The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

1

The room was small and shabby. There were no curtains and the view outside consisted of a gray fire wall, a few rusty armatures and a faded advertisement for margarine. The center pane of glass in the left half of the window was gone and had been replaced by a roughly cut piece of cardboard. The wallpaper was floral, but so discolored by soot and seeping moisture that the pattern was scarcely visible. Here and there it had come away from the crumbling plaster, and in several places there had been attempts to repair it with adhesive strips and wrapping paper.

There were a heating stove, six pieces of furniture and a picture in the room. In front of the stove stood a cardboard box of ashes and a dented aluminum coffee pot. The end of the bed faced the stove and the bedclothes consisted of a thick layer of old newspapers, a ragged quilt and a striped pillow. The picture was of a naked blonde standing beside a marble balustrade, and it was hanging to the right of the stove so that the person lying in the bed could see it before he fell asleep and immediately when he woke up. Someone appeared to have enlarged the woman's nipples and genitals with a pencil.

In the other part of the room, nearest to the window, stood a round table and two wooden chairs, of which one had lost its back. On the table were three empty vermouth bottles, a soft-drink bottle and two coffee cups, among other things. The ash tray had been turned upside down and among the cigarette butts, bottle tops and dead matches lay a few dirty sugar lumps, a small penknife with its blades open, and a piece of sausage. A third coffee cup had fallen to the floor and had broken. Face down on the worn linoleum, between the table and the bed, lay a dead body.

In all probability this was the same person who had improved upon the picture and tried to mend the wallpaper with strips of adhesive and wrapping paper. It was a man and he was lying with his legs close together, his elbows pressed against his ribs and his hands drawn up toward his head, as if in an effort to protect himself. The man was wearing a woolen vest and frayed trousers. On his feet were ragged woolen socks. A large sideboard had been tipped over him, obscuring his head and half the top part of his body. The third wooden chair had been thrown down beside the corpse. Its seat was bloodstained and on the top of the back handprints were clearly visible. The floor was covered with pieces of glass. Some of them had come from the glass doors of the j sideboard, others from a half-shattered wine bottle which had been thrown onto a heap of dirty underclothes by the wall. What was left of the bottle was covered with a thin skin of dried blood. Someone had drawn a white circle around it.

Of its kind, the picture was almost perfect, taken by the best wide-angle lens the police possessed and in an artificial light that gave an etched sharpness to every detail.

Martin Beck put down the photograph and magnifying glass, got up and went across to the window. Outside it was full Swedish summer. And more than that. It was hot. On the grass of Kristineberg Park a couple of girls were sunbathing in bikinis. They were lying flat on their- backs with their legs apart and their arms stretched outward away from their bodies. They were young and thin, or slim as they say, and they could do this with a certain grace. When he focused sharply, he even recognized them as two office girls from his own department. So it was already past twelve. In the morning they put on their bathing suits, cotton dresses and sandals and went to work. In the lunch hour they took off their dresses and went out and lay in the park. Practical.

Dejectedly, he recalled that soon he would have to leave all this and move over to the south police headquarters in the rowdy neighborhood around Västberga Allé.

Behind him he heard someone fling open the door and come into the room. He did not need to turn around to know who it was. Stenström. Stenström was still the youngest in the department and after him there would presumably be a whole generation of detectives who did not knock on doors.

'How's it going," he said.

'Not so well," said Stenström. "When I was there fifteen minutes ago he was still flatly denying everything."

Martin Beck turned around, went back to his desk and once again looked at the photo of the scene of the crime. On the ceiling above the newspaper mattress, the ragged quilt and the striped pillow, there was an old patch of dampness. It looked like a sea horse. With a little good will it could have been a mermaid. He wondered if the man on the floor had had that much imagination.

'It doesn't matter," said Stenström officiously. "We'll get him on the technical evidence."

Martin Beck made no reply. Instead he pointed at the thick report Stenström had put down on his desk and said, "What's that?"

'The record of the interrogation from Sundbyberg."

'Take the miserable thing away. Starting tomorrow I'm on my holiday. Give it to Kollberg. Or to anybody you damn please."

Martin Beck took the photograph and went up one flight of stairs, opened a door and found himself with Kollberg and Melander.

It was much warmer in there than in his room, presumably because the windows were closed and the curtains drawn. Kollberg and the suspect were sitting opposite each other at the table, quite still. Melander, a tall man, was standing by the window, his pipe in his mouth and his arms folded. He was looking steadily at the suspect. On a chair by the door sat a police guard in uniform trousers and a light-blue shirt. He was balancing his cap on his right knee. No one said anything and the only moving thing was the reel of the tape recorder. Martin Beck situated himself to one side and just behind Kollberg and joined in the general silence. A wasp could be heard bouncing against the window behind the curtains. Kollberg had taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, but even so, his shirt was soaked with sweat between his plump shoulder blades. The wet patch slowly changed shape and spread downward in a line along his spine.

The man on the other side of the table was small, with thinning hair. He was slovenly dressed and the fingers gripping the arms of his chair were uncared-for, with bitten, duty nails. His face was thin and sickly, with weak evasive lines around his mouth. His chin was trembling slightly and his eyes seemed cloudy and watery. The man hunched up and two tears fell down his cheeks.

'Uh-huh," said Kollberg gloomily. "You hit him on the head with the bottle, then, until it broke?"

The man nodded.

'Then you went on hitting him with the chair as he lay on the floor. How many times?"

'Don't know. Not many. Quite a lot though."

'I can imagine. And then you tipped the sideboard over him and left the room. What did the third one of you do in the meantime? This Ragnar Larsson? Didn't he try to interfere; I mean, stop you?"

'No, he didn't do anything. He just let it go on."

'Don't start lying again now."

'He was asleep. He'd passed out."

'Try to speak a little louder, all right?"

'He was lying on the bed, asleep. He didn't notice anything."

'No, not until he came to and then he went to the police. Well, so far it's clear. But there's one thing I still don't really understand. Why did it turn out this way? You'd never even seen each other before you met in that beer hall."

'He called me a damned nazi."

'Every policeman gets called a damned nazi several times a week. Hundreds of people have called me a nazi and gestapo man and even worse things, but I've never killed anyone for it."

'He sat there and said it over and over again, damned nazi, damned nazi, damned nazi__It was the only thing he said. And he sang."

'Sang?"

'Yes, to get my goat. Annoy me. About Hitler."

'Uh-huh. Well, had you given him any cause to talk like that?"

'I'd told him my old lady was German. That was before."

'Before you began drinking?"

'Yes. Then he just said it didn't matter what kind of mother a guy had."

'And when he was about to go out into the kitchen, you took the bottle and bit him from behind?"

'Yes."

'Did he fall?"

'He sort of fell to his knees. And began bleeding. And then he said, 'You bloody little nazi runt, you, now you're in for it.'"

'And so you went on hitting him?"

'I was… afraid. He was bigger than me and… you don't know what it feels like… everything just goes round and round and goes red__I didn't seem to know what I was doing."

The man's shoulders were shaking violently.

'That's enough," said Kollberg, switching off the tape recorder. "Give him something to eat and ask the doctor if he can have a sedative."

The policeman by the door rose, put his cap on and led the murderer out, holding him loosely by the arm.

'Bye for now. See you tomorrow," said Kollberg absently.

At the same time he was writing mechanically on the paper in front of him, "Confessed in tears."

'Quite a character," he said.

'Five previous convictions for assault," said Melander. "In spite of his denying it every time. I remember him very well."

'Said the walking card file," Kollberg commented.

He rose heavily and stared at Martin Beck.

'What are you doing here?" he said. "Go take your holiday and let us look after the criminal ways of the lower classes. Where are you going, by the way? To the islands?"

Martin Beck nodded.

'Smart," said Kollberg. "I went to Rumania first and got fried—in Mamaia. Then I come home and get boiled. Great. And you don't have any telephone out there?"

'No."

'Excellent. I'm going to take a shower now anyhow. Come on. Run along now."

Martin Beck thought it over. The suggestion had its advantages. Among other things, he would get away a day earlier. He shrugged his shoulders.

'I'm leaving. Bye, boys. See you in a month."

2

Most people's holidays were already over and Stockholm's August-hot streets had begun to fill with people who had spent a few rainy July weeks in tents and trailers and country boardinghouses. During the last few days, the subway had once again become crowded, but it was now the middle of the working day and Martin Beck was almost alone in the car. He sat looking at the dusty greenery outside and was glad that his eagerly awaited holiday had at last begun.

His family had already been out in the archipelago for a month. This summer they had had the good fortune to rent a cottage from a distant relative of his wife's, a cottage situated all by itself on a little island in the central part of the archipelago. The relative had gone abroad and the cottage was theirs until the children went back to school.

Martin Beck let himself into his empty flat, went straight into the kitchen and took a beer out of the refrigerator. He took a few gulps standing by the sink, then carried the bottle with him into the bedroom. He undressed and walked out onto the balcony in nothing but his shorts. He sat for a while in the sun, his feet on the balcony rail as he finished off the beer. The heat out there was almost intolerable and when the bottle was empty, he got up and went back into the relative cool of the flat.

He looked at his watch. The boat would be leaving in two hours. The island was located in an area of the archipelago where transportation to and from the city was still maintained by one of the few remaining old streamers. This, thought Martin Beck, was just about the best part of their summer holiday find.

He went out into the kitchen and put the empty bottle down on the pantry floor. The pantry had already been cleared of everything that might spoil, but for safety's sake he looked around to see if he had forgotten anything before he shut the pantry door. Then he pulled the refrigerator plug out of the wall, put the ice trays in the sink and looked around the kitchen before shutting the door and going into the bedroom to pack.

Most of what he needed for himself he had already taken out to the island on the weekend he had already spent there. His wife had given him a list of things which she and the children wanted brought out, and by the time he had included everything, he had two bags full. As he also had to pick up a carton of food from the supermarket, he decided to take a taxi to the boat.

There was plenty of room on board and when Martin Beck had put his bags down, he went up on deck and sat down.

The heat was trembling over the city and it was almost dead calm. The foliage in Karl XII Square had lost its freshness and the flags on the Grand Hotel were drooping. Martin Beck looked at his watch and waited impatiently for the men down there to pull in the gangplank.

When he felt the first vibrations from the engine, he got up and walked to the stern. The boat backed away from the quay and he leaned over the railing, watching the propellers whipping up the water into a whitish-green foam. The steam whistle sounded hoarsely, and as the boat began to turn toward Saltsjön, its hull shuddering, Martin Beck stood by the railing and turned his face toward the cool breeze. He suddenly felt free and untroubled; for a brief moment he seemed to relive the feeling he had had as a boy on the first day of the summer holidays.

He had dinner in the dining saloon, then went out and sat on deck again. Before approaching the jetty where he was to land, the boat passed his island, and he saw the cottage and some gaily colored garden chairs and his wife down on the shore. She was crouching at the water's edge, and he guessed she was scrubbing potatoes. She rose and waved, but he was not certain she could see him at such a distance with the afternoon sun in her eyes.

The children came out to meet him in the rowboat. Martin Beck liked rowing, and ignoring his son's protests, he took the oars and rowed across the bay between the steamer jetty and the island. His daughter—whose name was Ingrid, but who was called Baby although she would be fifteen in a few days—sat in the stern telling about a barn dance. Rolf, who was thirteen and despised girls, was talking about a pike he had landed. Martin listened absently, enjoying the rowing.

After he had taken off his city clothes, he took a brief swim by the rock before pulling on his blue trousers and sweater. After dinner he sat chatting with his wife outside the cottage, watching the sun go down behind the islands on the other side of the mirror-smooth bay. He went to bed early, after setting out some nets with his son.

For the first time ha a very long time, he fell asleep immediately.

When he woke, the sun was still low and there was dew on the grass as he padded out and sat down on a rock outside the cottage. It looked as if the day would be as fine as the previous one, but the sun had not yet begun to grow warm, and he was cold in his pajamas. After a while he went in again and sat down on the veranda with a cup of coffee. When it was seven, he dressed and woke his son, who got up reluctantly. They rowed out and hauled in the nets, which contained nothing but a mass of seaweed and water plants. When they got back, the other two were up and breakfast was on the table.

After breakfast Martin Beck went down to the shed and began to hang up and clean the nets. It was work that tried his patience and he decided that in the future he ought to make his son responsible for providing fish for the family.

He had almost finished the last net when he heard the stutter of a motorboat behind him, and a small fishing boat rounded the point, heading straight for him. At once he recognized the man in the boat. It was Nygren, the owner of a small boatyard on the next island, and their nearest neighbor. As there was no water on the Becks' island, they fetched their drinking water from him. Nygren also had a telephone.

Nygren turned off the motor and shouted:

'Telephone. They want you to call back as soon as possible. I wrote the number down on a slip of paper by the telephone."

'Didn't he say who he was?" said Martin Beck, although he in fact already knew.

'I wrote that down too. I've got to go out to Skärholmen now, and Elsa's in the strawberry patch, but the kitchen door's open."

Nygren started up the motor again and, standing in the stern, headed out toward the bay. Before he vanished around the point, he raised his hand in farewell.

Martin Beck watched him for a short while. Then he went down to the jetty, untied the rowboat and began to row toward Nygren's boathouse. As he rowed he thought: Hell. To hell with Kollberg, just when I'd almost forgotten he existed!

On the pad below the wall telephone in Nygren's kitchen was written, almost illegibly: Hammar 54 10 60.

Martin Beck dialed the number and not until he was waiting for the exchange to put him through did he begin to feel real alarm.

'Hammar speaking," said Hammar.

'Well, what's happened?"

'I'm really sorry, Martin, but I've got to ask you to come in as soon as possible. You may have to sacrifice the rest of your holiday. Well, postpone it, that is."

Hammar was silent for a few seconds. Then he said, "If you will."

'The rest of my holiday? I haven't even had a day of it yet."

'Awfully sorry, Martin, but I wouldn't ask you if it wasn't necessary. Can you get in today?"

'Today? What's happened?"

'If you can get in today, it'd be a good thing. It's really important. I'll tell you more about it when you're here."

'There's a boat in an hour," said Martin Beck, looking out through the fly-specked window at the glittering, sunlit bay. 8

'What's so important about it? Couldn't Kollberg or Melander—"

'No. You'll have to handle this. Someone seems to have disappeared."

3

When Martin Beck opened the door to his chief's room it was ten to one and he had been on holiday for exactly twenty-four hours.

Chief Inspector Hammar was a heavily built man with a bullneck and bushy gray hair. He sat quite still in his swivel chair, his forearms resting on the top of his desk, completely absorbed in what malicious tongues maintained was his favorite occupation: namely, doing nothing whatsoever.

'Oh, you've arrived," he said sourly. "Just in time too. You're due at the F.O. in half an hour."

'The Foreign Office?"

'Precisely. You're to see this man."

Hammar was holding a calling card by one corner, between his thumb and forefinger, as if it were a piece of lettuce with a caterpillar on it. Martin Beck looked at the name. It meant nothing to him.

'A higher-up," said Hammar. "Considers himself very close to the Minister." He paused slightly, then said, "I've never heard of the fellow either."

Hammar was fifty-nine and had been a policeman since 1927. He did not like politicians.

'You don't look so angry as you ought to," said Hammar.

Martin Beck puzzled on this for a moment. He decided that he was much too confused to be angry.

'What is this actually all about?"

'We'll talk about it later. When you've met this nitwit here."

'You said something about a disappearance."

Hammar stared in torment out through the window, then shrugged his shoulders and said, "The whole thing's quite idiotic. To tell you the truth, I've had… instructions not to give you any so-called further information until you've been to the F.O."

'Have we started taking orders from them too?"

'As you know, there are several departments," said Ham-mar dreamily.

His look became lost somewhere in the summer foliage. He said, "Since I began here we have had a whole regiment of Ministers. The overwhelming majority of them have known just about as much about the police as I know about the orange-shell louse. Namely, that it exists.

'G'bye," he said abruptly.

'Bye," said Martin Beck.

When Martin Beck reached the door, Hammar returned to the present and said, "Martin."

'Yes."

'One thing I can tell you, anyhow. You needn't take this on if you don't want to."

The man who was close to the Minister was large, angular and red-haired. He stared at Martin Beck with watery blue eyes, rose swiftly and expansively and rushed around his desk with his arm outstretched.

'Splendid," he said. "Splendid of you to come."

They shook hands with great enthusiasm. Martin Beck said nothing.

The man returned to his swivel chair, grabbed his cold pipe and bit on the stem of it with his large yellow horse teeth. Then he heaved himself backward in his chair, jammed a thumb into the bowl of his pipe, lit a match and fixed his visitor with a cold, appraising look through the cloud of smoke.

'No ceremony," he said. "I always begin a serious conversation this way. Spit in each other's faces. Things seem to go along more easily afterward. My name's Martin."

'So's mine," said Martin Beck gloomily.

A moment later, he added, 'That's unfortunate. Perhaps it complicates the issue."

This seemed to confound the man. He looked sharply at Martin Beck, as if sensing some treachery ahead. Then he laughed uproariously.

'Of course. Funny. Ha ha ha."

Suddenly he fell silent and threw himself at the intercom. Pressing the buttons nervously, he mumbled, "Yes, yes. Really damned funny."

There was not spark of humor in his voice.

'May I have the Alf Matsson file," he called.

A middle-aged woman came in with a file and put it down on the desk in front of him. He did not even condescend to glance at her. When she had closed the door behind her, he turned his cold, impersonal fisheyes on Martin Beck, slowly opening the file at the same time. It contained one single sheet of paper, covered with scrawled pencil notes.

'This is a tricky and damned unpleasant story," he said.

'Oh," said Martin Beck. "In what way?"

'Do you know Matsson?"

Martin Beck shook his head.

'No? He's quite well known, actually. Journalist. Mainly in the weeklies. Television too. A clever writer. Here."

He opened a drawer and rummaged around in it, then in another, finally lifting up his blotter and finding the object of his search.

'I hate carelessness," he said, throwing a spiteful look in the direction of the door.

