his vacation next summer. It is a fascinating act, but can the country afford to keep two supposedly capable detectives…"

He stopped in the middle of the sentence.

'Capable, yes, by the way, last night there was a drunk who said "boo" to me while I stood there and watched the apartment. I almost got a heart attack."

"Is it the right guy?"

'He sure looks like it judging from the film."

Martin Beck rocked in his chair.

'Okay, We'll bring him in."

'Now?"

'Yes."

'Who?"

'You. After work. So that he doesn't neglect anything.

Take him up to your office and get the personal information. When you've got that, call me."

'Soft line?"

'Definitely."

It was nine-thirty on December 14. Martin Beck had suffered through the National Police's Christmas party with doughy cake and two glasses of almost alcohol free glögg.

He called the Public Prosecutor in Linköping and Ahlberg in Motala and was surprised to hear them both say: "I'm coming."

They arrived around three o'clock. The Public Prosecutor had come up via Motala. He exchanged a few words with Martin Beck and then went into Hammar's office.

Ahlberg sat in Martin Beck's visitor's chair for two hours but they only exchanged a few remarks of interest. Ahlberg said:

'Do you think it was he?"

'I don't know."

'It must be."

'Yes."

At five minutes after five they heard a knock on the door. It was the Public Prosecutor and Hammar.

'I am convinced that you are right," said the Prosecutor. "Use whatever method you like."

Martin Beck nodded.

'Hi," said Kollberg. "Have you time to come up? Folke Bengtsson, who I've mentioned to you, is here."

Martin Beck put down the receiver and got up. When he got to the doorway he turned around and looked at Ahlberg. Neither of them said anything.

He walked slowly up the stairs. In spite of the thousands of examinations he had conducted, he had a funny, bad feeling in his stomach and in the left part of his chest.

Kollberg had taken off his jacket and stood with his elbows on the desk, calm and jovial. Melander sat with his back to them, tranquilly occupied with his papers.

'This is Folke Bengtsson," said Kollberg, and stood up.

'Beck."

'Bengtsson."

They shook hands. Kollberg put his jacket on.

'Ill run along now. So long."

'So long."

Martin Beck sat down. There was a sheet of paper in

Kollberg's typewriter. He pulled it up a bit and read: "Folke Lennart Bengtsson, Office Manager, Born 6,'8,'1926 in Gustaf Vasa's parish, Stockholm. Unmarried."

He looked at the man. Blue eyes, a rather ordinary face. A few streaks of gray in his hair. No nervousness. In general, nothing special.

'Do you know why we have asked you to come here?"

'As a matter of fact, no."

'It is possible that you can help us with something."

'What would that be?"

Martin Beck looked toward the window and said:

'It's beginning to snow heavily now."

'Yes, it is."

'Where were you during the first week of July last summer? Do you remember?"

'I ought to. I was on vacation then. The company that I am with closes down for four weeks right after midsummer."

'Yes?"

'I was in several different places, two weeks on the West Coast, among others. I usually go fishing when I'm off. At least one week in the winter too."

'How did you get there? By car?"

The man smiled.

'No, I don't have a car. Not even a driver's license. I went on my motor bike."

Martin Beck sat quietly for a second.

'There are worse ways to travel. I had a motor bike too for a few years. What kind do you have?"

'I had a Monark then, but I got a new one this past fall."

'Do you remember how you spent your vacation?"

'Yes, of course. I spent the first week at Mem, that's on the Östogöta coast, right where the Göta Canal begins. Then I went on to Bohuslän."

Martin Beck got up and went over to the water pitcher which stood on top of a file near the door. He looked at Melander. Walked back. He lifted the hood off the tape recorder and plugged in the microphone. The man looked at the apparatus.

'Did you go by boat between Mem and Gothenburg?"

'No, from Söderköping."

'What was the name of the boat?"

'The Diana."

'Which day did you travel?"

'I don't remember exactly. One of the first days in July."

'Did anything special happen during the trip?"

'No, not that I can remember."

'Are you sure? Think about it."

'Yes, that's right The boat had some engine trouble. But that was before I went on board. It had been delayed. Otherwise I wouldn't have made it."

'What did you do when you got to Gothenburg?"

'The boat got in very early in the morning. I went up to a place called Hamburgsund. I had reserved a room there."

'How long did you stay?"

'Two weeks."

'What did you do during those two weeks?"

'Fished as often as I could. The weather was poor."

Martin Beck opened Kollberg's desk drawer and took out the three photographs of Roseanna McGraw.

'Do you recognize this woman?"

The man looked at the pictures, one after the other. His expression didn't change in the slightest.

'Her face looks familiar in some way," he said. "Who is she?"

'She was on board the Diana."

'Yes, I think I remember," the man said indifferently. He looked at the pictures again.

'But I'm not sure. What was her name?"

'Roseanna McGraw. She was an American."

'Now I remember. Yes, that's right. She was on board. I talked with her a few times. As well as I could."

'You haven't seen or heard her name since then?"

'No, actually not. That is to say, not before now."

Martin Beck caught the man's eyes and held them. They were cold and calm and questioning.

'Don't you know that Roseanna McGraw was murdered during that trip?"

A slight shift of expression crossed the man's face.

'No," he said, finally. "No… I really didn't know that."

He wrinkled his forehead.

'Is it true?" he said suddenly.

'It seems very strange that you haven't heard anything about it. To be blunt, I don't believe you."

Martin Beck got the feeling that the man had stopped listening.

'Naturally, now I understand why you have brought me here."

'Did you hear what I just said? It seems very strange that you haven't heard anything about it in spite of everything that's been written about this case. I simply don't believe you."

'If I had known anything about it I certainly would have come in voluntarily."

'Come in voluntarily?"

'Yes, as a witness."

'To what?"

'To say that I had met her. Where was she killed? In Gothenburg?"

'No, on board the boat, in her cabin. While you were on board."

'That doesn't seem possible."

'Why not?"

'Someone must have noticed it. Every cabin was fully occupied."

'It seems even more impossible that you never heard anything about it. I find that hard to believe."

'Wait, I can explain that. I never read the newspapers."

'There was a lot about this case on the radio, too, and on the television news programs. This photograph was shown on Aktuellt. Several times. Don't you have a television?"

'Yes, of course. But I only look at nature programs and at movies."

Martin Beck sat quietly and stared at the man. After a minute he said:

'Why don't you read the papers?"

'They don't contain anything that interests me. Only politics and… yes, things like you just mentioned, murders and accidents and other miseries."

'Don't you ever read anything?"

'Yes, of course. I read several magazines, about sports, fishing, outdoor life, maybe even a few adventure stories sometimes."

'Which magazines?"

"The Sportsman, just about every issue. All-Sport and Rekord-Magazine, I usually buy them, and Lektyr. I've read that one since I was little. Sometimes I buy some American magazines about sport fishing."

'Do you usually talk about the events of the day with your fellow workers?"

'No, they know me and know that I'm not interested. They talk about things with each other, of course, but I seldom listen. That's actually true."

Martin Beck said nothing.

'I realize that this sounds strange, but I can only repeat that it's true. You have to believe me." "Are you religious?" "No, why do you ask?"

Martin Beck took out a cigarette and offered the man one. "No thank you. I don't smoke." "Do you drink?"

'I like beer. I usually take a glass or two on Saturdays after work. Never anything stronger."

Martin Beck looked at him steadily. The man made no attempt to avoid his glance.

'Well, we found you finally, anyway. That's the main thing."

'Yes. How did you do that, figure out that I was on board, I mean?"

'Oh, it was accidental. Someone recognized you. It's like this: so far you are the only person we have been in contact with who has spoken to this woman. How did you meet her?"

'I think that… now I remember. She happened to be standing next to me and asked me something." "And?"

'I answered. As well as I could. My English isn't that good."

'But you often read American magazines?" "Yes, and that's why I usually take an opportunity to talk with Englishmen and Americans. To practice. It doesn't happen very often. Once a week I usually go to see an American film, it doesn't matter which. And I often look at detective films on the television, although the subject doesn't interest me."

'You spoke with Roseanna McGraw. What did you talk about?" "Well…"

'Try to remember. It could be important." "She talked a bit about herself." "What, for example?"

'Where she lived, but I don't remember what she said." "Could it have been New York?"

'No, she named some state in America. Maybe Nevada. I actually don't remember." "What else?"

'She said that she worked in a library. I remember that very well. And that she had been to the North Cape and in Lapland. That she had seen the midnight sun. She also asked about a number of things."

'Were you together a lot?"

'No, I couldn't say that. I spoke with her three or four times."

'When? During which part of the trip?"

The man didn't answer immediately.

'It must have been the first day. I actually remember that we were together between Berg and Ljungsbro, where the passengers usually get off the boat while the boat is in the locks."

'Do you know the canal area well?"

'Yes, rather well."

'Have you been on it before?"

'Yes, several times. I usually plan to ride part of the way on the boats when it fits in with my vacation plans. There aren't too many of those old boats left and it really is a fine trip."

'How many times?"

'I can't exactly say right away. Maybe if I think about it, but it must have been at least ten times over the years. Different stretches. I only rode the whole way once, from Gothenberg to Stockholm."

'As a deck passenger?"

'Yes, the cabins are booked well in advance. In addition, it's rather expensive to go as a cruise passenger."

'Doesn't it get uncomfortable without a cabin?"

'No, not at all. You can sleep on a sofa in the salon under the deck if you want to. I am actually not terribly fussy about those things."

'So, you met Roseanna McGraw. You remember that you were with her at Ljungsbro. But later in the trip?"

'I think that I spoke with her again on some other occasion, in passing."

'When?"

'I don't actually remember."

'Did you see her during the latter part of the trip?"

'Not that I can remember."

'Did you know where her cabin was?"

No answer.

'Did you hear the question? Where was her cabin?"

'I'm really trying to remember. No, I don't think I ever knew."

'You were never inside her cabin?"

'No. The cabins are usually terribly small and anyway, they are double cabins."

'Always?"

'Well, there are a few singles. But not many. They are quite expensive."

'Do you know if Roseanna McGraw was traveling alone?"

'I haven't thought about it. She didn't say anything about it, as far as I can remember."

'And you never went with her to her cabin?"

'No, actually not."

'At Ljungsbro, what did you talk about there?"

'I remember that I asked her if she wanted to see the church at the Vreta monastery, which is right near there. But she didn't want to. And anyway, I'm not sure that she understood what I meant."

'What else did you talk about?"

'I don't actually remember. Nothing in particular. I don't think we spoke that much. We walked part of the way along the canal. A lot of other people did too."

'Did you see her with anyone else?"

The man sat quietly. He looked toward the window ex-pressionlessly.

'This is a very important question."

'I understand that. I'm trying to remember. She must have spoken with other people while I stood next to her, some other American or Englishman. I don't remember anyone in particular."

Martin Beck got up and walked over to the water pitcher.

'Do you want something to drink?"

'No thank you. I'm not thirsty."

Martin Beck drank a glass of water and walked back, pressed a button under the desk, stopped the tape recorder and took off the tape.

