The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

18

Szluka sat down behind the desk with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, a passport with a green cover at his right elbow.

The tall man in the chair opposite Szluka had dark shadows under his eyes. Martin Beck knew that he had not had much sleep during the last twenty-four hours. The man was sitting up straight in the chair, looking down at his hands.

Szluka nodded at the stenographer and began.

The man raised his eyes and looked at Szluka.

'Your name?"

'Theodor Fröbe."

SZLUKA: When were you born?

FROBE: Twenty-first of April, 1936, in Hanover.

SZ: And you are a West German citizen. Living where?

F: In Hamburg. Hermannstrasse 12.

SZ: What is your occupation?

F: Travel guide. Or to be more correct, travel-agency official.

SZ: Where are you employed?

F: At a travel agency called Winkler's.

SZ: Where do you live in Budapest?

F: At a boarding house in Újpest. Venetianer út 6.

SZ: And why are you in Budapest?

F: I represent the travel agency and look after parties traveling to and from Budapest.

SZ: Earlier tonight you and a man called Tetz Radeberger were caught in the act of attacking a man on Groza Peter Rakpart. You were both armed and your intention to injure or kill the man was obvious. Do you know this man?

F: No.

SZ: Have you see him before?

F:…

SZ: Answer me!

F: No.

SZ: Do you know who he is?

F: No.

SZ: You don't know him, you've never seen him before and don't know who he is. Why did you attack him?

F:…

SZ: Explain why you attacked him!

F: We… needed money and…

SZ: And?

F: And then we saw him down there on the quay and—SZ: You're lying. Please don't lie to me. It's no good. The attack was planned and you were armed. In addition, it is a lie that you've not seen him before. You have been following him for two days. Why? Answer me!

F: We thought he was someone else.

SZ: That he was who?

F: Someone who… who…

SZ: Who?

F: Who owed us money.

SZ: And so you followed him and attacked him?

F: Yes.

SZ: I've already warned you once. It is extremely unwise of you to lie. I know exactly when you are lying. Do you know a Swede called Alf Matsson?

F: No.

SZ: Your friends Radeberger and Boeck have already said that you know him.

F: I know him only slightly. I didn't remember that that was his name.

SZ: When did you last see Alf Matsson?

F: In May, I think it was.

SZ: Where did you meet him?

F: Here in Budapest.

SZ: And you haven't seen him since then?

F: No.

SZ: Three days ago this man was at your boarding house asking for Alf Matsson. Since then you have followed him and tonight you tried to kill him. Why?

F: Not kill him!

SZ: Why?

F: We didn't try to kill him!

SZ: But you attacked him, didn't you? And you were armed with a knife.

F: Yes, but it was a mistake. Nothing happened to him, did it? He wasn't injured, was he? You've no right to question me like this.

SZ: How long have you known Alf Matsson?

F: About a year. I don't remember exactly.

SZ: How did you meet?

F: At a mutual friend's place here in Budapest SZ: What's your friend's name?

F: Ari Boeck.

SZ: Have you met him several times since then?

F: A few times. Not very many.

SZ: Did you always meet here in Budapest?

F: We've met in Prague too. And in Warsaw.

SZ: And in Bratislava.

F: Yes.

SZ: And in Constanta?

F:…

SZ: Didn't you?

F: Yes.

SZ: How did it happen? That you met in all those cities where none of you lived?

F: I travel a lot. It's my job. And he traveled a lot too. It turned out that we met there.

SZ: Why did you meet?

F: We just met. We were good friends.

SZ: Now you are saying that you've been meeting him over a year in at least five different cities because you are good friends. A moment ago you were saying that you knew him only slightly. Why didn't you want to admit that you knew him?

F: I was nervous from sitting here being questioned. And I'm awfully tired. And my leg hurts, too.

SZ: Oh yes. So you're very tired. Was Tetz Radeberger also with you when you met Alf Matsson at all these different places?

F: Yes, we work for the same agency and travel together.

SZ: How did it happen, do you think, that Radeberger didn't want to admit at once to knowing Alf Matsson either?

Was he awfully tired, too, perhaps?

F: I don't know anything about that.

SZ: Do you know where Alf Matsson is right now?

F: No, I have no idea.

SZ: Do you want me to tell you?

F: Yes.

SZ: I'm not going to do it, however. How long have you been employed at this Winkler's travel agency?

F: For six years.

SZ: I see in your passport here that you often travel to Turkey. You've been there seven times this year alone.

F: Winkler's arrange tours to Turkey. As a group guide I have to travel there quite often.

SZ: Yes, and it suits you very well, doesn't it? In Turkey hashish is fairly cheap and quite easy to get hold of. Isn't it, Mr. Fröbe?

F:…

SZ: If you prefer to say nothing it will be the worse for you. We already have enough evidence, and in addition to that a witness.

F: The dirty skunk squealed after all!

SZ: Exactly.

F: That god-damned bastard Swede!

SZ: Perhaps you realize that it is serving no useful purpose to keep this up any longer. Start talking now, Fröbe! I want to hear the whole thing, with all the facts you can remember, names, dates and figures. You can begin by telling me when you began smuggling narcotics.

Fröbe closed his eyes and fell to one side off the chair. Martin Beck saw him put his hand out before he actually fell prostrate onto the floor.

Szluka rose and nodded to the stenographer, who closed the notebook and vanished out the door.

Szluka looked down at the man lying on the floor.

'He's bluffing," said Martin Beck. "He didn't faint."

'I know," said Szluka. "But I'll let him rest for a while before I go on."

He went up to Fröbe and poked him with the tip of his shoe.

'Get up, Fröbe."

Fröbe did not move, but his eyelids quivered. Szluka went over to the door, opened it and called out something into the corridor. A policeman came in and Szluka said something to him. The policeman took Fröbe by the arm and Szluka said, "Don't lie there cluttering up the place, Fröbe. We'll get a bunk for you to lie on. It's much more comfortable."

Fröbe got up and looked offendedly at Szluka. Then he limped out behind the policeman. Martin Beck watched him go.

'How is his leg?"

'No danger," said Szluka. "Only a flesh wound. We don't often need to shoot, but when it's necessary, we shoot accurately."

SZ: Is it a well-paid job?

F: Not especially. But I get everything free when I'm traveling. Food, keep and fares.

SZ: But the salary isn't high?

F: No. But I manage.

SZ: It seems so. You have enough so that you manage.

F: What do you mean by that?

SZ: You have in fact fifteen hundred dollars, eight hundred and thirty pounds and ten thousand marks. That's a lot of money. Where did you get it from?

F: That's nothing to do with you.

SZ: Answer my question and don't use that tone of voice.

F: It's not your business where I get my money from.

SZ: It's possible and also very likely that you haven't half the sense I thought you had, but even with the very slightest intelligence, you ought to be able to see that you would be wiser to answer my questions. Well, where did you get the money from?

F: I did extra jobs and earned it all over a long period.

SZ: What sort of jobs?

F: Different things.

Szluka looked at Fröbe and opened a drawer in his desk. Out of the drawer he took a package wrapped up in plastic. The package was about eight inches long and four inches wide and fastened with adhesive tape. Szluka put the package down on the desk between himself and Fröbe. All the while he was looking at Fröbe, whose eyes wavered, trying to avoid looking at the package. Szluka looked straight at him and Fröbe wiped away the sweat that had appeared in little beads around his nose. Then Szluka added, "Uh-huh. Different things. As for example, smuggling and selling hashish. A profitable occupation, but not in the long run, Herr Fröbe."

F: I don't understand what you're talking about

SZ: No? And you don't recognize this little package either?

F: No, I don't Why should I?

SZ: And not the fifteen similar packages that were found hidden in the doors and upholstery of Radeberger's car, either?

F:…

SZ: There's quite a lot of hashish in just one little package like this. We're not accustomed to such things here, so I in fact don't know what price it would bring in today. By how much would you have increased your capital when you'd sold your little supply? F: I still don't understand what you're talking about

'So that's what he was up to. Hashish smuggling," said Martin Beck. "I wonder what they've done with him."

'Alf Matsson? I expect we'll get it out of them. But it's best to wait until they've had a bit of rest. You must be tired yourself," said Szluka, sitting down behind his desk.

Martin Beck felt very tired indeed. It was already morning. He felt bruised and battered.

'Go back to the hotel and sleep for a few hours," said Szluka. "I'll phone you later. Go down to the entrance and I'll get a car sent around for you."

Martin Beck had no objections. He shook hands with Szluka and left him. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Szluka speaking into the telephone.

The car was already waiting for him when he got down to the street.

19

The cleaning woman had been into his room and switched off the light and closed the shutters. He did not bother to open them again. Now he knew that there would be no tall, dark man ouside looking up at his window.

Martin Beck switched on the overhead light and undressed. His head and left arm ached. He looked in the long mirror in the wardrobe. He had a large bruise above his right knee, and his left shoulder was swollen and black and blue. He ran his hand over his head and felt a large bump at the back of it. He could not find any more injuries.

The bed looked soft and cool and inviting. He switched off the light and crept down between the sheets. He lay on his back for a while and tried to think as he stared out into the half-light. Then he turned over on his side and fell asleep.

It was nearly two o'clock when he woke to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was Szluka.

'Have you slept?"

'Yes."

'Good. Can you come over?"

'Yes. Now?"

'I'll send a car. It'll be there in half an hour. Is that all right?"

'Yes. I'll be down in half an hour."

He showered and dressed and opened the shutters. The sun was blazing and the sharp light stung his eyes. He looked toward the quay on the other side of the river. The past night seemed unreal and remote to him.

The car, with the same driver as before, was waiting. He found his way to Szluka's room by himself and knocked before opening the door and going in.

Szluka was alone. He was sitting behind his desk with a sheaf of papers and the indispensable coffee cup in front of him. He nodded and motioned toward the chair Fröbe had sat in. Then he lifted the receiver, said something and put it back again.

'How are you feeling?" he said, looking at Martin Beck.

'Fine. I've slept. And you? How's it going?"

A policeman came in and placed two cups of coffee on the table. Then he took Szluka's empty cup and left.

'It's all finished now. I've got everything here," said Szluka, picking up the sheaf of papers.

'And Alf Matsson?" said Martin Beck.

'Well," said Szluka. "That's the only point that's not clear yet. I haven't managed to get anything there. They insist that they don't know where he is."

'But he was one of the gang?"

'Yes, in a way. He was their middleman. The whole thing was organised by Frobe and Radeberger. The girl was just used as a sort of clearinghouse for the whole business. Boeck, whatever her first name is."

Szluka fumbled in his papers.

'Ari," said Martin Beck. "Aranka."

'Yes, Ari Boeck. Frobe and Radeberger had already been smuggling hashish from Turkey some time before they met her. Both of them seem to have had relations with her. After a while, they realized they could use her in another way and told her about the narcotics smuggling. She had no objections to joining in on it. Then they both lived with her when she moved to Újpest. She seems to be a fairly loose sort of creature."

'Yes," said Martin Beck. "I suppose so."

'Radeberger and Frobe went to Turkey as travel guides. In Turkey they got hold of the hashish, which is quite cheap and easily obtainable there, and then smuggled it into Hun gary. It was fairly easy, especially since they were group guides and had to deal with all the luggage belonging to the party. Ari Boeck made contact with the middlemen and helped sell the drugs here in Budapest. Radeberger and Fröbe also traveled to other countries such as Poland, Czechoslovakia, Rumania and Bulgaria with hashish for their pushers."

'And Alf Matsson was one of them?" said Martin Beck.

'Alf Matsson was one of the pushers," said Szluka. "They had some others who came from England, Germany and Holland, either here or to some other East European country where they met Radeberger and Fröbe. They paid in Western currencies—pounds, dollars or marks—and got their hashish, which they then took back home with them and sold there."

'So everyone profited a good deal from the business, except the people who in the end bought the junk to use," said Martin Beck. "It's odd that they've managed to get away with this for so long without being discovered."

Szluka rose and went across to the window. He stood there for a while, his hands behind his back, looking out onto the street. Then he went back and sat down again.

'No," he said. "It's not really that strange. So long as none of the stuff was sold here or in any other socialist country, except to the middlemen, then they had every chance of getting away with it. In the capitalist countries concerned, they don't think there's anything worth smuggling out of Eastern Bloc countries, so customs control hardly exists for travelers from these countries. On the other hand, if they'd tried to find a market for their goods here, they'd have soon been caught. But that wouldn't have been worth their while, either. It's Western currencies they want."

'They must have made a good deal of money," said Martin Beck.

'Yes," said Szluka. "But the pushers made a lot out of it too. The whole thing was quite cleverly organized, actually. If you hadn't come out here looking for Alf Matsson, it might have been a long time before we'd found all this out."

'What do they say about Alf Matsson?"

'They've admitted he was their pusher in Sweden. Over a period of a year he'd bought quite a lot of hashish from them. But they maintain they haven't seen him since May, when he was here to pick up a consignment. He didn't get as much as he wanted at that time, so he'd communicated with Ari Boeck again fairly soon. They say that they'd agreed to meet him here in Budapest almost three weeks ago, but he never turned up. They claim that the stuff bidden in the car was put aside for him."

Martin Beck sat in silence for a moment. Then he said:

'He might have quarreled with them for one reason or another and threatened to report them. Then they might have got scared and done away with him. The way they tried to get rid of me last night."

Szluka sat in silence. After a while Martin Beck went on, quietly, as if talking to himself, "That's what must have happened."

Szluka got up and paced the floor for a bit. Then he said, "That's what I thought had happened too."

He fell silent again and stopped in front of the map.

'What do you think now?" said Martin Beck.

Szluka turned and looked at him.

'I don't know," he said. "I thought perhaps you'd like to talk to one of them yourself. This Radeberger. The one you fought with last night. He's talkative and I have an impression that he's too stupid to be able to lie well. Would you like to question him? Perhaps you'd do better than I did."

'Yes, please," said Martin Beck. "I'd very much like to question him."

20

Tetz Radeberger came into the room. He was dressed as he had been the previous night, in a snug pullover, thin Dacron trousers with elastic at the waist and light, rubber-soled cloth shoes. Dressed to kill. He stopped inside the door and bowed. The policeman escorting him prodded him lightly in the back.

Martin Beck gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk, and the German sat down. There was an expectant and uncertain look in his deep-blue eyes. He had a bandage on his forehead and there was a blue swelling at his hairline. Otherwise he looked well and strong and fairly intact.

'We're going to talk about Alf Matsson," said Martin Beck.

'I don't know where he is," said Radeberger immediately.