Martin Beck studied the object, which turned out to be a neatly typed index card containing certain information about a person by the name of Alf Matsson. The man did indeed appear to be a journalist, employed by one of the larger weeklies, one which Martin Beck himself never read but sometimes saw—with unspoken anxiety and distrust—in the hands of his children. In addition, Alf Sixten Matsson was said to have been born in Gothenburg in 1934. Clipped to the card was also an ordinary passport photograph. Martin Beck cocked his head and looked at a fairly young man with a mustache, a short neat beard and round steel-rimmed glasses. His face was so utterly expressionless that the picture must have come from one of those photo booths around town. Martin Beck put the card down and looked questioningly at the red-haired man.

'Alf Matsson has disappeared," said the man with great emphasis.

'Oh, yes? And your inquiries haven't produced any results?"

'No inquiries have been made. And none are going to be made either," said the man, staring like a maniac.

Martin Beck, who did not realize at first that that watery look testified to a steely determination, frowned slightly.

'How long has he been gone?"

'Ten days."

The reply did not especially surprise him. If the man had said ten minutes or ten years, it would not have moved him particularly either. The only thing that surprised Martin Beck at that moment was the fact that he was sitting here and not in a rowboat out at the island. He looked at his watch. He would probably have time to catch the evening boat back.

'Ten days isn't very long," he said mildly.

Another official came in from a nearby room and entered into the conversation so directly that he must have been listening at the door. Apparently some kind of caretaker, thought Martin Beck.

'In this particular case, it's more than enough," said the new arrival. "The circumstances are highly exceptional. Alf Matsson flew to Budapest on the twenty-second of July, sent there by his magazine to write some articles. On the next Monday, he was to call the office here in Stockholm and read the text of a kind of regular column he writes every week. He didn't. It's relevant that Alf Matsson always delivered on time, as newspaper people say. In other words, he doesn't miss a deadline when it comes to turning in manuscripts. Two days later, the office phoned his hotel in Budapest, where they said that he was staying there, but he didn't seem to be in at that moment. The office left a message to say that Matsson should immediately inform Stockholm the moment he came in. They waited for two more days. Nothing was heard. They checked with his wife here in Stockholm. She hadn't heard anything either. That in itself wouldn't necessarily mean anything, as they're getting a divorce. Last Saturday the editor called us up here. By then they had contacted the hotel again and been told that no one there had seen Matsson since they called last, but that his things were still in his room and his passport was still at the reception desk. Last Monday, the first of August, we communicated with our people down there. They knew nothing about Matsson, but put out a feeler, as they called it, to the Hungarian police, who appeared 'not interested.' Last Tuesday we had a visit from the editor in chief of the magazine. It was a very unpleasant meeting."

The redheaded man had definitely been upstaged. He bit on the stem of his pipe in annoyance and said, "Yes, exactly. Damned unpleasant."

A moment later he added by way of explanation: "This is my secretary."

'Well," said his secretary, "anyhow, the result of that conversation was that yesterday we made unofficial contact with the police at top level, which in turn led to your coming here today. Pleased to have you here, by the way."

They shook hands. Martin Beck could not yet see the pattern. He massaged the bridge of his nose thoughtfully.

'I'm afraid I don't really understand," he said. "Why didn't the editors report the matter in the ordinary way?"

'You'll see why in a moment. The editor in chief and responsible publisher of the magazine—the same person, in fact—did not want to report the matter to the police or demand an official investigation because then the case would become known at once and would get into the rest of the press. Matsson is the magazine's own correspondent, and he has disappeared on a reporting trip abroad, so—rightly or wrongly—the magazine regards this as its own news. The editor in chief did seem rather worried about Matsson, but on the other hand, he made no bones about the fact that he smelled a scoop, as they say, news of the caliber that increases a publication's circulation by perhaps a hundred thousand copies just like that. If you know anything about the general line this magazine takes, then you ought to know… Well, anyhow, one of its correspondents has disappeared and the fact that he's done it in Hungary, of all places, doesn't make it any worse news."

'Behind the Iron Curtain," said the red-haired man gravely.

'We don't use expressions like that," said the other man. "Well, I hope you realize what all this means. If the case is reported and gets into the papers, that's bad enough—even if the story retained some kind of reasonable proportions and did get a relatively factual treatment. But if the magazine keeps everything to itself and uses it for its own, opinion-leading purpose, then heaven only knows what… Well, anyhow it would damage important relations, which both we and other people have spent a long time and a good deal of effort building up. The magazine's editor had a copy of a completed article with him when he was here on Monday. We had the dubious pleasure of reading it. If it's published, it would mean absolute disaster in some respects. And they were actually intending to publish it in this week's issue. We had to use all our powers of persuasion and appeal to every conceivable ethical standard to put a stop to its publication. The whole thing ended with the editor in chief delivering an ultimatum. If Matsson has not made his presence known of his own accord or if we haven't found him before the end of next week… well, then sparks are going to fly."

Martin Beck massaged the roots of his hair.

'I suppose the magazine is making its own investigations," he said.

The official looked absently at his superior, who was now puffing away furiously on his pipe.

'I got the impression that the magazine's efforts in that direction were somewhat modest. That their activities in this particular respect had been put on ice until further notice. For that matter, they haven't the slightest doubt as to where Matsson is."

'The man does undoubtedly seem to have disappeared," said Martin Beck.

'Yes, exactly. It's very worrisome."

'But he can't have just gone up in smoke," said the red-haired man.

Martin Beck rested one elbow on the edge of the table, clenched his fist and pressed his knuckles against the bridge of his nose. The steamer and the island and the jetty became more and more distant and diffuse in his mind.

'Where do I come into the picture?" he said.

'That was our idea, but naturally we didn't know it would be you personally. We can't investigate all this, least of all in ten days. Whatever's happened, if the man for some reason is keeping under cover, if he's committed suicide, if he's had an accident or… something else, then it's a police matter. I mean, insofar as the job can be done only by a professional. So, quite unofficially, we contacted the police at top level. Someone seems to have recommended you. Now it's largely a matter of whether you will take on the case. The fact that youVe come here at all indicates that you can be released from your other duties, I suppose."

Martin Beck suppressed a laugh. Both officials looked at him sternly. Presumably they found his behavior inappropriate.

'Yes, I can probably be released," he said, thinking about his nets and the rowboat "But exactly what do you think I'd be able to do?"

The official shrugged his shoulders.

'Go down there, I suppose. Find him. You can go tomorrow morning if you like. Everything is arranged, by way of our channels. You'll be temporarily transferred to our payroll, but you've no official assignment. Naturally we'll help you in every possible way. For example, if you want to you can make contact with the police down there—or otherwise not. And as I said, you can leave tomorrow."

Martin Beck thought about it.

'The day after tomorrow, in that case."

'That's all right too."

'I'll let you know this afternoon."

'Don't think about it too long, though."

'I'll phone in about an hour. Good-bye."

The red-haired man rushed up and round his desk. He thumped Martin Beck on the back with his left hand and shook hands with his right.

'Well, good-bye then. Good-bye, Martin. And do what you can. This is important."

'It really is,' said the other man.

'Yes," said the redhead, "we might have another Wallenberg affair on our hands."

'That was the word we were told not to mention," said the other man in weary despair.

Martin Beck nodded and left.

4

'Are you going out there?" said Hammar.

'Don't know yet. I don't even know the language."

'Neither does anyone else on the force. You can be quite sure we checked. Anyhow, they say you can get by with German and English."

'Odd story."

'Stupid story," said Hammar. "But I know something that those people at the F.O. don't know. We've got a dossier on him."

'Alf Matsson?"

'Yes. The Third Section had it. In the secret files."

'Counter-Espionage?"

'Exactly. The Security Division. An investigation was made on this guy three months ago."

There was a deafening thumping on the door and Kollberg thrust his head in. He stared at Martin Beck in astonishment

'What are you doing here?"

'Having my holiday."

'What's all this hush-hush you're up to? Shall I go away? As quietly as I came, without anybody noticing?"

'Yes," said Hammar. "No, don't. I'm tired of hush-hush. Come in and shut the door."

He pulled a file out of a desk drawer.

'This was a routine investigation," he said, "and it gave rise to no particular action. But parts of it might interest anyone who is thinking of looking into the case."

'What the hell are you up to?" said Kollberg. "Have you opened a secret agency or something?"

'If you don't pipe down, you can go," said Martin Beck. "Why was Counter-Espionage interested in Matsson?"

'The passport people have their own little eccentricities. At Arlanda airport, for instance, they write down the names of people who travel to those European countries that require visas. Some bright boy who looked in their books got it into his head that this Matsson traveled all too often. To Warsaw, Prague, Budapest, Sofia, Bucharest, Constanta, Belgrade. He was great for using his passport."

'And?"

'So Security did a little hush-hush investigation. They went, for instance, to the magazine he works for and asked."

'And what did they reply?"

'Perfectly correct, said the magazine. Alf Matsson is a great one for using his passport. Why shouldn't he be? He's our expert on Eastern European affairs. The results are no more remarkable than that. But there are one or two things. Take this rubbish and read it for yourself. You can sit here. Because now I'm going to go home. And this evening I'm going to go to a James Bond film. Bye!"

Martin Beck picked up the report and began to read. When he had finished the first page, he pushed it over to Kollberg, who picked it up between the tips of his fingers and placed it down in front of him. Martin Beck looked question-ingly at him.

'I sweat so much," said Kollberg. "Don't want to mess up their secret documents."

Martin Beck nodded. He himself never sweated except when he had a cold.

They said nothing for the following half hour.

The dossier did not offer much of immediate interest, but it was very thoroughly compiled. Alf Matsson was not born in Gothenburg in 1934, but in Mölndal in 1933. He had begun as a journalist in the provinces in 1952 and been a reporter on several daily papers before going to Stockholm as a sports writer in 1955. As a sports reporter, he had made several trips abroad, among others to the Olympic Games, in Melbourne in 1956 and in Rome in 1960. A number of editors vouchsafed that he was a skillful journalist: "… adroit, with a speedy pen." He had left the daily press in 1961, when he was taken on by the weekly for which he still worked. During the last four years he had devoted more and more of his time to overseas reporting on a very wide variety of subjects, from politics and economics to sport and pop stars. He had taken his university entrance exam and spoke fluent English and German, passable Spanish and some French and Russian. He earned over 40,000 kronor a year and had been married twice. His first marriage took place in 1954 and was dissolved the following year. He had married again in 1961 and had two children, a daughter by his first marriage and a son by his second.

With praiseworthy diligence, the investigator now went over to the man's less admirable points. On several occasions he had neglected to pay maintenance for his elder child. His first wife described him as a "drunkard and a brutal beast." Parenthetically, it was pointed out that this witness appeared to be not entirely reliable. There were, however, several indications that Alf Matsson drank, among others a remark in a statement by an ex-colleague who said that he was "all right, but a bastard when he got drunk," but only one of these statements was supported by evidence. On the eve of Twelfth Day in 1966, a radio patrol in Malmö had taken him to the emergency room of General Hospital after he had been stabbed in the hand during a brawl at the home of a certain Bengt Jönsson, whom he had happened to be visiting. The case was investigated by the police but was not taken to court, as Matsson had not wished to press a charge. However, two policemen by the names of Kristiansson and Kvant described both Matsson and Jönsson as under the influence, so the case was registered at the Commission on Alcoholism.

The tone of the statement by his present boss, an editor called Eriksson, was snooty. Matsson was the magazine's "expert on Eastern Europe" (whatever use a publication of this kind could possibly have for such a person) and the editorial board found no cause to give the police any further information about his journalistic activities. Matsson was, they went on to say, very interested in and well-informed on Eastern European matters, often produced projects of his own, and had on several occasions proved himself ambitious by giving up holidays and days off without extra pay to be able to carry out certain reporting assignments that especially interested him.

Some previous reader had in turn appeared ambitious by underlining this sentence in red. It could hardly have been Hammar, who did not mess up other people's reports.

A detailed account of Matsson's published articles showed that they consisted almost exclusively of interviews with famous athletes and reportage on sports, film stars and other figures from the entertainment world.

The dossier contained several items in the same style. When he had finished reading, Kollberg said, "Singularly uninteresting person."

'There's one peculiar detail."

'That he's disappeared, you mean?"

'Exactly," said Martin Beck.

A minute later, he dialed the Foreign Office number and Kollberg, much to his surprise, heard him say, "Is that Martin? Yes, hi Martin—this is Martin."

Martin Beck seemed to listen for a moment, a tortured expression on his face. Then he said, "Yes, I'm going."

5

The building was old and had no elevator. Matsson was the top name on the list of tenants down in the entrance hall. When Martin Beck had climbed the five steep flights of stairs, he was out of breath and his heart was thumping. He waited for a moment before ringing the doorbell.

The woman who opened the door was small and fair. She was wearing slacks and a cotton-knit top and had hard lines around her mouth. Martin Beck guessed she was about thirty.

'Come in," she said, holding open the door.

He recognized her voice from the telephone conversation they had had an hour earlier.

The hall of the flat was large and unfurnished except for an unpainted stool along one wall. A small boy of about two or three came out of the kitchen. He had a half-eaten roll in his hand and went straight up to Martin Beck, stood in front of him and stretched up a sticky fist

'Hi," he said.

Then he turned around and ran into the living room. The woman followed him and lifted up the boy, who with a satisfied gurgle had sat down in the room's only comfortable armchair. The boy yelled as she carried him into a neighboring room and dosed the door. She came back, sat down on the sofa and lit a cigarette. You want to ask me about Alf. Has something happened to him?"

After a moment's hesitation, Martin Beck sat down on the armchair.

'Not so far as we know. It's just that he doesn't seem to have been heard from for a couple of weeks. Neither by the magazine, nor, so far as I can make out, by you, either. You don't know where he might be?"

'No idea. And the fact that he's not let me know anything isn't very strange in itself. He's not been here for four weeks, and before that I didn't hear from him for a month."

Martin Beck looked toward the closed door.

'But the boy? Doesn't he usually…"

'He hasn't seemed especially interested in his son since , we've separated," she said, with some bitterness. "He sends money to us every month. But that's only right, don't you think?"

'Does he earn a lot on the magazine?"

'Yes. I don't know how much, but he always had plenty of money. And he wasn't mean. I never had to go without, although he spent a lot of money on himself. In restaurants and on taxis and so on. Now I've got a job, so I earn a little myself."

'How long have you been divorced?"

'We're not divorced. It's not been granted yet. But he moved out of here almost eight months ago now. He got hold of a flat then. But even before that, he was away from home so much that it hardly made any difference."

'But I suppose you're familiar with his habits—who he sees and where he usually goes?"

'Not any longer. To be quite frank, I don't know what he's up to. Before, he used to hang around mostly with people from work. Journalists and the like. They used to sit around in a restaurant called the Tankard. But I don't know now. Maybe he's found some other place. Anyhow, that restaurant's moved or has been torn down, hasn't it?"

She put out her cigarette and went over to the door to listen. Then she opened it cautiously and went in. A moment later she came out and shut the door just as carefully behind her.

'He's asleep," she said.

'Nice little boy," said Martin Beck.

'Yes, he's nice."

They sat silent for a moment, and then she said, "But All was on an assignment in Budapest, wasn't he? At least, I heard that somewhere. Mightn't he have stayed there? Or have gone somewhere else?"

'Did he used to do that? When he was away on assignments?"

'No," she said hesitantly. "No, actually he didn't. He's not especially conscientious and he drinks a lot, but while we were together he certainly didn't neglect his work. For instance, he was awfully particular about getting his manuscripts in at the time he'd promised. When he lived here, he often sat up late at night writing to get things finished in time."

She looked at Martin Beck. For the first time during their conversation he noticed a vague anxiety in her eyes.

'It does seem peculiar, doesn't it? That he's never got in touch with the magazine. Supposing something really has happened to him."

'Have you any idea what might have happened to him?"

She shook her head.

'No, none at all."

'You said before that he drinks. Does he drink a lot?"

'Yes—sometimes, at least. Toward the end, when he lived here, he often came home drunk. If he generally ever came home at all."

The bitter lines around her mouth had returned.

'But didn't that affect his work?"

'No, it didn't really. Anyhow not much. When he began working for this weekly magazine, he often got special assignments. Abroad and that kind of thing. In between, he didn't have much to do and was often free. He didn't have to be at the office much. That was when he drank. Sometimes he sat around that café for days on end."

'I see," said Martin Beck. "Can you give me the names of anyone he used to go around with?"

She gave Martin Beck the names of three journalists who were unknown to him, and he wrote them down on a taxi receipt he found in his inside pocket. She looked at him and said:

'I thought the police always had little notebooks with black covers that they wrote everything down in. But maybe that's just in books and at the movies."

Martin Beck got up.

'If you hear anything from him, perhaps you'd be good enough to call me," she said. "Would you?"

'Naturally," said Martin Beck.

In the hall, he asked, "Where did you say he was living now?"

'On Fleminggatan. Number 34. But I didn't say." "Have you got a key to the apartment?" "Oh, no. I haven't even been there."

6

On the door was a piece of cardboard with MATSSON lettered on it in India ink. The lock was an ordinary one and caused Martin Beck no difficulties. Aware that he was overstepping his authority, he made his way into the flat. On the doormat was some mail—a few advertisements, a postcard from Madrid signed by someone called Bibban, a sports car magazine in English and an electricity bill amounting to 28:45 kronor.

The flat consisted of two large rooms, a kitchen, hall and toilet. There was no washroom, but two large wardrobes. The air in the flat was heavy and musty.

In the largest room, facing the street, were a bed, a night table, bookshelves, a low circular table with a glass top, a desk and two chairs. On the night table stood a record player and on the shelf below, a pile of long-playing records. Martin Beck read in English on the top sleeve: Blue Monk. It meant nothing to him. On the desk were a sheaf of typing paper, a daily paper dated July twentieth, a taxi receipt for 6:50 kronor dated the eighteenth, a German dictionary, a magnifying glass and a stenciled information sheet from a youth club. There was a telephone too, and telephone directories and two ash trays. The drawers contained old magazines, magazine photographs, receipts, a few letters and postcards, and a number of carbon copies of manuscripts.

In the back room there was no furniture at all except a narrow divan with a faded red cover, a chair and a stool that served as a night table. There were no curtains.