A minute later Melander came in and went to his desk.

'Will you take care of this, please," he said.

Melander took the tape and left.

The man called Folke Bengtsson sat completely straight in his chair and looked at Martin Beck with blue, expressionless eyes.

'As I said before, you are the only person we know who remembers, or will admit that he has talked to her."

'I understand."

'It wasn't possibly you that killed her?"

'No, as a matter of fact, it wasn't. Do you believe that?"

'Someone must have done it."

'I didn't even know that she was dead. And not even what her name was. You surely don't believe that…"

'If I had thought that you would admit it, I wouldn't have asked the question in that tone of voice," said Martin Beck.

'I understand… I think. Were you fooling?"

'No."

The man sat quietly.

'If I told you that we know for a fact that you were inside that woman's cabin, what would you say?"

He didn't answer for about ten seconds.

'That you must be wrong. But you wouldn't say that if you weren't certain, isn't that right?"

Martin Beck said nothing.

'In that case I must have been there without knowing what I was doing."

'Do you usually know what you are doing?"

The man lifted his eyebrow slightly.

'Yes, I usually do," he said.

Then he said, positively:

'I wasn't there."

'You understand," said Martin Beck. "This case is highly confusing."

'Thank God that isn't going on the tape," he thought.

'I understand."

Martin Beck stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit it

'Are you married?"

'No."

'Have you a steady relationship with any woman?"

'No. I'm a confirmed bachelor, I'm used to living alone."

'Have you any brothers or sisters?"

'No, I was an only child."

'And grew up with your parents?"

'With my mother. My father died when I was six. I hardly remember him."

'Have you no relationships with women?"

'Naturally, I'm not totally inexperienced. I am going on forty."

Martin Beck looked steadily at him.

'When you need female company do you usually turn to prostitutes?"

'No, never."

'Can you name some women who you have been with for either a longer or shorter period of time?"

'Maybe I can, but I don't choose to."

Martin Beck pulled out the desk drawer a little bit and looked down into it. He rubbed his index finger along his lower lip.

'It would be best if you named someone," he said haltingly.

'The person who I'm thinking of at the moment, with whom my relationship was… most lasting, she… Yes, she's married now and we aren't in contact with one another any more. It would be painful for her."

'It would still be best," said Martin Beck without looking up.

'I don't want to bring her any unpleasantness."

'It won't be unpleasant for her. What's her name?"

'If you can guarantee… her married name is Siv Lindberg. But I ask you really…"

'Where does she live?"

'Lidingö. Her husband is an engineer. I don't know the address. Somewhere in Bodal I think."

Martin Beck took a last glance at the picture of the woman from Lincoln. Then he closed the drawer again and said:

'Thank you. I am sorry that I have to ask these kinds of questions. But, unfortunately, it's part of my job."

Melander came in and sat down at his desk.

'Would you mind waiting a few minutes," Martin Beck said.

In the room one flight below, the tape recorder played back the last replies. Martin Beck stood with his back against the wall and listened.

"Do you want something to drink?" '•

"No thank you. I'm not thirsty."

The Public Prosecutor was the first person to say something. . "Well?"

'Let him go."

The Public Prosecutor looked at the ceiling, Kollberg at the floor, and Ahlberg at Martin Beck.

'You didn't press him very hard," said the Prosecutor. "That wasn't a very long examination."

'No."

'And if we hold him?" asked the Prosecutor.

'Then we have to let him go by this time on Thursday," Hammar replied.

'We don't know anything about that"

'No," said Hammar.

'All right," said the Prosecutor.

Martin Beck nodded. He walked out of the room and up the stairs and he still felt ill and had some discomfort in the left part of his chest.

Melander and the man called Folke Bengtsson seemed as if they hadn't moved at all since he had left them.

'I am sorry that it was necessary to bother you. Can I offer you transportation home?"

'I'll take the subway, thank you."

'Maybe that's faster."

'Yes, actually."

Martin Beck walked with him to the ground floor out of routine.

'Goodbye then."

'Goodbye."

An ordinary handshake.

Kollberg and Ahlberg were still sitting and looking at the tape recorder.

'Shall we continue to tail him?" asked Kollberg.

'No."

'Do you think he did it?" asked Kollberg.

Martin Beck stood in the middle of the floor and looked at his right hand.

'Yes," he said. "I'm sure he did."

24

The apartment house reminded him, in a basic way, of his own in the southern part of Stockholm. It had narrow flights of stairs, standardized nameplates on the doors and incinerator doors between each floor. The house was on Fredgat Road in Bodal and he took the Lidingö train to get there.

He had chosen the time carefully. At a quarter past one, Swedish office workers are sitting at their desks and small children are having their afternoon naps. Housewives have turned on some music on the radio and sit down to have a cup of coffee with saccharin tablets.

The woman who opened the door was small, blond, and blue-eyed. Just under thirty and rather pretty. She held on to the doorknob anxiously, as if prepared to close the door immediately.

'The police? Has anything happened? My husband…"

Her face was frightened and confused. It was also fetching, Martin Beck thought. He showed her his identification, which seemed to calm her.

'I don't understand how I can help you but, by all means, come in."

The furniture arrangement was nondescript, gloomy and neat. But the view was marvelous. Just below lay Lilla Vĺrtan and two tugboats were in the process of bringing a freighter to the pier. He would have given a lot to have traded apartments with her.

'Do you have children?" he asked as a diversion.

'Yes, a little girl ten months old. I've just put her in her crib."

He took out the photographs.

'Do you know this man?"

She blushed immediately, looked away, and nodded uncertainly.

'Yes, I knew him. But—but it was several years ago. What has he done?"

Martin Beck didn't answer at once.

'You understand, this is very unpleasant My husband…"

She was searching for the right words.

'Why don't we sit down," said Martin Beck. "Forgive me for suggesting it."

'Yes. Yes, of course."

She sat down on the sofa, tense and straight.

'You have no reason to be afraid or worried. The situation is this: we are interested in this man, for several reasons, as a witness. They have nothing to do with you, however. But it is important that we get some general information about his character from someone who has, in one way or another, been together with him."

This statement didn't seem to calm her particularly.

'This is terribly unpleasant," she said. "My husband, you understand, we have been married for nearly two years now, and he doesn't know anything… about Folke. I haven't told him, about that man… but, yes, naturally, as you can understand, he must surely have known that I had been with someone else… before…"

She was even more confused and blushed profusely.

'We never speak about such things," she said.

'You can be completely calm. I am only going to ask you to answer some questions. Your husband will not know what you say, or anyone else for that matter. In any case, no one that you know."

She nodded but continued to look stubbornly to the side.

'You knew Folke Bengtsson?"

'Yes."

'When and where did you know him?"

'I… we met more than four years ago, at a place, a company where we both worked."

'Eriksson's Moving Company?"

'Yes, I worked there as a cashier."

'And you had a relationship with him?"

She nodded with her head turned away from him.

'For how long?"

'One year," she said, very quietly.

'Were you happy together?"

She turned and looked at him uncertainly and raised her arms in a helpless gesture.

Martin Beck looked over her shoulder and out the window toward a dismal, gray winter sky.

'How did it begin?"

'Well, we… saw each other every day and then we began to take our coffee breaks together and then lunches. And… yes, he took me home several times."

'Where did you live?"

'On Uppland Street."

'Alone?"

'Oh no. I was still living with my parents then."

'Did he ever come upstairs with you?"

She shook her head, energetically, still without looking at him.

'What else happened then?"

'He invited me to the movies a few times. And then… yes, he asked me to dinner."

'At his house?"

'No, not at first."

'When?"

'In October."

'How long had you been going out with him by then?"

'Several months."

'And then you began a real relationship?"

She sat quietly for a long while. Finally she said: "Do I have to answer that question?"

'Yes, it is important. It would be better if you answer here and now. It would save a great deal of unpleasantness."

'What do you want to know? What is it that you want me to say?"

'You had intimate relations with one another, didn't you?" She nodded.

'When did it begin? The first time you were there?" She looked at him helplessly. "How often?"

'Not particularly often, I think." "But every time you were there?" "Oh, no. Not at all."

'What did you usually do when you were together?" "Well… oh, everything, have something to eat, talk, look at TV and the fish." "Fish?"

'He had a large aquarium." Martin Beck took a deep breath.

'Did he make you happy?" "I…"

'Try to answer."

'You… you are asking such difficult questions. Yes, I think so."

'Was he brutal to you?"

'I don't understand."

'I mean when you were together. Did he hit you?"

'Oh, no."

'Did he hurt you in any other way?"

'No."

'Never?"

'No, he never did. Why should.he have?"

'Did you ever talk about getting married and living together?"

'No."

'Why not?"

'He never said anything about it, never a word."

'Weren't you afraid of becoming pregnant?"

'Yes. But we were always so careful."

Martin Beck managed to make himself look at her. She still sat completely straight on the edge of the sofa, with her knees tightly together and the muscles in her legs strained. She was not only red in the face but even her neck was red, and there were small, fine drops of perspiration along her hairline.

He started again.

'What kind of a man was he? Sexually?"

The question came as a total surprise to her. She moved her hands worriedly. Finally she said:

'Nice."

'What do you mean by nice?"

'He… I mean that I think he needed a lot of tenderness. And I, I am, I was the same."

Even though he was sitting less than five feet from her he had to strain to hear what she had said.

'Did you love him?"

'I think so."

'Did he satisfy you?"

'I don't know."

'Why did you stop seeing each other?"

'I don't know. It just ended."

'There is one more thing I must ask you to answer. When you had intimate relations, was it always he who took the initiative?"

'Well… what do you want me to say… I suspect that it was so, but it usually is that way. And I always agreed."

'How many times would you say it happened?"

'Five," she whispered.

Martin Beck sat quietly and looked at her. He should have asked: Was he the first man you slept with? Did you usually take all your clothes off? Did you have the lights on? Did he ever…

'Goodbye," he said, and got up. "Forgive me for having bothered you."

He closed the door after himself. The last thing he heard her say was:

'Forgive me, I'm a little shy."

Martin Beck walked back and forth in the slush on the platform while he waited for the train. He kept his hands in his coat pockets and hunched his shoulders, whistled absent-mindedly and off key.

Finally, he knew what he was going to do.

25

Hammar was doodling old men on a piece of scratch paper while he listened. This was supposed to be a good sign. Then he said:

'Where will you get the woman from?"

'There must be someone on the force."

'You had better find her first."

Two minutes later Kollberg said: "Where are you going to get the girl from?"

'Is it you or I who has spent eighteen years with his rear end on the edge of other people's desks?"

'It won't do to get just anybody."

'No one knows the force better than you do."

'Well, I can always look around."

'Right."

Melander appeared totally uninterested. Without turning around or taking his pipe out of his mouth, he said: "Vibeke Amdal lives on Toldebod Street, is fifty-nine years old and the widow of a brewer. She can't remember having seen Roseanna McGraw other than on the picture she took at Riddarholm. Karin Larsson ran away from her boat in Rotterdam, but the police say that she isn't there. Presumably, she took another boat with false papers."