'Possibly. But we're going to talk about him all the same."

Szluka had got out a tape recorder. It was standing on the right of the desk and Martin Beck stretched out his hand and switched it on. The German kept a close watch on his movements.

'When did you meet Alf Matsson for the first time?"

'Two years ago."

'Where?"

'Here in Budapest. At a place called the Ifjusåg. A sort of young people's hotel."

'How did you meet him?"

'Through Ari Boeck. She worked there. That was long before she moved to Újpest."

'What happened then?"

'Nothing special. Theo and I had just come back from Turkey. We arranged trips there for tourists. From resorts in Rumania and Bulgaria. We brought a little stuff back with us from Istanbul."

'Had you already begun to smuggle drugs then?"

'Only a little. For our own use, so to speak. But we didn't use it all that often. We never use it now." He paused briefly, and then said, "It's not good for you."

'What did you want it for then?"

'Well, for broads and all that. It's good for broads. They get… more… inclined…"

'Matsson, then? Where does he come into the picture?"

'We offered him some to smoke. He wasn't all that interested either. Drank liquor mostly."

He thought for a moment, then said foolishly, "That's not good for your body either."

'Did you sell narcotics to Matsson that time?"

'No, but he got a little. We hadn't got all that much. He grew interested when he heard how easy it was to buy in Istanbul."

'Had you yourselves already thought about smuggling on a large scale at that time?"

'We'd talked about it. The difficulty was getting the stuff into the countries where it paid you to sell it"

'Where, for instance?"

'Scandinavia, Holland, at home in Germany. The customs and the police are on the alert there, especially when they know you come from countries like Turkey. Or North Africa and Spain too, for that matter."

'Did Matsson offer to become a pusher?"

'Yes. He said that when you traveled from Eastern Europe, the customs people were hardly ever interested in your luggage, especially if you were flying. It wasn't difficult for us to get the stuff out of Turkey, to here, for instance. We were travel guides, after all. But then we couldn't get much farther with it. The risks were too great. And you can't sell it here. You'd get caught, and anyhow, it isn't worth it." He thought about this for a moment. "We didn't want to get caught," he said. "I can see that. Did you make an agreement with Matsson then?"

'Yes. He had a good idea. We were to meet at different places—ones that suited Theo and me. We let him know and then he went there for his magazine. It was a good cover-up. Looked innocent."

'How did he pay you?"

'In dollars—cash. It was a fine plan, and we built up our organization that summer. Got hold of more pushers—a Dutchman we met in Prague and—"

This was Szluka's department. Martin Beck said, "Where did you and Matsson meet next time?"

'In Constanta, in Rumania, three weeks later. Everything went very smoothly."

'Was Miss Boeck in on it then too?" "Ari? No, what use would she have been?" "But she knew what you were doing?" "Yes, part of it anyhow."

'How many times did you and Matsson meet altogether?" "Ten, maybe fifteen. It worked beautifully. He always paid what we asked and must have earned a lot himself." "How much, do you think?" "Don't know, but he always had plenty of money." "Where is he now?" "I don't know." "Really?"

'Yes, it's true. We met here in May, when Ari had moved to Újpest. He stayed at that young people's hotel. He got a shipment at that point. He said he had a big market, and we decided that we should meet here again on the twenty-third of July." "And?"

'We came here on the twenty-first. That was a Thursday. But he never turned up."

'He was here in Budapest. He came on the twenty-second in the evening. He left his hotel on the twenty-third, in the morning. Where were you going to meet?"

'In Újpest. At Ari's place."

'So he went there on the twenty-third in the morning."

'No, I tell you. He never turned up. We waited, but he didn't come. Then we phoned the hotel, but he wasn't there."

'Who called?"

'Theo and I did, and Ari. We took turns."

'Did you call from Újpest?"

'No. From different places. He didn't come, I tell you. We sat there waiting."

'You claim you haven't seen him since he came here, in other words?"

'Yes."

'Let's pretend that I believe you. You haven't met Matsson. But that doesn't stop Fröbe or Miss Boeck from having contacted him, does it?"

'No, I know they haven't."

'How do you know that?"

Radeberger's expression began to grow slightly desperate. He was sweating freely. It was very hot in the room.

'Now listen," he said. "I don't know what you think, but that other man seems to believe we got rid of him. But why should we do that? We made money off him, a lot of money."

'Did you give Miss Boeck money too?"

'Oh, yes. She helped and got her share. Enough so that she didn't have to work."

Martin Beck stared at the man for a long time. Finally he said, "Did you kill him?"

'No, I keep telling you. Would we have stayed on here for three weeks with nearly that whole supply of stuff if we'd done that?"

His voice had grown shrill and tense.

'Did you like Alf Matsson?"

The man's eyes flickered.

'Please answer when I ask you something," said Martin Beck seriously.

'Of course."

'Miss Boeck appears to have said at her interrogation that neither you nor Theo Fröbe liked Matsson."

'He was nasty when he drank. He… despised us because we were Germans."

He turned an appealing blue look upon Martin Beck and said, "And that's not fair, is it?"

There was a silent pause. Tetz Radeberger did not like it. He fidgeted and pulled nervously at the joints of his fingers.

'We haven't killed anyone," he said. "We're not that kind."

'You tried to kill me last night"

'That was different."

The man said this in such a low voice that his words were almost inaudible.

'In what way?"

'It was our only chance."

'Chance to what? To be hanged? Or to get a life sentence in prison?"

The German gave him a shattered look.

'You'll probably get that anyway," said Martin Beck, in a friendly way. "Have you been to prison before?"

'Yes. At home."

'Well, what did you mean by your only chance being to try to kill me?"

'Don't you see? When you came to trjpest and had his—Matsson's—passport with you, we thought at first that he hadn't been able to come and had sent you instead. But you didn't say anything, and besides you weren't the right type. So Matsson must have been caught and spilled the beans. But we didn't know who you were. We'd already been here twenty days, and we had the whole consignment lying around, and we were getting nervous about it. And after three weeks we'd have to get our visas extended. So Theo followed you when you went and…"

'Yes, go on."

'And I took the car apart and hid the stuff. Theo couldn't figure out who you were, so we agreed that Ari should find out. The next day, Theo followed you to those baths. He phoned Ari from there and she went and watched for you outside. Then Theo saw you together with that guy in the pool. Afterward he followed the other guy and saw him go into the police station. So it was obvious. All that afternoon and evening we waited and nothing happened. We figured you hadn't said anything yet or else the police would already have been there. Then Ari came back during the night."

'What had she found out?"

'I don't know, but it was something. She just said, 'Fix that bastard, and quick.' She was in a bad mood. Then she went into her room and slammed the door behind her."

'Oh?"

'Next day we watched you all the time. We were in a hell of a situation. We had to keep you quiet before you went to the police. We didn't get a chance and had almost given up hope when you went out in the night. Theo followed you across the bridge and I drove around with the car across the other bridge, Lane-hid. Then we changed over. Theo didn't dare do it. And I'm the strongest. I've always looked after my body."

He fell silent for a moment then said appealingly, as if this were some excuse, "We didn't know you were the police."

Martin Beck did not reply.

'Are you a policeman?"

'Yes, I'm a policeman. Let's go back to Alf Matsson. You said that you met Mm through Miss Boeck. Had they known each other long?"

'Awhile. Ari had been on some athletic team in Sweden, swimming, and she met him there. Then she wasn't allowed to swim any more, but he looked her up when he came here."

'Are Matsson and Miss Boeck good friends?"

'Fairly."

'Do they often have intimate relations with each other?"

'Do you mean do they sleep together? Of course."

'Do you sleep with Miss Boeck too?"

'Of course. When I feel like it. Theo too. Ari is a nymphomaniac. There's not much you can do about it. Obviously Matsson slept with her when he was here. Once we all three had a go at her, in the same room. Ari does anything in that line. Otherwise she's a good girl."

'Good?"

'Yes, she does what you tell her. As long as you fuck her now and then. I don't do it so much now. It's not really very good for you to do it too much. But Theo is always at it. So he's got no energy for anything."

'Have you never quarreled with Matsson?"

'About Ari? She's nothing to fight over."

'But about other things?"

'Not about business. He was good at the business."

'Otherwise then?"

'Once he kicked up such a fuss I had to smack him. He was drunk at the time, of course. Then Ari took him in hand and calmed him down. That was a long time ago."

'Where do you think Matsson is now?"

Radeberger shook his head helplessly.

'I don't know. Here somewhere." "Didn't he associate with other people here?" "He just came, collected his consignment and paid. And then he did some kind of magazine article to make it all watertight. Three or four days later he went back."

Martin Beck sat silently for a while, looking at the man who had tried to kill him.

'I think that'll do now," he said, switching off the tape recorder.

Evidently the German still had something on his mind.

'Say, that business yesterday… Can you forgive me?" "No. I can't. Good-bye."

He made a sign to the policeman, who rose, took Radeberger by the arm and led him toward the door. Martin Beck watched the blond Teuton thoughtfully. Then he said, "One moment, Herr Radeberger. This is nothing to do with me personally. Yesterday you tried to murder a person to save your own skin. You had planned the murder as best you could and it was no thanks to you that it didn't succeed. That's not only illegal, but it's also a breach of a basic rule of life and an important principle. That's why it's unforgivable. That's all. Think about it."

Martin Beck rewound the tape, put it into the cassette and returned to Szluka.

'I think you're probably right. Perhaps they haven't killed him."

'No," said Szluka. "It doesn't seem like it. We've got all the stops out now, looking for him."

'So have we."

'Has your assignment become official yet?"

'Not so far as I know."

Szluka scratched the back of his neck.

'Peculiar," he said.

'What?"

'That we can't locate him."

Half an hour later, Martin Beck returned to his hotel. It was already time for dinner. Dusk fell over the Danube, and on the other side of the river he saw the quay and the stone wall and the steps.

21

Martin Beck had just finished dressing and was on his way to the dining room when the telephone rang.

'From Stockholm," said the telephone operator. "A Mr. Eriksson."

The name was familiar to him: it was Alf Matsson's boss, the editor in chief of the aggressive weekly.

A pompous voice came over the line.

'That's Beck, is it? This is Eriksson, the editor in chief here."

'This is Inspector Beck."

The man ignored this and went on. "Well, as you are probably aware, I know all about your assignment. I was the one to put you on the track. And I've good connections with the Foreign Office, too."

So his hideous namesake had not been able to keep his mouth shut either.

'Are you still there?"

'Yes."

'Perhaps we'd better be a little careful what we say, if you know what I mean. But first I must ask: have you found the man you're looking for?"

'Matsson? No, not yet."

'No clue at all?"

'No."

'It's absolutely unheard-of."

'Yes."

'Well, how can I put it now… How's the atmosphere down there?"

'It's hot. A little misty in the mornings."

'What d'you say? Misty in the mornings? Yes, I think I understand. Yes, exactly. Now, however, I think the tune has come when in all good conscience we can't keep this thing under wraps any longer. Why, what's happened is perfectly incredible—it could lead to dreadful things. We have a great responsibility for Matsson personally too. He's one of our best people, an excellent man, thoroughly honest and loyal.

I've had him on my general staff for a couple of years now, and I know what I'm talking about."

'Where?"

'What?"

'Where have you had him?"

'Oh, that. On my general staff. We say that, you know. Editorial general staff. I know what I'm talking about. I'd stake my life on that man and that makes my responsibility even greater."

Martin Beck stood thinking about something else. He was trying to imagine what Eriksson looked like. Probably a fat, bumptious little man with pig eyes and a red beard.

'So today I've decided to publish our first article on the Alf Matsson case in next week's issue. This coming Monday, without further delay. The moment has come to focus public attention on this story. I just wanted to know whether you'd found any trace of him, as I said."

'I think you should take your article and—"

Martin Beck stopped himself just in time and said, "… throw it into the wastebasket."

'What? What did you say? I don't understand."

'Read the papers in the morning," said Martin Beck and put down the receiver.

His appetite had vanished during the conversation. He took out his bottle and poured himself a stiff whisky. Then he sat down and thought. He was in a bad temper and had a headache, and on top of that he had been discourteous. But that was not what he was thinking about.

Alf Matsson had come to Budapest on the twenty-second of July. He had been seen at the passport control. He had taken a taxi to the Hotel Ifjuság and stayed there for one night. Someone at the reception desk must have dealt with him. The following morning, Saturday the twenty-third, he had, again by taxi, moved to the Hotel Duna and stayed there for half an hour. At about ten o'clock in the morning he had gone out. The people at the reception desk had noticed him.

After that, as far as was known, no one had seen or spoken to Alf Matsson. He had left one single clue behind him: the key to his hotel room, which, according to Szluka, had been found on the steps outside the police station.

Assuming that Fröbe and Radeberger were telling the truth, he had not turned up at the meeting place in Újpest and, consequently, they had not been able either to kidnap or kill him.

So for some unknown reason, Alf Matsson had gone up in smoke.

The existing material was extremely thin but, nevertheless, it was all there was to work on.

Five people, it was established, had had contact with Alf Matsson on Hungarian soil and could be regarded as witnesses.

A passport officer, two taxi drivers and two hotel receptionists.

If something wholly unexpected had happened to him—if, for instance, he had been attacked, kidnapped or killed in an accident or gone insane—then their testimonies were useless. But, on the other hand, if he had made himself Invisible of his own free will, then those people might have observed some detail in his appearance or behavior which might be important to the investigation.

Martin Beck had personally been in contact with two of these hypothetical witnesses. Considering the language difficulties, however, it was uncertain whether he had been able to exploit them fully. Neither the taxi drivers nor the passport official could be located, and even if he found them, he would presumably not be able to speak to them.

The only substantial material he had to go on was Matsson's passport and luggage. Neither told him anything.

This was his summary of the Alf Matsson case. Extremely depressing insofar as it showed that, as far as he was concerned, the investigation had ended in complete deadlock. If, despite everything, Matsson's disappearance was connected with the gang of smugglers—and it was difficult to believe that it was not—then Szluka would sooner or later clear the matter up. In that case, the best support he could give the Hungarian police would be to go home, bring in the Narcotics Squad and help wind up the Swedish end of the case.

Martin Beck came to a decision and converted it immediately into action by means of two telephone calls.

First, the well-dressed young man from the Swedish Embassy.

'Have you managed to find him?"

'No."

'Nothing new, in other words."

'Matsson was a narcotics smuggler. The Hungarian police are looking for him. For our part, we'll put out a description through Interpol."

'How very unpleasant."

'Yes."

'And what is this going to mean for you?"