Martin Beck opened the doors of both wardrobes. One of them contained an almost empty laundry bag and on the shelves lay shirts, sweaters and underclothes, some of them with the laundry's paper bands still unbroken around them. In the other hung two tweed jackets, a dark-brown flannel suit, three pairs of trousers and a winter overcoat. Three hangers were empty. On the floor stood a pair of heavy brown shoes with rubber soles, a pair of thinner black ones, a pair of boots and a pair of galoshes. There was a large suitcase in the cupboard above the one wardrobe, but the other cupboard was empty.

Martin Beck went out into the kitchen. There were no dirty dishes in the sink, but on the drainboard were two glasses and a mug. The pantry was empty except for a few empty wine bottles and two cans. Martin Beck thought about his own pantry, which he had quite unnecessarily cleaned out so thoroughly.

He walked through the flat one more time. The bed was made, the ash trays were empty, and there were neither passport, money, bankbooks nor anything else of value in the drawers of the desk. All in all, there was nothing to indicate that Alf Matsson had been home since he had left the flat and gone to Budapest two weeks previously.

Martin Beck left Alf Matsson's flat and stood for a moment by the deserted taxi stand down on Fleminggatan, but as usual at lunch time there were no taxis available and he took a trolley instead.

It was past one when he went into the dining room of the Tankard. All the tables were taken and the harassed waitresses took no notice of him. There was no headwaiter to be seen. He crossed over to the bar on the other side of the entrance hall. At that moment a fat man in a corduroy jacket gathered up his papers and rose from a round table in the corner next to the door. Martin Beck took his place. Here too, all the tables were full, but some of the customers were just paying their bills.

He ordered a sandwich and beer from the headwaiter and asked if any of the three journalists was there.

'Mr. Molin is sitting over there, but I haven't seen the others today. They'll probably be in later."

Martin Beck followed the headwaiter's glance toward a table where five men were sitting talking with large steins of beer in front of them.

'Which of the gentlemen is Mr. Molin?"

'The gentleman with the beard," said the headwaiter, and went away.

Confused, Martin Beck looked at the five men. Three of them had beards.

The waitress came with his sandwich and beer and gave him the chance to say, "Do you happen to know which of the gentlemen over there is Mr. Molin?"

'Of course, the one with the beard."

She followed his somewhat desperate look and added, "Nearest the window."

Martin Beck ate his sandwich very slowly. The man named Molin ordered another stein of beer. Martin Beck waited. The place began to empty. After a while Molin emptied his stein and was given another. Martin Beck finished eating his sandwich, ordered coffee, and waited.

Finally the man with the beard got up from his place by the window and walked toward the entrance hall. Just as he was passing, Martin Beck said, "Mr. Molin?"

The man stopped. "Just a moment," he said, and went on out.

A short while later, he returned, breathed heavily all over Martin Beck, and said, "Do we know each other?"

'No, not yet. But perhaps you'd like to sit down a moment and have a beer with me. There's something I'd like to ask you about."

He himself could hear that it didn't sound especially good. Smelled of police business a mile away. But it worked any" how. Molin sat down. He had fair, rather thin hair, combed forward onto his forehead. His beard was reddish and neat. He looked about thirty-five and was quite plump. He waved a waitress over to him.

'Say Stina, get me a round, will you?"

The waitress nodded and looked at Martin Beck.

'The same," he said.

A "round" turned out to be a bulbous and considerably larger stein than the cylindrical though quite large one he himself had drunk with his sandwich.

Molin took a large gulp and wiped his mustache with his handkerchief.

'Uh-huh," he said. "What was it you wanted to talk to me about? Hangovers?"

'About Alf Matsson," said Martin Beck. "You're good friends, aren't you?"

It still didn't sound quite right and he tried to improve on it by saying, "Buddies, aren't you?"

'Of course. What's up with him? Does he owe you money?"

Molin looked suspiciously and haughtily at Martin Beck.

'Well then, I'd first like to point out that I'm not any kind of collection agency."

Clearly, he would have to watch his tongue. Moreover, the man was a journalist.

'No, nothing like that at all," said Martin Beck.

'Then what do you want Alfie for?"

'Alfie and I've known each other for a long time. We worked on the same… well, we were on the same job together a number of years ago. I met him quite by chance a few weeks ago and he promised to do a job for me, and then I never heard another word from him. He talked about you quite a bit, so I thought perhaps you'd know where he was."

Somewhat exhausted by this strenuous oratorical effort, * Martin Beck took a deep gulp of his beer. The other man followed suit.

'Oh, hell. You're an old pal of Alfie's, are you? The fact is that I've been wondering where he was too. But I suppose he's stayed on in Hungary. He's not in town, anyhow. Or we'd have seen him here."

'In Hungary? What's he doing there?"

'On some trip for that gossip sheet he works for. But he should really be home by now. When he left, he said be was only going to be away for two or three days."

'Did you see him before he left?"

'Yes indeed. The night before. We were here in the daytime and then went to a couple of other places in the evening."

'You and him?"

'Yes, and some of the others. I don't really remember who. Per Kronkvist and Stig Lund were there, I think. We got really stoned. Yes, Åke and Pia were there too. Don't you know Åke, by the way?"

Martin Beck thought. It seemed somewhat pointless.

'Åke? I don't know. Which Åke?"

'Åke Gunnarsson," said Molin, turning around toward the table where he had been sitting before. Two of the men had left during their conversation. The two remaining were sitting silently over their beers.

'He's sitting over there," said Molin. "The guy with the beard.'"

One of the beards had gone, so there was no doubt which of them was Gunnarsson. The man looked quite pleasant.

'No," said Martin Beck. "I don't think I know him. Where does he work?"

Molin gave the name of a publication that Martin Beck had never heard of, but it sounded like some kind of auto magazine.

'Åke's all right. He got pretty high that night too, if I remember rightly. Otherwise, he doesn't get really drunk very often. No matter how much he pours into himself."

'Haven't you seen Alfie since then?"

'That's a hell of a lot of questions you're asking. Aren't you going to ask me how I am too?"

'Of course. How are you?"

'Absolutely god-damned awful. Hangover. Damned bad one, too."

Molin's fat face grew gloomy. As if to obliterate the last shreds of the pleasures of living, he drank the remains of his beer in one huge gulp. He took out his handkerchief, and with a brooding look in his eyes, mopped his foamy mustache.

'They ought to serve beer in mustache cups," he said. "There isn't much service left these days."

After a brief pause he said, "No, I haven't seen Alfie since he left. The last I saw of him was when he was pouring his drink over some gal in the Opera House bar. Then he went to Budapest the next morning. Poor devil, having to sit up flying right across half of Europe with a hangover like that. Hope he didn't fly Scandinavian Airlines anyhow."

'And you've not heard anything from him since then?"

'We don't usually write letters when we're on overseas trips," said Molin haughtily. "What the hell kind of rag do you work for, anyhow? The Kiddy Krib? Well, what about another round?"

Half an hour and two more rounds later, Martin Beck managed to escape from Mr. Molin, after having first lent him ten kronor. As he left, he heard the man's voice behind him, "Fia, old thing, get me a round, will you?"

7

The plane was an Ilyushin 18 turboprop from Czechoslovak Airlines. It rose in a steep arc over Copenhagen and Saltholm, and an Öresund that glittered in the sun. Martin Beck sat by the window and looked down at Ven Island below, with Backafall Cliffs, the church and the little harbor. He had just had time to see a tugboat rounding the harbor pier before the plane turned south.

He liked traveling, but this time disappointment over his spoiled holiday overshadowed most of his pleasure. Moreover, his wife had not seemed to understand at all that his own choice in the matter had not been very great. He had called the evening before and tried to explain, but had not been particularly successful.

'You don't care a bit about me or the children," she had said.

And a moment later:

'There must be other policemen besides you. Do you have to take on every assignment?"

He had tried to convince her that he would in fact have preferred to go out to the island, but she had gone on being unreasonable. In addition, she had demonstrated various evidence of faulty logic.

'So you're going to Budapest to enjoy yourself while the children and I are stuck by ourselves out on this island."

'I am not going for fun." "Hmm-mph."

In the end she had put down the receiver in the middle of a sentence. He knew she would calm down eventually, but he had not attempted to call again.

Now, at an altitude of 16,000 feet, he tipped his seat back, lit a cigarette and let his thoughts of the island and his family sink into the back of his mind.

During their stopover at Schönefeld airport in East Berlin, he drank a beer in the transit lounge. He noted that the beer was called Radeberger. It was excellent beer, but he didn't think he would have cause to remember the name. The waiter entertained him in Berlin German. He did not understand very much of it and wondered gloomily how he was going to manage in the future.

In a basket by the entrance lay a few pamphlets in German and he took one out at random to have something to read while he waited. Clearly he needed to practice his German.

The leaflet was published by the German journalist's union and dealt with the Springer concern, one of the most powerful newspaper and magazine publishers in West Germany, and its chief, Axel Springer. It gave examples of the company's menacing fascist politics and quoted several of its more prominent contributors.

When his flight was called, Martin Beck noted that he had read almost the whole pamphlet without difficulty. He put the pamphlet into his pocket and boarded the plane.

After an hour in the air, the plane again came down to land, this time in Prague, a city that Martin Beck had always wanted to visit. Now he had to be content with a brief glimpse, from the air, of its many towers and bridges and of the Moldau; the stopover was too short to give him time to get into the city from the airport.

His red-haired namesake in the Foreign Office had apologized for the connections between Stockholm and Budapest which were not the world's best, but Martin Beck had no objections to the delays, although he was not able to see more of Berlin and Prague than their transit lounges.

Martin Beck had never been to Budapest and when the plane had taken off again, he read through a couple of leaflets he had received from the redhead's secretary. In one dealing with the geography of Hungary, he read that Budapest had two million inhabitants. He wondered how he was going to find Alf Matsson if the man had decided to disappear in this metropolis.

In his mind he reviewed what he knew about Alf Matsson. It was not a great deal, but he wondered whether there was really anything else to know. He thought of Kollberg's comment: "Singularly uninteresting person." Why should a man like Alf Matsson want to disappear? That is, if he had disappeared of his own free will? A woman? It seemed hardly credible that he should sacrifice a well-paid position—one that he seemed to be happy with, moreover—for that reason. He was still married, of course, but perfectly free to do as he wished. He had a home, work, money and friends. It was hard to think of any plausible reason why he should voluntarily leave all that

Martin Beck took out the copy of the personal file from the Security Division. Alf Matsson had become an object of interest to the police simply because of his many and frequent trips to places in Eastern Europe. "Behind the Iron Curtain," the redhead had said. Well, the man was a reporter, and if he preferred to undertake assignments in Eastern Europe, then that in itself wasn't so peculiar. And if he had anything on his conscience now, why should he disappear? The Security Division had consigned the case to oblivion after a routine investigation. "A new Wallenberg affair," the man at the F.O. had said, thinking of the famous case of a well known Swede last seen in Budapest in 1945: "Spirited away by the Communists." "You see too many James Bond movies," Kollberg would have said if he had been there.

Martin Beck folded up the copy and put it into his briefcase. He looked out the window. It was completely dark now but the stars were out, and way down there he could see small dots of light from villages and communities and pearl strings of light where the street lamps were on.

Perhaps Matsson had started to drink, abandoning the magazine and everything else. When he sobered up again he would be broke and full of remorse and would have to make his presence known. But that didn't sound likely either. True, he drank occasionally, but not to that degree, and normally he never neglected his job.

Perhaps he had committed suicide, had an accident, fallen into the Danube and drowned or been robbed and killed. Was this more likely? Hardly. Somewhere or other, Martin Beck had read that, of all the capitals in the world, Budapest had the lowest crime rate.

Perhaps he was sitting in the hotel dining room right now, having his dinner, and Martin Beck would be able to take the plane back the next day and continue his holiday.

The signs lit up. No smoking. Please fasten your seatbelts. And then they repeated the same thing in Russian.

When the plane stopped taxüng, Martin Beck picked up his briefcase and walked the short stretch toward the airport buildings. The air was soft and warm although it was late in the evening.

He had to wait quite a long time for his only suitcase, but the passport and customs formalities were dispensed with swiftly. He went through a huge lounge, its walls lined with shops, and then out onto the steps outside the building. The airport appeared to be far outside the city. He saw no other lights except those within the area of the airport itself. As he stood there, two elderly ladies climbed into the only taxi there was on the turn-around drive in front of the steps.

Some time elapsed before the next taxi drove up, and as it took him through suburbs and dark industrial areas, Martin Beck realized he was hungry. He knew nothing about the hotel he was going to stay at—other than its name and the fact that Alf Matsson had stayed there before he had disappeared—but he hoped he would be able to get something to eat there.

The taxi drove along broad streets and around large open squares into what appeared to be the center of the city. There were not many people about and most of the streets were empty and rather dark. For a while they went down a wide street with brightly lit store windows before continuing into narrower and darker side streets. Martin Beck had no idea whatsoever where he was in the city, but all the while he kept an eye out for the river.

The taxi stopped outside the lighted entrance of the hotel. Martin Beck leaned over and read the figure on the red meter before paying the driver. It seemed expensive, more than a hundred forints. He had forgotten what a forint was worth in his own money, but he realized that it couldn't be very much.

An elderly man, with a gray mustache, a green uniform and visored cap, opened the taxi door and took his bag. Martin Beck walked through the revolving doors behind him. The entrance hall was large and very lofty, the reception desk running at an angle across the left-hand corner of the hall. The night porter spoke English. Martin Beck gave him his passport and asked if he could have dinner. The porter indicated a glass door farther down the hall and explained that the dining room was open until midnight. Then he gave the key to the waiting elevator man who took Martin Beck's bag and preceded him into the elevator. The car creaked its way up to the first floor. The elevator man appeared to be at least as old as the elevator, and Martin Beck tried in vain to relieve him of his bag. They walked down a long corridor, turned to the left twice, and then the old man unlocked some enormous double doors and put the bag inside.

The room was over twelve feet high and very large. The mahogany furniture was dark and huge. Martin Beck opened the door to the bathroom. The bathtub was spacious with large, old-fashioned taps and a shower.

The windows were high and had shutters on the inside, and in front of the window alcove hung heavy white lace curtains. He opened the shutters on one side and looked out Immediately below was a gas lamp, throwing out a yellowish-green light Far away he could see lights, but quite a time elapsed before he realized that the river was flowing between him and the lights over there.

He opened the window and leaned out Below, a stone balustrade and large flower urns encompassed tables and chairs. Light was streaming out onto them, and he could hear a little orchestra playing a Strauss waltz. Between the hotel and the river ran a road with trees and gas lamps, a trolley line and a broad quay, on which there were benches and big flower pots. Two bridges, one to his right and the other to the left, spanned the river.

He left the window open and went down to eat. Opening the glass doors from the hall, he came into a lobby with deep armchairs, low tables and mirrors along one wall. Two steps led up to the dining room and at the far end sat the little orchestra he had heard up in his room.

The dining room was colossal, with two huge mahogany pillars and a balcony running along three of the walls, high up under the roof. Three waiters wearing reddish-brown jackets with black lapels were standing inside the door. They bowed and greeted him in chorus, while a fourth rushed forward and directed him to a table near the window and the orchestra.

Martin Beck stared at the menu for a long time before he found the column written in German and began to read. After a while the waiter, a gray-haired man with the physiognomy of a friendly boxer, leaned over toward him and said:

'Very gut Fischsuppe, gentleman."

Martin Beck at once decided upon fish soup.

"Barack?" said the waiter.

'What's that?" said Martin Beck, first in German, then in English.

'Very gut aperitif," said the waiter.

Martin Beck drank the aperitif called barack. Barack palinka, explained the waiter, was Hungarian apricot brandy.

He ate the fish soup, which was red and strongly spiced with paprika and was indeed very good.

He ate fillet of veal with potatoes in strong paprika sauce and he drank Czechoslovakian beer.

When he had finished his coffee, which was strong, and an additional barack, he felt very sleepy and went straight up to his room.

He shut the window and the shutters and crept into bed. It creaked. It creaked in a friendly way, he thought, and fell asleep.

8

Martin Beck was waked by a hoarse, long-drawn-out toot. As he tried to orient himself, blinking in the half-light, the toot was repeated twice. He turned over on his side and picked his wristwatch up off the night table. It was already ten to nine. The great bed creaked ceremoniously. Perhaps, he thought, it had once creaked as majestically beneath Field Marshal Conrad von Hötzendorf. The daylight was trickling through the shutters. It was already very warm in the room.

He got up, went out into the bathroom and coughed for a while, as he usually did in the mornings. After drinking a gulp of mineral water, he pulled on his dressing gown and opened the shutters and the window. The contrast between the dusky light of the room and the clear, sharp sunlight outside was almost overwhelming. So was the view.

The Danube was flowing past him on its calm, even course from north to south, not especially blue, but wide and majestic and indubitably very beautiful. On the other side of the river rose two softly curved hills crowned by a monument and a walled fortress. Houses clambered only hesitantly along the sides of the hills, but farther away were other hills strewn with villas. That was the famous Buda side, then, and there you were very close to the heart of Central European culture. Martin Beck let his glance roam over the panoramic view, absently listening to the wingbeats of history. There the Romans had founded their mighty settlement Aquincum, from there the Hapsburg artillery had shot Pest into ruins during the War of Liberation of 1849, and there Szalasis' fascists and Lieutenant General Pfeffer-Wildenbruch's SS troops had stayed for a whole month during the spring of 1945, with a meaningless heroism that invited annihilation (old fascists he had met in Sweden still spoke of it with pride).

Immediately below lay a white paddle steamer tied up to the quay, with its red, white and blue Czechoslovak flag hanging limply in the heat and tourists sunbathing in deckchairs on board. What had waked him was a Yugoslavian paddle-wheel tugboat that was slowly struggling upstream. It was big and old, with two tall funnels tilting asymmetrically, and it was pulling six heavily loaded barges. On the last barge a line had been strung between the wheelhouse and the low loading crane between the hatches. A young woman in a head scarf and blue work garb was tranquilly picking washing out of a basket and carefully hanging up baby clothes, unmoved by the beauty of the shores. To the left, arching over the river, was a long, airy, slender bridge. It seemed to lead directly to the mountain with the monument—a tall, slim bronze woman with a palm leaf raised above her head. Across the bridge thronged cars, buses, trolleys and pedestrians. To the right, northward, the tugboat had reached the next bridge. Again it let out three hoarse toots to announce the number of barges it was pulling, let down its funnels fore and aft and slid in under the low arch of the bridge. Just in front of the window a very small steamer swung in toward the shore, slid over fifty yards athwartship with the current and smartly completed the maneuver, putting in with hardly an inch to spare at a pontoon jetty. A preposterous number of people went ashore from the steamer and an equally preposterous number then boarded it.