'Foreign ones, of course," said Kollberg. "She knows all about that. It can take a year before we find her. Or five. And then she might not say anything. Has Kafka answered?"

'Not yet."

Martin Beck went upstairs and called Motala.

'Yes," said Ahlberg calmly. "I guess it is the only way. But where are you going to get the girl from?"

'From the police force. Yours, for example."

'No, she doesn't fit."

Martin Beck hung up. The telephone rang. It was a man from the regular patrol force at the Klara Station.

'We did exactly as you said."

'And?"

'The man seems sure enough, but believe me, he's on the alert. He's watchful, turns around, stops often. It would be hard to tail him without his noticing it."

'Could he have recognized any of you?"

'No, there were three of us and we didn't follow him. We just stood still and let him walk by. Anyway, it's our job not to be recognized. Is there anything else we can do for you?"

'Not for the moment."

The next telephone call came from Adolf Fredrik's Station.

'This is Hansson in the fifth. I watched him at Brĺvalla Street both this morning and now when he came home."

'How did he act?"

'Calm, but I have an idea that he was being careful."

'Did he notice anything?"

'Not a chance. This morning I was sitting in the car, and the second time there was a real crowd. The only time I was near him was just now at the newspaper stand on St. Erik's Square. I stood two places behind him in the line."

'What did he buy?"

'Newspapers."

'Which ones?"

'A whole bunch. All four morning papers and both of the evening rags."

Melander tapped on the door and stuck his head in.

'I think I'll go home now. Is that all right? I have to buy some Christmas presents," he explained.

Martin Beck nodded and hung up the phone and thought, "Oh God, Christmas presents," and immediately forgot what he had been thinking.

He went home late but even so he didn't manage to avoid the crowd. The Christmas rush was on and all the stores were open later than usual.

At home his wife said that he seemed absentminded, but he didn't hear her and didn't reply.

At breakfast she said: "Will you be off between the holidays?"

Nothing happened before a quarter after four when Kofl-berg thundered in and said: "I think I have one who will do."

'On the force?"

'Works at Berg Street. She's coming here at nine-thirty tomorrow morning. If she seems right, Hammar can fix it so that we can borrow her."

'What does she look like?"

'I think that she looks like Roseanna McGraw in some way. She's taller, a little prettier, and presumably shrewder."

'Does she know anything?"

'She's been with the police force for several years. A calm and good girl. Healthy and strong."

'How well do you know her?"

'Hardly at all."

'And she isn't married?"

Kollberg took a piece of paper out of his pocket.

'Here's everything you need to know about her. I'm leaving now. I have to go Christmas shopping."

'Christmas presents," thought Martin Beck and looked at the clock. Four-thirty, and struck by a thought, he grabbed the telephone and called the woman in Bodal.

'Oh, is it you. Yes, Mr…"

'Am I calling at a bad time?"

'No, it's not… my husband doesn't get home before a quarter of six."

'Just one simple question. Did the man we spoke about yesterday ever get anything from you? I mean any present, a souvenir or something like that?"

'No, no presents. We never gave each other any. You understand…"

'Was he tight?"

'Economical, I would rather say. I am too. The only…"

Silence. He could almost hear her blushing.

'What did you give him?"

'A… a little amulet… or trinket… just an inexpensive little thing…"

'When did you give it to him?"

'When we parted… He wanted to have it… I always used to have it with me."

'He took it from you?"

'Well, I was glad to give it to him. One always wants a souvenir… even if… above all, I mean…"

'Thank you very much. Goodbye."

He telephoned Ahlberg.

'I've talked to Larsson and the Commissioner. The Public Prosecutor is sick."

'What did they say?"

'Okay. They realized that there isn't any other way. It's certainly unorthodox, but…"

'It's been done many times before, even in Sweden. What I plan to suggest to you now is a great deal more unorthodox."

'That sounds good."

'Give out the news to the press that the murder is almost cleared up."

'Now?"

'Yes, immediately. Today. You understand what I mean?"

'Yes, a foreigner."

'Right. Like this, for example: 'According to the latest announcement a person, who has been searched for by Interpol for a long time for the murder of Roseanna McGraw, has finally been arrested by the American police."

'And we have known all along the murderer was not in Sweden?"

'That's only an example. The main thing is to get it out fast."

'I understand."

'Then I think you'd better come up here."

'Immediately?"

'Just about."

A messenger came into the room. Martin Beck gripped the telephone tightly with his left shoulder and ripped open the cable. It was from Kafka.

'What does he say?" asked Ahlberg.

'Only three words: 'Set a trap.'"

26

Policewoman Sonja Hansson was actually not unlike Roseanna McGraw. Kollberg had been right.

She sat in Martin Beck's office with her hands crossed lightly in her lap and looked at him with calm gray eyes. Her dark hair was combed into a page-boy and her bangs softly over her left eyebrow. Her face was healthy and her expression was open. She didn't seem to use make-up. She looked no more than twenty years old but Martin Beck knew that she was twenty-five.

'First of all I want you to understand that this is voluntary," he said. "You can say no if you want to. We have decided to ask you to take on this assignment because you have the best qualifications to handle it, mainly because of your looks."

The girl in the chair pushed the hair off her forehead and looked questioningly at him.

'Then too," Martin Beck continued, "you live in the middle of the city and you're not married or living with anyone, as it's so nicely put these days. Is that right?"

Sonja Hansson shook her head.

'I hope I can help you," she said. "But what's wrong with my looks?"

'Do you remember Roseanna McGraw, the girl from America, who was murdered on the Göta Canal last summer?"

'Do I? 'I'm in the Missing Persons Bureau and worked on the case for a while."

'We know who did it and we know that he's here in the city. I've examined him. He admits that he was on the boat when it happened and that he had met her, but says he doesn't even know about the murder."

'Isn't that a rather improbable statement? I mean there was so much about it in the papers."

'He says that he doesn't read newspapers. We couldn't get anything out of him. He acted totally forthright and seemed to answer all our questions honestly. We couldn't hold him and we have stopped tailing him. Our only chance is that he will do it again and that's where you come in. If you are willing, and think you can handle it, of course, you shall be his next victim."

'How nice," said Sonja Hansson and reached for a cigarette from her purse.

'You are rather like Roseanna and we want you to act as a decoy. It would be like this: he works as an office manager for a moving company on Smĺland Street. You go there and say that you want to have something moved, flirt with him and see that he gets your address and telephone number. You must get him interested in you. Then, we have to wait and hope."

'You say that you've already examined him? Won't he be on his guard?"

'We have leaked some information that ought to have quieted him."

'Am I also supposed to vamp him? How the devil will that be? And if I succeed?"

'You don't need to be afraid. We will always be in the vicinity. But you have to learn everything about the case first. Read all the material we have. You must be Roseanna McGraw. Be like her, I mean."

'Of course I acted in school plays but mostly as angels or mushrooms."

'Well, then. You'll manage."

Martin Beck sat,quietly for a few seconds. Then he said:

'This is our only chance. He only needs an impulse and we must provide it for him."

'Okay, I'll try. I hope I can handle it It isn't going to be easy."

'You'd better start going through everything, reports, films, the examination reports, letters, photographs. After that we can talk about it again."

'Now?"

'Yes, today. Commissioner Hammar will arrange for you to be relieved of your other work until this is settled. And one more thing. We have to go to your apartment and see what it looks like. We have to arrange for duplicate keys as well. We'll get to the rest later."

Ten minutes later he left her in the room next to Koll-berg's and Melander's office. She sat with her elbows on the table reading the first report.

Ahlberg arrived that afternoon. He had hardly sat down when Kollberg stormed in and thumped him on the back so hard that he almost fell out of the visitor's chair.

'Gunnar's going home tomorrow," said Martin Beck. "He ought to get a look at Bengtsson before he goes."

'It had better be a pretty careful look," said Kollberg. "But then we had better get going immediately. Every person in town plus half the population in general is running around buying Christmas presents."

Ahlberg snapped his fingers and struck his forehead with the palm of his hand.

'Christmas presents. I had completely forgotten."

'Me too," said Martin Beck. "That is to say I think of it from time to time but that's all that ever gets done about it."

The traffic was terrible. Two minutes before five they dropped Ahlberg at Norrmalms Square and watched him disappear into the crowds.

Kollberg and Martin Beck sat in the car and waited. After twenty-five minutes Ahlberg returned and climbed into the back seat. He said:

'It sure is the guy on the film. He took the number 56 bus."

'To St. Erik's square. Then he'll buy milk, bread and butter and go home. Eat, look at the boob tube, go to bed and fall asleep," said Kollberg. "Where shall I drop you?"

'Here. Now we have our big chance to go Christmas shopping," Martin Beck said.

One hour later in the toy department, Ahlberg said: "Koll-berg was wrong. The other half of the population is here too."

It took them nearly three hours to finish their shopping and another hour to get to Martin Beck's home.

The next day Ahlberg saw the woman who was to be their decoy for the first time. She had still only managed to get through a small part of the case material.

That evening Ahlberg went home to Motala for Christmas. They had agreed to start the plan working right after the new year.

27

It was a gray Christmas. The man called Folke Bengtsson spent it quietly at his mother's house in Södertälje. Martin Beck thought unendingly about him, even during the Christmas service in church and in a bath of perspiration under his Santa Claus mask. Kollberg ate too much and had to spend three days in the hospital.

Ahlberg called the day after Christmas and was not sober.

The newspapers contained several differing and unengaging articles which pointed to the fact that the Canal Murder was almost cleared up and that the Swedish police no longer had any reason to bother with the case.

There was the traditional new year's murder in Gothenburg which was solved within twenty-four hours. Kafka sent a tremendously large repulsive postcard, which was lilac colored and portrayed a deer against a sunset.

January 7 arrived and looked like January 7. The streets were full of gray, frozen people without money. The sales had begun but even so, the stores were nearly empty. In addition, the weather was hazy and freezing cold.

January 7 was D-Day.

In the morning Hammar inspected the troops. Then he said:

'How long are we going to cany on with this experiment?"

'Until it succeeds," said Ahlberg.

'So you say."

Hammar thought about all the situations which might possibly arise. Martin Beck and Kollberg would be needed for other tasks. Melander and Stenström should, at least part of the time, be working on other cases. Soon, the Third District would begin to complain because the borrowed girl never came back.

'Good luck, children," he said.

A little later, only Sonja Hansson was there. She had a cold and sat in the visitor's chair and sniffled. Martin Beck looked at her. She was dressed in boots, a gray dress and long black tights.

'Do you plan to look like that?" he said sourly.

'No, I'll go home and change first. But I want to point out one thing. On July 3 last year, it was summertime and now it's winter. It might look a bit odd if I ran into a moving company office just now in sunglasses and a thin dress and asked if they could move a bureau for me."

'Do the best you can. The important thing is that you understand the main point."

He sat quietly for a while.

'If, indeed,'' have understood it," he said.