'That I go home. Tomorrow, if it can be arranged. I'd like some help with that little matter."

'It may be difficult, but I'll do my best."

'Yes, do that. It's very important."

'I'll phone early tomorrow morning."

'Thank you."

'Good-bye. I hope you've had a nice time these few days, all the same."

'Yes, very nice. Good-bye."

After that, Szluka. He was at police headquarters.

'I'm going back to Sweden tomorrow."

'Oh, yes. Have a good trip."

'You'll get our report eventually."

'And you'll get ours. We've still not found Matsson."

'Are you surprised?"

'Very. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. But we'll get him soon."

'Have you checked the camping sites?"

'We're doing that. Takes a little time. Fröbe's tried to kill himself, by the way."

'And?"

'Didn't succeed, of course. He threw himself at the wall head first. Got a bump on his skull. I've had him transferred to the psychiatric department. The doctor says he's a manic-depressive. The question is whether we'll have to let the girl go the same way."

'And Radeberger?"

'All right. Asking whether there's a gymnasium in the prison. There is."

'Could I ask you something?"

'Go ahead."

'We know that Matsson had contact with five people here in Budapest from Friday evening until Saturday morning."

'Two hotel receptionists and two taxi drivers. Where do we get the fifth from?"

'The passport control officer."

'My only excuse is that I haven't been home for thirty-six hours. So you want him questioned?"

'Yes. Everything he can remember. What he said, how he behaved, what he was wearing."

'I see."

'Can you get the report done in German or English and airmail it to Stockholm?"

'Telex is better. Anyhow, perhaps there'll be time to get it to you before you leave."

'Hardly. I'll probably be going about eleven."

'We're famous for our speed. The wife of the Minister of Trade had her bag snatched at Nep Stadium last autumn. She took a taxi here to report it. When she got here, she was handed back her bag at the desk downstairs. That kept us in good shape for a long time. Well, we'll see."

'Thanks then. And good-bye."

'Good-bye. Pity there wasn't time to meet a little more informally."

Martin Beck paused briefly to think. Then he set up a call to Stockholm. The call came through in ten minutes.

'Lennart's away," said Kollberg's wife. "As usual, he didn't say where he was going. 'Duty calls, be back on Sunday, take care of yourself.' He took the car with him. To hell with policemen."

Melander next. This time it took only five minutes.

'Hi! Did I disturb you?"

'I'd just gone to bed."

Melander was famous for his memory, his ten hours' sleep a night and a singular capacity for constantly being in the W. C.

'Are you in on the Matsson case?"

'Yeah."

'Find out what he did the night before he left. In detail. How he behaved, what he said, what he was wearing."

'Tonight?"

'Tomorrow will do."

'Uh-huh."

'Bye, then."

'Bye."

Martin Beck had finished with the telephone. He took pen and paper and went downstairs.

Alf Matsson's luggage was still standing in the room behind the reception desk.

He took the cover off the typewriter, placed it on the table, inserted a piece of paper in the machine and typed:

Portable typewriter, Erika, with case

Yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with strap, fairly new

He opened the case and set its contents out on the table. He then went on typing.

Gray-and-black checked shirt

Sport shirt, brown

White poplin shirt, fresh-laundered, Metro Laundry, Stockholm

Light-gray gabardine trousers, well-pressed

Three handkerchiefs, white

Four pairs socks, brown, dark-blue, light-gray, wine-red

Two pairs colored undershorts, green-and-white check

One fishnet undershirt

One pair light-brown suede shoes

He looked gloomily at the cardigan-like garment, picked it up and went out to the girl at the reception desk. She was very pretty, in a sweet, ordinary way. Rather small, well built, long fingers, pretty calves, fine ankles, a few dark hairs on her shins, long thighs under her skirt. No rings. He stared at her with his thoughts far away.

'What's this kind of thing called?" he said.

'A jersey blazer," she said.

He remained standing there, thinking about something. The girl blushed. She moved to the other end of the reception desk, adjusting her skirt and pulling at her bra and girdle. He could not understand why. He went back, sat down at the table and typed:

Dark blue jersey blazer

58 sheets typing paper, legal size

One typewriter eraser

Electric shaver, Remington

The Night Wanderer by Kurt Salomonson

Shaving kit

Shaving lotion, Tabac

Tube of toothpaste, Squibb, opened

Toothbrush

Mouthwash, Vademecum

Aspirin with codeine, box unopened

Dark-blue plastic wallet

$1500 in $20 bills

Skr 600 in hundred-kronor notes, new type

Typed on Alf Matsson's typewriter

He repacked all the things, folded the list and left. The girl at the reception desk looked at him in confusion. Now she appeared prettier than ever.

Martin Beck went into the dining room and ate a late dinner, with an absent-minded expression still on his face.

The waiter put a Swedish flag in front of him. The maestro came up to his table and played a patriotic Swedish melody in his left ear. He did not seem to notice it.

He drank his coffee in one gulp, put a red hundred-forint note on the table without even waiting for the bill and went upstairs to bed.

22

It was just a few minutes past nine o'clock when the young man from the Embassy telephoned.

'You're in luck," he said. "I've managed to get a seat on the plane that leaves Budapest at twelve o'clock. You get to Prague at ten to two and you have five minutes to wait before the SAS plane to Copenhagen leaves."

'Thanks," said Martin Beck.

'It wasn't easy to arrange at such short notice. Can you pick up the tickets yourself at Malev's? I've arranged for the payment of them, so they can just be collected."

'Naturally," said Martin Beck. "Thanks very much indeed."

'Have a nice flight then, Mr. Beck. It's been very pleasant having you here."

'Thank you," said Martin Beck. "Good-bye."

As predicted the tickets were waiting for him, with the dark curly-haired beauty he had spoken to three days earlier.

He returned to his hotel room, packed his bag and sat at the window for a while, smoking and looking out over the river. Then he left the room (in which he had stayed for five days and Alf Matsson had stayed for half an hour), went down to reception and ordered a taxi. As he came outside onto the steps, he saw a blue-and-white police car approaching at great speed. It braked in front of the hotel, and a uniformed policeman whom he had not seen before leaped out and hurried through the revolving doors. Martin had time to see that he had an envelope in his hand.

His taxi swung around and stopped behind the police car, and the doorman with a gray mustache opened the back door. Martin Beck asked him to wait and went back into the revolving doors just as the policeman went into them from the other direction, closely followed by the receptionist. When the receptionist caught sight of Martin Beck, he waved and pointed to the policeman. After having whirled around a couple of times in the revolving doors, they all three succeeded in meeting up on the hotel steps and Martin Beck was given his envelope. He stepped into the taxi after having given out his last aluminum coins to the receptionist and the doorman.

On the plane, he was seated beside a boastful, loud-voiced Englishman, who hung over him, spraying saliva into his face as he related stories about his totally uninteresting activities as some kind of commercial traveler.

In Prague, Martin Beck just had time to rush through the transit hall into the next plane, before it took off. To his relief the expectorating Englishman was nowhere to be seen, and when they were up in the air, he opened the envelope.

Szluka and his men had done their best to live up to their reputation for speed. They had questioned six witnesses and done the report in English. Martin Beck read:

Summary of interrogation of those persons known by the police to have had contact with the Swedish citizen Alf Sixten Matsson from the time of his arrival at Ferihegyi Airport in Budapest at 10:15 P.M. on July 22, 1966, until his disappearance from Hotel Duna in Budapest at unknown time between 10:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. on July 23 of the same year.

Ferenc Havas, passport control officer who was on duty alone at the passport control point at Ferihegyi on the night between July 22 and July 23, 1966, says that he does not remember seeing Alf Matsson.

János Lucacs, taxi driver, says that he remembers that on the night between July 22 and 23 he took a passenger from Ferihegyi to Hotel Ifjuság. According to Lucacs, the passenger was a man between 25 and 30 years of age, had a beard and spoke German. Lucacs, who does not speak Ger man, understood only that the man wanted to be taken to Ifjusag. Lucacs thinks he remembers that the man had a suitcase, which he put down beside him on the back seat.

Léo Szabo, medical student, night porter at Hotel Ifjusag on July 22-23, remembers a man who came to the hotel late one evening between July 17-24. Everything indicates that this man was Alf Matsson although Szabo remembers neither the exact time of the man's arrival, nor his name or nationality. According to Szabo, the man was between 30 and 35 years old, spoke good English and had a beard. He was wearing light-colored trousers, blue jacket, probably a white shirt, and tie, and had light luggage—one or two bags. Szabo cannot remember having seen this man on any other occasion but this one.

Béla Péter, taxi driver, drove Alf Matsson from the Hotel Ifjusag to the Hotel Duna on the morning of July 23. He remembers a young man with a brown beard and glasses, whose luggage consisted of one large and one smaller bag, the smaller probably a typewriter.

Béla Kovacs, porter at the Hotel Duna, received Matsson's passport and gave him the key to Room 105 on the morning of July 23. According to Kovacs, Matsson was then wearing light, probably gray trousers, white shirt, blue jacket and a plain-colored tie. He was carrying a light-colored coat over his arm.

Eva Petrovich, receptionist at the same hotel, saw Matsson both when he arrived at the hotel shortly before 10:00 A.M. on July 23, and when he left the hotel about half an hour later. She has given the most extensive description of Matsson and maintains she is certain about all details, except the color of his tie. According to Miss Petrovich, Matsson was of medium height, had blue eyes, dark-brown hair, beard and mustache and steel-rimmed glasses. He was wearing light-gray trousers, dark-blue summer blazer, white shirt, blue or red tie, and beige shoes. Over his arm he had a light-beige poplin coat

Szluka had added something:

As you see we have not found out much more than what we already knew. None of the witnesses can remember anything special that Matsson did or said. I have added the description of his clothing at his disappearance to the personal description we have sent all over the country. Should any other facts come to light, I shall let you know immediately. Have a good trip!

Vilmos Szluka

Martin Beck read through Szluka's summary again. He wondered whether Eva Petrovich was the same girl who had helped him identify the cardigan-like garment in Alf Matsson's suitcase. On the back of Szluka's letter, he wrote:

Light-gray trousers

White shirt

Dark-blue blazer

Red or blue tie

Beige shoes

Light-beige poplin coat

Then he took out the list he had made of the contents of Alf Matsson's bag and read through it before putting everything into his briefcase and closing it.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, but sat like this until the plane began to go down through the thin cloud bank over Copenhagen.

Kastrup was as usual. He had to stand in a line before being sluiced into the transit hall, where people of all nationalities were crowding in front of the counters. He drank a Tuborg in the bar to gather his strength before tackling the trying task of collecting his luggage.

It was past three o'clock when he finally stood with his bag outside the airport building. A whole row of taxis was standing in the stand and he put his bag in the first one, got into the front seat and gave the driver the address of the harbor in Dragør.

The ferry, which was in and appeared ready to leave, was called Drogden and was an unusually ugly creation. Martin Beck put his bag and briefcase down in the cafeteria and went up on deck as the ferry eased its way out and headed for Sweden.

After the heat of the last few days in Budapest, the breeze in the Sound felt cold and after a while Martin Beck went in and sat down in the cafeteria. There were a great many people on board, mostly housewives who had been shopping over in Denmark.

The trip took scarcely an hour, and in Limhamn he at once got a taxi that would take him to Malmö. The taxi driver was talkative and spoke a southern Swedish dialect that sounded to Martin Beck almost as incomprehensible as Hungarian.

23

The taxi stopped outside the police station on Da-vidhall Square. Martin Beck got out, walked up the wide steps and deposited his bag in the glass reception office. He had not been there for two years but was struck, as always, by the massiveness and majestic solemnity of the building and by its pompous halls and wide corridors. Two flights up, he stopped in front of a door marked INSPECTOR, knocked and slipped in. Someone had once said that Martin Beck knew the art of standing inside a room having already shut the door behind him at the same time as he knocked on it from the outside. There was a grain of truth in this.

'Hiya," he said.

There were two people in the room. One of them was standing leaning against the window, chewing a toothpick. He was very large. The other, who was sitting at the desk, was tall and thin, with his hair brushed straight back and his eyes lively. Both were in civilian clothes. The man at the desk looked critically at Martin Beck and said, "Quarter of an hour ago I read in the paper that you were abroad, breaking up international narcotics rings. And now you just walk in here saying hiya. Is that any way to behave? Do you want something?"

'Do you remember a stabbing case here on the eve of Twelfth Day? Guy called Matsson?"

'No. Should I?"

'I remember it," said the man by the window, apathetically.

'This is Månsson," said the Inspector. "He does… what are you doing, actually, Månsson?"

'Nothing. I was just thinking of going home."

'Exactly. He isn't doing anything and was thinking of going home. Well, what is it you remember?"

'I've forgotten."

'Is there any other way you can be of service?"

'Not until Monday. I'm off duty now."

'Must you munch like that?"

'I'm giving up smoking."

'What do you remember about that stabbing case?" "Nothing." "Nothing at all?" "No. Backlund was in charge." "What did he think, then?"

'Don't know. He worked hard on the preliminary investigation for several days. Was very secretive about it."

'You're very lucky," said the man at the desk to Martin Beck. "Why?"

'Well, to be allowed to meet Backlund," said Månsson. "Exactly. He's popular. Coming back in half an hour. Room 312. Take a ticket for the queue." "Thanks."

'This Matsson, is he the same guy you're looking for?" "Yes."

'Was he here in Malmö?" "I don't think so."

'They're no fun," said Månsson mournfully. "What aren't?" "Toothpicks."

'Then for God's sake, smoke. No one asked you to eat toothpicks."

'They say there's a kind with taste to them," said Månsson.

Martin Beck recognized the lingo only too well. Something had probably wrecked their day. Their wives had no doubt called and pointed out that their food was spoiling and inquired whether there were no other policemen.

He left them to their troubles, went up to the canteen and had a cup of tea. He took out Szluka's paper from his inside pocket and read through the meager testimonies once again. Somewhere behind him there was an exchange of remarks.

'Excuse me for asking, but is this really a mazarine cupcake?"

'What else do you think it is?"

'Some kind of cultural monument, maybe. Seems a pity to eat it. The Bakery Museum ought to be interested." "If you don't like it, you can go somewhere else." "Yeah, two floors down for instance, and report you for harboring dangerous weapons. I order a mazarine cupcake and you go and give me a fossilized fetus that not even the

Swedish State Railway would serve up without the locomotive blushing. I'm a sensitive person and—"

'Sensitive, eh? And by the way, you took it off the counter yourself."

Martin Beck turned around and looked at Kollberg.