The air was dry and warm. The sun was high. Martin Beck leaned out of the window, letting his eyes sweep from north to south as he considered a few facts he had gleaned from the brochures he had read on the plane.

'Budapest is the capital of the Hungarian People's Republic. It is considered to have been founded in 1873, when the three towns Buda, Pest and Óbuda were united into one, but excavations have revealed settlements several thousand years old, and Aquincum, the capital of the Roman province of Lower Pannonia, was situated on this spot. Today the city has nearly two million inhabitants and is divided into twenty-three districts."

It was certainly a very large city. He remembered the legendary Gustaf Lidberg's almost classic reflection on landing in New York in 1899, on his search for the counterfeiter Skog: "In this ant-heap is Mr. Who, address: Where?"

Well, New York was certainly larger than this, even at that time, but on the other hand, Chief Detective Lidberg had had unlimited tune at his disposal. He himself had only a week.

Martin Beck left history and the river traffic to their respective fates and went and took a shower. He put on his sandals and his light-gray Dacron slacks and wore his shirt outside. As he critically observed his unconventional attire in the mirror in the huge wardrobe, the mahogany doors suddenly opened by themselves, slowly and fatefully, with an unnerving creak, as in early thriller films. He still hadn't got his pulse under control when the telephone began to ring with short, urgent little signals.

'There's a gentleman to see you. He's waiting in the foyer. A Swedish gentleman."

'Is it Mr. Matsson?"

'Yes, I'm sure it is," said the receptionist happily.

Of course it is, thought Martin Beck as he went down the stairs. In that case there would be a thoroughly honorable end to this odd assignment.

It was not Alf Matsson, but a young man from the Embassy, extremely correctly dressed in a dark suit, black shoes, white shirt and a pale-gray silk tie. The man's eyes ran over Martin Beck, a glint of wonder in them, but only a glint.

'As you will understand, we are aware of the nature of your assignment. Perhaps we should discuss the matter."

They sat down in the lobby and discussed the matter.

'There are better hotels than this one," said the man from the Embassy.

'Really?"

'Yes. More modern. Tip-top. Swimming pool."

'Oh yes."

'The night club here isn't much good either."

'Oh yes."

'With regard to this Alf Matsson."

The man lowered his voice and looked around the lobby, which was empty except for an African sleeping in the farthest corner.

'Yes. Have you heard from him?"

'No. Nothing at all. The only thing we know for certain is that he checked in at Ferihegyi, that's the airport here, on the evening of the twenty-second. He spent the night at some kind of youth hotel called Ifjuság up on the Buda side. The next morning he moved in here. About half an hour later, he went out and took his room key with him. Since then, no one has seen him."

'What do the police say?"

'Nothing."

'Nothing?"

'The ones I've spoken with don't seem interested. Officially speaking, that attitude is defensible. Matsson had a valid visa and he has registered as a resident at this hotel. The police have no reason to concern themselves with him until he leaves the country, so long as he doesn't overstay the period of his residence permit."

'Couldn't he have left the country?"

'Quite unthinkable. And even if he had succeeded in getting over the border illegally, where would he go then? Without a passport. Anyhow, we've made some inquiries at the embassies in Prague, Belgrade, Bucharest and Vienna. Even in Moscow, for safety's sake. No one knows anything."

'His employer seemed to think that he had two things to do here. An interview with Laszlo Papp, the boxer, and an article on the Jewish museum."

'He hasn't been to either place. We've done a little investigating. He had written a letter from Sweden to the curator of the museum, a Dr. Sos, but did not look him up. We've also talked to Papp's mother. She had never heard of Matsson's name and Papp himself is not even in town."

'Is his luggage still in his hotel room?"

'His possessions are at the hotel. Not in his room. He had reserved a room for three nights only. The hotel management retained it at our request, then moved his luggage into the office. Out here. Behind the reception desk. In fact, it wasn't even unpacked. We paid the bill."

The man sat in silence for a while, as if he were thinking something over. Then he said solemnly, "Naturally we're going to demand the amount back from his employers."

'Or his estate," said Martin Beck.

'Yes, if things turn out to be as bad as that."

'Where's his passport?"

'I have it here," said the man from the Embassy.

He unzipped his flat briefcase, took out the passport and handed it over, simultaneously taking his fountain pen out of his inside pocket.

'Here you are. Would you sign for it, please?"

Martin Beck signed. The man put away his pen and the receipt.

'Well, then. Is there anything else? Yes, of course, the hotel bill. You needn't worry about that. We've had instructions to cover your expenses. Rather unorthodox, I feel. Naturally you should have had daily expenses in the usual fashion. Well, if you need any cash, you can collect it at the Embassy."

'Thank you."

'Then I don't think there's anything else, is there? You can go through his possessions whenever you like. I've let them know."

The man got up.

'In fact you're occupying the same room that Matsson had," he said in passing. "It's 105, isn't it? If we hadn't insisted on the room remaining in Matsson's name, you would probably have had to stay at some other hotel. It's the height of the season."

Before they parted, Martin Beck said, "What do you personally think about this? Where's he gone?"

The man from the Embassy looked at him expression-lessly.

'If I think anything at all, I prefer to keep it to myself."

A moment later he added, "This thing is very unpleasant."

Martin Beck went up to his room. It had already been cleaned. He looked around. So Alf Matsson had stayed here, had he? For an hour, at the most. To expect any clues from his activities during that brief period would be demanding too much.

What had Alf Matsson done during that hour? Had he stood by the window like this, looking out at the boats? Perhaps. Had he seen somebody or something that made him leave the hotel so quickly he'd forgotten to hand in his key? Possibly. What would it have been, then? Impossible to say. If he'd been run over in the street, it would have been reported at once. If he had planned to jump into the river, he would have had to wait until dark. If he had tried to nurse his hangover with apricot brandy and had plunged into another drinking bout as a result, then he'd had sixteen days in which to sober up. That was a bit much. Anyway, he had not been in the habit of drinking while on an assignment. He was the modern type of journalist, it had said someplace in the report from the Third Division: quick, efficient and direct. He was the type who did the job first and relaxed afterward.

Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Singularly unpleasant. Damned unpleasant. Blasted unpleasant. Almost painfully so.

Martin Beck lay down on the bed. It creaked magnificently. Gone were thoughts of Baron Conrad von Hötzendorf. Had it scrunched beneath Alf Matsson? Presumably. Was there anybody who didn't test the bed as soon as he stepped into a hotel room? So Matsson had lain here and looked up at the ceiling over twelve feet above. Then, without unpacking and without handing in his key, he had gone out… and disappeared. Had the telephone rung? With some startling news?

Martin Beck unfolded his map of Budapest and studied it at length. Then he was seized with an urge to perform some kind of duty, so he rose, put the map and his passport into his hip pocket and went down to inspect the luggage.

The porter was a somewhat stout, elderly man, friendly, dignified and admirably intelligible.

No, no one had phoned Mr. Matsson while Mr. Matsson was still in the hotel. Later, when Mr. Matsson had left, there had been several calls. They had been repeated the following days. Was it the same person who had phoned? No, several different people—the operator at the board was sure of that. Men? Both men and women, at least one woman. Had the people who phoned left any messages or telephone numbers? No, they had left no messages. They hadn't given their telephone numbers either. Later there had been calls from Stockholm and from the Swedish Embassy. Then, however, both messages and telephone numbers had been left. They were still here. Would Mr. Beck like to see them? No, Mr. Beck would not like to see them.

The luggage was indeed to be found in a room behind the reception desk. It was very easily inspected. A portable typewriter of the standard make Erika and a yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with a strap around it. A calling card was fitted into the leather label dangling from the handle. Alf Matsson, Reporter, Fleminggatan 34, Stockholm K. The key was in the lock.

Martin Beck took the typewriter out of its case and studied it for a long time. Having come to the conclusion that it was a portable typewriter of the Erika make, he went over to the suitcase.

The bag appeared neatly and carefully packed, but all the same he had a feeling that someone with a practiced hand had been through it and put everything back into place. The contents consisted of a checked shirt, a brown sport shirt, a white poplin shirt with the laundry band still around it, a pair of freshly pressed light-blue trousers, a kind of blue cardigan, three handkerchiefs, four pairs of socks, two pairs of colored shorts, a fishnet undershirt and a pair of light-brown suede shoes. Everything was clean. In addition, a shaving kit, a sheaf of typing paper, a typewriter eraser, an electric razor, a novel and a dark-blue plastic wallet of the kind that travel agencies usually give away free and that aren't big enough for the tickets. In the shaving kit were shaving lotion, talcum powder, a cake of soap still in its wrapper, a tube of toothpaste that had been opened, a toothbrush, a bottle of mouthwash, a box of aspirin and a pack of contraceptives. In the dark-blue plastic wallet were $1500 in $20 bills and six Swedish 100-kronor notes. An astonishingly large sum for traveling money, but Alf Matsson seemed to be accustomed to doing things in a grand manner.

Martin Beck put everything back as nicely and neatly as possible and returned to the reception desk. It was noon and high time to go out. As he still didn't know what he should do, he might at least do it out in the fresh air—for instance, in the sun on the quay. He took his room key out of his pocket and looked at it. It looked just as old, as venerable and as solid as the hotel itself. He put it down on the desk. The porter at once reached out his hand for the key.

'That's a spare key, isn't it?"

'I don't understand," said the porter.

'I thought that the previous guest took the key with him."

'Yes, that's right. But we got the key back the next day."

'Got it back? Who from?"

'From the police, sir."

'From the police? Which police?"

The porter shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

'From the ordinary police, of course. Who else? A policeman handed in the key to the doorman. Mr. Matsson must have dropped it somewhere.'"

'Where?"

'I'm afraid I don't know, sir."

Martin Beck asked one more question.

'Has anyone else besides me gone through Mr. Matsson's luggage?"

The porter hesitated for a moment before answering.

'I don't think so, sir."

Martin Beck went through the revolving door. The man with the gray mustache and a visored cap was standing in the shade beneath the balcony, perfectly still with his hands behind his back, a living memorial to Emil Jannings.

'Do you remember receiving a room key from a policeman two weeks ago?"

The old man looked at him questioningly.

'Of course."

'Was it a uniformed policeman?"

'Yes, yes… A patrol car stopped here and one of the policemen got out and turned in the key."

'What did he say?"

The man thought.

'He said: 'Lost property.' Nothing else, I believe."

Martin Beck turned around and walked away. After three steps, he remembered that he had forgotten to leave a tip. He went back and placed a number of the unfamiliar light-metal coins into the man's hand. The doorman touched the visor of his cap with the fingertips of his right hand and said, "Thank you, but it isn't necessary."

'You speak excellent German," said Martin Beck.

And he thought: Hell of a lot better than I do, anyway.

'I learned it at the Isonzo front in 1916."

As Martin Beck turned the corner of the block, he took out the map and looked at it. Then he walked, map still in hand, down toward the quay. A big white paddle steamer with two funnels was forging its way upriver. He looked at it joylessly.

There was something fundamentally wrong with all this. Something was quite definitely not as it should be. What it was he did not know.

9

It was Sunday and very warm. A light haze of heat trembled over the mountain slopes. The quay was crowded with people walking back and forth or sitting sunning themselves on the steps down to the river. On the small steamers and motor launches shuttling up and down the river people clad in summer clothes crowded together on their way to bathing sites and holiday spots. Long lines were waiting at the ticket offices.

Martin Beck had forgotten that it was Sunday and was at first surprised by the crowds. He followed the stream of strollers and walked along the quay, watching the lively boat traffic. He had thought of starting the day with a walk across the next bridge to Margaret Island, out in the middle of the river, but changed his mind when he imagined the crowds of Budapest citizens spending their Sunday out there.

He was slightly irritated by the crush, and the sight of all these people, happy on their free Sunday, filled him with an urge for activity. He would visit the hotel at which Alf Matsson spent his first and perhaps only night in Budapest--a young people's hotel on the Buda side, the Embassy man had said.

Martin Beck broke out of the stream of people and went up to the street above the quay. He stood in the shade of the gable of a house and studied the map. He hunted for a long time, but could not find a hotel called Ifjuság, and finally he folded up the map and began to walk toward the bridge over to the island and onto the Buda side. He looked around for a police patrolman but did not succeed in finding one. At the end of the bridge there was a taxi stand and a taxi was waiting there. It looked free.

The driver could speak only Hungarian and did not understand a word until Martin Beck showed him the piece of paper with the hotel's name written on it.

They drove across the bridge, past the green island, where he caught sight of a high-flung surge of water between the trees, then on along a shopping street, up steep narrow streets and in onto an open square with lawns and a modernistic bronze group representing a man and a woman sitting staring at each other.

The taxi stopped there and Martin Beck paid—probably much too much, for the driver thanked him profusely in his incomprehensible language.

The hotel was low and spread out along the square, which was more like a widening of the street, with flower beds and parking places. The building appeared to be built just recently, in contrast to the other houses that surrounded the square. The architecture was modern and the entire façade was covered with balconies. The steps leading up to the entrance were wide and few.

Inside the glass doors was a long, light foyer, containing a souvenir stand (which was closed), elevator doors, a couple of groups of chairs and a reception desk. The reception desk was empty and there was not a soul in the foyer.

Adjoining the foyer was a big lounge with armchairs and low tables and large windows all along the far wall. This room was empty too.

Martin Beck went across to the wall with the windows and looked out.

A few young people were lying on the lawn outside, sunning themselves in bathing suits.

The hotel was situated on a hill with a view across to the Pest side. The houses on the slope between the hotel and the river appeared old and shabby. From the taxi Martin Beck had seen bullet holes in most of the façades, and on a number of houses the plastering had been almost entirely shot away.

He looked out into the foyer, which was still just as deserted, and sat down in one of the armchairs in the lounge. He did not expect much from his visit to the Ifjusåg. Alf Matsson had stayed here one night, there was a shortage of hotel rooms in Budapest in the summer, and the fact that this particular hotel had a room free was probably sheer chance. It was hardly plausible that anyone would remember a guest who had come late in the evening and left the next morning, at the height of the summer season.

He extinguished his last Florida cigarette and looked gloomily at the sunburned youngsters out on the lawn. It suddenly seemed to him quite ridiculous that he should be gadding about Budapest trying to find a person to whom he was completely indifferent. He could not remember ever being given such a hopeless, meaningless assignment.

Steps could be heard out in the foyer, and Martin Beck got up and went out after them. A young man was standing behind the reception desk with a telephone receiver in his hand, staring up at the ceiling and biting his thumbnail as he listened. Then he began to speak and at first Martin Beck thought the man was speaking Finnish, but then remembered that Finnish and Hungarian stemmed from the same linguistic stock.

The young man put down the receiver and looked inquiringly at Martin Beck, who hesitated while trying to decide which language he should begin with.

'What can I do for you?" said the youth in perfect English, to Martin Beck's relief.

'It's about a guest who stayed at this hotel the night of July twenty-second. Have you any idea who was on duty here that night?"

The young man looked at a wall calendar.

'I really don't remember," he said. "It's more than two weeks ago. One moment, and I'll have a look."

He hunted around for a while on a shelf under the desk, retrieved a little black book and leafed through it. Then he said, "It was me, in fact. Friday night, yes… What kind of person? Did he stay just one night?"

'Yes, as far as I know," said Martin Beck. "He might have stayed here later, of course. A Swedish journalist named Alf Matsson."

The youth stared at the ceiling and chewed his nail. Then he shook his head.

'I can't remember any Swede. We get very few Swedes here. What did he look like?"

Martin Beck showed him Alf Matsson's passport photograph. The youth looked at it for a moment and said hesitantly, "I don't know. Perhaps I've seen him before. I can't really remember."

'Do you have a ledger? A guest register?"

The young man pulled out a card-file drawer and began to search. Martin Beck waited. He felt an urge to smoke and hunted through his pockets, but his cigarettes were irrevocably at an end.

'Here it is," said the youth, taking a card out of the drawer. "Alf Matsson. Swedish, yes. He stayed here the night of July twenty-second, just as you say."

'And he didn't stay here after that night?"

'No, not afterward. But he did stay here for a few days at the end of May. But that was before I came here. I was taking my exams then."

Martin Beck took the card and looked at it. Alf Matsson had stayed at the hotel from the twenty-fifth to the twenty-eighth of May.

'Who was on duty here then?"

The youth thought about it. Then he said, "It must have been Stefi. Or else the man who was here before me. I really can't remember what his name is."

'Stefi," said Martin Beck. "Does he still work here?"

'She," said the young man. "It's a girl—Stefania. Yes, she and I work in shifts."

'When is she coming in?"

'She's bound to be here already. I mean in her room. She lives here at the hotel, you see. But she has the night shift this week, so she's probably asleep."

'Could you find out?" asked Martin Beck. "If she's awake, I'd like to speak to her."

The youth lifted the receiver and dialed a number. After a while he replaced the receiver.

'No answer."

He lifted the flap door in the desk and came out.

'I'll see if she's in," he said. "Just a moment."

He got into one of the elevators and Martin Beck saw from the signal light that he had stopped at the second floor. After a while he came down again.

'Her roommate says she's out sunbathing. Wait a moment and I'll go get her."

He disappeared into the lounge and returned a moment later with a girl. She was small and chubby, wearing sandals on her feet and a checkered cotton robe over her bikini. She was buttoning up the robe as she came toward Martin Beck.

'I'm sorry to bother you," he said.

'It doesn't matter," said the girl called Stefi. "Can I help you with anything?"

Martin Beck asked her if she had been on duty during the particular days in May. She went behind the desk, looked in the black book and nodded.

'Yes," she said. "But only in the daytime."

Martin Beck showed her Alf Matsson's passport.

'Swedish?" she asked without looking up.

'Yes," said Martin Beck. "A journalist."

He looked at her and waited. She looked at the passport photograph and cocked her head.