The woman looked thoughtfully at him.

'I think I understand," she said, finally. "I have read every word that has been written about her, over and over again. I've seen the film at least twenty times. I have chosen clothing that would seem to fit and I have practiced in front of the mirror for hours. But I'm not starting off with much. My personality and hers are completely different. Her habits were different too. I haven't lived as she did and I'm not going to either. But I'll do the best I can."

'That's fine," said Martin Beck.

She seemed unapproachable and it wasn't easy to get through to her. The only thing he knew about her private life was that she had a daughter who was five years old and lived in the country with her grandparents. It seemed that she had never been married. But in spite of the fact that he didn't know her very well, he thought a great deal of her. She was shrewd, and down to earth, and dedicated to her job. That was a lot to say about someone.

It was four o'clock in the afternoon before he heard from her again.

'I've just been there. I went directly home afterwards."

'Well, he isn't going to come and break down the door right away. How did it go?"

'I think it went well. As well as one could wish. The bureau will be delivered tomorrow."

'What did he think of you?"

'I don't know. I got the feeling that he lit up a little bit It's hard to say when I don't really know how he acts."

'Was it difficult?"

'To be honest, it wasn't very hard. I thought he seemed rather nice. He's attractive, too, in some way. Are you sure that he's the right guy? That's not to say that I have had a great deal of experience with murderers, but I find it difficult to think of him as the man who murdered Roseanna McGraw."

'Yes, I'm sure. What did he say? Did he get your telephone number?"

'Yes, he wrote the address and telephone number down on a loose sheet of paper. And I told him that I have a house phone but that I don't answer it if I am not expecting someone so that it's best to telephone ahead. In general, he didn't say very much."

'Were you alone in the room with him?"

'Yes. There was a fat, old lady on the other side of the glass partition but she couldn't hear us. She was talking on the telephone and I couldn't hear her."

'Did you get a chance to talk with him about anything other than the bureau?"

'Yes, I said that the weather was miserable and he said, it certainly was. Then I said that I was glad Christmas was over and then he said that he was too. I added that when one was alone as I was, Christmas could be sad."

'What did he say then?"

'That he, too, was alone and thought that it was rather dismal at Christmas, even though he usually spent it with his mother."

'That sounds fine," said Martin Beck. "Did you talk about anything else?"

'No, I don't think so."

It was silent on the other end of the telephone for a while. Then she added: "Yes, I asked him to write down the address and telephone number of the company for me so that I wouldn't have to look it up in the telephone book. He gave me a printed business card."

'And then you left?"

'Yes, I couldn't stand around and chatter any longer but I took my time leaving. I had opened my coat and so forth. To show my tight sweater. Yes, by the way, I said that if they didn't get there with the bureau during the day, it didn't make any difference to me since I was almost always home at night waiting for someone to call. But he thought that the bureau would get there during the morning."

'That's fine. Listen, we thought we'd have a rehearsal this evening. We are going to be at the Klara Police Station. Stenström will play Bengtsson and telephone you. You an swer, call me at Klara, and we'll come to your house and wait for Stenström. Do you follow me?"

'Yes, I understand. I'll telephone you as soon as Stenström has called. About what time?"

'I'm not going to tell you. You won't know what time Bengtsson will call."

'No, you are right. And, Martin."

'Yes."

'He was actually charming in some way. Not at all unpleasant or snappy. Although it's certain that Roseanna McGraw must have thought so too."

The day room in the Fourth District Station House at Regering Street was neat and proper although it offered very few possibilities for entertainment.

It was a quarter past eight and Martin Beck had read the evening paper twice, just about everything except the sport pages and the classified advertisements. For the past two hours Ahlberg and Kollberg had been playing chess, which obviously took away any desire they might have had to talk. Stenström was sleeping in a chair near the door with his mouth open. He could be excused because he had been working on another case the night before. Anyway, he was there to play the villain and didn't need to be on the alert.

At twenty minutes past eight Martin Beck went over to Stenström and poked him.

'Let's start now."

Stenström got up, went over to the telephone, and dialed a number.

'Hi," he said. "Can I come over? Yes? Fine."

Then he went back to his chair and fell asleep.

Martin Beck looked at the clock. Fifty seconds later the telephone rang. It was tied into a direct line and reserved for their use. No one else could use it

'This is Beck."

'It's Sonja, hi He just called. He's coming in a half an hour."

'I got it."

He put down the phone.

'Now let's get started, boys."

'You can just as well give up," said Ahlberg across the chess board.

'Okay," said Kollberg. "One to nothing, in your favor."

Stenström opened one eye.

'Which way shall I come from?"

'Any way you want to."

They went down to the car which was parked in the police station's driveway. It was Kollberg's own car and he drove. When he swung out onto Regering Street he said: "Can I be the one to stand in the closet?"

'Oh, no. That's Ahlberg's job."

'Why?"

'Because he's the only one who can go into the house without the risk of being recognized."

Sonja Hansson lived on Runeberg Street, three flights up in the house on the corner facing Eriksberg Square.

Kollberg parked between the Little Theater and Tegnér Street. They separated. Martin Beck crossed the street, went into the shrubbery and hid himself in the shadow of Karl Staaff's statue. From there he had a fine view of her house and also of Eriksberg Square as well as of the most important parts of the surrounding streets. He saw Kollberg walk casually down the south side of Runeberg Street with exquisite nonchalance. Ahlberg determinedly held his course toward the front door, opened it, and went in, as if he were a tenant on his way home. Forty-five seconds from now Ahlberg would be in the apartment and Kollberg in his place in the arch under Eriksberg Street. Martin Beck pushed his stop watch and looked at the time. It had been exactly five minutes and ten seconds since he had hung up the telephone after his conversation with Sonja Hansson.

It was raw and he turned up his coat collar and mumbled threateningly at a drunk who tried to bum a cigarette from him.

Stenström had really done his best.

He arrived twelve minutes early and from a completely unexpected direction. He sneaked around the corner from the Eriksberg Park stairs and walked with a group of moviegoers. Martin Beck didn't see him until he slunk into the house.

Kollberg had also functioned satisfactorily because he and Martin Beck met in front of the door.

They went in together, unlocked the inner glass doors, and neither of them said anything.

Kollberg took the stairs. He was supposed to stand a half a flight below the apartment and not advance before he received the signal. Martin Beck tried to get the elevator down by pressing the button but it didn't come. He ran up the stairs and passed the surprised Kollberg on the second floor. The elevator was up on the third floor. Stenström had put it out of commission by not closing the inside door. Thus he had succeeded in ruining that part of the plan which had Martin Beck taking the elevator to the floor above the apartment and arriving at it from above.

It was still quiet in the apartment but Stenström must have depended upon speed, because after only thirty seconds they heard a muffled shriek and some noise. Martin Beck had his key ready and ten seconds later he was in Sonja Hansson's bedroom.

The girl sat on the bed. Stenström stood in the middle of the floor and yawned while Ahlberg held his right arm loosely against his back.

Martin Beck whistled and Kollberg thundered into the apartment like an express train. In his haste he knocked over the table in the hall. He hadn't had any doors to open.

Martin Beck rubbed his nose and looked at the girl.

'Good," he said.

She had chosen the realistic style he had hoped for. She was barefoot and bare-legged and had on a thin, short-sleeved cotton robe which stopped just above her knees. He was sure that she didn't have anything on underneath.

'I'll put something else on and make some coffee," she said.

They went into the other room. She came in almost immediately, dressed in sandals, jeans and a brown sweater. Ten minutes later the coffee was ready.

'My door key sticks," said Ahlberg. "I have to wiggle it like the devil."

'That doesn't matter so much," said Martin Beck. "You won't ever be in as much of a hurry as we are."

'I heard you on the stairs," said Stenström. "Just as she opened the door."

'Rubber soles," said Kollberg.

'Open it faster," said Martin Beck.

'The key hole in the closet is great," said Ahlberg. "I saw you almost the entire time."

'Take the key out next time," said Stenström. "I really wanted to lock you in."

The telephone rang. They all stiffened.

The girl picked up the receiver.

'Yes, hello… hi… no, not tonight… well, I'm going to be busy for a while… have I met a man?… yes, you could say that."

She hung up and met their glances.

'That was nothing," she said.

28

Sonja Hansson stood in the bathroom rinsing out her washing. When she turned off the water she heard the telephone ringing in the living room. She ran in and picked up the receiver without even taking time to dry her hands.

It was Bengtsson.

'Your bureau is on the way," he said. "The truck ought to be there in about fifteen minutes."

'Thanks. It was nice of you to call. Otherwise, I wouldn't open the door, as I told you. I didn't think you would get it here so early. Shall I come down to your office and pay the bill or…"

'You can pay the driver. He has the invoice with him."

'Fine. I'll do that, Mr…?"

'The name's Bengtsson. I hope you'll be satisfied with our service. The truck will be there in fifteen minutes, as I said."

'Thank you. Goodbye."

When she hung up she dialed Martin Beck's number.

'The bureau will be here in fifteen minutes. He just telephoned. I almost missed the call. It was just luck that I heard the phone. I didn't think of it before, but when the water's running in the bathtub I can't hear the phone."

'You had better not bathe for a while," Martin Beck replied. "Seriously, though, you have to be near the telephone all the time. You can't go up to the attic or down to the laundry or anything like that."

'No. I know. Shall I go down to his office as soon as the bureau has come?"

'Yes, I think so. Then call me."

Martin Beck sat in the same room with Ahlberg. As he hung up the phone. Ahlberg looked at him questioningly.

'She's going there in about a half an hour," Martin Beck told him.

'We'll just have to wait then. She's a great gal. I like her."

When they had waited for over two hours Ahlberg said: "Surely nothing could have happened to her now…"

'Keep calm," Martin Beck answered. "She'll call."

She called after they had waited another half hour.

'Have you been waiting long?"

Martin Beck grimaced:

'What happened?" he said, and cleared his throat.

'I'll start at the beginning. Two drivers came with the bureau twenty minutes after I talked with you. I hardly glanced at it and told the men where it should go. After they left I noticed it was the wrong bureau and I went down to the office to complain."

'You were there quite a long time."

'Yes. He had a customer when I arrived. I waited outside the counter and he looked at me several times. It seemed as if he was trying to hurry the customer. He was very distressed about the bureau and I said that the mistake was mine, not the firm's. We almost got into an argument about whose fault it was. Then he went to find out if someone could bring the right bureau this evening."

'Yes?"

'But he couldn't arrange it. He promised to see that it would be delivered tomorrow morning, though. He said that he would have liked to bring it himself, and I said that was too much to ask although it certainly would have been pleasant."

'Okay. Did you leave then?"

'No. Of course I stayed on."

'Was he hard to talk to?"

'Not particularly. He seemed a little shy."

'What did you talk about?"

'Oh, about how terrible the traffic is and how much better Stockholm was before. And then I said that it was no city to be alone in, and he agreed, although he said he rather liked to be alone."

'Did he seem pleased to talk to you?"