'Hi," he said.

'Hi." .

Neither of them seemed particularly surprised. Kollberg pushed away the objectionable cake and said, "When did you get back?"

'This moment. What are you doing here?"

'I thought I'd talk to someone named Backlund."

'Me too."

'Actually, I had something else to do here," said Kollberg apologetically.

Ten minutes later it was five o'clock. They went down together. Backlund turned out to be an elderly man with a friendly, ordinary face. He shook hands and said:

'Oh, yes. VIP's from Stockholm, eh?"

He put out two chairs for them and sat down, saying:

'Well, I am grateful. To what do I owe this honor?"

'You had a stabbing case on the eve of Twelfth Day," said Kollberg. "A guy called Matsson."

'Yes, that's quite correct. I remember the case. It's closed. No charge brought."

'What really happened?" said Martin Beck.

'Well, hm-m… Wait a minute and I'll get the file."

The man called Backlund went out and returned about ten minutes later with a typed report stapled together. It seemed remarkably detailed. He leafed through it for a moment, evidently renewing his acquaintance with it with both delight and pride. Finally he said, "We'd better take it from the beginning."

'We only want a general idea of what happened," said Kollberg.

'I see. At 1:23 A.M. on January 6 of this year a radio patrol consisting of Patrolman Kristiansson and Patrolman Kvant—who were patrolling in their car on Linnégatan here in town—received orders to go to Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn, where someone was said to have been stabbed. Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant at once went to this address, where they arrived at about 1:29 A.M. They took charge of a person who stated that he was a journalist: one Alf Sixten Matsson, residing in Stockholm at Fleminggatan 34. Matsson also stated that he had been assaulted and stabbed by Bengt Eilert Jönsson, a journalist who is a resident of Malmö and lives at Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn. Matsson, who had a flesh wound approximately two inches long on the outside of his left wrist, was taken to the emergency ward of General Hospital by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant while Bengt Eilert Jönsson was held and taken to police headquarters in Malmö by Patrolmen Elofsson and Borglund, who had been called in by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant. Both men were under the influence of alcohol."

'Kristiansson and Kvant?"

Backlund gave Kollberg a look of reproach and went on:

'After Matsson had been treated at the emergency ward of General Hospital, he was also taken to testify at police headquarters in Malmö. Matsson stated that he was born on August 5, 1933, in Mölndal and was a resident of—"

'Just a minute," said Martin Beck. "We don't really need all the details."

'Oh. But I must tell you, it isn't easy to get a clear picture if you don't go through it all."

'Does that report give a clear picture?"

'I can answer both yes and no to that question. The stories differ considerably. Times too. The testimonies are very vague. That's why there was no charge brought."

'Who questioned Matsson?"

'I did. I questioned him very thoroughly."

'Was he drunk?"

Backlund leafed through the report.

'One moment. Yes, here it is. He admitted to consuming alcohol, but denied that he had done so in excess."

'How did he behave?"

'I didn't make a note of that. But Kristiansson said—here, just a second—that his walk was unsteady and his voice was calm but occasionally slurred."

Martin Beck gave up. Kollberg was more obstinate.

'What did he look like?"

'I didn't make any kind of note on that. But I remember that his apparel was neat and tidy."

'What happened when he was stabbed?"

'It can be said that it is difficult to get a clear picture of the actual course of events. Their stories differ. If I remember rightly—yes, that's right—Matsson stated that the injury was inflicted upon him at about midnight. On the other hand, Jönsson stated that the incident did not occur until after one o'clock. It was very difficult to get this point cleared up."

'Had he been assaulted?"

'I have Jönsson's statement here. Bengt Eilert Jönsson states that he and Matsson, whom he met through his profession, had been acquaintances for almost three years, and on the morning of January 5 he happened to meet Matsson, who was staying at the Savoy Hotel and was alone, so Jönsson invited him home to dinner, to commence at—"

'Yes, but what did he say about the assault itself?"

Backlund now began to appear a trifle irritated. He turned over a few more pages.

'Jönsson denies intentional assault, but admits that at one fifteen he gave Matsson a shove, at which the latter may have fallen over and cut himself on a glass which he had been holding in his hand."

'But had he been stabbed?"

'Well, that question is dealt with in an earlier section. I'll have a look. Here it is. Matsson states that some time before eleven P.M. he had a scuffle with Bengt Jönsson and thus, probably from a knife he had previously seen in Jonsson's home, he received an injury to his left arm. You can see for yourselves. Just before eleven P.M.! A quarter past one! A difference of two hours and twenty minutes! We also received a certificate from the doctor at the General Hospital. He describes the injury as a two-inch flesh wound, which was bleeding freely. The edges of the wound—"

Kollberg leaned forward and stared hard at the man with the report.

'We're not so interested in all that. What do you think yourself? Something happened, anyway. Why? And how did it come about?"

The other man could now conceal his irritation no longer. He removed his glasses and cleaned them feverishly.

'Oh now, please—please," he said. " 'Happened.' Hm-mph. Everything is examined thoroughly here in these preliminary investigations. If I can't present an account of it all, then I don't see how I can clearly explain the case for you. You can go through the material for yourselves if you like."

He put the report down on the edge of the desk. Martin Beck leafed through it listlessly and looked at the photographs of the scene of the crime attached at the back. The photos showed a kitchen, a living room and some stone stairs. Everything was clean and tidy. On the stairs there were a few dark spots, hardly bigger than a one-öre piece. If they had not been marked with white arrows, they would have been scarcely visible. He handed the document over to Koll-berg, drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and said, "Was Matsson questioned here?"

'Yes, here in this room."

'You must have talked for a long time."

'Yes, he had to give a detailed statement."

'What sort of impression did he make—as a person, I mean?"

Backlund was now so irritated that he could not sit still. He kept moving the objects on the bare varnished surface of his desk and putting them back in exactly the same places.

'Impression!" he said. "Everything is covered thoroughly in the preliminary investigation. I've already told you that. Anyhow, the incident occurred on private property and when it came down to it, Matsson did not wish to bring a charge. I cannot understand what it is you want to know."

Kollberg put down the report without even having opened it. Then he made one last attempt.

'We want to know your personal opinion of Alf Matsson."

'I haven't got one," said the man.

When they left him, he was sitting at his desk reading the report of the preliminary investigation, his expression stiff and disapproving.

'Some people," said Kollberg in the elevator.

24

Bengt Jonsson's house was a rather small bungalow with an open veranda and a garden. The gate was open and on the gravel path inside was a blond, suntanned man, poised on his haunches in front of a tricycle. His hands were covered with grease and he was trying to repair the chain, which had come off. A boy of about five was standing watching him, a Wench in his hand.

When Kollberg and Martin Beck came through the gate, the man rose and wiped his hands on the back of his trousers. He was about thirty and wearing a checked shirt, dirty khaki trousers and wooden-soled shoes.

'Bengt Jönsson?" said Kollberg.

'Yes, that's me." f he man looked at them suspiciously.

We're from the Stockholm police," said Martin Beck. "We've come to ask for some information about a friend of yours—Alf Matsson."

'Friend," said the man. "I'd hardly call him that. Is it about what happened last winter? I thought that was all dead and buried a long time ago."

'Yes, it is. The case is closed and won't be taken up again. It's not your part in the affair we're interested in, but Alf Matsson's," said Martin Beck.

'I saw in the papers that he's disappeared," said Bengt Jönsson. "He was in on some kind of narcotics ring, it said. I didn't know he used drugs."

'Perhaps he didn't, either. He sold them."

'Oh, Christ," said Bengt Jönsson. "What sort of information do you want? I don't know anything about that drug business."

'You can help us get a general picture of him," said Martin Beck.

'What do you want to know?" asked the fair-haired man.

'Everything you know about Alf Matsson," said Kollberg.

'That's not much," said Jönsson. "I hardly knew him, although we'd been acquainted for three years. I'd only met him a few times before that time last winter. I'm a journalist too, and we met when we were on a job together."

'Would you tell us what really happened last winter?" said Martin Beck.

'We might as well sit down," said Jönsson, going up onto the veranda. Martin Beck and Kollberg followed him. There were a table and four basket chairs, and Martin Beck sat down and offered Jönsson a cigarette. Kollberg looked at his chair suspiciously before cautiously sitting down in it. The chair creaked precariously beneath his weight.

'You'll understand that what you tell us is of no interest to us except as a testimony on Alf Matsson's character. Neither we nor the Malmö police have any reason to take up the case again," said Martin Beck. "What happened?"

'I met Alf Matsson by chance in the street. He was staying at a hotel in Malmö and I invited him home to dinner. I didn't really like him much, but he was on his own in town and wanted me to go out drinking with him, so I thought it'd be better if he came out to our place. He came in a taxi and I think he was sober then. Almost, anyhow. Then we ate and I offered him schnapps with the food and both of us drank quite a bit. After the meal we listened to records and drank whisky and sat talking. He got drunk pretty quickly and then he was unpleasant. My wife had a friend in at the same time and suddenly Alfie said to her, "Say, d'you mind if I fuck you?"

Bengt Jönsson fell silent, and Martin Beck nodded and said, "Go on."

'Well, that's what he said. My wife's friend was very upset, because she's not at all used to being spoken to like that. And my wife got angry and told Alfie he was a boor, and then he called my wife a whore and was damned rude. Then I got angry and told him to watch his mouth and the girls went into another room."

He fell silent again and Kollberg asked, "Was he usually unpleasant like that when he was drunk?"

'I don't know. I'd never seen him drunk before."

'What happened then?" said Martin Beck.

'Well, then we went on drinking. I didn't drink all that much myself, in fact, and didn't feel high at all. But Alfie got drunker and drunker, sitting there, hiccuping and belching and singing, and then suddenly he vomited all over the floor. I got him out to the bathroom and after a while he was all right again and appeared a bit more sober. When I said we should try to wipe up the mess, he said, That whore you're married to can do that.' That made me really mad and I told him he'd have to go, that I didn't want him in the house. But he just laughed and sat belching in the chair. When I said I was going to phone for a taxi for him, he said he was going to stay and sleep with my wife. Then I hit him and when he got up and said something dirty about my wife again, I hit him one more time so that he fell over the table and broke two glasses. Then I went on trying to get him out of the house, but he refused to go. Finally my wife called the police—it seemed the only way to get rid of him."

'He injured his hand, I understand," said Kollberg. "How did that happen?"

'I saw he was bleeding, but I didn't think it was serious. I was so angry, anyway, I didn't care. He cut himself on a glass when he fell. Then he claimed I'd stabbed him, which was a lie. I didn't have a knife. Then I was questioned at the police station for the rest of the night. A hellish business all around.'"

'Have you met Alf Matsson since that night?" said Kollberg.

'Oh, good God, no. Not since that morning at the police station. He was sitting in the corridor when I came out from seeing that cop—sorry, policeman—who was questioning me. And then that bastard had the nerve to say, 'Hey, you've got a bit left. Let's go back to your place and finish it off later.' I didn't even answer and thank God, I haven't seen him since."

Bengt Jönsson rose and went down to the boy, who was standing hitting the tricycle with the wrench. He crouched down and went on working on the chain.

'I've nothing else to tell you about it all. That was exactly what happened," he said over his shoulder.

Martin Beck and Kollberg got up and he nodded to them as they went out through the gate.

On the way into Malmö, Kollberg said, "Nice guy, our friend Matsson. I don't think humanity has suffered any great loss if something really has happened to him. If so, then it's only your holiday that suffered."

25

Kollberg was staying at the St. Jörgen Hotel on Gustav Adolf's Square, so after they had picked up Martin Beck's suitcase at the police station, they went there. The hotel was full, but Kollberg used his powers of persuasion and it was not long before he had arranged for a room.

Martin Beck did not bother to unpack his suitcase. He considered phoning his wife out on the island, but realized that it was too late. She would hardly be pleased at having to row across the Sound in the dark in order to hear him tell her that he did not know when he could get there.

He undressed and went into the bathroom. As he stood under the shower, he heard Kollberg's characteristic thumping on the door to the corridor. As he had forgotten to take the key out from the outside, a second or two elapsed before Kollberg rushed into the room, calling out to him.

Martin Beck turned off the shower, swept a bath towel around himself and went out to Kollberg.

'A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me," said Koll-berg. "It's five days since the opening of the crayfish season and you probably haven't had a single one. Or do they have crayfish in Hungary?"

'Not so far as I know," said Martin Beck. "I didn't see any."

'Get yourself dressed. I've ordered a table."

The dining room was crowded, but a corner table had been reserved for them and laid for a crayfish dinner. On each of their plates lay a paper hat and a bib, and each of the bibs had a verse printed in red across it. They sat down and Martin Beck looked dismally at his hat, made of blue crepe paper, with a shiny paper visor and POLICE in gold letters above the visor.

The crayfish were delicious, and the men did not talk much as they ate. When they had finished them, Kollberg was still hungry—an almost permanent state of affairs—so he ordered a steak fillet. While they waited for it, he said:

'There were four guys and a broad together with him that night before he left. I made a list for you. It's up in my room."

'Good," said Martin Beck. "Was it difficult?"

'Not especially. I got some help from Melander."

'Melander, yes. What's the time?"

'Half past nine."

Martin Beck got up and left Kollberg alone with his steak.

Of course, Melander had already gone to bed and Martin Beck waited patiently through several rings before the telephone was answered.

'Were you asleep in bed?"

'Yes, but it doesn't matter. Are you back?"

'In Malmö. How did things go with Alf Matsson?"

'I found out what you asked me to. Do you want to know now?"

'Yes, please."

'Wait a moment."

Melander went away, but returned very shortly.

'I wrote a report, but it's still at the office. Perhaps I can tell you from memory," he said.

'I'm sure you can," said Martin Beck.

'It deals with Thursday, the twenty-first of July. In the morning Alf Matsson first went up to the magazine, where he picked up his tickets from the office and four hundred kronor from the cash desk. Then he left almost at once and collected his passport and visa from the Hungarian Embassy. After that, he went back to Fleminggatan and, I imagine, packed his suitcase. Anyhow, he changed clothes. In the morning he had been wearing gray trousers, a gray jersey sweater, a blue machine-knit blazer with no lapels and beige suede shoes. In the afternoon and evening, he was wearing a lead-gray suit of thin flannel, a white shirt, black knit tie, black shoes and a gray-beige poplin coat."

It was warm in the phone booth. Martin Beck had got a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling down some notes as Melander was talking.

'Yes, go on," he said.