'Ye-es," she said hesitantly. "Yes, I think I remember him. He was alone at first in a room with three beds, and then we had a Russian party, so I needed the room and had to move him. He was awfully angry that he didn't get a telephone in the new room. We haven't got telephones in all the rooms. He made such a fuss about not having one, I was forced to let him exchange rooms with someone who didn't need a telephone."

She closed the passport and put it down on the desk.

'If it was him," she said, "that photo's not very good."

'Do you remember if he had any visitors?" said Martin Beck.

'No," she said. "I don't think so. Not so far as I can remember, anyhow."

'Did he use the phone a lot? Or did he receive any calls which you can remember?"

'It seems to me that a lady rang several times, but I'm not certain," said Stefi.

Martin Beck pondered awhile and then said, "Do you remember anything else about him?"

The girl shook her head.

'He had a typewriter with him, I'm sure. And I remember that he was well dressed. Otherwise I can't remember anything special about him."

Martin Beck put the passport back in his pocket and recalled that he had run out of cigarettes.

'May I buy a pack of cigarettes here?" he said.

The girl bent forward and looked in a drawer.

'Certainly," she said. "But I've only got Tervs."

'That's fine," said Martin Beck, taking the pack made of gray paper, with a picture of a factory with tall smokestacks on it. He paid with a note and told her to keep the change. Then he took a pen and a pad from the desk, wrote down his own name and that of his hotel, tore off the sheet and handed it to Stefi.

'If you can think of anything else, perhaps you'd call me, would you?"

Stefi looked at the piece of paper with a frown.

'I've just remembered something else when you were writing that note," she said. "I think it was that Swede who asked how you got to an address in Újpest. It might not have been him, I'm not certain. Perhaps it was a different guest I drew a little map for him."

She fell silent and Martin Beck waited.

'I remember the street he was asking about, but not the number. My aunt lives on that street, so that's why I remembered it."

Martin Beck pushed the pad toward her.

'Would you be good enough to write down the name of the street for me?"

As Martin Beck came out of the hotel, he looked at the slip of paper. Venetianer út.

He put the paper into his pocket, lit a Terv and began strolling down toward the river.

10

It was Monday the eighth of August and Martin Beck was waked by the telephone. He propped himself sleepily up on his elbow, fumbled with the receiver a moment and heard the telephone operator say something he did not understand. Then a familiar voice said:

'Hullo."

Out of sheer astonishment, Martin Beck forgot to reply.

'Hulloo-o-o, is anyone there?"

Kollberg could be heard as clearly as if he had been in the room next door.

'Where are you?"

'At the office, of course. It's already quarter past nine. Don't tell me you're still lying snoring in bed."

'What's the weather like up your way?" said Martin Beck, then falling silent, paralyzed himself by the idiocy of the remark.

'It's raining," said Kollberg suspiciously, "but that wasn't why I called. Are you sick or something?"

Martin Beck managed to sit up on the edge of the bed and light one of those unfamiliar Hungarian cigarettes from the pack with the factory on it.

'No. What d'you want?"

'I've been digging around a bit up here. Alf Matsson doesn't seem to be a very nice guy."

'How so?"

'Well. Mostly just an impression I've got. He just seems to be one big all-round ass."

'Did you call to tell me that?"

'No, actually, I didn't. But there was one thing I thought you ought to know. I didn't have anything to do on Saturday so I went and sat around in that bar place. The Tankard."

'Listen, don't go poking your nose in too much. Officially you've never even heard about this case. And you don't know I'm here."

Kollberg sounded clearly offended.

'D'you think I'm a moron?"

'Only occasionally," said Martin Beck, amiably.

'I didn't speak to anyone. Just sat at the table next to that gang and listened to them shoot the breeze. For five hours. They sure put away the liquor."

The telephone operator broke in and said something incomprehensible.

'You're bankrupting the government," said Martin Beck. "What's up? Get it off your chest."

'Well, the guys were shooting the bull back and forth, one thing and another about Alfie, as they call him. They're just the type to let off a lot of hot air behind each other's backs. As soon as one of them goes to the head, then the others all get started on him."

'Don't be so long-winded."

'That Molin seems to be the worst. He was the one who started talking about the thing I'm calling about, too. Nasty, but it might not be all lies."

'Come on now, look sharp, Lennart."

'And you tell me that! Anyhow it turned out that Matsson makes off like a shot for Hungary because he's got a gal down there. Some sort of small-time athlete he met while he was a sports reporter here in Stockholm—at some international sports meet or other. While he was still living with his wife."

'Uh-huh."

'They also said it was very likely that he arranged his trips to other places—Prague and Berlin and so forth—so he could meet her when she was competing there."

'Doesn't sound likely to me. Girl athletes are usually kept under lock and key."

'Take it for what it's worth."

'Thanks," said Martin Beck, without a trace of enthusiasm. "So long."

'Wait a second, I haven't finished yet. They never mentioned her name—I don't think they even knew it. But they gave enough details for me to be able to… It rained yesterday too."

'Lennart," said Martin Beck desperately.

'I managed to force my way into the Royal Library and sat all day yesterday looking through back numbers. As far as I can make out, it can only be a gal named—I'll spell it."

Martin Beck switched on the bedside lamp and wrote the letters on the edge of the map of Budapest. A-R-J B-Ö-K-K.

'Got it?" said Kollberg.

'Of course."

'She's German actually, but a Hungarian citizen. Don't know where she lives, nor that the spelling's quite right. Not very famous. I couldn't think of any name that reminded me of hers in any connection since May of last year. Apparently she was some kind of substitute. On the second team."

'Have you finished now?"

'One more thing. His car is where it ought to be. In the airport parking place here at Arlanda. An Opel Rekord. Nothing special about it."

'Really. Have you finished now?"

'Yes."

'G'bye, then."

'Bye."

Martin Beck stared listlessly at the letters he had written down. Ari Bökk. It did not even look like the name of a human being. Probably the particulars were wrong and the information completely useless.

He got up, opened the shutters and let in the summer. The view over the river and the Buda side was just as fascinating as it had been twenty-four hours ago. The Czech paddle steamer had left, making way for a propeller-driven motor vessel with two low funnels. It was Czechoslovakian too and was called Druzba. People dressed for summer were sitting eating breakfast at the tables in front of the hotel. It was already half past nine. He felt useless and negligent of his duties, so he swiftly washed and dressed, put the map in his pocket and hurried downstairs to the vestibule. Having hurried all the way down, he then remained standing absolutely motionless. To hurry seemed pointless when you didn't know what to do when you got there anyway. He meditated on this for a moment, then went into the dining room, sat down by one of the open windows and had breakfast served to him. Boats of every size were passing by. A large Soviet tugboat towing three oil barges worked its way upstream. Presumably it came from Batum. That was a long way away. The captain was wearing a white cap. The waiters swarmed around Martin Beck's table as if he were Rockefeller. Small boys were kicking a ball on the street. A big dog wanted to join in and almost knocked over the well-dressed lady holding its leash. She had to grab hold of one of the stone pillars of the balustrade to keep from falling. After a while she let go of the pillar but retained her hold on the leash, running, at a sharp backward tilt behind the dog, in among the ballplayers. It was already very warm. The river sparkled.

His lack of constructive ideas was conspicuous. Martin Beck turned his head and saw a person staring at him: a sunburned man of his own age, with graying hair, straight nose, brown eyes, gray suit, black shoes, white shirt and gray tie. He had a large signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and beside him on the table lay a speckled green hat with a narrow brim and a fluffy little feather in the band. The man returned to his double espresso.

Martin Beck moved his eyes and saw a woman staring at him. She was African and young and very beautiful, with clean features, large brilliant eyes, white teeth, long slim legs and high insteps. Silver sandals and a tight-fitting light-blue dress of some shiny material.

Presumably they were both staring at Martin Beck—the man with envy, the woman with ill-concealed desire—because he was so handsome.

Martin Beck sneezed and three waiters blessed him. He thanked them, went out into the vestibule, took the map out of his pocket and showed the letters he had written on it to the porter.

'Do you know of anybody by this name?"

'No sir."

"It's supposed to be some kind of sports star."

'Really?"

The porter looked politely sympathetic. Naturally, a guest was always right.

'Perhaps not so well known, sir."

'Is it a man's or a woman's name?"

'Ari is a woman's name—almost a nickname. A different version of Aranka, for children."

The porter cocked his head and looked at the words.

'But the last name, sir. Is it really a name?"

'May I borrow a telephone directory?"

Naturally there was no one called Bökk, anyhow no human being. But he didn't give up that easily. (A cheap virtue when a person still doesn't know what to do.) He tried several other possibilities. The result was as follows: BOECK ESZTER penzió XII Venetianer út 6 292-173.

Struck by his first thought of the day, he took out the slip of paper he had received from the girl at the young people's hotel. Venetianer út. It could hardly be a coincidence.

At the reception desk a young lady had taken the august old porter's place.

'What does this mean?"

"Penzió. Pension—boarding house. Shall I call the number for you?"

He shook his head.

'Where is this street?"

'The Fourth District. In Újpest."

'How do you get there?"

'It's quickest by taxi, of course. Otherwise, Trolley Line Three from Marx Square. But it's more comfortable to take one of the boats that tie up outside here. Heading north."

11

The boat was called Úttörö and was a joy to the eye. A little coal-fired steamer with a tall, straight funnel and open decks. As it calmly and comfortably chugged up the river past the Parliament building and green Margaret Island, Martin Beck stood at the railing philosophizing about the accursed cult of the combustion engine. He walked over to the engine room and peered down. The heat came out like a column from the boiler room. The fireman was dressed in bathing trunks, and his muscular back was shiny with sweat. The coal shovel rattled. What was this man thinking about down in that infernal heat? In all probability, about the blessing of the combustion engine: he no doubt saw himself sitting reading the newspaper beside a diesel engine, cotton waste and an oil can within easy reach. Martin Beck returned to studying the boat, but the fireman had spoiled his enjoyment. It was the same with most things. You couldn't have your cake and eat it too.

The boat slid past spacious, open-air parks and bathing places, edged its way through a swarm of canoes and pleasure boats, passed two bridges and continued through a narrow sound into quite a small tributary of the river. It gave a short hoarse toot of triumph and tied up in Újpest.

After Martin Beck had gone ashore, he turned around and looked at the steamer, so exquisite in form and so functional—in its day. The fireman came up on deck, laughed at the sun and leaped straight into the water.

This part of the city was of a different character from the sections of Budapest he had seen previously. He walked diagonally across the large, bare square and made a few feeble attempts to ask his way, but could not make himself understood. Despite the map, he went astray and wound up in a yard behind a synagogue, evidently a home for elderly Jews. Frail survivors from the days of great evil nodded cheerfully at him from their wicker chairs in the narrow strip of shade along the walls.

Five minutes later he was standing outside the building Venetianer út Number 6. It was built in two stories and nothing about its exterior gave the impression that it was a boarding house, but out on the street stood two cars with foreign license plates. He met the landlady as soon as he got into the hall.

'Frau Boeck?"

'Yes—we're full up I'm afraid."

She was a stout woman of fifty years. Her German sounded extraordinarily fluent.

'I am looking for a lady named An Boeck."

'That's my niece. One flight up. Second door to the right."

With that, she went away. Simple as that. Martin Beck stood for a moment outside the white-painted door and heard someone moving about inside. Then he knocked quite lightly. The door was opened at once.

'Fräulein Boeck?"

The woman seemed surprised. Very likely, she had been expecting someone. She was wearing a dark-blue, two-piece bathing suit and in her right hand she was carrying a green rubber diving mask and a snorkel. She was standing with her feet wide apart and her left hand still on the lock, quite still, as if paralyzed in the middle of a movement. Her hair was dark and short, and her features were strong. She had thick black eyebrows, a broad straight nose and full lips. Her teeth were good but somewhat uneven. Her mouth was half-open and the tip of her tongue was resting against her lower teeth, as if she was just about to say something. She was hardly taller than five foot one, but strongly and harmoniously built, with well-developed shoulders, broad hips and quite a narrow waist. Her legs were muscular and her feet short and broad, with straight toes. She had a very deep suntan and her skin appeared soft and elastic, especially across her diaphragm and stomach. Shaved armpits. Large breasts and curved stomach with thick down that seemed very light against her tanned skin. Here and there, long and curly black hairs had made their way out from under the elastic at her loins. She might have been twenty-two or twenty-three years old, at the most. Not beautiful in the conventional sense of the word, but a highly functional specimen of the human race.

A questioning look in large, dark-brown eyes. Finally she said, "Yes, that's me. Were you looking for me?"

Not quite such fluent German as her aunt's, but almost.

'I'm looking for Alf Matsson."

'Who is that?"

Her general attitude was that of a child in a state of shock. It made him incapable of discerning any definite reaction to the name. Quite possibly it was completely new to her.

'A Swedish journalist. From Stockholm."

'Is he supposed to be living here? There's no Swede here at the moment. You must have made a mistake."

She thought for a moment, frowning.

'But how did you know my name?"

The room behind her was an ordinary boarding-house room. Clothes lay carelessly strewn about on the furniture. Only women's clothing, as far as he could see.

'He gave me this address himself. Matsson is a friend of mine."

She looked suspiciously at him and said: "How odd."

He took the passport out of his pocket and turned to the page with Matsson's photo on it. She looked at it carefully. "No. I've never seen him before." After a while she said, "Have you lost each other?" Before Martin Beck had time to reply, he heard a padding sound behind him and took a step to one side. A man in his thirties went past him into the room. Wearing bathing trunks, below average height, blond, very strongly built, with the same formidable tan as the woman. The man took a position behind her and to one side and peered inquisitively at the passport.

'Who's that?" he said in German.

'I don't know. This gentleman has lost him. Thought he'd moved here."

'Lost," said the blond man. "That's not good. And without his passport too. I know what a bother that can be. I'm in that line myself."

Playfully, he pulled the elastic of the woman's bathing suit as far as he could and let it go with a smack. She gave him a quick look of annoyance.

'Aren't we going out for a swim?" said the man. "Yes, I'm ready."

'Ari Boeck," said Martin Beck. "I recognize the name. Aren't you the swimmer?"

For the first time, the girl's eyes wavered. "I don't compete any longer." "Haven't you done some swimming in Sweden?" "Yes, once. Two years ago. I was last. Funny that he gave you my address."

The blond man looked inquiringly at her. No one said anything. Martin Beck put the passport away. "Well, good-bye, then. Sony to have troubled you." "Good-bye," said the woman, smiling for the first time. "Hope you find your friend," said the blond man. "Have you tried the camping site by the Roman Baths? It's up here, on the other side of the river. A huge number of people there. You can take a boat over." "You're German, aren't you?" "Yes, from Hamburg."

The man rumpled the girl's short dark hair. Lightly she brushed his chest with the back of her left hand. Martin Beck turned around and went away.

The entrance hall was empty. On a shelf behind the table that served as a reception desk lay a little stack of passports. The top one was Finnish, but underneath it lay two in that familiar moss-green color. As if in passing, he stretched out his hand and took one of them. He opened it and the man he had met in Ari Boeck's doorway stared glassily up at him. Tetz Radeberger, Travel Agency Official, Hamburg, born in 1935. Evidently no one had taken the trouble to lie to him.

He had bad luck on his journey home and ended up on a modern fast-moving ferryboat with roofed decks and growling diesel engines. There were only a few passengers on board—nearest to him sat two old women in gaudily colored shawls and bright dresses. They were carrying large white bundles and presumably had come from the country. Farther away in the saloon sat a serious, middle-aged man in a brown felt hat who was carrying a briefcase and wearing the facial expression of a civil servant. A tall man in a blue suit was whittling listlessly at a stick. By the landing stage stood a uniformed police officer, eating figure-eight-shaped cookies out of a paper cornet and talking sporadically to a small, well-dressed man with a bald head and a black mustache. A young couple with two doll-like children completed the assemblage.

Martin Beck inspected his fellow passengers gloomily. His expedition had been a failure. There was nothing to indicate that Ari Boeck had not been telling the truth.

Inwardly he cursed the strange impulse that had made him take on this pointless assignment. The possibilities of his solving the case became more and more remote. He was alone and without an idea in his head. And if, on the other hand, he had had any ideas, he would have lacked resources to implement them.

The worst of it was that, deep down within himself, he knew that he had not been guided by any kind of impulse at all. It was just his policeman's soul—or whatever it might be called—that had started to function. It was the same instinct that made Kollberg sacrifice his time off—a kind of occupational disease that forced him to take on all assignments and do his best to solve them.

When he got back to the hotel it was a quarter past four and the dining room was closed. He had missed lunch. He went up to his room, showered and put on his dressing gown. Taking a pull of whisky from the bottle he had bought on the plane, he found the taste raw and unpleasant and went out to the bathroom to brush his teeth. Then he leaned out the window, his elbows resting on the wide window sill, and watched the boats. Not even that managed to amuse him very much. Directly below him, at one of the outdoor tables, sat one of the passengers on the boat: the man in the blue suit. He had a glass of beer on the table and was still whittling at his stick.

Martin Beck frowned and lay down on the creaking bed. Again he thought the situation over. Sooner or later he would be forced to contact the police. It was a doubtful measure and no one would like it—at this stage not even he himself.

He whiled away the tune remaining before dinner by sitting idling in an armchair in the lobby. On the other side of the room a gray-haired man wearing a signet ring was reading a Hungarian newspaper. It was the same man who had stared at him at breakfast. Martin Beck looked at him for a long time, but the man tranquilly went on drinking his coffee and seemed quite unconscious of his surroundings.

Martin Beck dined on mushroom soup and a perch-like fish from Lake Balaton, washed down felicitously with white wine. The little orchestra played Liszt and Strauss and other composers of that elevated school. It was a superb dinner, but it did not gladden him, and the waiters swarmed around their lugubrious guest like medical experts around a dictator's sickbed.

He had his coffee and brandy in the lobby. The man with the signet ring was still reading his newspaper on the other side of the room. Once again a glass of coffee was standing in front of him. After a few minutes, the man looked at his watch, glanced across at Martin Beck, folded up his paper and walked across the room.

Martin Beck was to be spared the problem of contacting the police. The police had taken that initiative. Twenty-three years' experience had taught him to recognize a policeman from his walk.