'I think so. But I couldn't hang around forever. He mentioned that he liked to go to the movies but other than that he didn't go out very much. Then, there wasn't much more to say. So I left. He walked out to the door with me and was very polite. What do we do now?"

'Nothing. Wait."

Two days later Sonja Hansson went back to the moving company again.

'I wanted to thank you for your help and tell you that I received the bureau. I'm sorry to have caused so much trouble."

'It was no trouble at all," Folke Bengtsson said. "Welcome back. What can I do for you?"

A man walked into the room and interrupted. He was clearly the head of the firm.

When she left the office she knew Bengtsson was looking at her over the counter and before she reached the outer door, she turned and met his glance.

A week went by before the experiment was repeated. Once again the pretext was a transportation problem. She hadn't been in her apartment on Runeberg Street very long and she was still in the process of gathering some furniture from the attics of various relatives.

After still another five days she stood in his office again. It was just before five o'clock and because she was passing by, she thought she'd drop in.

Sonja Hansson sounded annoyed when she telephoned in.

'He still isn't reacting?" Martin Beck asked.

'Only moderately. You know, I don't believe it's him."

'Why not?"

'He seems so shy. And rather disinterested. I've pressed hard these last few times, practically given him an open invitation. Seven out of ten men would have been sitting outside my door howling like wolves by now. I guess I just don't have any sex appeal. What should I do?"

'Keep on."

'You ought to get someone else."

'Keep on."

Continue. But how long? Hammar's look became more questioning each day that passed. And each time Martin Beck looked in the mirror the face that he met was more and more haggard.

The electric clock on the wall at the Klara Police Station ticked away another three uneventful nights. Three weeks had passed since the dress rehearsal. The plan was well conceived but it didn't seem as if they would ever have the chance to put it into effect. Absolutely nothing had happened. The man called Folke Bengtsson lived a quiet, routine life. He drank his buttermilk, went to work, and slept nine hours each night. But they were almost losing contact with their normal environments and the outer world. The hounds chased themselves to death without the fox even noticing it, Martin Beck thought.

He stared angrily at the black telephone which hadn't rung for three weeks. The girl in the apartment on Runeberg

Street knew that she should only use it for one specific situation. They called her twice each evening to check. Once at six o'clock and again at midnight. That was the only thing that happened.

The atmosphere in Martin Beck's home was strained. His wife didn't say anything but the doubting look in her eyes was more and more unmistakable each time he looked at her. She had given up faith in this project a long time ago. It had not produced results and kept him away from home night after night. And he neither could nor would explain.

It was somewhat better for Kollberg. At least Melander and Stenström relieved him every third night. Ahlberg kept occupied by playing chess by himself. That was called solving problems! All topics of conversation had long since been pre-empted.

Martin Beck had lost the train of thought in the newspaper article he was pretending to read. He yawned and looked at his exemplary colleagues who, eternally silent, sat directly opposite each other, their heads heavy with profound thoughts.

He looked at the clock. Five to ten. Yawning again, he got up stiffly and went out to the toilet. He washed his hands, rinsed his face with cold water, and went back.

Three steps from the door he heard the telephone ring. Kollberg had already finished the conversation and hung up.

'Has he…?"

'No," said Kollberg. "But he's standing outside on the street."

This was unexpected, but actually, it changed nothing. During the next three minutes Martin Beck analyzed the plan in detail. Bengtsson couldn't force the downstairs door and even if he managed to, he would hardly have time to get upstairs before they got there. "We had better be careful." "Yes," said Kollberg.

They drove to a fast stop in front of the Little Theater. They separated.

Martin Beck stood, watched Ahlberg go through the door, and looked at his watch. It was exactly four minutes since she had called. He thought about- the woman alone in the apartment two flights above. Folke Bengtsson was not in sight.

Thirty seconds later a light was turned on in a window on the third floor. Someone came to the window and seemed to look out, but disappeared almost immediately. The light went off. Ahlberg was in his place. They waited in silence by the bedroom window. The room was dark but a narrow stream of light came through the door. The lamp in the living room was lit to show that she was home. The living room window looked out on the street and from the bedroom they could see several of the cross streets leading to the intersection.

Bengtsson stood by the bus stop directly across the street. He looked up at her window. He was the only person there and after he had stood for a while he looked up and down the block. Then he walked slowly to the island that separated the street's traffic. He disappeared in back of a telephone booth.

'Here it comes," said Ahlberg and motioned in the dark.

But the telephone didn't ring and after several minutes Bengtsson could be seen walking up the street.

Along the sidewalk there was a low, stone wall which ran all the way to the building below her window. In back of it was an area planted with grass and low shrubbery which led to the house.

Once again, the man stopped on the sidewalk and looked up toward her house. Then he began to walk toward her door slowly.

He disappeared out of sight and Ahlberg stared out over the square until he caught sight of Martin Beck who stood completely still by a tree in the planted area. A trolley on Birger Jarls Street hid him for several seconds and after it had passed, he was gone.

Five minutes later they saw Bengtsson again.

He had been walking so close to the wall that they hadn't seen him until he stepped out into the street and began to walk toward the trolley stop. At a kiosk, he stopped and bought a frankfurter. While he ate it, he leaned against the kiosk and stared up at her window constantly. Then he began to pace back and forth with his hands in his pockets. Now and then he looked up at her window.

Fifteen minutes later Martin Beck was behind the same tree again.

The traffic was heavier now and a stream of people crowded the streets. The movie had ended.

They lost sight of Bengtsson for a few minutes but then saw him in the midst of a group of moviegoers on the way home. He walked toward the telephone booth but stopped again a few feet from it. Then suddenly, he walked briskly toward the planted area. Martin Beck turned his back and slowly moved away.

Bengtsson passed the little park, crossed the street toward the restaurant and disappeared down Tegnér Street. After a few minutes he appeared again on the opposite sidewalk and began to walk around Eriksberg Square.

'Do you think that he's been here before?" asked the woman in the cotton dressing gown. "I mean, it's only pure chance that I saw him tonight."

Ahlberg stood with his back against the wall near the window and smoked a cigarette. He looked at the girl beside him who was turned toward the window. She stood with her feet apart and had her hands in her pockets. In the weak light reflected from the street, her eyes looked like dark holes in her pale face.

'Maybe he's been here every night," she said.

When the man below had completed his fourth swing around the square, she said: "If he's going to tramp around like this the whole night I'll go crazy and Lennart and Martin will freeze to death."

At 12:25 he had gone around the square eight times, each time moving faster. He stopped below the steps leading to the park, looked up at the house, and half-ran across the street to the trolley stop.

A bus drove in to the bus stop, and when it moved on, Bengtsson was no longer there.

'Look. There's Martin," Sonja Hansson said.

Ahlberg jumped at the sound of her voice. They had been whispering to one another all along and now she spoke in her normal voice for the first time in two hours.

He saw Martin Beck hurry across the street and jump into a car which had been waiting in front of the theater. The car started even before he managed to close the door and drove off in the same direction as the bus.

'Well, thanks for your company tonight," Sonja Hansson said. "I think I'll go to sleep now."

'Do that," said Ahlberg.

He would have liked some sleep too. But ten minutes later he walked through the door at Klara Police Station. Kollberg arrived shortly after.

They had made five moves in their chess game when Martin Beck came in.

'He took the bus to St. Erik's Square and went home. He put out the light almost immediately. He's probably asleep by now."

'It was mere chance that she caught sight of him," said Ahlberg. "He could have been there several times before."

Kollberg studied the chess board.

'And if he was? That wouldn't prove anything."

'What do you mean?"

'Kollberg's right," Martin Beck answered.

'Sure," said Kollberg. "What would it prove? Even I have roamed around like an alley cat outside of the houses of willing girls."

Ahlberg shrugged his shoulders.

'Although I was younger, a lot younger."

Martin Beck said nothing. The others made a half-hearted attempt to concentrate on their game. After a while, Koll-berg repeated a move which caused a draw, in spite of the fact that he had been winning.

'Damn," he said. "That chatter makes me lose my train of thought. How much are you leading by?"

'Four points," said Ahlberg. 'Twelve and a half to eight and a half."

Kollberg got up and paced around the room.

'We'll bring him in again, make a thorough search of his house, and rough him up as much as we can," he said.

No one answered.

'We ought to tail him again, with new guys."

'No," said Ahlberg.

Martin Beck continued biting on his index finger knuckle. After a while he said: "Is she getting frightened?"

'It doesn't seem so," Ahlberg answered. "That girl doesn't get nervous easily."

'Neither did Roseanna McGraw," Martin Beck thought.

They didn't say much more to one another but were still wide awake when the noise of the morning traffic on Regering Street indicated that although their work day had ended, it was just beginning for others.

Something had happened, but Martin Beck didn't know exactly what.

Another twenty-four hours passed. Ahlberg increased his lead by another point. That was all.

The following day was a Friday. Three days were left before the end of the month and the weather was still mild. It had been rainy and misty most of the time and at twilight the fog had rolled in.

At ten minutes after nine the sound of the telephone broke the silence. Martin Beck picked up the receiver.

'He's here again. He's standing by the bus stop."

They got there fifteen seconds faster than the last time in spite of the fact that Kollberg had parked on the street. After another thirty seconds they saw the signal indicating that Ahlberg was in his place.

The repetition was almost frightening. The man named Folke Bengtsson wandered around Eriksberg Square for four hours. Four or five times, he hesitated outside the telephone booth. Once he stopped and ate a frankfurter. Then he rode home. Kollberg followed him.

Martin Beck had been very cold. He walked quickly back to the police station with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground.

Kollberg arrived a half hour later.

'Everything's quiet."

'Did he see you?"

'He was like a sleepwalker. I don't think he would have seen a hippopotamus three feet in front of him."

Martin Beck dialed Policewoman Sonja Hansson's number. He felt that he must think about her in terms of her job and her rank. Otherwise, he couldn't stand it

'Hello. It's Saturday tomorrow, or more correctly, today. He works until noon. Be there when he finishes work. Rush past him as if he were on your way somewhere. Take hold of his arm and say: 'Hi, I've been waiting for you. Why haven't I heard from you?' or something like that. Don't say any more. Then take off. Leave your coat open too."

He paused briefly.

'You have to do your very best this time."

He hung up. The others stared at him.

'Which one of you is the best tail?" he said absently.

'Stenström."

'Okay. From the minute he leaves his house early tomorrow morning I want him followed. Stenström can do it. Report all his movements. Here. On the other telephone. Two of us must be here all the time."

Ahlberg and Kollberg were still staring at him but he didn't notice.

At twenty-two minutes to eight Bengtsson walked out of his front door and Stenström's assignment had begun.

He stayed near the moving company's office on Smĺland

Street until quarter after eleven when he went into a cafe and sat down by the window waiting.

At five minutes to twelve he saw Sonja Hansson on the corner.

She was dressed in a thin, blue tweed coat which was open. He could see that her belt was drawn tightly around her waist. Under the coat she had on a black turtleneck sweater. She was bare-headed and carried gloves but no pocketbook. Her stockings and black pumps seemed much too thin for the weather.