'At quarter past twelve, he took a taxi from Fleminggatan to the Tankard, where he had lunch with Sven-Erik Molin, Per Kronkvist and Pia Bolt Her name's Ingrid, but she's called Pia. He drank several steins of beer during and after the meal. At three o'clock, Pia Bolt left and the three men stayed on. About an hour later that is, about four o'clock—Stig Lund and Åke Gunnarsson came in and sat down at their table. They went over to drinking whisky then. Alf Matsson drank whisky and water. The conversation at the table was shop talk, but the waitress remembers that Alf Matsson said he was going away. Where to, she didn't hear."

'Was he drunk?" said Martin Beck.

'Must have been a little, but not noticeably. Not then. Can you hang on a moment?"

Melander went away again and Martin Beck opened the door of the telephone booth wide to let in a little air while he waited. Then Melander came back.

'Just getting my dressing gown on. Where was I? Yes, of course, at the Tankard. At six o'clock, they left—that's Kronkvist, Lund, Gunnarsson, Molin and Matsson—and took a taxi to the Golden Peace and had dinner and drinks. The conversation was mostly about various mutual acquaintances and liquor and girls. Alf Matsson was beginning to get very high and made loud comments about female guests there. Among other things, he's said to have shouted to a middle-aged woman artist, who was sitting at the other side of the room, something like, 'Stunning pair of tits you've got there. Can I rest my head on them?' At half past nine they all moved on to the Opera House bar by taxi. There, they went on drinking whisky. Alf Matsson was drinking whisky and soda. Pia Bolt, who was already at the Opera House bar, joined Matsson and the other four men. At about midnight, Kronkvist and Lund left the restaurant, and shortly before one, Pia Bolt left with Molin. They were all drunk. Matsson and Gunnarsson stayed until the place closed and they were both very drunk. Matsson could not walk straight and accosted several women. I haven't managed to find out what happened after that, but presume he went home in a taxi."

'Didn't anyone notice when he left?"

'No, no one I talked to. Most of the guests leaving at that time were raore or less drank, and the staff were in a hurry to get home."

'Thanks a lot," said Martin Beck. "Will you do me another favor? Go up to Matsson's flat early tomorrow morning and see if you can find that lead-gray suit he was wearing that evening."

'Didn't you go there?" said Melander. "Before you went to Hungary?"

'Yes," said Martin Beck, "but I haven't got the memory of an elephant, like you. Go to bed and sleep now. I'll phone you tomorrow morning."

He returned to Kollberg, who had already polished off the steak and a dessert which had left sticky pink traces behind it on the plate in front of him.

'Had he found anything?"

'I don't know," said Martin Beck. "Perhaps."

They had coffee and Martin Beck told Kollberg about Budapest and Szluka and about Ari Boeck and her German friends. Then they took the elevator up and Martin Beck fetched Kollberg's typed report before going to bed.

He undressed, switched on the bed lamp and turned out the overhead light. Then he got into bed and began to read.

Ingrid (Pia) Bolt, born 1939 in Norrköping, unmarried, secretary, own flat at Strindbergsgatan 51.

Is included in the same gang as Matsson, but doesn't like M. much and has probably never had relations with him. Has gone around with Stig Lund for a year until quite recently. Nowadays seems to go around with Molin. Secretary at a fashion firm, Studio 45.

Per Kronkvist, born 1936 in Luleå, divorced, reporter on evening paper. Shares a flat with Lund, Sveavägen 88.

One of the gang, but no great friend of Matsson's. Divorced in Luleå, since then a resident in Stockholm. Drinks quite a bit, nervous and restless. Appears stupid, but a nice guy. Found guilty of drunken driving in May 1965.

Stig Lund, born 1932 in Gothenburg, unmarried, photog rapher on the same magazine as Kronkvist. Flat on Sveavägen owned by the magazine.

Came to Stockholm in 1960 and has known Matsson since that time. They spent a lot of time together earlier, but during the last two years they have only met because they go to the same pubs. Quiet and gentle, drinks a lot and usually falls asleep at the table when he's drunk. Ex-athlete, took part in competitions with cross-country running his specialty, 1945-51.

Åke Gunnarsson, bom 1932 in Jakobstad, Finland. Unmarried, journalist, writes about cars. Own flat, Svartensgatan 6.

Came to Sweden 1950. Journalist on various auto magazines and in the daily press since 1959. Earlier various jobs such as auto mechanic. Speaks Swedish almost without accent. Moved to flat on Svartensgatan July 1 of this year; before that he lived in Hagalund. Plans to marry at beginning of September, to a girl from Uppsala who is not one of the gang. No more friendly with Matsson than the aforementioned. Drinks quite a bit, but is known for not appearing drunk when he is. Seems quite a bright boy.

Sven-Erik Molin, born 1933 in Stockholm, divorced, journalist, house in Enskede.

Alf Matsson's "best friend," i.e. he maintains he is, but speaks ill of M. behind his back. Divorced in Stockholm four years ago, keeps up support payments and sees his children now and again. Conceited, overbearing and tough attitude, especially when drunk, which happens often. Charged with intoxication in Stockholm twice, 1963 and 1965. Relationship with Pia Bolt not very serious on his side.

There are some more in the group: Krister Sjöberg, commercial artist; Bror Forsgren, advertising representative; Lena Rosén, journalist; Bengtsfors, journalist; Jack Meredith, film cameraman, as well as a few more, more or less peripheral. None of these was actually present on the day or evening in question.

Martin Beck got up and fetched the piece of paper he had made notes on while talking to Melander.

He took the paper back to bed with him.

Before putting out the light, he read the whole lot through again—Kollberg's report and his own carelessly scribbled notes.

26

Saturday, the thirteenth of August, was gray and windy, and the plane to Stockholm took its time against the headwind.

The lingering taste of crayfish was anything but delicious at this time of day and the paper mug of bad coffee that the airline had to offer hardly improved matters. Martin Beck leaned his head against the vibrating window and watched the clouds.

After a while he tried smoking, but it tasted disgusting. Kollberg was reading a daily from southern Sweden, glancing critically at the cigarette. He probably did not feel too good either.

As far as Alf Matsson was concerned, it could now be said that he was probably seen for the last time exactly three weeks ago—in the foyer of the Hotel Duna in Budapest.

The pilot informed them that the weather was cloudy and that the temperature was fifteen degrees centigrade in Stockholm, and it was drizzling.

Martin Beck extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and said, "That murder you were on ten days ago, is it cleared up?"

'Oh, yes."

'No difficulties?"

'No. Psychologically, it was utterly uninteresting, if that's what you mean. Drunk as pigs, both of them. The guy who lived in the flat sat there giving the other guy trouble until he got angry and hit him with a bottle. Then he got scared and hit him twenty times more. But you know all that."

'And afterward. Did he try to get away?"

'Oh, yes, of course. He went home and wrapped up his bloodstained clothes. Then he got a bottle of wood alcohol and went and sat under Skanstull Bridge. All we had to do was to go and pick him up. Then he flatly denied everything for a while and then began to bawl."

After a brief pause, he said, still without looking up, "He's got a screw or two missing. Skanstull Bridge! But he did his best."

Kollberg lowered his paper and looked at Martin Beck.

'Exactly," he said. "He did his best."

He returned to his paper.

Martin Beck frowned, picked up the list he had received the night before and read it through again. Time and time again, until they arrived. He put the paper in his pocket and fastened his safety belt. Then came the usual few minutes of unpleasantness as the plane waddled in the wind and slid down its invisible chute. Gardens and rooftops and two bounces on the concrete, and then he could let out his breath again.

They exchanged a few remarks in the domestic flight lounge while they were waiting for their luggage.

'Are you going out to the island tonight?"

'No, I'll wait a bit."

'There's something rotten about this Matsson story."

'Yes."

'Aggravating."

In the middle of Traneberg Bridge, Kollberg said, "And it's even more aggravating that we can't stop thinking about the miserable business. Matsson was a boor. If he's really disappeared, then that's a good deed done. If he's on the run, then someone'll get him one of these days. That's not our business. And if by any chance he's somehow died down there, then that's nothing to do with us either. Is it?"

'That's right."

'But supposing the man just goes on having disappeared. Then we'll be thinking about it for ten years. Christ!"

'You're not being particularly logical."

'No. Exactly," said Kollberg.

The police station seemed unusually quiet, but of course it was Saturday and, despite everything, still summer. On Martin Beck's desk lay a number of uninteresting letters and a note from Melander:

'A pair of black shoes in the flat. Old. Not used for a long time. No dark-gray suit."

Outside the window, the wind tore at the treetops and the rain was driving against the windowpane. He thought of the Danube and the steamers and the breeze from the sunny hills. Viennese waltzes. The soft, warm night air. The bridge. The quay. Martin Beck gingerly felt the bump on the back of his head with his fingers, then went back to his desk and sat down.

Kollberg came in, looked at Melander's message, scratched his stomach and said, "It's probably our concern in any case."

'Yes, I think so."

Martin Beck thought for a moment.

'When you were in Rumania, did you turn in your passport?"

'Yes, the police collected your passports at the airport. Then you got it back at the hotel a week later. I saw mine standing in my pigeonhole for several days before they gave it to me. It was a big hotel. The police handed in whole bundles of passports every evening."

Martin Beck pulled the telephone toward him.

'Budapest 298-317, a person-to-person call to Major Vil-mos Szluka. Yes, Major S-Z-L-U-K-A. No, it's in Hungary."

He returned to the window and stared out into the rain without saying anything. Kollberg sat in the visitor's chair and studied his nails. Neither of them moved or spoke until the telephone rang.

Someone said in very bad German, "Yes, Major Szluka will come in a minute."

Steps echoed through police headquarters in Deåk Ferenc Tér. Then Szluka's voice came over: "Good morning. How are things in Stockholm?"

'It's raining and windy. Cold."

'Oh, it's over 85° Fahrenheit here. Almost too hot. I was just thinking of going to Palatino. Anything new?"

'Not yet."

'Same here. We haven't found him yet. Can I help you with anything?"

'Doesn't it sometimes happen that people lose their passports now during the tourist season?"

'Yes, unfortunately. It's always troublesome. Fortunately that's not one of my concerns."

'Could you find out whether any foreigner has reported the loss of his passport at the Ifjuság or the Duna since the twenty-first of July?"

'Of course. But it's not my department, as I said. Will it be all right if I get the answer back by five?"

'You can telephone whenever you like. And one more thing."

'Yes?"

'If someone has reported this, do you think you could find out what the person looked like? Just a brief description."

'I'll call you at five o'clock. Good-bye."

'Good-bye. Hope you don't miss going to the baths."

He put down the receiver. Kollberg looked at him suspiciously.

'What the hell is the business about baths?"

'A sulfur bath, where you sit in marble armchairs under water."

'Oh."

There was a brief silence. Kollberg scratched his head and said, "So in Budapest he was wearing a blue blazer and gray trousers and brown shoes."

'Yes, and the raincoat."

'And in his suitcase there was a blue blazer."

'Yes."

'And a pair of gray trousers."

'Yes."

'And a pair of brown shoes."

'Yes."

'And the night before he left he was wearing a dark suit and black shoes."

'Yes, and the raincoat."

'And neither the shoes nor the suit are in his flat."

'No."

'Christ!" said Kollberg simply.

'Yes."

The atmosphere in the room changed and seemed to become less tense. Martin Beck rummaged in his drawer, found a dry old Florida and lit it. Like the man in Malmö, he was trying to give up smoking, but much more halfheartedly.

Kollberg yawned and looked at his watch.

'Shall we go and eat somewhere?"

'Yes, why not?"

'The Tankard?"

'Sure."

27

The wind had dropped and in Vasa Park the light rain was falling peacefully down onto the double row of tombola stalls, a carousel and two policemen in black rain capes The carousel was running and on one of the painted horses sat a lone child: a little girl in a red-plastic coat with a hood. She was riding round and round in the rain with a solemn expression on her face and her eyes focused straight ahead. Her parents were standing under an umbrella a little way away, regarding the amusement park with melancholy eyes. A fresh smell of greenery and wet leaves came from the park. It was Saturday afternoon and, despite everything, still summer.

The restaurant diagonally opposite the park was almost empty. The only audible sound in the place was a faint comforting rustle from the evening papers of two elderly regular customers and the muted sound of darts thudding into the board in the dart room. Martin Beck and Kollberg took a seat in the bar, six feet or so from the table that was the favorite refuge of Alf Matsson and his fellow journalists. There was no one there now, but in the middle of the table stood a glass containing a red reservation card. Presumably this was a fixture.

'The lunch hour is over now," said Kollberg. "In an hour or so people begin dropping in again, and in the evening it's so chock-full of people spilling beer all over each other that you can hardly get your foot inside."

The atmosphere did not make for extensive discussion. They ate a late lunch in silence. Outside the Swedish summer was pouring away. Kollberg drained a stein of beer, folded up his table napkin, wiped his mouth and said, "Is it difficult to get across the border down there? Without a passport?"

'Fairly. They say the borders are guarded well. A foreigner who didn't know his way around would hardly make it."

'And if you leave by the ordinary routes, then you have to have a visa in your passport?"

'Yes, and an exit permit besides. That's a loose piece of paper that you get on entry and keep in your passport until you leave the country. Then the passport control people take it. The police also stamp the date of departure beside the visa in your passport. Look."

Martin Beck took his passport out of his inside pocket and put it on the table. Kollberg studied the stamps. Then he said:

'And assuming that you've got both a visa and an exit permit, then you can cross any border you like?"

'Yes. You have five countries to choose from—Czechoslovakia, the Soviet Union, Rumania, Yugoslavia and Austria. And you can go any way you like—by air, train, car or boat."

'Boat? From Hungary?"

'Yes, on the Danube. From Budapest you can get to Vienna or Bratislava in a few hours by hydrofoil."

'And you can ride a bicycle, walk, swim, ride horseback or crawl?!' said Kollberg.

'Yes, as long as you make your way to a border station."

'And you can go to Austria and Yugoslavia without a visa?"

'That depends on what kind of passport you've got. If it's Swedish for instance, or German or Italian, then you don't need one. On a Hungarian passport you can go to Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia without a visa."

'But it's hardly likely that he did that?"

'No."

They went on to coffee. Kollberg was still looking at the stamps in the passport.

'The Danes didn't stamp it when you got to Kastrup," he said.

'No."

'Then in other words there's no evidence that you've returned to Sweden."

'No," said Martin Beck.

A moment later he added, "But on the other hand, I'm sitting here—right?"