12

The man in the gray suit took a calling card out of his top pocket and placed it on the edge of the table. Martin Beck glanced down at it as he rose to his feet. Only a name. Vilmos Szluka.

'May I sit down?"

The man spoke English. Martin Beck nodded.

'I'm from the police."

'So am I," said Martin Beck.

'I realized that. Coffee?"

Martin Beck nodded. The man from the police held up two fingers and almost immediately a waiter hurried forward with two glasses. This was clearly a coffee-drinking nation.

'I also realize that you are here to make certain investigations."

Martin Beck did not reply immediately. He rubbed his nose and thought. Obviously this was the right moment to say, "Not at all—I'm here as a tourist, but I'm trying to get hold of a friend I'd like to see." That was presumably what was expected of him.

Szluka did not seem to be in any special hurry. With obvious pleasure he sipped at his double espresso, however many that made now. Martin Beck had seen him drink at least three earlier in the day. The man was behaving politely but formally. His eyes were friendly, but very professional.

Martin Beck went on pondering. This man was indeed a policeman, but so far as he knew there was no law in the whole world that said that individual citizens should tell the police the truth. Unfortunately.

'Yes," said Martin Beck. "That's correct."

'Then wouldn't the most logical thing to do have been to turn to us first?"

Martin Beck preferred not to reply to that one. After a pause of a few seconds, the other man developed the train of thought himself.

'In the event something that demands an investigation really should have happened," he said.

'I have no official assignment."

'And we have not been notified of any charge. Only an inquiry in very vague terms. In other words, it appears that nothing has happened."

Martin Beck gulped down his coffee, which was extremely strong. The conversation was growing more unpleasant than he had expected. But under any circumstances, there was no reason for him to allow himself to be lectured to in a hotel foyer by a policeman who did not even take the trouble to identify himself.

'Nonetheless, the police here have considered that they had cause to go through Alf Matsson's belongings," he said.

It was a random comment but it struck home.

'I don't know anything about that," said Szluka stiffly. "Can you identify yourself, by the way?"

'Can you?"

He caught a swift change in those brown eyes. The man was by no means harmless.

Szluka put his hand into his inside pocket, withdrew his wallet and opened it, swiftly and casually. Martin Beck did not bother to look, but showed his service badge clipped to his key ring.

'That's not valid identification," said Szluka. "In our country you can buy emblems of different kinds in the toyshops."

This point of view was not entirely without justification and Martin Beck did not consider the matter worth further argument. He took out his identification card.

'My passport is at the reception desk."

The other man studied the card thoroughly and at length. As he returned it, he said, "How long are you planning to stay?"

'My visa is good until the end of the month."

Szluka smiled for the first time during their conversation. The smile hardly came from the heart and it was not difficult to figure out what it meant. The Hungarian sipped up the last drop of coffee, buttoned up his jacket and said:

'I do not wish to stop you although, naturally, I could do it. As far as I can see, your activities are more or less of a private nature. I assume that they will remain so and that they will not harm the interests of the general public or any individual citizen."

'You can always go on tailing me, of course."

Szluka did not reply. His eyes were cold and hostile.

'What do you really think you're doing?" he said.

'What do you think?"

'I don't know. Nothing has happened."

'Only that a person has disappeared."

'Who says so?"

'I do."

'In that case you should go to the authorities and demand that the case be investigated in the ordinary way," said Szluka stiffly.

Martin Beck drummed on the table with his fingers.

'The man is missing—there's no doubt about it."

The other man was evidently just about to leave. He was sitting absolutely upright in the easychair, with his right hand on the arm.

'By that statement you actually mean—as far as I can make out—that the person in question has not been seen here at this hotel during the last two weeks. He has a valid residence permit and can travel freely within the country's borders. At present there are a couple hundred thousand tourists here, many of them spending their nights in tents or sleeping in their cars. This man might be in Szeged or Debrecen. He might have gone to Lake Balaton to spend his holiday bathing."

'Alf Matsson did not come here to swim."

'Is that so? In any case, he has a tourist visa. Why should he disappear, as you call it? Had he, for instance, booked his return ticket?"

The last question was worthy of some thought. The manner in which it was put indicated that the man already knew the answer. Szluka rose to his feet.

'Just a moment," said Martin Beck. "I'd like to ask you about one thing."

'Please go ahead. What do you want to know?"

'When Alf Matsson left the hotel, he took his room key with him. The next day, it was handed in here by a uniformed policeman. Where did the police get the key from?"

Szluka looked straight at him for at least fifteen seconds. Then he said, "Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question. Good-bye."

He walked swiftly through the lobby, stopped at the coat-check counter, received his gray-brown hat with a feather in it and stood with it in his hand, as if thinking about something. Then he turned around and went back to Martin Beck's table.

'Here is your passport."

'Thank you."

'It wasn't at the reception desk, as you thought. You were mistaken."

'Yes," said Martin Beck.

He found nothing amusing about the other man's behavior and did not bother to look up. Szluka remained standing there.

'What do you think of the food here?" he said.

'It's good."

'I'm delighted to hear it."

The Hungarian said this as if he really meant it, and Martin Beck raised his head.

'You see," explained Szluka, "nothing very dramatic or exciting happens here nowadays—it's not like in your country or in London or New York."

The combination was somewhat bewildering.

'We've had more than enough of that in the past," said

Szluka solemnly. "Now we want peace and quiet, and we take an interest in other things. Food, for instance. I myself had four slices of fat bacon and two fried eggs for breakfast And for lunch I had fish soup and fried, breaded carp. Apple strudel for dessert."

He paused. Then he said thoughtfully, "The children don't like fat bacon, of course. They usually have cocoa and buttered sweet rolls before they go to school."

'Uh-huh."

'Yes. And this evening I'm going to have veal schnitzel with rice and paprika sauce. Not bad. Have you tasted the fish soup here, by the way?"

'No."

Indeed, he had come across this fish soup on his first evening, but he could not see that this had anything to do with the Hungarian police.

'You definitely ought to try it. It's excellent. But it's even better at Matya's, a place quite near here. You ought to take the tune to go there—like most of the other foreigners."

'Uh-huh."

'But I can assure you that I know a place where they have even better fish soup. The best fish soup in all Budapest. It's a little place up on Lajos út. Not many tourists find their way there. You have to go down to Szeged to find a soup like this."

'Uh-huh."

Szluka had become noticeably exhilarated during this report on culinary matters. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts now and looked at his watch. Presumably he was thinking about his veal schnitzel.

'Have you had time to see anything of Budapest?"

'A little. It's a beautiful city."

'Yes, it is, isn't it? Have you been to the Palatine Baths?"

'No."

'They're worth a visit I'm planning to go there myself tomorrow. Perhaps we could go together."

'Why not?"

'Excellent. In that case I'll meet you at two o'clock outside the entrance."

'Good-bye."

Martin Beck remained seated awhile, thinking. The conversation had been unpleasant and disquieting. Szluka's last sudden change in attitude did not in any way alter that impression. More intensely than ever, he had a feeling that something did not fit, and at the same time, his own impotence seemed more and more apparent.

At about half past eleven, the foyer and the dining room began to empty and Martin Beck went up to his room. After he had undressed, he stood for a moment by the open window, inhaling the warm night air. A paddle steamer slid by on the river, brightly illuminated with green, red and yellow lights. People were dancing on the aft deck and the sound of the music came through intermittently across the water.

A few people were still sitting at the tables in front of the hotel, one of them a tall man in his thirties, with dark wavy hair. The man had a glass of beer in front of him and had obviously been home and exchanged his blue suit for a light-gray one.

He shut the window and went to bed. Then he lay in the dark thinking: the police may not be especially interested in Alf Matsson, but they're certainly interested in Martin Beck.

It was a long time before he fell asleep.

13

Martin Beck sat in the shade by the stone balustrade in front of the hotel, eating a late breakfast. It was his third day in Budapest and it promised to be just as warm and beautiful as the previous ones.

Breakfast was nearly over, and he and an elderly couple, who sat in silence a few tables away, were the only guests. There were a good many people moving about on the street and down on the quay, mostly mothers with children and low streamlined baby carriages like small white tanks.

The tall dark man with a stick was not visible, which in itself did not necessarily mean that he was no longer being watched. The police corps was large and there were no doubt replacements.

A waiter came over and cleared his table.

'Frühstück nicht gut?"

He looked unhappily at the untouched salami.

Martin Beck assured him that the breakfast had been very good. When the waiter had gone away, he took out a picture postcard he had bought in the hotel kiosk. It was of a paddle steamer on its way up the Danube, with one of the bridges in the background. The lady in the kiosk had stamped the card for him and he pondered for a moment over whom he should send it to. Then he addressed it to Gunnar Ahlberg, Police Station, Motala, wrote a few words of greetings on it, and put it back into his pocket.

He had met Ahlberg two summers ago, when the body of a woman had been found in the Göta Canal at Motala. They had become good friends during the six-month investigation and had kept in touch sporadically ever since. At the time the investigation and search for the murderer had become a personal affair for him. It had not been only the policeman in him that caused him to think of nothing else but the case for months on end.

And now, here in Budapest, it was only with the greatest effort that he could summon up any interest for his assignment.

Martin Beck felt stupidly useless as he sat there. He had several hours to dispose of before his meeting with Szluka, and the only constructive thing he could think of doing was putting the postcard to Ahlberg into the mailbox. It annoyed him that Szluka had asked him (before he had thought of it himself) whether he had checked to see if Matsson had booked a return flight. He took out his map and found one of the airline's branch offices near a square close to the hotel. Afterward he got up, walked through the dining room and the foyer, and put the postcard in the red mailbox outside the hotel entrance. Then he began walking in toward town.

The square was large, with shops and travel agencies and a great deal of traffic. Many people were already sitting at a sidewalk café, drinking coffee at the small tables. Outside this café he saw a stairway that led down underneath the street. "Földalatti" appeared on a sign and he supposed that the word meant W. C. He felt sticky and warm and decided to go down there and wash before he visited the airline office. He crossed the street diagonally and followed two gentlemen carrying briefcases down underground.

He descended into the smallest subway he had ever seen. On the platform was a little glassed-in wooden kiosk painted green and white, and the low roof was held up by decorative cast-iron pillars. The train, which was already standing there, looked more like a dwarf-sized train at an amusement park than an efficient means of transportation. He remembered that this subway was the oldest in Europe.

He paid the fare, and got a ticket at the kiosk and stepped into the little varnished wooden car—it could well have been the same one Emperor Frans Joseph had traveled in when he had opened the line some time at the end of the previous century. There was a pause before the doors closed, and the car was full as the train started.

On the small platform in the middle of the car stood three men and a woman. They were deaf-mutes and were carrying on a lively conversation in sign language. When the train stopped for the third time, they got off, still eagerly gesticulating. Before the platform filled up again, Martin Beck had time to notice a man sitting at the other end of the car, half-turned away from him.

The man was dark and sunburned and Martin Beck recognized him at once. Instead of the gray jacket he was now wearing a green shirt, open at the neck. There was probably nothing left of the stick he had been whittling on all the previous day.

Suddenly the train plunged out of the tunnel and slowed down. It rode on into a green park with a big pool, shimmering in the sunlight. Then it stopped and the car emptied. This was evidently the end of the line.

The last to step out of the car, Martin Beck looked around for the dark man. He was nowhere to be seen.

A wide road led into the park, which looked cool and inviting, but Martin Beck decided against any further expeditions. He read the timetable on the platform and saw that the stretch between this park and the square where he had got on was the only line and that the train would be returning in a quarter of an hour.

It was half past eleven when he went into Malev's office. The five girls behind the counter were busy with customers, so Martin Beck sat down by the street window to wait.

He had not succeeded in spotting the man with the dark wavy hair on his return from the park, but he presumed that he was still somewhere in the vicinity. He wondered whether he would be tailing him during his meeting with Szluka too.

One of the chairs by the counter became free and Martin Beck went up to H and sat down. The girl behind the counter had her dark hair done in an elaborate set of curls on her forehead. She looked efficient and was smoking a cigarette with a scarlet filter tip.

Martin Beck carried out his errand. Had a Swedish jour nalist by the name of Alf Matsson booked a flight to Stockholm or anywhere else after the twenty-third of July?

The girl offered him a cigarette and began leafing through her papers. After a while she picked up the telephone and spoke to someone, shook her head and went over to speak to one of her colleagues.

After all five of them had leafed through their lists, it was past twelve o'clock and the girl with the curls informed him that no Alf Matsson had booked a flight on any plane leaving Budapest.

Martin Beck decided to skip lunch and went up to his room. He opened the window and looked down onto the lunch guests below. No tall man in a green shirt was visible.

At one of the tables sat six men in their thirties drinking beer. A thought struck him, and he went over to the telephone and set up a call to Stockholm. Then he lay down on the bed and waited.

A quarter of an hour later the phone rang and he heard Kollberg's voice.

'Hi! How's things?"

'Bad."

'Have you found that chick? Bökk?"

'Yes, but it was nothing. She didn't even know who he was. A musclebound blond boy was standing there feeling her up."

'So it was just a lot of big talk then. He was pretty much of a big mouth, according to his so-called buddies here."

'Have you got a lot to do?"

'Nothing at all. I can go on digging around if you like."

'You can do one thing for me. Find out the names of those guys at the Tankard and what sort of people they are, will you?"

'O.K. Anything else?"

'Be careful. Remember that they probably are journalists, all of them. So long. I'm going swimming now with somebody named Szluka."

'That's a hell of a name for a chick. Martin, listen, have you checked to see if he booked a return flight?"

'Bye," said Martin Beck, and put down the receiver.

He hunted up his bathing trunks from his bag, rolled them up in one of the hotel towels and went down to the boat station.

The boat was called Óbuda and one of the unpleasant roofed types. But he was late and it had the advantage of being faster than the coal-fired boats. 60

He stepped ashore below a large hotel on Margaret Island. Then he followed the road toward the interior of the island, walked swiftly beneath the shady trees along a lush green lawn, past a tennis court, and then he was there.

Szluka was standing waiting outside the entrance, his briefcase in hand. He was dressed as on the previous day.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," said Martin Beck.

'I've just come," said Szluka.

They paid and went into the dressing room. A bald old man in a white undershirt greeted Szluka and unlocked two lockers. Szluka took a pair of black bathing trunks out of his briefcase, swiftly undressed and meticulously hung his clothes on a hanger. They pulled on their bathing trunks simultaneously, although Martin Beck had had considerably fewer garments to remove.

Szluka took his briefcase and went ahead out of the dressing room. Martin Beck followed behind with his towel rolled up in his hand.

The place was full of suntanned people. Immediately in front of the dressing room was a round pool with fountains spouting up tall streams of water. Shrieking children were running in and out under the waterfalls. On one side of the fountain pool was a smaller pool with steps sloping down into the water from one end. On the other was a large pool full of clear green water which darkened toward the middle. This pool was full of swimming and splashing people of all ages. The area between the pools and the lawns was covered with stone slabs.

Martin Beck followed Szluka along the edge of the large pool. In front of them and farther on they could see a semi-circular arcade, for which Szluka was evidently heading.

A voice on the loudspeaker called out some information and a mob of people began to run toward the pool with the steps leading down into it. Martin Beck was almost knocked over and followed Szluka's example, stepping to one side until the rush was over. He looked inquiringly at Szluka, who said:

'Wave bathing."

Martin Beck watched the small pool swiftly filling with people, who finally stood packed like sardines. A pair of huge pumps began to swish water toward the high edges of the pool and the human shoal rocked on the high waves, amid cries of delight.

'Perhaps you'd like to go and ride the waves," said Szluka. Martin Beck looked at him. He was quite serious. "No, thank you,"' said Martin Beck.

'Personally, I usually bathe in the sulfur spring," said Szluka. "It is very relaxing."

The spring ran from a stone cairn in the middle of an oval pool—the water was knee-deep there and its far end was shaded by the arcade. The pool was built tike a labyrinth, with walls that rose about ten inches above ground level. The walls formed back supports for molded armchairs in which one sat with the water up to one's chin.

Szluka stepped down into the pool and began to wade between the rows of seated people. He was still holding his briefcase in his hand. Martin Beck wondered if he was so used to carrying it that he had forgotten to put it down, but he said nothing and stepped down into the pool and began to wade along at Szluka's heels.

The water was quite warm and the steam smelled of sulfur. Szluka waded into the colonnade, put down his briefcase on the edge of the wall and sat down in the water. Martin Beck sat down beside him. It was very comfortable in the spacious stone armchair, which had broad arms about six inches below the surface of the water.

Szluka leaned his head against the back and closed his eyes. Martin Beck said nothing and looked at the bathers.

Nearly opposite him sat a small, pale, thin man, bouncing a fat blonde on his knee. They were both looking seriously and absent-mindedly at a little girl who was splashing about in front of them with a rubber ring around her stomach.

A pale, freckled boy in white bathing trunks came slowly wading by. Behind him he was towing a sturdy youth by a loose grip on his big toe. The youth was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, his hands clasped over his stomach.

On the edge of the pool stood a tall sunburned man with wavy dark hair. His bathing trunks were pale-blue with wide flapping legs, more like undershorts than trunks. Martin Beck suspected that this was in fact the case. Perhaps he should have warned him that he was going swimming, so that the man would have had time to go and get his trunks.

Suddenly, without opening his eyes, Szluka said, "The key was lying on the steps of the police station. A patrolman found it there."

Martin Beck looked in surprise at Szluka, who was lying utterly relaxed beside him. The hair on his sunburned chest was fluttering slowly about tike white seaweed in the shimmering green water.

'How did it get there?"

Szluka turned his head and looked at him beneath half-closed lids.

'You won't believe me, of course, but the fact is, I don't know."

A long-drawn-out cry of disappointment, in unison, was heard coming from the smaller pool. The wave bathing was over for this time and the large pool filled up with people again.

'Yesterday you didn't want to tell me where you'd got the key from. Why did you tell me now?" said Martin Beck.

'As you seem to misinterpret most things anyway, and it was a piece of information you could have got hold of elsewhere, I considered it better to tell you myself."

After a while Martin Beck said, "Why are you having me tailed?"

'I don't understand what you're talking about," said Szluka.

'What did you have for lunch?"

'Fish soup and carp," said Szluka.

'And apple strudel?"

'No, wild strawberries and whipped cream and powdered sugar," said Szluka. "Delicious."