She continued across the street and disappeared out of his sight.

The moving company's employees began to leave the office and finally the man named Bengtsson came out and locked the door. He ambled along the sidewalk and when he had moved a few feet, Sonja Hansson came running toward him. She greeted him, took hold of his arm, and said something to him as she looked in his eyes. She let go of his arm almost immediately and continued talking while she took a few steps away from him. Then she turned on her heels and ran on.

Stenström had seen her face. It had expressed eagerness, pleasure and appeal. Silently he applauded her performance.

The man remained where he was and watched her run down the street. He moved slightly, as if to follow her, but changed his mind, put his hands in his pockets and walked off slowly with his head lowered.

Stenström got his hat, paid the cashier, and looked out the door carefully. When Bengtsson had turned the corner, Stenström left and followed him.

At the Klara Police Station Martin Beck stared dismally at the telephone. Ahlberg and Kollberg had temporarily given up their chess game and sat silently behind their newspapers. Kollberg was working on a crossword puzzle and chewing frantically on a pencil.

When the telephone finally rang, he bit so hard on the pencil that it broke in two.

Martin Beck had the receiver at his ear before the first ring ended.

'Hi. It's Sonja. I think it went well. I did exactly as you said."

'Good. Did you see Stenström?"

'No, but I guess he was there someplace. I didn't dare turn around so I just kept on going for several blocks."

'Are you nervous?"

'No. Not at all."

It was a quarter after one before the telephone rang again.

'I'm in a tobacco shop on Järn Square," said Stenström. "Sonja was great. She must have put a few bees in his bonnet. We've walked through the center of town, over the main bridge and now he's wandering around in the Old City."

'Be careful."

'No problem. He's walking like a zombie. He doesn't see or hear anything around him. I've got to take off now so that I don't lose him."

Ahlberg got up and walked back and forth on the floor.

'It's not exactly a pleasant job we've given her," he said.

'She'll do fine," said Kollberg. "She'll take care of the rest of it well too. I hope Stenström doesn't scare him off though."

'Stenström's okay," he said, after a while.

Martin Beck said nothing.

It was a few minutes after three when they heard from Stenström again.

'Now we're on Folkung Street. He just keeps going up and down the streets. He never stops and never looks around. He seems apathetic in some way."

'Just keep on," Martin Beck replied.

Normally, it would take a lot to break down Martin Beck's calm exterior. But after he had looked from the clock to the telephone for forty-five minutes and no one in the room had uttered a word, he suddenly got up and went out.

Ahlberg and Kollberg looked at one another. Kollberg shrugged his shoulders and began to set up the chess board.

Out in the washroom Martin Beck rinsed his hands and face with cold water and dried himself carefully. When he walked out into the corridor, a policeman in shirtsleeves told him that he had a telephone call.

It was his wife.

'I haven't seen hide nor hair of you for an eternity and now I'm not even supposed to call you. What are you doing? When are you coming home?" "I don't know," he said tiredly.

She continued to talk and her voice became harsh and shrill. He broke in and interrupted her in the middle of a sentence.

'I don't have time now," he said irritably. "Goodbye. Don't call any more."

He regretted his tone before he put down the receiver but shrugged his shoulders and went back to his chess-playing colleagues.

Stenström's third call came from Skepps Bridge. By then it was twenty minutes to five.

'He went into a restaurant for a while. He's sitting alone in a corner drinking a beer. We've walked around the entire southern part of the city. He still seems strange."

Martin Beck realized that he hadn't eaten anything all day. He sent out for some food from the cafeteria across the street. After they had eaten Kollberg fell asleep in his chair and began to snore.

When the telephone rang he woke up with a start. It was seven o'clock.

'He's been sitting here until now and he's had four beers. He's just left and is on his way toward the center of the city again. He's walking faster now. I'll call in as soon as I can. So long."

Stenström sounded out of breath as if he had been || running and he hung up the phone before Martin Beck had a chance to say anything.

'He's on his way there," said Kollberg. The next call came at half past seven and was even shorter and just as one-sided.

'I'm at Englebrekts Square. He's walking on Birger Jarls Street at a pretty fast pace."

They waited. They watched the clock and the telephone in turn.

Five after eight. Martin Beck picked up the receiver in the middle of the ring. Stenström sounded disappointed.

'He's swung onto Eriksberg Street and crossed the viaduct. We're on Oden Street now. I guess, he's going home. He's walking slowly again."

'Damn it! Call me when he's home." A half hour went by before Stenström called again. "He didn't go home. He turned onto Uppland Street. He doesn't seem to realize that he has feet. He just walks and walks. Mine won't hold up much longer." "Where are you now?"

'North Ban Square. He's passing the City Theater now." Martin Beck thought about the man who had just passed the City Theater. What was he thinking about? Was he really thinking at all; or was he just walking around unconscious of his surroundings, withdrawn and with one thought or possibly one decision ripening within him?

During the next three hours Stenström telephoned four times from different places. The man stayed on the streets near Eriksberg Square but never went really close to her house.

At 2:30 a.m. Stenström reported that Bengtsson had finally gone home and that the light in his room had just gone out.

Martin Beck sent Kollberg as a replacement.

At eight o'clock on Sunday morning Kollberg came back, awakened Ahlberg who was sleeping on a sofa, threw himself down on it and slept.

Ahlberg went over to Martin Beck who sat brooding by the telephone.

'Has Kollberg arrived?" he asked and looked up with bloodshot eyes.

'He's sleeping. Out like a light. Stenström's on watch."

They only had to wait two hours for the first telephone call of the day.

'He's gone out again," Stenström reported. "He's walking toward the bridge to Kungsholm."

'How does he look?"

'Just the same. Even the same clothes. God knows if he even took them off."

'Is he walking fast?"

'No, rather slowly."

'Have you slept?"

'Yes, a little. But I don't exactly feel like a man of steel."

Between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon Stenström called in approximately every hour. Except for two short breaks in a coffee shop, Folke Bengtsson had been walking for six hours. He had wandered around Kungsholm, the old part of the city, and southern Stockholm. He hadn't gone anywhere near Sonja Hansson's apartment.

At five-thirty Martin Beck fell asleep in his chair by the telephone. Fifteen minutes later Stenström's call awakened him.

'I'm at Norrmalms Square. He's walking toward her part of the city. He seems different now."

'In what way?"

'It's as if he's come to life. He seems compelled in some way."

Eight-fifteen.

'I have to be more careful now. He's just swung onto Sveavägen still headed in her direction. He's looking at girls now."

Nine-thirty.

'Sture Street He's going slowly toward Stare Square. He seems calmer and is still looking at the girls."

'Take it easy," Martin Beck said.

Suddenly he felt fresh and rested in spite of the fact that he hadn't really slept for forty-eight hours.

He stood and looked at the map on which Kollberg was trying to follow Bengtsson's wandering with a red pen. The phone rang again.

'That's the tenth time he's called today," said Kollberg.

Martin Beck picked up the receiver and looked at the clock. One minute to eleven.

It was Sonja Hansson. Her voice was hoarse and quivered a little.

'Martin! He's here again."

'We'll be right there," he said.

Sonja Hansson pushed the telephone away and looked at the clock. One minute after eleven. In four minutes Ahlberg would come through the door and relieve her of that helpless, creeping feeling of unpleasantness she had at the thought of being alone. She wiped her perspiring palms on her cotton dressing gown. The cloth clung to her hips with the dampness.

She walked softly into the dark bedroom and over to the window. The parquet floor felt cold and hard under her bare feet. She stood on her toes, supported herself with her right hand against the window frame, and peeked carefully through the thin curtains. A number of people were on the street, several of them in front of the restaurant across the way but she didn't see Bengtsson for at least a minute and a II half. He turned off of Runeberg Street and continued straight out onto Birger Jarls Street. Right in the middle of the trolley tracks he turned sharply to the right. After about half a minute, he disappeared from her sight. He had moved very fast, with long, gliding steps. He looked directly in front of him as if he didn't see anything around him or was concentrating on something in particular.

She went back into the living room which seemed welcoming with its light and warmth and the familiar accessories she liked. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. In spite of the fact that she was fully conscious of what she had taken on, she was also a little relieved when he walked by and didn't stop at the telephone booth. She had already waited too long for that clanging telephone ring which would smash her peace of mind into splinters and bring an irrational and unpleasant element into her home. Now she hoped that it would never come, that everything was wrong, that she could go back to her regular work routine and never have to think about that man again.

She picked up the sweater she had been knitting for the last three weeks, walked over to the mirror and held it to her shoulders. It would soon be finished. She looked at the clock again. Ahlberg was now about ten seconds late. He wouldn't break any records today. She smiled because she knew that would irritate Mm. She met her own calm smile in the mirror and saw the small beads of perspiration that glittered along her hairline,

Sonja Hansson walked through the hall and into the bathroom. She stood with her feet spread apart on the cool tile floor, bent forward and washed her face and hands with cold water.

When she turned off the tap she heard Ahlberg clattering with his key in the front door. He was already more than a minute late.

With the towel still in her hand she stepped out into the hall, stretched out her other hand, unlocked the safety latch, and threw open the door.

'Thank God. I'm so glad that you're here," she said.

It wasn't Ahlberg.

With a smile still on her lips she backed slowly into the apartment. The man called Folke Bengtsson didn't let go of her with his eyes as he locked the door behind him and put on the safety chain.

29

Martin Beck was the last man out and already through the door when the telephone rang again. He ran back and grabbed the receiver.

'I'm in the lobby of the Ambassador Hotel," said Stenström. "I've lost him. Somewhere outside here in the crowd. It can't have been more than four or five minutes ago."

'He's already on Runeberg Street. Get there as fast as you can."

Martin Beck threw the phone down and rushed out to the stairs after the others. He climbed in the car past the back of Ahlberg's front seat. They always sat in the same places. It was important that Ahlberg got out first.

Kollberg put the car in gear but had to release the clutch immediately and swerve to avoid a gray police truck which was coming in. Then he got underway and turned up Regering Street between a green Volvo and a beige Volkswagen. Martin Beck supported his arms on his knees and stared out at the cold gray drizzle. He was excited and alert both mentally and physically but felt collected and well prepared like a well trained athlete before a try for a new record.

Two seconds later the green Volvo ahead of them collided with a small delivery truck which came out of a one-way street, the wrong way. The Volvo swung sharply to the left one second before the collision and Kollberg, who had already started to pass, was also forced to turn to the left. He reacted quickly and didn't even touch the car in front of him but the other cars came to a stop right across the intersection and very close to each other. Kollberg had already put his car in reverse when the beige Volkswagen smashed into their left front door. The driver had stopped suddenly, which was a grave error in terms of the congestion at the intersection.

It was not a serious accident. In ten minutes several traffic policemen would be there with their tape measures. They would write down the names and the license numbers, ask to see drivers' licenses, identity cards and radio licenses. Then they would write "body damage" in their official books, shrug their shoulders and go away. If none of the drivers who were now yelling and shaking their fists at one another smelled of whisky, they would then get back into their cars and drive off in their own directions.