A number of customers had dropped in during the last half hour, and there was already a shortage of tables. A man of about thirty-five came in and sat down at the table with the red reservation card on it, was given a stein of beer and sat leafing through the evening paper, seemingly bored. Now and again he looked anxiously toward the door, as if he were waiting for someone. He had a beard and was wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a brown checked tweed jacket, a white shirt, brown trousers and black shoes.

'Who's that?" said Martin Beck.

'Don't know. They all look alike. Besides, there are a number of marginal creatures who only show up now and then."

'It's not Molin, anyhow, because I'd recognize him."

Kollberg glanced at the man.

'Gunnarsson maybe."

Martin Beck thought. "No, I've seen him too."

A woman came in. She had red hair and was quite young, dressed in a brick-red sweater, tweed skirt and green stockings. She moved easily, letting her eyes wander over the room as she fingered her nose. She sat down at the table with the red card and said, "Ciao, Per."

'Ciao, sweetheart."

'Per," said Kollberg. "That's Kronkvist. And that's Pia Bolt."

'Why have they all got beards?"

Martin Beck said it thoughtfully, as if he had pondered the problem for a long time.

'Perhaps they're false," said Kollberg solemnly.

He looked at his watch.

'Just to give us trouble," he said.

'We'd better get back," said Martin Beck. "Did you tell Stenström to come on up?"

Kollberg nodded. As they were leaving, they heard the man named Per Kronkvist call out to the waitress:

'More beer! Over here!"

It was very quiet at the police station. Stenström was sitting in the downstairs office playing patience.

Kollberg looked critically at him, and said, "Have you already started with that? What are you going to do when you get old?"

'Sit thinking the same thing I'm thinking now: why am I sitting here?"

'Your're going to check some alibis," said Martin Beck. "Give him the list, Lennart."

Stenström was given the list. He glanced at it.

'Now?"

'Yes, this evening."

'Molin, Lund, Kronkvist, Gunnarsson, Bengtsfors, Pia Bolt. Who is Bengtsfors?"

'That's a mistake," said Kollberg gloomily. "Supposed to be Bengt Fors. The t on my typewriter sticks to the s."

'Shall I question the girl too?"

'Yes, if it amuses you," said Martin Beck. "She's at the Tankard."

'Can I talk to them direct?"

'Why not? Routine investigation in the Alf Matsson case. Everyone knows what it's all about now. How's things with the Narcotics boys, by the way?"

'I spoke to Jacobsson," said Stenström. "They'll soon have it all tied up. As soon as the heads here knew that Matsson had had it, they began to talk. I was thinking of something, by the way. Matsson sold the stuff directly to a few people who were really desperate and he made them pay through the nose."

'What were you thinking?"

'Couldn't it be one of the poor devils he skinned—that one of his customers got tired of him, so to speak?"

'Could be," said Martin Beck solemnly.

'Especially at the movies," said Kollberg. "In America."

Stenström put the piece of paper into his pocket and got up. At the door he stopped and said huffily, "Sometimes something different actually might happen here too."

'Possibly," said Kollberg. "But you've forgotten that Matsson disappeared in Hungary, on his way to pick up some more stuff for his poor customers. Now scram."

Stenström left.

'That was nasty of you," said Martin Beck.

'He might do a little thinking for himself too," said Kollberg.

'That's what he was doing."

'Huh!"

Martin Beck went out into the corridor. Stenström was just j putting on his coat.

'Look at their passports."

Stenström nodded.

'Don't go alone."

'Are they dangerous?" said Stenström sarcastically.

'Routine," said Martin Beck.

He went back in to Kollberg. They sat in silence until the telephone rang. Martin picked up the receiver.

'Your call to Budapest will be coming through at seven o'clock instead of five," said the telephone operator.

They digested the message for a moment. Then Kollberg said, "God. This is no fun."

'No," said Martin Beck. "It's not much fun."

'Two hours," said Kollberg. "Shall we drive around a little and have a look-see?"

'Yes, why not?"

They drove over West Bridge. The Saturday traffic had thinned out and the bridge was practically deserted. On the crest they passed a German tourist coach that had slowed down. Martin Beck saw the passengers inside standing up and staring out across the silvery bay and at the misty silhouette of the city.

'Molin is the only one who lives outside the city," said Kollberg. "Let's take him first."

They went on over Liljeholm Bridge, and Kollberg swung in off the main road among the houses, twisting along the narrow roads for a while, before finding the right house. He let the car run slowly past the row of hedges and fences as he read the names on the gateposts.

'Here it is," he said. "Molin lives on the left. That's his porch you can see. The house must have been occupied once by a single family, but now it's divided. The other entrance is around the back."

'Who lives in the other part of the house?" said Martin Beck.

'A retired customs official and his wife."

The garden in front of the house was wild, with gnarled apple trees and overgrown berrybushes. But the hedges around it were well trimmed, and the white fencing looked recently painted.

'Big garden," said Kollberg. "And well sheltered. Do you want to see any more?"

'No. Drive on."

'Then we'll take Svartensgatan," said Kollberg. "Gunnarsson."

They drove back into the south side of the city, parking the car in Mosebacke Square.

Svartensgatan 6 was right by the square. It was an old building with a large paved courtyard. Gunnarsson lived three floors up, facing the street.

'He hasn't lived here all that long," said Martin Beck when they had got back to the car.

'Since the first of July."

'And before that he lived in Hagalund. Do you know where?"

Kollberg stopped at a red traffic light.

He nodded toward the large corner window of the Opera House bar.

'Perhaps they're all sitting together in there now," he said. "All of them except Matsson. In Hagalund? Yes, I've got the address."

'Then we'll go there later," said Martin Beck. "Go along Strandvägen. I'd like to look at the boats."

They drove along Strandvägen and Martin Beck looked at the boats. At one quay lay a large white ocean-going vessel with the American flag aft, and farther on, flanked by two Åland sailing-smacks, lay a Polish motor launch.

Outside the entrance of the building where Pia Bolt lived on Strindbergsgatan, a small boy in a checked sou'wester and poncho was pushing a plastic double-decker bus back and forth across the step as he imitated the sound of its motor with his lips. The sound grew muted and uneven as he braked the bus to allow Kollberg and Martin Beck to pass.

Inside the entrance, Stenström was standing gloomily looking at Kollberg's list.

'What are you hanging around here for?" said Kollberg.

'She's not home. And she wasn't at the Tankard. I was just wondering where to go next. But if you're thinking of taking over, then I can go home."

'Try the Opera House bar," said Kollberg.

'Why are you on your own, by the way," said Martin Beck.

'I've had Rönn with me. He'll be back in a minute. He's just gone home to his old lady with some flowers. It's her birthday and she lives right here on the corner."

'How's it going?" said Martin Beck.

'We've checked Lund and Kronkvist. They left the Opera House bar about midnight and went straight to the Hamburger Exchange. There they met two gals they knew, and at about three they went back home with one of them."

He looked at the list.

'Her name is Svensson and she lives in Lidingö. They stayed there until eight o'clock on Friday morning and then took a taxi together to work. At one o'clock, they went to the Tankard and sat there until five, when they went to Karlstad on a reporting job. I haven't got around to the others yet."

'I realize that," said Martin Beck. "Just carry on. We'll be at the station after seven. Phone if you've finished before too late."

The rain grew heavier as they drove toward Hagalund. When Kollberg stopped the car outside the low block of flats in which Gunnarsson had lived until two months ago, the water was pouring down the windowpanes and the drumming on the car roof was deafening.

They put up their coatcollars and ran across the pavement into the entrance. The building was three-storied and on one of the doors on the second floor there was a calling card fastened on with a thumbtack. The name on the calling card was also on the list of tenants in the entrance hall, and the white plastic letters looked newer and whiter than the others.

They walked back to the car and drove around the block, then stopped in front of the building. The flat where Gun-narsson had presumably lived had only two windows and appeared to consist of only one room.

'It must be a pretty small flat," said Kollberg. "He's going to get married now since he's got a bigger one."

Martin Beck looked out into the rain. He wanted to smoke and felt cold. There was a field and wooded slope on the other side of the street. At the far end of the field was a newly built highrise building and another one was in the process of being built beside it. The whole field was probably going to be built on with a row of identical highrises. From the dismal block where Gunnarsson had lived, one at least had an open, country-like view, but now that, too, would be spoiled.

In the middle of the field stood the charred remains of a burnt-out house.

'A fire?" he said, pointing.

Kollberg leaned forward and peered through the rain.

'That's an old farm," he said. "I remember seeing it last summer. A fine old wooden house, but no one lived there. I think the fire department burned it down. You know—to practice. They set it alight and then put the fire out, and then they set it alight again and put it out again, and they go on like that until there's nothing left. Pity with such a fine old place. But they probably need the land to build on."

He looked at his watch and started the engine.

'We'll have to step on it if we're going to get your call," he said.

The rain poured down the windshield and Kollberg had to drive carefully. They sat in silence all the way back. When they got out of the car it was five to seven and already dark.

The telephone rang so precisely on the dot of seven that it seemed almost unnatural. It was unnatural.

'Where the hell's Lennart?" said Kollberg's wife.

Martin Beck handed over the receiver and tried not to listen to Kollberg's replies in the dialogue that followed.

'Yes, I'm coming soon now… Yes, in a little while, I said… Tomorrow? That'll be hard, I expect…"

Martin Beck retired to the bathroom and did not come back until he had heard the receiver being replaced.

'We should have children," said Kollberg. "Poor thing, sitting out there on her own, waiting for me."

They had only been married six months, so things would probably work out all right.

A bit later the call came through.

'I'm sorry to have kept you waiting," said Szluka. "It's more difficult to get hold of people here on Saturday. However, you were right."

'About the passport?"

'Yes. A Belgian student lost his passport at Hotel Ifjuság."

'When?"

'That hasn't been determined at the moment. He came to the hotel on Friday the twenty-second of July in the afternoon. Alf Matsson came in the evening of the same day."

'So it fits."

'Yes, it does, doesn't it? The difficulty is this. This man, whose name is Roeder, is visiting Hungary for the first time and doesn't know the regulations here. He himself claims that he found it quite natural to hand in his passport and not get it back until he had left the hotel. As he was to stay for three weeks, he didn't give the matter a thought and did not ask for his passport before Monday, in other words the day we met for the first time. He needed it to apply for a visa to Bulgaria. All this is, of course, according to the man's own statement."

'It could be right."

'Yes, of course. At the hotel reception they at once said that Roeder had been given back his passport on the morning after he had arrived, that is, the twenty-third, or the same day Matsson moved to Hotel Duna—and disappeared. Roeder swears he was never given his passport, and the hotel staff are equally certain his passport was put in his pigeonhole on the Friday evening and that, consequently, he should have received it back when he came down on the Saturday morning. That's the routine."

'Does anyone remember that he actually received it?"

'No. But that would be too much to ask. At this time of year, it often happens that people at the reception desk receive up to fifty foreign passports a day and hand out the same number. Also, the people who sort the passports into the pigeonholes are not the same ones who hand them out the next morning."

'Have you seen this Roeder?"

'Yes, he's still staying at the hotel. His embassy is arranging for his journey home."

'And? I mean, does it fit?"

'He has a beard. Otherwise they aren't especially alike, judging from the pictures. But unfortunately people don't often look like their passport photos either. Someone could well have stolen the passport out of the pigeonhole during the night. Nothing could be simpler. The night porter is alone and naturally has to turn his back sometimes, or leave his place. And the officials who check passports haven't time to study faces when tourists are pouring back and forth across the border. If we work on the theory that your fellow countryman took Roeder's passport, then he might well have left the country with its help."

There was a short silence. Then Szluka said:

'Someone has done it, anyway."

Martin Beck sat up.

'Do you know that?"

'Yes. We heard about it twenty minutes ago. Roeder's exit permit is in our files. It was handed in to the border police in Hegyeshalom on the afternoon of Saturday the twenty-third of July. One of the passengers on the Budapest-Vienna express. And that passenger can't have been Roeder as he's still here."

Szluka paused again. Then he said hesitantly, "I suppose this means that Matsson has left Hungary."

'No," said Martin Beck. "He's never been there at all."

28

Martin Beck slept badly and got up early. The flat in Bagarmossen was dismal and lifeless and the familiar objects seemed irrelevant and dreary. He took a shower. Shaved. Took out his newly pressed gray suit. Dressed carefully and correctly. Then went out on to the balcony. It had stopped raining. He looked at the thermometer. It was 60° Fahrenheit. He got himself a lugubrious grass-widower's breakfast of tea and rusks. Then he sat down and waited.

Kollberg came at nine o'clock. He had Stenström with him in the car. They drove to the police station.

'How did it go?" said Martin Beck.

'So so," said Stenström.

He leafed through his notebook.

'Molin was working on that Saturday, that's clear. He was at the office from eight o'clock in the morning. On that Friday, he seems to have been at home sleeping off his hangover. We argued a bit over his being asleep. He said that he hadn't been sleeping, but had passed out. 'Don't you know what it is to pass out and have little demons sitting there on your pillow, copper? That's good. Then you're suited to being a policeman, because you don't understand a god damn about anything.' I wrote down that remark, word for word."

'Why did he have little demons?" said Kollberg.

'That didn't come out. Didn't seem to know himself, and what he'd done the night between Thursday and Friday, he couldn't remember. He said he was grateful for that. He was pretty darned insolent and awkward all around."

'Go on," said Martin Beck.

'Well, I'm afraid I was wrong yesterday when I said Lund and Kronkvist were clear. It turned out, in fact, that it wasn't Kronkvist but Fors who had gone with those girls to Lidingö. On the other hand, it was Kronkvist who went with Lund to Karlstad, not on Friday but on Saturday. It is a bit of a mix-up, all this, but I don't think Lund was lying when he made the first statement. He really didn't remember. He and Kronkvist seem to have been the most drunk of the lot of them. Lund got everything mixed up. Fors was brighter and when I got hold of him things became clearer. Lund collapsed as soon as they got to the girls' place, and they didn't get a sign of life out of him all that Friday. Then on Saturday morning, he rang up Fors, who went there and picked him up, and then they went to the pub, not to the Tankard, as Lund had thought, but to the Opera House bar. When Lund had had something to eat and a couple of beers, he revived and went home and picked up Kronkvist and all his photographic gear. Kronkvist was at home at that time."

'What had he done before that?"

'Lain at home feeling ill and lonely, he said. The only definite thing is that he was there at half past four on Saturday afternoon."

'Is that verified?"

'Yes, they got to the hotel in Karlstad in the evening. Kronkvist also had a fearful hangover, he said. Lund said he was too high to have anything. Lund hasn't got a beard, by the way. I made a note of that."