Martin Beck looked around. The man in the undershorts had gone.

'When was the key found?" he said.

'The day before it was handed in to the hotel. On the afternoon of the twenty-third of July."

'On the same day that Alf Matsson disappeared, in fact."

Szluka straightened up and looked at Martin Beck. Then he turned around, opened his briefcase, took out a towel and dried his hands. Then he pulled out a file and leafed through it.

'We have made some inquiries, actually," he said, "despite the fact that we have had no official request for an investigation."

He took a paper out of the file and went on, "You seem to be taking this matter more seriously than appears to be necessary. Is he an important person, this Alf Matsson?"

'Insofar as he has disappeared in a way that can't be explained, yes. We consider that sufficiently important grounds to find out what's happened to him."

'What is there to indicate that something has happened to him?"

'Nothing. But the fact is, he's gone."

Szluka looked at his paper.

'According to the passport and customs authorities, no Swedish citizen by the name Alf Matsson has left Hungary since the twenty-second of July. Anyway, he left his passport at the hotel, and he can hardly have left the country without it. No person—known or unknown—who might have been this Alf Matsson has been taken to a hospital or morgue here in this country during the period in question. Without his ssport, Matsson cannot have been accepted at any other hotel in the country either. Consequently, everything indicates that for some reason or another your compatriot has made up his mind to stay in Hungary for an additional period."

Szluka put the paper back into the file and closed his briefcase.

'The man's been here before. Perhaps he's acquired some friends and is staying with them," he went on, settling himself down again.

'And yet there's no reasonable explanation for his leaving the hotel and not letting anyone know where he is," said Martin Beck a little later.

Szluka rose and picked up his briefcase.

'So long as he has a valid visa, I cannot—as I said—do anything more in the matter," he said.

Martin Beck also rose.

'Stay where you are," said Szluka. "Unfortunately I have to go. But perhaps we'll meet again. Good-bye."

They shook hands and Martin Beck watched him wading away with his briefcase. From his appearance, one would not think he ate four slices of fat bacon for breakfast.

When Szluka had disappeared, Martin Beck went over to the large pool. The warm water and the sulfur fumes had made him drowsy, and he swam around for a while in the clear cooling water before sitting in the sun on the edge of the pool to dry. For a while he watched two deadly serious middle-aged men standing in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a red ball to each other.

Then he went in to change. He felt lost and confused. He was none the wiser for his meeting with Szluka.

14

After his bathe, the heat did not seem quite so oppressive any longer. Martin Beck found no reason to overtax his strength. He strolled slowly along the paths in the spacious park, often stopping to look around. He saw no sign of his shadow. Perhaps they had at last realized how harmless he was and had given up. On the other hand, the whole island was swarming with people and it was difficult to pick out anyone special in the crowd, especially when one had no idea what the person concerned looked like. He made his way down to the water on the eastern side of the island and followed the shoreline out to a landing stage where all the boats he had previously ridden on came in. He thought he could even remember the name of the station: Casino.

Along the edge of the shore above the landing stage stood a row of benches where a few people were waiting for the boats. On one of them sat one of the few people in Budapest familiar to him: the easily frightened girl from the house in Újpest. Ari Boeck was wearing sunglasses, sandals and a white dress with shoulder straps. She was reading a German paperback and beside her on the bench lay a nylon string bag. His first thought was to walk past, but then he regretted it, halted and said, "Good afternoon."

She raised her eyes and looked at him blankly. Then she appeared to recognize him and smiled.

'Oh, it's you, is it? Have you found your friend?"

'No, not yet."

'I thought about it after you'd gone yesterday. I can't understand how he came to give you my address."

'I don't understand it either."

'I thought about it last night too," she said frowning. "I could hardly sleep.'"

'Yes, it's peculiar."

(Not at all, my dear girl, there's an extremely simple explanation. For one thing, he didn't give me any address. For another, this is probably what happened: he saw you in Stockholm when you were swimming and thought there's a sweet piece, I'd like to—yes, exactly. And then when he came here six months later, he found out your address and the location of your street, but didn't have time to go there.)

'Won't you sit down? It's almost too hot to be standing upright today."

He sat down as she moved the nylon net. It held two things he recognized, namely the dark-blue bathing suit and the green rubber mask, as well as a rolled-up bath towel and a bottle of suntan oil.

(Martin Beck, the born detective and famous observer, constantly occupied making useless observations and storing them away for future use. Doesn't even have bats in his belfry—they couldn't get in for all the crap in the way.)

'Are you waiting for the boat too?"

'Yes," he said. "But we're probably going in different directions."

'I don't have anything special to do. I was thinking of going home, of course."

'Have you been swimming?"

(The art of deduction.)

'Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?"

(Well, that's a very good question.)

'What have you done with your boyfriend today?"

(What the hell has that got to do with me? Oh, it's just an interrogation technique.)

'Tetz? He's gone. Anyway, he's not my boyfriend."

'Oh, isn't he?"

(Extremely spiritual.)

'Just a boy I know. He stays at the boarding house now and again. He's a nice guy."

She shrugged her shoulders. He looked at her feet. They were still short and broad with straight toes.

(Martin Beck, the incorruptible, more interested in a woman's shoe size than the color of her nipples.)

'Uh-huh. And now you're going home, are you?"

(The wearing-them-down treatment.)

'Well, I thought I would. I don't have anything special to do around this time of the summer. What are you going to do yourself?"

'I don't know."

(At last a word of truth.)

'Have you been up to Gellért Hill to look at the view? From the Liberation Memorial?"

'No."

'You can see the whole city from there, as if it were on a tray."

'Mm-m."

'Shall we go there? Perhaps there'll even be a little breeze up there."

'Why not?" said Martin Beck.

(You can always keep your eyes open.)

'Then we'll take the boat that's coming in now. You would have taken that one anyway."

The boat was called Ifjugárda and had probably been built on the same design as the steamer he had been on the day before. The ventilators, however, were constructed differently and the funnel was slightly aft-braced.

They stood by the railing. The boat slid swiftly midstream toward Margaret Bridge. Just under the arch, she said, "What's your name, by the way?"

'Martin."

'Mine's An. But you knew that before, didn't you—however that happened."

He gave no reply to that, but after a while said, "What does this name mean—Ifjugárda?"

'A member of the Youth Guard."

The view from the Liberation Memorial lived up to her promise and more so. There was even a little breeze up there, too. They had gone all the way on the boat to the last stop in front of the famous Gellért Hotel, then walked a bit along a street named after Béla Bártok and finally got on a bus which slowly and laboriously had taken them to the top of the hill.

Now they were standing on the parapet of the citadel above the monument. Beneath them lay the city, with hundreds of thousands of windows glowing in the late afternoon sun. They were standing so close to each other that he felt a light, brushing touch when she swung her body. For the first time in five days, he allowed himself to be caught thinking about something other than Alf Matsson.

'There's the museum I work in, over there," she said. "It's closed during the summer."

'Oh."

'Otherwise I go to the university."

'Uh-huh."

They went down on foot, along twisting paths traversing the bank down to the river. Then they walked across the new bridge and found themselves close to his hotel. The sun had rolled down below the hills in the northwest and a soft, warm dusk had fallen over the river.

'Well, what shall we do now?" said Ari Boeck.

She held him lightly by his arm and swung her body playfully as they walked along the quay.

'We could talk about Alf Matsson," said Martin Beck.

The woman gave him a swift look of reproach, but the next moment was smiling as she said, "Yes, why not? How is he? Are you great friends?"

'No, not at all. I only… know him."

At this stage he was almost convinced that she was telling the truth and that his vague idea that had taken him to the house in Újpest had been a false trail. But it's an ill wind that brings no one any good, he thought.

She was clinging to his arm a little now and zigzagging with her feet so that her body swung back and forth on a vertical axle.

'What kind of boat is that?" he said.

'It goes on moonlight cruises up the river, then around Margaret Island and back. It takes about an hour. Costs next to nothing. Shall we go along on it?"

They went on board and soon afterward the boat set out, peacefully splashing in the dark current. Of all the types of engine-driven vessels yet constructed, there is none that moves so pleasantly as the paddle steamer.

They stood above the wheelhouse and watched the shores gliding by. She leaned against him, quite lightly, and he now felt very clearly something he had noticed earlier: that she had no bra on under her dress.

A small ensemble was playing on the afterdeck and a number of people were dancing.

'Do you want to dance?" she said.

'No," said Martin Beck.

'Good. I don't think it's much fun either."

A moment later she said, "But I can, if necessary."

'So can I," said Martin Beck.

The boat passed Margaret Island and Újpest, before turning and soundlessly gliding back southward with the current. They stood behind the funnel for a moment and looked through the open hatches. The engine was beating with calm pulse beats, the copper pipes were shining and the warm oily current of air was flung upward in their direction.

'Have you been on this boat before?" he said.

'Yes, many a time. It's the best thing to do in this city on a really hot evening."

He did not really know who she was and what he thought of her, and this, above all else, irritated him.

The boat passed the colossal Parliament building—where nowadays a small red star shone discreetly above the central cupola—and then it slipped its lowered funnel under the bridge with large stone lions on it and hove to at the same place as where they started.

As they walked along the gangplank, Martin Beck let his eyes sweep over the quay. Under the lamp by the ticket office stood the tall man with dark hair brushed back on his head. He was again wearing his blue suit and was staring straight at them. A moment later the man turned around and vanished with swift steps behind the shelter. The woman followed Martin Beck's glance and put her left hand in his right one, suddenly but carefully.

'Did you see that man?" he said.

'Yes," she said.

'Do you know who he is?"

She shook her head.

'No. Do you?"

'No, not yet."

Martin Beck felt hungry for once. He had had no lunch and the dinner hour would soon be over.

'Would you like to come and have a meal with me?"

'Where?"

'At the hotel."

'Can I go there in these clothes?"

'Sure."

He almost added, "We're not in Sweden now."

Quite a number of people were still in the dining room and along the balustrade outside the open windows. Swarms of insects were dancing around the lamps.

'Little gnats," she said. "They don't sting. When they disappear, the summer's over. Did you know that?"

The food was excellent, as usual, and so was the wine. She was evidently hungry and ate with a healthy, youthful greed. Then she sat still and listened to the music. They smoked with their coffee and drank a kind of cherry-brandy liqueur which also tasted of chocolate. When she put out her cigarette in the ash tray, she brushed his right hand with her fingertips, as if by accident. A little later she repeated the maneuver and soon after that he felt her foot against his ankle under the table. Evidently she had kicked off her sandal.

After a while she moved her foot and her hand away and went off to the powder room.

Martin Beck thoughtfully massaged his hairline with the fingers of his right hand. Then he leaned over the table and picked up the nylon string bag that was lying on the chair beside him. He thrust his hand into it, unfolded the bathing suit and felt it. The material was completely dry, even in the seams and along the elastic. So dry that it could hardly have been in contact with water during the past twenty-four hours. He rolled up the bathing suit, put the net carefully back on the chair and bit his knuckle thoughtfully. Naturally it did not necessarily mean anything. In any case, he was still behaving like an idiot.

She came back and sat down, smiling at him. She crossed her legs, lit another cigarette and listened to the Viennese melody.

'How lovely it is," she said.

He nodded.

The dining room began to empty, the waiters gathering together in groups, talking. The musicians ended the evening's concert with "The Blue Danube." She looked at the clock.

'I must be going home."

He thought about this intensely. One floor up there was a small night-club-type bar with jazz music, but he loathed that kind of place so profoundly that only the most pressing assignment could make him go into them. Perhaps this was just what this was?

'How will you get home?" he said. "By boat?"

'No, the last one's gone. I'll go by trolley. It's quicker, in fact."

He went on thinking. In all its simplicity, the situation was somewhat complicated. Why, he did not know.

He chose to do nothing and say nothing. The musicians went away, bowing in exhaustion. She looked at the clock again.

'I'd better go now," she said.

The night porter bowed in the vestibule. The doorman whirled them respectfully out through the revolving doors.

They stood on the pavement, alone in the warm night air. She took a short step so that she was standing facing him, with her right leg between his. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Very clearly, he felt her breasts and stomach and loins and thighs through the material of her dress. She could hardly reach up to him.

'Oh my, how tall you are," she said.

She made a small supple movement and again stood firmly on the ground, an inch or so from him.

'Thank you for everything," she said. "See you again soon. Bye."

She walked away, turned her head and waved her right hand. The net with her bathing things in it swung against her left leg.

'Bye," said Martin Beck.

He went back into the vestibule, picked up his key and went up to his room. It was stuffy in there and he opened the window at oace. He took off his shirt and shoes, went out to the bathroom and rinsed his face and chest with cold water. He felt a bigger idiot than ever.

'I must be completely nuts," he said. "What luck no one saw me."

At that moment there was a light tap on the door. The handle went down, and she came in.

'I crept past," she said. "No one saw me."

She closed the door behind her, quickly and quietly, took two steps into the room, dropped the net onto the floor and stepped out of her sandals. He stared at her. Her eyes had changed and were cloudy, as if there were a veil over them. She bent down with her arms crossed, took hold of the hem of her dress with both hands and pulled off her dress in one swift movement. She had nothing on underneath. This in itself was not so surprising. Obviously she always sunbathed in the same bathing suit, for across her breasts and hips ran sharply demarcated areas which looked chalk-white against the rest of her dark-brown skin. Her breasts were smooth and white and round, and her nipples were large and pink and cylindrical, like anchored buoys. The jet-black hair growing up from her loins was also sharply demarcated: an inscribed triangle that filled a considerable part of the rectangular, white strip of skin. The hair was curly and thick and stiff, as if electric. The areas around her nipples were circular and light-brown. She looked like a highly colored geometrical old man.

His depressing years with the Public Morals Squad had made Martin Beck immune to provocations of this kind. And even if this were perhaps not really provocation in the proper sense of the term, he still found the situation far easier to deal with than what had irritated him in the dining room half an hour earlier. Before she even had time to get her dress over her head, he put his hand on her shoulder and said:

'Just a minute."

She lowered the dress a little and looked at him over the hem with glazed brown eyes, which neither reacted nor comprehended. She had got her left arm free from the dress. She stretched it out, gripped hold of his right band and slowly drew it down between her legs. Her sex was swollen and open. Vaginal secretion ran down his fingers.

'Feel it," she said, with a sort of helplessness, far beyond good or evil.

Martin Beck freed himself, stretched out his arm, opened the door to the hotel corridor and said in his schoolroom German:

'Please dress yourself."

She stood still for a moment, quite nonplussed, just as when he had knocked on the door in Újpest. Then she obeyed.

He put on his shirt and shoes, picked up her string bag and led her down to the vestibule with a light grip on her arm.

'Call for a taxi," he said to the night porter.

The taxi came almost at once. He opened the door, but as he was going to help her in, she freed herself vehemently.

'I'll pay the driver," he said.

She cast a look at him. The cloudy veil had gone. The patient had recovered. Her eyes were clear and dark and full of loathing.

'Like hell you will," she said. "Drive on."

She slammed the door and the taxi rolled away.

Martin Beck looked around. It was already long past midnight. He walked a bit south, up onto the new bridge, which was also deserted except for a few night trolleys. He stopped in the middle of the bridge and leaned against the railing, looking down into the silently running water. It was warm and empty and silent. An ideal place to think—if a man only knew what to think. After a while he went back to the hotel. An Boeck had dropped a cigarette with a red filter tip on the floor. He picked it up and lit it. It tasted unpleasant and he threw it out the window.

15

Martin Beck was lying in the bathtub when the telephone rang.

He had slept past breakfast and taken a walk on the quay before lunch. The sun was hotter than ever, and even down by the river, the air was not moving at all. When he returned to the hotel, he had felt a greater need for a quick bath than for food, and had decided to let lunch wait. Now he was lying in the lukewarm water and heard the telephone ring with short quick signals.

He climbed out of the tub, swept a large bath towel around him and lifted the receiver.

'Mr. Beck?"

'Yes?"

'Please forgive me for not using your title. As you will understand, it is purely—well, let's say a, well… precautionary measure."

It was the young man from the Embassy. Martin Beck wondered whom this precautionary measure was against, as both the hotel people and Szluka knew he was a policeman, but he said, "Of course."

'How are things going? Have you made any progress?"

Martin Beck let the bath towel fall and sat down on the bed.

'No," he said.

'Haven't you got any clues?"

'No," said Martin Beck.

There was a brief silence, and then he added, "I've spoken to the police here."

'I think that was a singularly unwise move," said the man from the Embassy.

'Possibly," said Martin Beck. "I could hardly avoid it. I was visited by a gentleman called Vilmos Szluka."

'Major Szluka. What did he want?"

'Nothing. He probably said more or less the same thing to me as he already said to you. That he had no reason to take up the case."

'I see. What are you thinking of doing now?"

'Having some lunch," said Martin Beck.

'I mean about the matter we were discussing."

'I don't know."

There was another silence. Then the young man said, "Well, you know where to phone if there's anything."

'Yes."

'Good-bye, then."

'Good-bye."

Martin Beck put down the receiver and went out and pulled the plug out of the bathtub. Then he dressed and went down and sat under the awning outside the dining room and ordered lunch.

It was uncomfortably hot even in the shade of the awning. He ate slowly, taking large gulps of the cold beer. He had an unpleasant feeling of being watched. He had not seen the tall, dark-haired man, but all the same he continually felt he was under surveillance.

He looked at the people around him. They were the usual gathering of lunch guests—mostly foreigners like himself and most of them staying at the hotel. He heard scattered fragments of conversation, mainly in German and Hungarian, but also English and some language he could not identify.

Suddenly he heard someone behind him say quite clearly in Swedish: "Crispbread." He turned around and saw two ladies, undeniably Swedish, sitting by the window in the dining room.

He heard one of them say, "Yes, I always take some with me. And toilet paper. It's always so bad abroad. If there is any at all."

'Yes," said the other. "I remember once in Spain…"

Martin Beck gave up listening to this typically Swedish conversation, and devoted himself to trying to decide which of those sitting around him was his shadow. For a long time he suspected a man who was past middle age—he was sitting some way away with his back to him and kept glancing over his shoulder in his direction. But then the man got up and lifted down a fluffy little dog that had been sitting, concealed, on his lap and vanished with the dog around the corner of the hotel.