Ahlberg swore. It took ten seconds for Martin Beck to understand why. They couldn't get out. Both doors were blocked as effectively as if they had been soldered together.

In the same second that Kollberg took the desperate decision to back out of the confusion, a number 55 bus stopped in back of them. With that, the only way of retreat was cut off. The man in the beige Volkswagen had come out into the rain, clearly furious and loaded with arguments. He was out of sight and was probably somewhere behind the other two cars.

Ahlberg pressed both of his feet against the door and pushed until he groaned, but the beige colored car was still in gear and couldn't be budged.

Three or four nightmare-like minutes followed. Ahlberg yelled and waved his arms. The rain lay like a frozen gray membrane over the back window. Outside a shadowy policeman could be seen in a shining dark raincoat.

Finally several observers seemed to understand the situation and began to push the beige Volkswagen away. Their movements were fumbling and slow. A policeman tried to stop them. Then, after a minute he tried to help them. Now there was a distance of three feet between the cars but the hinge had stuck and the door wouldn't move. Ahlberg swore and pushed. Martin Beck felt the perspiration run from his neck, down under his collar, and collect in a cold runnel between his shoulder blades.

The door opened, slowly and creakingly.

Ahlberg tumbled out. Martin Beck and Kollberg tried to get out of the door at the same time and somehow managed to do so.

The policeman stood ready with his pad in his outstretched hand.

'What happened here?"

'Shut up," Kollberg screamed.

Fortunately he was recognized.

'Run," yelled Ahlberg, who was already fifteen feet ahead of them.

Groping hands tried to stop them. Kollberg ran into an old man selling frankfurters from a box resting on his stomach.

Four hundred and fifty yards, Martin Beck thought That would take a trained sportsman only a minute. But they weren't trained sportsmen. And they weren't running on a cinder track, but on an asphalt street in below freezing rain. Ahlberg was still fifteen feet ahead of them at the next corner when he tripped and nearly fell. That cost him his lead and they continued, side by side down the slope. Martin Beck was beginning to see stars. He heard Kollberg's heavy panting right behind him.

They turned the corner, crashed through the low shrubbery, and saw it, all three of them at the same time. Two flights up in the apartment house on Runeberg Street the weak, light rectangle which showed that the lamp in the bedroom was on and the shades were drawn.

The red stars before his eyes had disappeared and the pain in his chest was gone. When Martin Beck crossed the street he knew that he was running faster than he had ever run in his life even though Ahlberg was nine feet ahead of him and Kollberg by his side. When he got to the house, Ahlberg already had the downstairs door open.

The elevator was not on the ground floor. They hadn't thought about using it anyway. On the first flight landing he noted two things: he no longer was getting air in his lungs and Kollberg was not at his side. The plan worked, the damned perfect plan, he thought as he climbed the last stairs with the key already in his hand.

The key turned once in the lock and he pushed against the door which opened a few inches. He saw the safety chain stretched across the crevice and from inside the apartment heard no human sound, only a continuous, peculiarly metallic telephone signal. Time had stopped. He saw the pattern on the rug in the hall, a towel and a shoe.

'Move away," said Ahlberg hoarsely but surprisingly calmly.

It sounded as if the whole world had cracked into pieces when Ahlberg shot through the safety chain. He was still pushing against the door and fell, rather than rushed, through the hall and the living room.

The scene was as unreal and as static as a tableau in Madame Tussaud's Chamber of Horrors. It seemed as immutable as an overexposed photograph, drowned in flooding white light, and he took in every one of its morbid details.

The man still had his overcoat on. His brown hat lay on the floor, partly hidden by the torn, blue and white dressing gown.

This was the man who had killed Roseanna McGraw. He stood bent forward over the bed with his left foot on the floor and his right knee on the bed, pressed heavily against the woman's left thigh, just above her knee. His large, sunburned hand lay over her chin and mouth with two fingers pressed around her nose. That was his left hand. His right hand rested somewhat lower down. It sought her throat and had just found it.

The woman lay on her back. Her wide-open eyes could be seen through his outstretched fingers. A thin stream of blood ran along her cheek. She had brought up her right leg and was pressing against his chest with the sole of her foot. She was naked. Every muscle in her body was straining. The tendons in her body stood out as clearly as on an anatomical model.

A hundredth of a second, but long enough for each detail to become etched into his consciousness and remain there always. Then the man in the overcoat let go his grip, jumped to his feet, balanced himself and turned around, all in a single, lightning quick movement.

Martin Beck saw, for the first time, the person be had hunted for six months and nineteen days. A person called Folke Bengtsson who only slightly reminded him of the man he had examined in Kollberg's office one afternoon shortly before Christmas.

His face was stiff and naked; his pupils contracted; his eyes flew back and forth like those of a trapped animal. He stood leaning forward with his knees bent and his body swaying rhythmically.

But once again—only a tenth of a second—he cast himself forward with a choked, gurgling sob. At the same moment Martin Beck hit him on the collarbone with the back side of his right hand and Ahlberg threw himself over him from behind and tried to grab his arms.

Ahlberg was hindered by his own pistol and Martin Beck was caught unawares by the strength of the attack, partly because the only thing he could think about was the woman on the bed who didn't move and just lay there, stretched out and limp, with her mouth open and her eyes half-closed.

The man's head hit him in the diaphragm with an amazing force and he was thrown backwards against the wall at the same time as the madman broke out of Ahlberg's incomplete grip and rushed for the door, still crouching and with a speed in his long stride that was just as unbelievable as everything else in this absurd situation.

The entire time the unceasing telephone signal continued.

Martin Beck was never nearer to him than a half a flight of stairs and the distance kept increasing.

Martin Beck heard the fleeing man below him but didn't see him at all until he reached the ground floor. By that time the man had already gone through the glass door near the entry and was very close to the relative freedom of the street.

But Kollberg was there. He took two steps away from the wall and the man in the overcoat aimed a powerful blow at his face.

One second later Martin Beck knew that the end was finally here. He heard very clearly the short, wild scream of pain when Kollberg grabbed the man's arm and bent it all the way up to his shoulder with a fast, merciless twist. The man in the overcoat lay powerless on the marble floor.

Martin Beck stood leaning against the wall and listened to the police sirens which seemed to be coming from several directions at the same time. A picket had already been set up and out on the sidewalk several uniformed policemen were warding off the stubborn group of curious bystanders.

He looked at the man called Folke Bengtsson who was half lying where he had fallen with his face against the wall and the tears streaming down his cheeks.

'The ambulance is here," said Stenström.

Martin Beck took the elevator up. She sat in one of the easy chairs dressed in corduroy slacks and a woolen sweater. He looked at her unhappily.

'The ambulance is here. They'll be right up."

'I can walk myself," she said, tonelessly.

In the elevator she said, "Don't look so miserable. It wasn't your fault. And there's nothing seriously wrong with me."

He wasn't able to look her in the eye.

'Had he tried to rape me I might have been able to cope with him. But it wasn't a question of that. I had no chance, none at all."

She shook her head.

'Ten or fifteen seconds more and… Or if he hadn't started to think about the downstairs telephone, that disturbed him. Broke the isolation in some way. Ugh! God, it's awful."

When they went out to the ambulance she said: "Poor man."

'Who?"

'Him."

Fifteen minutes later only Kollberg and Stenström were left outside the house on Runeberg Street.

'I came just in time to see how you fixed him. Stood on the other side of the street. Where did you learn to do that?"

"I was a parachute jumper. I don't use it very often."

'That's the best I've ever seen. You can take anyone with that."

"In August was the jackal born, The rains fell in September. 'Now such a fearful flood as this,' Says he, 7 can't remember!'"

'What is that?"

'A quote," said Kollberg. "Someone named Kipling."

30

Martin Beck looked at the man who sat slouched before him with one arm in a sling. He kept his head bowed and didn't look up.

This was the moment he had waited for for six and a half months. He leaned over and turned on the tape recorder.

'Your name is Folke Lennart Bengtsson, born in Gustaf Vasa's parish on the sixth of August, 1926, now living at Rörstand Street in Stockholm. Is that correct?"

The man nodded almost imperceptibly.

'You must answer out loud," Martin Beck said.

'Yes," said the man called Folke Bengtsson. "Yes that's correct."

'Do you admit that you are guilty of murder and sexual assault of the American citizen Roseanna McGraw on the night of July 4-5 last year?"

'I haven't murdered anyone," Folke Bengtsson said.

'Speak up."

'No, I didn't do it."

'Earlier you have admitted that you met Roseanna McGraw on July 4 last year on board the passenger ship Diana. Is that correct?"

'I don't know. I didn't know what her name was."

'We have evidence that you were with her on July 4. That night you killed her in her cabin and threw her body overboard."

'No, that's not true!"

'Killed her the same way you tried to kill the woman on Runeberg Street?"

'I didn't want to kill her."

'Who didn't you want to kill?"

'That girl. She came to me several times. She asked me to come to her apartment. She didn't mean it seriously. She only wanted to humiliate me."

'Did Roseanna McGraw also want to humiliate you? Was that why you killed her?"

'I don't know."

'Were you inside her cabin?"

'I don't remember. Maybe I was. I don't know."

Martin Beck sat quietly and studied the man. Finally he said: "Are you very tired?"

'Not really."

'Does your arm hurt?"

'Not any more. They gave me a shot at the hospital."

'When you saw that woman last night, didn't she remind you of the woman last summer, the woman on the boat?"

'They aren't women."

'What do you mean? Of course they're women."

'Yes but… like animals."

'I don't understand what you mean."

'They are like animals, completely given over to…"

'Given over to what? To you?"

'For God's sake don't mock me. They were given over to their lust. To their shamelessness."

Thirty seconds of silence.

'All true human beings must think so, except for the most decadent and depraved."

'Didn't you like those women? Roseanna McGraw and the girl on Runeberg Street, whatever her name was…"

'Sonja Hansson."

He spat out the name.

'Yes, that's right. Didn't you like her?"

'I hate her. I hated the other one too. I don't remember very well. Don't you see how they act? Don't you understand what it means to be a man?"

He spoke quickly and eagerly.

'No. What do you mean?"

'Ugh! They're disgusting. They sparkle and exult with their decadence, and later they're insolent and offensive."

'Do you visit prostitutes?"

'They aren't as disgusting, not as shameless. And then they take money. At least there's a certain honor and honesty about them."

'Do you remember what you answered when I asked you the same question the last time?" The man seemed confused and anxious.

'No…"

'Do you remember that I asked you if you went to prostitutes?"

'No, did you do that?"

Martin Beck sat quietly for a moment again. He rubbed his nose.

'I want to help you," he said finally.

'With what? Help me? How can you help me? Now, after this?"

'I want to help you to remember."

'Yes."

'But you must try, too."

'Yes."

'Try to remember what happened after you went on board the Diana in Söderköping. You had your motor bike and fishing things with you and the boat was a lot behind schedule."