'Uh-huh."

'Then there was Gunnarsson. His memory was ä little better. He sat at home writing on Friday. On Saturday he was at the office at first in the morning and then in the evening, turning in various articles."

'Are you certain?"

'I wouldn't say that. The office there is large and I couldn't find anyone who could remember anything special. On the other hand, it's true that he handed in an article, but that could just as well have been in the evening as in the morning."

'And passports?"

'Wait a minute. Pia Bolt was also quite explicit. She refused to say where she'd been on that Thursday night, however. I got the impression that she'd been sleeping with someone but didn't want to say who."

'Sounds possible," said Kollberg. "It was Thursday and all that."

'What do you mean by that?" said Stenström.

'Nothing. Perhaps that was a little below the belt."

'Go on," said Martin Beck.

'On Saturday, anyway, she was at home with her mother from eleven in the morning on. I checked that in a discreet way. It was true. Well, now there are the passports. Molin refused to show his. He didn't have to identify himself in his own home, he said. Lund had an almost new passport. The last stamp was from Arlanda on the sixteenth of June, when he returned from Israel That seemed to be all right."

'Refused to show his passport!" said Kollberg. "And you let him."

'Pia Bolt had been to Majorca for a week two years ago, that is all. Kronkvist had an old passport. It looked a mess, covered with notes and scribbles. The last stamp from Gothenburg in May. Returning from England. Gunnarsson also had an old passport, almost full, but a bit cleaner. He has stamps from Arlanda, left the country on the seventh of May and re-entered the tenth. Had been to the Renault factories in Billancourt, he said. Evidently they don't stamp passports in France."

'No, that's right," said Martin Beck.

'Then there were the others. I haven't had time to get around to them all. Krister Sjöberg was at home with his family in Älvsjö. That Meredith, he's an American—colored, by the way."

'We'll skip that," said Kollberg. "We couldn't take him in anyhow, or we'd be lynched by the Mods."

'Now you're being really stupid."

'I usually am. Anyhow, I don't think you need go on."

'No, I don't think so," said Martin Beck.

'Do you know who it is?" said Stenström.

'We think so at least."

'Who?"

Kollberg glared at Stenström.

'Think for yourself, man," he said. "In the first place, was it Alf Matsson who was in Budapest? Would Matsson take a small fortune to pay for drugs and then not bother about it and leave the money in his bag at the hotel? Would Matsson throw his key down outside the entrance of the police station? A man who ought to make a long detour around any policeman he ever saw down there? Why should Matsson disappear of his own free will, in such an improvised manner?"

'No, of course not."

'Why should Matsson travel to Hungary dressed in a blue blazer, gray trousers and suede shoes, when he had exactly the same kind of clothes packed in his bag? What happened to Matsson's dark suit? The one he had on the night before and which was not in his bag and is not in his flat?"

'O.K. It wasn't Matsson. Who was it then?"

'Someone who had Matsson's glasses and raincoat, someone with a beard. Who was last seen with Matsson? Who had no alibi whatsoever before Saturday evening, at the earliest? Who of all that lot was sufficiently sober and intelligent to be able to cook up this little story? Think it over."

Stenström looked very solemn.

'I've thought of something else," said Kollberg.

He spread the map of Budapest out on the table.

'Look here. There's the hotel and there's the central station, or whatever it's called."

'Budapest Nyugati."

'Maybe. If I was going to walk from the hotel to the station, I would walk this way and thus pass police headquarters."

'That's right, but in that case you'd go to the wrong station. The trains to Vienna go from down here, from the old Eastern Railway Station."

Kollberg said nothing. He went on staring at the map.

Martin Beck spread out a blueprint of the Solna area and nodded at Stenström.

'Go on out to the Solna police," he said. "Ask them to rope this area off. There's a burnt-out house there. We'll be there soon."

'Now, at once?"

'Yes."

Stenström left. Martin Beck hunted for a cigarette and lit it. He smoked in silence. And looked at Kollberg who was sitting quite still. Then he put out the cigarette and said, "Let's go, then."

Kollberg drove swiftly through the empty Sunday streets and then they crossed the bridge. The sun came out from behind driving clouds and a light breeze swept across the water. Martin Beck looked absently at a group of small sailing boats which were just rounding a buoy in the bay.

They drove in silence and parked in the same place as the day before. Kollberg pointed at a black Lancia parked a little farther on.

'That's his car," he said. "Then he's probably at home."

They crossed Svartensgatan and pushed open the door. The air felt raw and damp. They walked in silence up the worn stairs to the fifth floor.

29

The door was opened immediately.

The man in the doorway was wearing a dressing gown and slippers, and looking extremely surprised.

'Sorry," he said. "I thought you were my fiancee."

Martin Beck recognized him at once. It was the same man Molin had pointed out to him at the Tankard, the day before his Budapest trip. An open, pleasant face. Calm blue eyes. Quite powerfully built. He had a beard and was of medium height, but this was—as in the case of the Belgian student, Roeder—the only resemblance to Matsson.

'We're from the police. My name is Beck. This is Inspector Kollberg."

The introductions were stiff and courteous.

'Kollberg."

'Gunnarsson."

'May we come in for a minute?" said Martin Beck.

'Of course. What's it about?"

'We would like to talk about Alf Matsson."

'A policeman came yesterday and asked me about the same thing."

'Yes, we know that."

As Martin Beck and Kollberg entered the flat, they underwent a change. It happened to them both at the same time and without either of them being aware of it. All that had been tense, uncertain and vigilant about them vanished and was replaced by a routine calm, a mechanical determination which showed that they knew what was going to happen and that they had been through the same thing before.

They walked through the flat without saying anything. It was light and spacious and furnished with care and consideration, but in some way gave the impression that it had not yet been lived in properly. Much of the furniture was new and still looked as if it were standing in a shop window.

Two of the rooms had windows facing the street and the bedroom and kitchen looked out over the courtyard. The door to the bathroom was open and the light was on inside. Evidently the man had just begun getting washed and dressed when they had rung the bell. In the bedroom there were two wide beds standing close together, and one had recently been slept in. On the bedside table by the unmade bed stood a half-empty bottle of mineral water, a glass, two pillboxes and a framed photograph. There was also a rocking chair in the room, two stools, and a dressing table with drawers and movable mirror. The photo was of a young woman. She had fair hair, clean, healthy features and very light-colored eyes. No makeup, but a silver chain around her neck, a so-called Bismarck chain. Martin Beck recognized the kind. Sixteen years ago he had given his wife an exact replica of it. They went back into the study. The tour was complete.

'Do please sit down," said Gunnarsson.

Martin Beck nodded and sat down in one of the basket chairs by the desk, which was clearly intended for two people. The man in the dressing gown remained standing and glanced at Kollberg, who was still moving round the flat.

Manuscripts, books and papers lay in neat piles on the table. A page already started was inserted into the typewriter, and beside the telephone stood yet another framed photograph. Martin Beck at once recognized the woman with the silver chain and light eyes. But this picture had been taken out-of-doors. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing at the photographer, the wind tugging at her ruffled fair hair.

'What can I do to help you," said the man in the dressing gown, politely.

Martin Beck looked straight at him. His eyes were still blue and calm and steady. It was quiet in the room. Kollberg could be heard doing something in another part of the flat, presumably in the washroom or the kitchen.

'Tell me what happened," said Martin Beck.

'When?"

'The eve of the twenty-second of July, when you and Matsson left the Opera House bar."

'I've already done that. We parted in the street. I took a taxi and came home. He wasn't going in the same direction and waited for the next one."

Martin Beck leaned his forearms on the desk and looked at the woman in the photograph.

'May I look at your passport?" he said.

The man walked around the desk, sat down and pulled out one of the drawers. The basket chair creaked amiably.

'Here you are," he said.

Martin Beck turned over the pages of the passport. It was old and worn and the last stamp was indeed an entry stamp from Arlanda on the tenth of May. On the next page—which was also the last one in the passport—there were a few notes, among others two telephone numbers and a short verse. The inside cover was also full of notes. Most of them seemed to be comments on cars or engines, made long ago and in great haste. The verse was written across on a slant, with a green ball-point pen. He twisted the passport and read:

There was a young man of Dundee Who said "They can't do without me. No house is complete Without me and my seat My initials are W.C."

The man on the other side of the table followed his glance and explained, "It's a limerick."

'So I see."

'It's about Winston Churchill. They say that he wrote it himself. I heard it on the plane from Paris and thought it was so good that I ought to write it down."

Martin Beck said nothing. He stared at the verse. Underneath the writing, the paper was a little lighter and there were several small green dots that should not have been there. They could have been some perforations from a green stamp on the other side of the page, but no such stamp existed. Stenström ought to have noticed that.

'If you had left the plane in Copenhagen and taken the ferry to Sweden, you'd have been saved the trouble," he said.

'I don't understand what you mean."

The telephone rang. Gunnarsson answered. Kollberg came into the room.

'It's for one of you," said the man in the dressing gown.

Kollberg took the receiver, listened and said, "Oh, yes. Get them going then. Yes, wait out there. We'll be there soon."

He put the receiver down.

'That was Stenström. The fire department burned the house down last Monday."

'We have people searching through the remains of that burnt-out house in Hagalund," said Martin Beck.

'Well, what about it?" said Kollberg.

'I still don't know what you mean."

The man's eyes were still just as steady and open. There was a brief silence, and then Martin Beck shrugged his shoulders and said, "Go in and get dressed."

Without a word, Gunnarsson walked toward the bedroom door. Kollberg followed him.

Martin Beck remained where he was, immobile. His eyes rested again on the photograph. Although actually it was unimportant, for some reason he was annoyed that the conversation should end like this. After having seen the passport, he felt utterly certain, but the idea about the fire department's practice site was a guess, which might very well prove to be wrong. In that case, and if the man managed to maintain his attitude, the investigation would be very troublesome. And yet this was not really the main reason for his dissatisfaction.

Gunnarsson came back five minutes later wearing a gray sweater and brown trousers. He looked at his watch and said, "Now we can go. I'll be having a visitor soon, and would be grateful if…"

He smiled and left the sentence unfinished. Martin Beck remained seated.

'We're in no special hurry," he said.

Kollberg came in from the bedroom.

'The trousers and the blue blazer are still hanging in the wardrobe," he said.

Martin Beck nodded. Gunnarsson walked back and forth across the room. He was moving more nervously now, but his expression was as unshakably calm as before.

'Perhaps it's not so bad as it seems," said Kollberg in a friendly way. "You don't have to be so resigned."

Martin Beck glanced at his colleague quickly, then looked at Gunnarsson again. Of course, Kollberg was right. The man had given up. He knew the game was up and he had known it the moment they'd stepped over the threshold. Presumably he was now enveloped in this feeling as if in a cocoon. But still not completely invulnerable. Nevertheless, what had to be done was very unpleasant.

Martin Beck leaned back in the basket chair and waited. Kollberg stood silent and immobile by the bedroom door. Gunnarsson had remained standing in the middle of the floor. He looked at his watch again but said nothing.

A minute went past. Two. Three. The man again looked at his wristwatch. Probably a purely reflex action, and it was clear that it annoyed him. After two minutes more he did it again, but this time tried to mask his maneuver by running the back of his left hand over his face as he glanced down at his wrist. The door of a car slammed somewhere down on the street.

He opened his mouth to say something. Only one word came out.

'If…"

Then he was sorry, took two quick steps toward the telephone and said, "Excuse me, I have to call someone."

Martin Beck nodded and looked stubbornly at the telephone. 018. The area code for Uppsala. Everything fitted in. Six figures. Answer on the third ring.

'Hello. This is Åke. Has Ann-Louise left?"

'Oh. When?"

Martin Beck thought he heard a woman's voice say, "About a quarter of an hour ago."

'Oh, yes. Thanks very much. Good-bye."

Gunnarsson replaced the receiver, looked at his watch and said in a light voice, "Well, shall we go now?"

No one replied. Ten long minutes went by. Then Martin Beck said, "Sit down."

The man obeyed very hesitantly. Although he seemed to be making an effort to sit still, the basket chair did not stop creaking. The next time he looked at his watch, Martin Beck saw that his hands were trembling.

Kollberg yawned, much too studiedly or else from ner vousness. It was hard to determine which. Two minutes later, the man called Gunnarsson said, "What are we waiting for?"

For the first time there was a trace of uncertainty even in his voice.

Martin Beck looked at him. He said nothing. He wondered what would happen if the man on the other side of the desk suddenly realized that the silence was just as much of a strain on them as it was on him. It probably wouldn't be of much help to him. In some way they were all in the same boat now.

Gunnarsson looked at his watch, picked up a pen that was lying on the desk and at once put it down again in exactly the same place.

Martin Beck looked away and at the photograph, then glanced at his watch. Twenty minutes had gone by since the phone call. At worst, they had half an hour at their disposal.

He again looked at Gunnarsson and caught himself thinking about everything they had in common. The giant creaking bed. The view. The boats. The room key. The damp heat from the river.

He looked at his watch quite openly. Something about this seemed to irritate the other man considerably—perhaps the reminder that they did in fact have a common interest.

Martin Beck and Kollberg looked at each other for the first time in practically half an hour. If they were right, the end should be very near.

Disintegration came thirty seconds later. Gunnarsson looked from the one man to the other and said in a clear voice, "O.K. What do you want to know?"

No one answered.

'Yes, you're right, of course. It was me."

'What happened?"

'I don't want to talk about it," said the man thickly.

He was staring stubbornly down at the desk now. Kollberg looked at him with a frown, glanced over at Martin Beck and nodded.

Martin Beck drew a deep breath.

'You must realize that we'll find out everything anyhow," he said. "There are witnesses down there who can identify you. We'll find the taxi driver who drove you here that night. He'll remember whether you were alone or not. Your car and flat will be examined by experts. The burnt-out house in Hagalund as well. If a body has been lying there, there'll be enough left of it. That doesn't matter now. Whatever happened to Alf Matsson and wherever he went, we'll find him. You won't be able to hide very much—nothing important, anyway."

Gunnarsson looked straight at him and said, "In that case, I don't understand the point of all this."

Martin Beck knew that he would remember that remark for years, perhaps for the rest of his life.

It was Kollberg who saved the situation. He said foneless-ly, "It is our duty to tell you that you are suspected of manslaughter, or possibly murder. Naturally you have the right to legal representation during the formal hearing."

'Alf came with me in the taxi. We came here. He knew I had a bottle of whisky at home and insisted that we should finish it off."