When Martin Beck had finished eating and had drunk a cup of that strong coffee, much of the afternoon was already gone. It was exhaustingly hot, but he walked up into town for a bit, trying to keep in the shade all the time. He had discovered that the police station was only a few blocks away from the hotel and had no difficulty in finding it. On the steps—where the key had been found, according to Szluka—there was a patrolman in blue-gray uniform standing wiping the sweat from his forehead.

Martin Beck circled the police station and took another route home, all the time with an unpleasant feeling he was being watched. This was something quite new to him. During his twenty-three years with the police, he had many times been involved in keeping a watch on suspected persons and shadowing them. Only now did he understand to the full what it felt like to be shadowed. To know that all the while one was being observed and watched, that every movement one made was being registered, that all the time someone was keeping himself hidden somewhere in the vicinity, following every step one took.

Martin Beck went up to his room and stayed there in the relative cool for the rest of the day. He sat at the table with a piece of paper in front of him and a pen in hand, trying to make some kind of summary of what he knew about the Alf Matsson case.

In the end he tore up the paper into little pieces and flushed them down the toilet What he knew was so infinitesimal that it seemed simply foolish to write it down. He would not have to strain himself to keep it all in mind. Actually, thought Martin Beck, he knew no more than what could be contained in a shrimp's brain.

The sun went down and colored the river red, the brief dusk passed unnoticeably into a velvet darkness, and with the dark came the first cool breezes from the hills down across the river.

Martin Beck stood by his window and watched the surface of the water being rippled by the light evening breeze. A man was standing by a tree just below his window. A cigarette glowed and Martin Beck thought he recognized the tall dark man. In some way it was a relief to see him there, to escape that vague, creeping sense of his presence in the vicinity.

He put on a suit, went down to the dining room and had dinner. He ate as slowly as possible and drank two barack palinkas before going up to his room again.

The evening breeze had gone, the river lay black and shiny, and the heat was just as suffocating outside as inside in the room.

Martin Beck left the windows and shutters open and drew back the curtains. Then he undressed and got into the creaking bed.

16

Heat that is really intense almost always becomes harder to tolerate when the sun has gone down. Anyone who is used to heat knows the routine and closes the window and shutters and draws the curtains. Like most Scandinavians, Martin Beck lacked these instincts. He had drawn back the curtains and opened the windows wide and was lying on his back in the dark, waiting for the cool air. It never came. He switched on the bedside lamp and tried to read. That did not work very well either. He did have a box of sleeping tablets in the bathroom, but was not very willing to take that way out. The past day had gone by without any positive achievements on his part and consequently there was every reason for him to try to remain on the alert and somehow produce results tomorrow. If he took the sleeping tablets, he would be walking around as if in a trance the next morning: he knew this of old.

He got up and sat down by the open window. The difference was infinitesimal: there was not the slightest draft, nor even a hot breeze from the Hungarian steppes, wherever they were. The city seemed almost as if it, too, had difficulty breathing, had fallen into a coma and become unconscious from the heat. After a while a lone yellow trolley appeared on the other side of the river. It drove slowly across Elisabeth Bridge, and the sound of the wheels' friction against the rails echoed and grew louder under the arch of the bridge before it rolled away across the water. Despite the distance, he could see that it was empty. Twenty-three hours earlier, he had been standing up there on the bridge, puzzling over his strange meeting with the woman from Újpest. It had not been a bad place.

He pulled on his trousers and shirt and went out. The porter's desk was empty. On the street, a green Skoda started up and drove slowly and reluctantly around the corner. Pairs of lovers in cars are the same the world over. He walked along the edge of the quay—past some sleeping boats—went by the statue of the Hungarian poet Petöfi and then came up onto the bridge. It was quite silent and deserted, as on the preceding night, and was clearly lit up, in contrast to many of the city streets. Again he stopped on the middle of the bridge, his elbows on the parapet, and stared down into the water. A tugboat passed beneath him. Far behind it came its load, four long barges tied together in pairs. Soundlessly gliding with their lights extinguished, only a shade darker than the night.

As he moved on a few yards, he heard his own footsteps give a faint echo somewhere on the silent bridge. He walked on a bit farther and again heard the echo. It seemed as if the sound could be heard a trifle too long. He stood still listening for a long time, but heard nothing. Then he walked quickly on for about twenty yards and stopped suddenly. The sound came again, and this time, too, he thought it came too late to be truly an echo. He walked as quietly as he could across to the other side of the bridge and looked back. It was quite silent now. Nothing moved. A trolley from the Pest side came up onto the bridge and made any further observations impossible. Martin Beck continued his promenade across the bridge. Evidently he was suffering from persecution mania. If someone had the energy and resources to watch him at this time of night, then it could hardly be anyone else but the police. And with that the problem was largely solved. So long as…

Martin Beck was almost over the bridge below Gellért Hill when the trolley rattled past. A lone passenger was sleeping with his mouth open, leaning against one of the windows.

He reached the steps leading down to the quay from the south side of the bridge and began to walk down them. Through the retreating rattle of the trolley, he thought he heard the sound of a car, which stopped somewhere in the vicinity, but he could not decide how far away or in which direction from him.

Martin Beck had reached the quay. Swiftly and silently he walked south, away from the bridge, and stopped where the darkness was thickest. He turned around, stood quite still and listened. Nothing could be heard or seen. In all probability there was no one on the bridge, but this in itself was not certain. If someone had followed him from the other side, he could easily also have got to the end of the bridge and gone down to the quay from the north side of the bridge. He was sure that no one other than himself had gone down the south steps.

The slight sounds which could be heard now came from traffic very far away. There was complete silence in the immediate vicinity. Martin Beck smiled in the darkness. He was now almost convinced that no one had followed him, but the game amused him, and in his innermost self he wished that there were some confused fellow creature over there in the dark on the other side of the bridge. He himself knew the routine backward and forward and knew that whoever might have gone down on the other side could not take the risk of returning the same way, crossing the bridge and going down the steps on the south side. Under the bridge two parallel streets ran along the quay, the inner one nearly six feet higher than the quay itself, which in its turn sloped down toward the river in steps. The two streets were separated by a low wall. Farther up, there was also a tunnel through the actual foundations of the bridge. But none of these ways was accessible to anyone shadowing him, provided that person knew his job. Every attempt to pass under the bridge would mean that the man would have the light behind him and thus risk immediate discovery. Consequently only one alternative remained: to go around the entire abutment of the bridge in a wide semicircle, cross several approach ramps and make his way down onto the quay as far south as possible. But this would take some time, even if the man took the risk of running, and during that time the person being shadowed—in this case Inspector Martin Beck from Stockholm—would have time to vanish in practically any direction he chose.

Now it was unlikely, however, that there was anyone shadowing him at all, and in addition Martin Beck had intended to walk north along the river and return to the hotel via the next bridge. Consequently, he left his observation post in the sheltering darkness and walked north at an easy pace. He chose the inner of the two streets, passed under the bridge and continued along the stone wall, six feet above the quay. On the opposite shore the hotel was dark except for two narrow perpendicular rectangles of light. The windows of his own room. He sat down on the low stone wall and lit a cigarette. Large houses of the kind built at the turn of the century lined the street. In front of them stood parked cars. All the windows were shuttered and dark. Martin Beck sat still and listened to the silence. He was still on guard, but without being conscious of the fact himself.

On the other side of the street a car engine started up. He let his eyes sweep along the row of parked vehicles but could not locate the noise. The engine was turning over slowly, purring. This continued for about thirty seconds. Then he heard the car being put into gear. A pair of parking lights went on. More than fifty yards ahead a car came out of the shadows and moved away from the edge of the pavement. It came in his direction, but on the other side of the street, and extremely slowly. A dark-green Skoda, and he had a feeling he had seen it before. The car came nearer. Martin Beck sat still on the stone wall and followed it with his eyes. Almost level with him, it began to turn to the left, as if the driver were going to turn around in the street. But the turn was not completed: the car was moving almost more slowly than before, straight at him. Obviously someone wanted to meet him, but his way of going about it was astounding. The idea could hardly be to run him down—not at that speed—and, besides, he could get to safety behind the wall in a second, if necessary. Provided no one was hiding in the back seat, there was only one person in the car.

Martin Beck put out his cigarette. He was in no way afraid, but very curious to know what was going to happen.

The green Skoda had stopped with its engine running and its right front wheel against the curb, only nine feet away from him. The driver switched on the headlights and everything was drowned in a flood of light. But only for a few seconds, then all the lights went out. The car door opened and a man stepped out onto the pavement.

Martin Beck had seen him often enough to be able to recognize him at once, despite the blinding effect of the light The tall man with dark hair brushed back on his head. The man was empty-handed. He took a step nearer. The engine of the car purred slowly.

He sensed something. Not a shadow, nor even a sound, only a small movement in the air, just behind him. So faint that only the stillness of the night made it perceptible.

Martin Beck knew that he was no longer alone on the wall, that the car was only meant to distract his attention while someone silently approached down on the quay and heaved himself up onto the stone wall behind him.

And in the same second he also realized clearly and penetratingly that this was not shadowing, not a game, but deadly serious. And more than that. It was death: this time out for him, and not by chance, but in a cold, calculated, premeditated fashion.

Martin Beck was a bad fighter, but his reflex actions were remarkable. At the exact moment he felt the slight draft, he ducked his head down between his shoulders, put his right foot upon the edge of the wall, kicked away, twisted his body and threw himself backward, all in one lightning movement. The arm that had been on its way around his throat was pressed hard against the ridge of his nose and eyebrows before it slid away over his forehead. He felt a hot, astonished breath against his cheek and caught the swift glint of a knife blade, which had already missed its mark and was on its way away from him. He fell backward down onto the quay, hit his left shoulder hard on the stone paving and rolled around to give himself time, if possible, to get his balance and get onto his feet. On the wall he saw two figures, silhouetted against the starry sky. Then there was only one and while he still had one knee on the stone paving, the man with the knife was on him again. His left arm was temporarily paralyzed after his fall against the quay, but for a second or two the light was in his favor: he himself was low in the dark and the other man was etched against the background. His attacker missed and a second later Martin Beck managed to seize hold of the man's right wrist. It was not a good grip and the wrist was unusually large, but he held on, very conscious of the fact that it was his only chance. For a tenth of a second or so, they stood up and he noted that the other man was shorter than himself, but considerably broader. Mechanically, he applied one of the hoary old method holds learned at police college and succeeded in getting his opponent onto the ground. The only thing wrong was that he did not dare let go of the hand with the knife and was himself drawn down in the fall. They rolled around once and were now extremely close to the edge of the quay, where the steps down to the water began. The paralysis in his left arm had let up and he got a hold on the man's other wrist. But his opponent was stronger and slowly broke away. A hard kick in the head reminded him that he was not only physically but also numerically inferior. He was lying on his back so close to the stairs that he felt the first step with his foot. The man with the knife was panting heavily in his face, smelling of sweat, shaving water and throat pastilles. His opponent began slowly but relentlessly to free his right hand.

Martin Beck felt it was all over—at least very nearly. Lightning bolts clashed in the throbbing haze, his heart seemed to swell more and more and more, like a purple tumor about to burst. His head was thumping like a pile driver. He thought he heard terrible roars, shots, piercing shrieks, and he saw the world drowned in a flood of blinding white light that obliterated all shapes and all life. His last conscious thought was that he was going to die here on a quay in a foreign city, just as Alf Matsson had presumably done, and without knowing why.

With a last reflex-like effort, Martin Beck gripped the other man's right wrist with both hands as he kicked with his foot and tipped both himself and his opponent over the edge of of the quay. He hit his head on the second step and lost ' consciousness.

Martin Beck opened his eyes after an epoch of time that seemed boundless, and that in any case must have been very long. Everything was bathed in a white light. He was lying on his back with his head to one side and his right ear against the stone paving. The first thing he saw was a pair of well-polished black shoes, which almost filled his field of vision. He turned his head and looked up.

Szluka, in a gray suit and with that silly hunting hat still on his head, bent down over him and said:

'Good evening."

Martin Beck propped himself up on his elbow. The flood of light was coming from two police cars, one on the quay and the other driven up to the stone wall on the street above. About ten feet away from Szluka stood a policeman in a visored cap, black leather boots and a light-gray-blue uniform. He was holding a black night stick in his right hand and looking thoughtfully at a person lying at his feet. It was Tetz Radeberger, the man who had played with Ari Boeck's bathing suit in the house in Újpest. He was now on his back, deeply unconscious, with blood on his forehead and in his blond hair.

'The other one," said Martin Beck. "Where is he?"

'Shot," said Szluka. "Carefully, of course. In the leg."

A number of windows had been thrown open in the houses along the street and people were peering inquisitively down toward the quay.

'Lie still," said Szluka. "The ambulance will be here soon."

'No need," said Martin Beck, beginning to get up.

Exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since he had been sitting on the stone wall and had felt that draft at the back of his neck.

17

The car was a blue-and-white 1962 model Warsvawa. It had a flashing blue light on the roof and the siren sounded in a subdued, melancholy wail along the empty night streets. The word RENDÖRSÉG was painted in block capitals in the white band across the front door. It meant police.

Martin Beck was sitting in the back seat. At his side sat a uniformed officer. Szluka was sitting in the front seat, to the right of the driver.

'You did well," said Szluka. "Rather dangerous young men, those two."

'Who put Radeberger out of action?"

'He's sitting beside you," saad Szluka. Martin Beck turned his head. The policeman had a narrow black mustache and brown eyes with a sympathetic look in them.

'He speaks only Hungarian," said Szluka.

'What's his name?"

'Foti."

Martin Beck put out his hand.

'Thanks, Foti," he said.

'He had to give it to them pretty hard," said Szluka. "Hadn't much time."

'Lucky he was around," said Martin Beck.

'We're usually around," said Szluka. "Except in the cartoons."

'They have their hangout in Újpest," said Martin Beck. "A boarding house on Venetianer út."

'We know that."

Szluka sat quietly a moment. Then he asked, "How did you come into contact with them?"

'Through a woman named Boeck. Matsson had asked for her address. And she had been in Stockholm. Competing as a swimmer. There could be a connection. That's why I looked her up."

'And what did she say?"

'That she was studying at the university and working at a museum. And that she had never heard of Matsson."

They had reached the police station at Deák Ferenc Tér. The car swung into a concrete yard and stopped. Martin Beck followed Szluka up to his office. It was very spacious and the wall was covered with a large map of Budapest, but to all intents and purposes it reminded him of his own office back in Stockholm. Szluka hung up his hunting hat and pointed to a chair. He opened his mouth, but before he had time to say anything, the telephone rang. He went over to his desk and answered. Martin Beck thought he could make out a torrent of words. It went on for a long time. I Now and again Szluka replied in monosyllables. After a while he looked at his watch, exploded in a rapid, irritated ha rangue and put down the receiver. "My wife," he said. He went over to the map and studied the northern part of I the city, with his back to his visitor.

'Being a policeman," said Szluka, "is not a profession. And it's certainly not a vocation either. It's a curse."

A little later he turned around and said:

'Of course, I don't mean that. Only think it sometimes. Are you married?"

'Yes."

'Then you know."

A policeman in uniform came in and put down a tray with two cups of coffee on it. They drank. Szluka looked at his watch.

'We're searching the place up there at the moment. The report should soon be here."

'How did you manage to be around?" said Martin Beck.

Szluka replied with exactly the same sentence as in the car.

'We're usually around."

Then he smiled and said, "It was what you said about being shadowed. Naturally it wasn't us watching you. Why should we do that?"

Martin Beck poked his nose, a little conscience-stricken.

'People imagine so many things," said Szluka. "But of course you're a policeman, and policemen seldom do. So we began to watch the man who was tailing you. Backtailing as the Americans call it, if I remember rightly. This afternoon our man saw that there were two men watching you. He thought it looked peculiar and sounded the alarm. It's as simple as that."

Martin Beck nodded. Szluka looked at him thoughtfully. "And yet it was all so quick we just barely got there in time."

He finished his coffee and carefully put his cup down.

'Backtailing," he said, as if savoring the word. "Have you ever been to America?"

'No."

'Neither have I."

'I worked with them on a case, two years ago. With someone called Kafka."

'Sounds Czech."

'It was an American tourist who got murdered in Sweden. Ugly story. Complicated investigation."

Szluka sat silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "How did it go?"

'O.K.," said Martin Beck.

'I've only read about the American police. They have a peculiar organization. Difficult to understand."

Martin Beck nodded.

'And a lot to do," said Szluka. "They have as many murders in New York in a week as we have in the whole country in a year."

A uniformed police officer with two stars on his shoulder straps came into the room. He discussed something with Szluka, saluted Martin Beck and left. While the door was standing open, Ari Boeck walked along the corridor outside, with a woman guard. She was wearing the same white dress and the same sandals as the day before, but had a shawl over her shoulders. She threw a flat, vacant look at Martin Beck.

'Nothing of importance in Újpest," said Szluka. "We're taking the car apart now. When Radeberger comes around and the other one has been patched up, we'll tackle them. There's quite a bit I still don't understand."

He fell silent, hesitantly.

'But things will clear up soon."

The telephone rang and he was occupied for a while. Martin Beck understood nothing of the conversation except now and again the word "Svéd" and "Svédország" which he knew meant Swede or Swedish and Sweden. Szluka put down the receiver and said, "This must have something to do with your compatriot, Matsson."

'Yes, of course."

'The girl lied to you, by the way. She's not studied at the university and doesn't work at a museum. She doesn't really seem to do anything. Got suspended from competitive swimming because she didn't behave herself."

'There must be some connection."

'Yes, but where? Oh well, we'll see."

Szluka shrugged his shoulders. Martin Beck turned and twisted his mangled body. It ached in his shoulders and arms, and his head was far from what it ought to be. He felt very tired and found it difficult to think, and yet did not want to go home to bed at the hotel, all the same.

The telephone rang again. Szluka listened with a frown, and then his eyes cleared.

'Things are beginning to move," he said. "We've found something. And one of them is all right now, the tall one. His name's Fröbe, by the way. Now we'll see. Are you coming along?"

Martin Beck began to get up.

'Or perhaps you'd rather rest for a while."

'No, thank you," said Martin Beck.