'Yes, I remember. The weather was beautiful."

'What did you do when you went on board?"

'I think I ate breakfast. I hadn't eaten earlier because I remember that I planned to eat on board."

'Did you talk with the people at your table?"

'No, I think I was alone. The others had already eaten."

'And then? After you had eaten?"

'I suspect I went out on the deck. Yes, that's what I did. The weather was good."

'Did you talk to anyone?"

'No, I stood by myself up in the bow. Then it was time for lunch."

'Did you eat alone then too?"

'No, there were others at the table, but I didn't talk to anyone."

'Was Roseanna McGraw at your table?"

'I don't remember. I didn't think much about who sat there."

'Do you remember how you met her?"

'No, actually not."

'Last time you said that she asked you about something and that you began to have a conversation."

'Yes, that's right. Now I remember. She asked me what was the name of the place we were passing."

'What was it called?"

'Norsholm, I think."

'And then she stayed there and talked to you?"

'Yes. I don't remember much of what she said."

'Did you think badly of her immediately?"

'Yes."

'Why did you talk with her then?"

'She forced herself on me. She stayed there and talked and laughed. She was like all the others. Shameless."

'What did you do then?"

'Then?"

'Yes, didn't you go on land together?"

'She followed me when I left the boat for a while."

'What did you talk about?"

'I don't remember. Everything and anything. Nothing in particular. I remember thinking that it was good practice for my English."

'When you went back on board, what did you do then?"

'I don't know. I really don't remember. Maybe we ate dinner later."

'Did you meet her later that evening?"

'I remember that I stood in the bow for a while after it got dark. But I was alone then."

'Didn't you meet her that evening? Try to remember."

'I think so. I don't really know, but I think that we sat on a bench in the stern and talked. I really wanted to be left in peace but she forced herself on me."

'Didn't she invite you into her cabin?"

'No."

'Later that evening you killed her, isn't that so?"

'No, I didn't do anything like that."

'Do you really not remember that you killed her?"

'Why are you plaguing me? Stop repeating that word all the tune. I didn't do anything."

'I don't want to plague you."

Was that the truth? Martin Beck didn't know. Anyway he suspected that the man was on the defensive again, that his barriers against the outer world were on the point of functioning again, and that it would be more difficult to breach them the more he tried to break them down.

'Well, it's not so important."

The look in the man's eyes once again lost its sharpness and became frightened and roaming.

'You don't understand me," he said thickly.

'I'm trying to. I understand that you don't like a number of people. That you find them repulsive."

'Don't you understand that? People can be disgusting."

'Yes, I understand. You think particularly badly of a certain category, especially the women who you call shameless. Is that right?"

The man didn't say anything.

'Are you religious?"

'No."

'Why not?"

He shrugged his shoulders confusedly.

'Do you read religious books or magazines?"

'I've read the Bible."

'Do you believe in it?"

'No, there's too much in it that can't be explained and is passed over."

'What, for example?"

'All the dirtiness."

'Do you think that women like Roseanna McGraw and Miss Hansson are dirty?"

'Yes. Don't you agree? Look at all the disgusting things that happen all around us. I read the newspapers for a few weeks at the end of the year and they were full of disgusting things every day. Why do you think that is?"

'And you don't want to have anything to do with these dirty people?"

'No, I don't."

He held his breath for a second and added: "Absolutely not."

'Okay, so you don't like them. But don't women like Roseanna McGraw and Sonja Hansson have a great deal of attraction for you? Don't you want to look at them and touch them? Feel their bodies?"

'You don't have the right to say such things to me."

'Don't you want to look at their legs and arms? To feel their skin?"

'Why are you saying these things?"

'Don't you want to feel them? Take off their clothes? See them naked?"

'No, no, that's not so."

'Don't you want to feel their hands on your body? Don't you want them to touch you?"

'Be quiet," screamed the man, and started to get out of his chair.

His sudden movement caused him to pant and he grimaced badly. Probably it had hurt his wounded arm.

'Oh well, there's nothing unusual about that. Actually it is really very normal. I have the same thoughts when I see certain women."

The man stared at him.

'Are you saying that I am not normal?"

Martin Beck said nothing.

'Are you stating that I would be abnormal just because I had a few shameful feelings in my body?"

No answer.

'I have a right to my own life."

'Yes, but not to the lives of others. Last night I saw with my own eyes how you nearly killed another human being."

'You did not. I didn't do anything."

'I never say anything I'm not sure of. You tried to kill her. If we hadn't gotten there in time, you would have had a human life on your conscience now. You would have been a murderer."

Strangely enough this made a strong impression on him. He moved his lips for a long time. Finally he said, almost inaudibly:

'She deserved it. It was her fault, not mine."

'Sorry, I didn't hear you."

Silence.

'Will you please repeat what you said."

The man looked sulkily at the floor.

Suddenly Martin Beck said: "You're lying to me."

The man shook his head.

'You say that you only buy magazines about sports and fishing. But you also buy magazines with pictures of naked women in them."

'That's not true."

'You forget that ,' never lie."

Silence.

'There are over one hundred such magazines stuffed in the back of your closet."

His reaction was very strong.

'How do you know that?"

'We've had men searching your apartment. They found the magazines in the back of your closet. They found a lot of other things also, for example, a pair of sunglasses that actually belonged to Roseanna McGraw."

'You break into my home and violate my private life. What's the reason for that?"

After a few seconds he repeated his last sentence and added: "I don't want to have anything to do with you. You're detestable."

'Well, it isn't forbidden to look at pictures," said Martin Beck. "Not at all. There's nothing wrong with that. The women in these magazines look like any other women.

There's no great difference. If the pictures had shown, for example, Roseanna McGraw or Sonja Hansson or Siv Lindberg…"

'Be quiet," the man screamed. "You shouldn't say that. You have no right to mention that name."

'Why not? What would you do if I told you that Siv Lindberg has been photographed in magazines like that?"

'You lying devil."

'Remember what I said before. What would you do?"

'I would punish… I would kill you also because you had said it…"

'You can't kill me. But what would you do with that woman, what is her name now, oh yes, Siv…"

'Punish, I would, I would…"

'Yes?"

The man opened and closed his hands time after time.

'Yes, that's what I would do," he said.

'Kill her?"

'Yes."

'Why?"

Silence.

'You shouldn't say that," the man said.

A tear ran down his left cheek.

'You destroyed many of the pictures," said Martin Beck quietly. "Cut them with a knife. Why did you do that?"

'In my home… you have been inside my home. Searched and snooped…"

'Why did you cut up the pictures?" Martin Beck said very loudly.

'That's none of your business," said the man hysterically. "You devil! You debauched swine!"

'Why?"

'To punish. And I'll punish you too."

Two minutes of silence followed. Then Martin Beck said in a friendly tone: "You killed the woman on the boat. You don't remember it yourself but I shall help you remember. The cabin was small and narrow. It was poorly lit inside. The boat was going through a lake, isn't that right?"

'It was at Boren," said the man.

'And you were in her cabin and you took off her clothes."

'No. She did that herself. She began to undress. She wanted to infect me with her dirtiness. She was disgusting."

'Did you punish her?" said Martin Beck calmly.

'Yes. I punished her. Don't you understand? She had to be punished. She was debauched and shameless."

'How did you punish her? You killed her, didn't you?"

'She deserved to die. She wanted to make me dirty too. She gloried in her shamelessness. Don't you understand," he screamed. "I had to kill her. I had to kill her dirty body."

'Weren't you afraid that someone would see you through the ventilator?"

'There wasn't any ventilator. I wasn't afraid. I knew that I was doing the right thing, she was guilty. She deserved it."

'After you had killed her? What did you do then?"

The man sank into his chair and mumbled.

'Don't plague me any more. Why do you have to talk about it all the tune. I don't remember."

'Did you leave the cabin when she was dead?"

Martin Beck's voice was soft and calm.

'No. Yes. I don't remember."

'She lay naked on the bunk, didn't she? And you had killed her. Did you remain in the cabin?"

'No, I went out. I don't remember."

'Where on the boat was the cabin located?"

'I don't remember."

'Was it far below decks?"

'No, but it was quite far back… farthest back… the last one toward the stern on the deck."

'What did you do with her after she was dead?"

'Don't ask me about that all the time," he said, whining like a little child. "It wasn't my fault. It was her fault."

'I know that you killed her and you have said that you did it. What did you do with her afterwards?" asked Martin Beck in a friendly voice.

'I threw her in the lake. I couldn't stand to look at her," the man screamed loudly.

Martin Beck looked at him calmly.

'Where?" he said. "Where was the boat then?"

'I don't know. I only threw her in the lake."

He collapsed in his chair and began to cry.

'I couldn't stand to look at her. I couldn't stand looking at her," he said in a monotone with the tears running down his cheeks.

Martin Beck turned off the tape recorder, picked up the telephone and called for a police constable.

When the man who had killed Roseanna McGraw was taken away, Martin Beck lit a cigarette. He sat completely still and stared in front of him.

Things looked crooked in front of his eyes and he rubbed them with his thumb and index finger.

He reached for a pencil in the holder on the desk and wrote:

GOT HIM. CONFESSED ALMOST EMMEDIATELY, IMIDIAEMED…

He put the pencil back, crumpled up the paper and threw h in the wastebasket. He decided to telephone Kafka when he had gotten some sleep and was rested.

Martin Beck put on his hat and coat and left. It had begun to snow at two o'clock and by now the ground was covered with a blanket of snow several inches thick. The flakes were large and wet. They dipped down in long, listless swirls, tight and abundant, dampening all sound and making the surroundings remote and unattainable. The real winter had arrived.

Roseanna McGraw had come to Europe. At a place called Norsholm she had met a man who was travelling to Bohuslän to fish. She wouldn't have met him if the boat hadn't had an engine breakdown or if the waitress hadn't moved her to another table in the dining room. Later, he had happened to kill her. She could just as easily have been run over on King Street in Stockholm or fallen down her hotel stairs and broken her neck. A woman named Sonja Hansson might possibly never again feel completely calm or sleep soundly and dreamless with her hands between her knees as she did when she was a little girl. Even so, she had actually not had anything to do with all this. They had all sat in their offices in Motala and Stockholm and Lincoln, Nebraska, and solved this case by means that could never be made public. They would always remember it, but hardly with pride.

Round-shouldered and whistling Martin Beck walked through the pulsing, white mist to the subway station. People looking at him would probably have been surprised if they knew what he was thinking.

Here comes Martin Beck and it's snowing on his hat. He walks with a song; he walks with a sway! Hello friends and brothers; it squeaks underfoot. It is a whiter night Hello to you all; just give a call and we'll go home to southern Stockholm! By subway. To my part of town.

He was on the way home.

PER WAHLÖÖ and MAJ SJÖWALL, his wife and co-author, wrote ten Martin Beck mysteries. Mr. Wahlöö, who died in 1975, was a reporter for several Swedish newspapers and magazines and wrote numerous radio and television plays, film scripts, short stories and novels. Maj Sjöwall is also a poet.