'And?"

'We had already drunk a good deal. We quarreled."

He fell silent. Shrugged his shoulders.

'I'd rather not talk about it."

'Why did you quarrel?" said Kollberg.

'He… he made me mad."

'In what way?"

A swift change in those blue eyes. Uncontrolled and anything but harmless.

'He behaved like a… well, he said certain things.

'About my fiancee. Just a moment—I can explain how it started. If you look in the top right-hand drawer… there are some photographs there."

Martin Beck pulled out the drawer and found the photographs. He held them carefully between his fingertips. They had been taken on a beach somewhere, and were just the sort of pictures people in love might take on a beach, provided they were quite undisturbed. He went through them swiftly, almost without looking at them. The bottom one was bent and damaged. The woman with the light-colored eyes smiled at the photographer.

'I had been in the bathroom. When I came back, he was standing there rummaging in my drawers. He'd found… those pictures. He tried to put one in his pocket. I was already angry with him, but then I became… furious."

The man paused briefly and then said apologetically, "Unfortunately I can't remember those particular details very clearly."

Martin Beck nodded.

'I took the photograph away from him, although he resisted. Then he began shouting filthy things about, well, about Ann-Louise. Of course, I knew that every last word was a lie, but I couldn't bear listening to him. He was talking very loudly. Almost yelling. I think I was afraid the neighbors would wake up too."

The man lowered his eyes again. He looked at his hands and said, "Well, that wasn't all that important. But it probably entered in, I don't know. Do I have to try to repeat…"

'Forget the details for the time being," said Kollberg. "What happened?"

Gunnarsson looked stubbornly at his hands. "I strangled him," he said very quietly. Martin Beck waited for ten seconds. Then he ran his forefinger down his nose and said, "And after that?"

'I suddenly turned completely sober, or at least I thought I had. He was lying there on the floor. Dead. It was about two o'clock. Naturally I should have called the police. It didn't seem so simple then." He thought for a moment. "Why, everything would have been ruined." Martin Beck nodded and looked at his watch. This seemed to hurry the other man.

'Well, I sat here probably for a quarter of an hour, roughly, thinking what to do. In this chair. I refused to accept that the situation was hopeless. Everything that had happened was so… startling. It seemed so pointless. I wasn't really able to realize that it was me who had suddenly—oh, well, we can talk about that later."

'You knew that Matsson was going to Budapest," said Kollberg.

'Yes, of course. He had his passports and tickets on him. Had only had to go home and pick up his bag. I think it was his glasses that gave me the idea. They had fallen off and were lying here on the floor. They were rather special ones, changing his appearance in some way. Then I happened to think about that house out there. I had sat on the balcony watching the fire department practicing, how they set it alight and extinguished the fire again. Every Monday. They didn't investigate very carefully before setting fire to it. I knew they'd soon completely burn down the little that was left. It's no doubt cheaper than tearing things down in the ordinary way."

Gunnarsson threw a swift, desperate look at Martin Beck and said hastily:

'Then I took his passport, tickets, car keys and the keys to his flat. Then…"

He shuddered but collected himself at once. "Then I carried him down to the car. That was the hardest part, but I was… well, I was just about to say I was lucky. I drove out to Hagalund." 'To the old farmhouse?"

'Yes. It was absolutely quiet out there. I carried… Alfie up to the attic. It was difficult because the stairs were half gone. And then I put him behind a loose wall, under a mass of rubbish so that no one would find him. He was dead, after all. It didn't matter all that much. I thought." Martin Beck glanced anxiously at his watch. "Go on," he said.

'It was beginning to get light. I went to Fleminggatan and collected his bag, which was already packed, and put it in Alfie's car. Then I came back here, cleaned up a bit and took the glasses and his coat, which was still hanging in the hall. I came back almost at once. I didn't dare stay and wait. So I took his car, drove to Arlanda and parked it there."

The man threw an appealing look at Martin Beck and said, "Everything went so easily, as if of its own accord. I put on the glasses, but the coat was too small. I carried it over my arm and went through the passport control. I don't remember much about the trip, but everything seemed just as simple."

'How had you planned to get away from there?" "I just knew that it would work out somehow. I thought that the best way would be to take the train to the Austrian border and try to get over illegally. I had my own passport in my pocket and could return home from Vienna on that. I'd been there before, so I knew they didn't stamp the date of exit in your passport. But I was lucky again. I thought." Martin Beck nodded.

'There was a shortage of rooms there and Alfie had been booked into two different hotels, just the first night at the one. I don't remember what ft was called." "The Ifjuság."

'Yes, maybe. Anyhow, I arrived there at the same time as a party of people speaking French. I gathered that they had come earlier the same day. They looked like students—several of the fellows had beards. When I turned in Alfie's—Matsson's passport, the porter was just sorting other passports into the pigeonholes. People who had already regis tered. I stayed on a moment in the vestibule and then when the porter stepped away for a minute, I got the chance to take one of those passports. I only had to look at three of them before I found one I thought was suitable—it was Belgian. The fellow was named Roederer or something like that. Anyway, the name reminded me of some kind of champagne."

Martin Beck looked carefully at his watch.

'And the next morning?"

'Then I was given back Alfie's—Matsson's passport and went to the other hotel. It was large and grand. The Duna, it was called. I handed in the passport, still Alfie's, at the reception desk and put his bag up in the room. I didn't stay longer than half an hour. Then I left. I'd got hold of a map and made my way to the railway station. On the way, I discovered I still had the room key in my pocket. It was large and a nuisance, so I threw it down outside a police station as I was walking past. I thought it was a good idea."

'Not especially," said Kollberg.

Gunnarsson smiled faintly.

'I managed to catch the express to Vienna and it took only four hours. First I took off Alfie's glasses, of course, and rolled up the coat. At that point I used the Belgian passport and that worked just as well. The train was very crowded and the passport officer was in a hurry. It was a girl, by the way. In Vienna, I took a taxi from the Eastern Railway Station directly to the airport and got on the afternoon plane to Stockholm."

'What did you do with Roeder's passport?" said Martin Beck.

'Tore it up and flushed the pieces down a toilet at the Eastern Railway Station. The glasses too. I smashed the glass and broke up the frames."

'And his coat?"

'I hung that up on a hook in the cafeteria on the station."

'And by the evening you were back here again?"

'Yes, I went up to the office then and handed in two articles I'd written earlier."

It was silent in the room. Finally Martin Beck said, "Did you try the bed?"

'Where?"

'At the Duna?"

'Yes. It creaked."

Gunnarsson looked down at his hands again. Then he said quietly, "I was in a very difficult situation. Not only for myself."

He looked quickly at the photograph.

'If nothing untoward had happened, I would have got married on Sunday. And…"

'Yes?"

'Actually it was an accident. Can you understand…"

'Yes," said Martin Beck.

Kollberg had hardly moved during the last hour. Now he suddenly shrugged his shoulders and said irritably, "O.K. Come on, let's go."

The man who had killed Alf Matsson suddenly sagged.

'Yes, of course," he said thickly. "I'm sorry."

He rose quickly and went out to the bathroom. Neither of the other two men moved, but Martin Beck looked unhappily at the closed door. Kollberg followed his look and said, "There's nothing in there he can hurt himself with. I've even taken away the toothbrush glass."

'There was a box of sleeping pills on the night table. Twenty-five in it, at least."

Kollberg went into the bedroom and came back.

'It's gone," he said.

He looked at the bathroom door.

'Shall we—"

'No," said Martin Beck. "We'll wait."

They did not need to wait more than thirty seconds. Åke Gunnarsson came out unbidden. He smiled weakly and said, "Can we go now?"

No one answered him. Kollberg went into the bathroom, got up on the toilet, lifted the lid of the tank, thrust his hand down and pulled out the empty pillbox. He read the label on it as he walked back into the study.

'Vesperax," he said. "A dangerous sort."

Then he looked at Gunnarsson and said in a troubled voice, "That was rather unnecessary, wasn't it? Now we've got to take you to the hospital. They'll put a bib on you which reaches all the way down to your feet and then they stick a rubber tube down your throat. Tomorrow you won't be able to eat or talk."

Martin Beck phoned for a radio car.

They walked swiftly down the stairs, all driven by the same wish to get away quickly.

The radio car was already there.

'Stomach-pump case," said Kollberg. "It's quite urgent. We'll follow you."

When Gunnarsson was already seated in the car, Kollberg seemed to remember something. He held the door open for a moment and said, "When you went from the hotel to the train, did you go to the wrong station at first?"

The man who had killed Alf Matsson looked at him with eyes that had already begun to look glazed and unnatural.

'Yes. How did you know that?"

Kollberg shut the door. The car drove away. The policeman at the wheel switched on the sken at the first corner.

Policemen in gray overalls were moving carefully among heaps of ash and charred beams on the site of the burnt-out house. A small group of Sunday walkers with baby carriages and pastry cartons had gathered outside the roped-off area and were staring inquisitively. It was already past four o'clock.

As soon as Martin Beck and Kollberg got out of the car, Stenström detached himself from a group of policemen and came over to them.

'You were right," he said. "He's in there, but there isn't much left of him."

An hour later they were again on their way into the city. As they passed the old city limit Kollberg said, "In a week the firm that is building there would have driven over it all with a bulldozer."

Martin Beck nodded.

'He did his best," said Kollberg philosophically. "And it wasn't that bad. If he'd known a little more about Matsson, and gone to the trouble of looking to see what was in the bag, and left the plane in Copenhagen instead of taking the risk of rubbing things out in his passport…"

He left the sentence unfinished. Martin Beck looked at him sideways.

'Then what? Do you mean he might have got away with it?"

'No," said Kollberg. "Of course not."

Despite the debatable summer weather, there were crowds of people at Vanadis Baths. As they passed it, Kollberg cleared his throat and said, "I don't see why you should go on with this any longer. Why, you're supposed to be on holiday."

Martin Beck looked at his watch. He would not have time to get out to the island today.

'You can drop me at Odengatan," he said.

Kollberg stopped in front of a movie theater on the corner.

'G'by, then," he said.

'Bye."

They did not even shake hands. Martin Beck stood on the pavement watching the car drive away. Then he walked diagonally across the street, around the corner and into a restaurant there, the Metropole. The lighting in the bar was subdued and pleasant and at one of the corner tables a low-keyed conversation was going on.

He sat down at the bar.

'Whisky," he said.

The barman was a large man with calm eyes, swift movements and a snow-white jacket.

'Icewater?"

'Yes, why not?"

'Right," said the barman. "Great. Double whisky with icewater. Can't be beat."

Martin Beck stayed on the bar stool for four hours. He did not speak again, but now and again pointed at his glass. The man in the white jacket did not say anything either. It was better that way.

Martin Beck looked at his own face in the smoky mirror behind the row of bottles. When the image began to blur, he called for a taxi and went home. He began to undress while he was still in the hall.

30

Martin Beck woke up with a start from a deep and dreamless sleep. The blanket and sheet had fallen to the floor and he was cold. When he got up to shut the balcony door, he saw stars before his eyes. His head thumped and his mouth felt stiff and dry. He went out into the bathroom and with difficulty swallowed two anodyne tablets, which he rinsed down with a tumbler of water. Then he went back to bed, pulled the sheet and blanket over him and tried to go back to sleep. After a couple hours half-sleep filled with nightmares, he got up and stood under the shower for a long time before dressing slowly. Then he went out onto the balcony and stood there with his elbows on the balcony rail, his chin in his hands.

The sky was high and clear and the cool morning air held an omen of autumn. For a while, he watched a fat dachshund leisurely making its way through the tree trunks in the little green arc outside the building. It was called a grove, but hardly lived up to its name. The ground between the evergreens was covered with pine needles and trash, and the little grass that had been there in the early summer had long since been trampled away.

Martin Beck went back into the bedroom and made his bed. Then he walked restlessly through the rooms for a while, putting a few trifles and books into his briefcase before leaving the flat.

He took the subway to the quay. The boat was not due to leave for an hour, so he strolled slowly along the quay toward the bridge. His boat was in and the gangway down: a couple of the crew were piling boxes on the foredeck. Martin Beck did not go on board but continued walking and then stopped for a cup of tea, which immediately made him feel even worse.

A quarter of an hour before the time of departure, he boarded the island boat, which had now got up steam and was belching white smoke out of its funnel. He went up on J deck and sat in the same place he had sat when he had begun his holiday, scarcely two weeks ago. Now nothing would stop him completing it, he thought, but he no longer felt any pleasure or enthusiasm at the thought of his holiday or the island.

The engine thumped, the boat backed out, the whistle sounded out and Martin Beck leaned over the railing, staring down into the foaming whirlpools of water. The sense of a summer holiday was gone and he felt nothing but misery.

After a while, he went into the saloon and drank a mineral water. When he came out on deck again, his place had been taken by a fat, red-faced gentleman in a sportsuit and a beret. Before Martin Beck had time to retreat, the fat man introduced himself and let loose a gushing stream of words on the beauty of the archipelago, which he knew intimately. Martin Beck listened apathetically while the man pointed out the islands they passed and gave their names. Finally managing to break off the one-sided conversation, Martin Beck fled to the aft saloon.

For the rest of the journey he lay in the half-light on one of the hard, plush-upholstered benches, looking at the dust swirling in the shaft of greenish light from the scuttle.

Nygren was sitting waiting in his motorboat at the steamer jetty. As they approached the island, he switched off the motor and let the boat glide past the little jetty so that Martin could jump ashore. Then he switched on the motor again, waved his hand and vanished around the point.

Martin Beck walked up to the cottage. His wife was lying in the lee behind the house, sunbathing naked on a blanket. "Hi."

'Hi, I didn't hear you coming." "Where are the kids?" "Out with the boat." "Oh."

'How was Budapest?"

'Very beautiful. Didn't you get the postcard I sent?" "No."

'It'll come later, I suppose."

He went on into the cottage, drank a scoop of water and stood still, staring at the wall. He thought of the fair-haired woman with the chain necklace and wondered whether she had stood for a long time ringing the bell without anyone coming to open the door. Or whether she had come so late that the apartment had already been crawling with policemen with tweezers and cans of powder. He heard his wife coming into the room. "How are you, really?" "Not well," said Martin Beck.

PER WAHLÖÖ and MAJ SJÖWALL, his wife and co-author, wrote ten Martin Beck mysteries. Mr. Wahlöö, who died in 1975, was a reporter for several Swedish newspapers and magazines and wrote numerous radio and television plays, film scripts, short stories and novels, Maj Sjöwall is also a poet.