Roseanna

1

They found the corpse on the eighth of July just after three o'clock in the afternoon. It was fairly well intact and couldn't have been lying in the water very long.

Actually, it was mere chance that they found the body at all. And finding it so quickly should have aided the police investigation.

Below the locks at Borenshult there is a breakwater which protects the entrance to the lake from the east wind. When the canal opened for traffic that spring, the channel had begun to clog up. The boats had a hard time maneuvering and their propellers churned up thick clouds of yellowish mud from the bottom. It wasn't hard to see that something had to be done. As early as May, the Canal Company requisitioned a dredging machine from the Civil Engineering Board. The papers were passed from one perplexed civil servant to another and finally remitted to the Swedish National Shipping and Navigation Administration. The Shipping and Navigation Administration thought that the work should be done by one of the Civil Engineering Board's bucket dredging machines. But the Civil Engineering Board found that the Shipping and Navigation Administration had control over bucket dredging machines and in desperation made an appeal to the Harbor Commission in Norrköping, which Immediately returned the papers to the Shipping and Navigation Administration, which remitted them to the Civil Engineering Board, at which point someone picked up the telephone and dialed an engineer who knew all about bucket dredging machines. He knew that of the five existing bucket dredgers, there was only one that could pass through the locks. The vessel was called The Pig and happened just then to be lying in the fishing harbor at Gravarne. On the morning of July 5 The Pig arrived and moored at Borenshult as the neighborhood children and a Vietnamese tourist looked on.

One hour later a representative of the Canal Company went on board to discuss the project. That took the whole afternoon. The next day was a Saturday and the vessel remained by the breakwater while the men went home for the weekend. The crew consisted of a dredging foreman, who was also the officer in command with the authority to take the vessel to sea, an excavating engineer, and a deck man. The latter two men were from Gothenburg and took the night train from Motala. The skipper lived in Nacka and his wife came to get him in their car. At seven o'clock on Monday morning all three were on board again and one hour later they began to dredge. By eleven o'clock the hold was full and the dredger went out into the lake to dump. On the way back they had to lay off and wait while a white steamboat approached the Boren locks in a westerly direction. Foreign tourists crowded along the vessel's railing and waved excitedly at the working crew on the dredger. The passenger boat was elevated slowly up the locks toward Motala and Lake Vättern and by lunch time its top pennant had disappeared in back of the uppermost sluice gate. At one-thirty the men began to dredge again.

The situation was this: the weather was warm and beautiful with mild temperate winds and idly moving summer clouds. There were some people on the breakwater and on the edge of the canal. Most of them were sunning themselves, a few were fishing, and two or three were watching the dredging activity. The dredger's bucket had just gobbled up a new mouthful of Boren's bottom slime and was on its way up out of the water. The excavating engineer was operating the familiar handgrips in his cabin. The dredging foreman was having a cup of coffee in the galley, and the deck man stood with his elbows on the railing and spit in the water. The bucket was still on the way up.

As it broke through the surface of the water, a man on the pier took a few steps toward the boat. He waved his arms and shouted something. The deck man looked up to hear better.

'There's someone in the bucket! Stop! Someone's lying in the bucket!"

The confused deck man looked first at the man and then at the bucket which slowly swung in over the hold to spit out its contents. Filthy gray water streamed out of the bucket as it hung over the hold. Then the deck man saw what the man on the breakwater had seen. A white, naked arm stuck out of the bucket's jaw.

The next ten minutes seemed endless and chaotic. Someone stood on the pier and said, over and over again: "Don't do anything; don't touch anything; leave everything alone until the police come…"

The excavating engineer came out to see what was going on. He stared, then hurried back to the relative security of his seat behind the levers. As he let the crane swing and the bucket open, the dredging foreman and the deck man took out the body.

It was a woman. They laid her on her back on a folded tarpaulin out on the breakwater. A group of amazed people gathered around and stared at her. Some of them were children and shouldn't have been there but no one thought to send them away. But all of them had one thing in common: they would never forget how she looked.

The deck man had thrown three buckets of water over her. Long afterwards, when the police inquiry was bogged down, there were people who criticized him for this.

She was naked and had no jewelry on. The lines of her tan made it apparent that she had sunbathed in a bikini. Her hips were broad and she had heavy thighs. Her pubic hair was black and wet and thick. Her breasts were small and slack with large, dark nipples. A red scratch ran from her waist to her hipbone. The rest of her skin was smooth without spots or scars. She had small hands and feet and her nails were not polished. Her face was swollen and it was hard to imagine how she had actually looked alive. She had thick, dark eyebrows and her mouth seemed wide. Her medium-length hair was dark and lay flat on her head. A coil of hair lay across her throat.

2

Motala is a medium-sized Swedish city in the province of Östergötland at the northern end of Lake Vättern. It has a population of 27,000. Its highest police authority is a Commissioner of Police who is also the Public Prosecutor. He has a Police Superintendent under him who is the chief executive of both the regular police constabulary and the criminal police. His staff also includes a First Detective Inspector in the ninth salary grade, six policemen and one policewoman. One of the policemen is a trained photographer and when medical examinations are needed they usually fall back on one of the city's doctors.

One hour after the first alarm, several of these people had gathered on the pier at Borenshult, several yards from the harbor light. It was rather crowded around the corpse and the men on the dredger could no longer see what was happening. They were still on board in spite of the fact that the vessel was prepared to make way with its port bow against the breakwater.

The number of people behind the police barricade on the abutment had increased tenfold. On the other side of the canal there were several cars, four of which belonged to the police, and a white-painted ambulance with red crosses on the back doors. Two men in white overalls leaned against a fender smoking. They seemed to be the only people who weren't interested in the group out by the harbor light.

On the breakwater the doctor began to gather his things together. He chatted with the Superintendent who was a tall, grayhaired man named Larsson.

'There isn't much I can say about it now," said the doctor.

'Does she have to remain lying here?" Larsson asked.

'Isn't that more your business," replied the doctor.

'This is hardly the scene of the crime."

'Okay," the doctor agreed, "See that they drive her to the mortuary. I'll telephone ahead."

He shut his bag and left.

The Superintendent turned and called, "Ahlberg, You're going to keep the area blocked off, aren't you?" "Yes, damn it."

The Commissioner of Police hadn't said anything out by the harbor light. He didn't usually enter investigations in the early stages. But on the way in to town, he said: "You'll keep me informed."

Larsson didn't even bother to nod. "You'll keen Ahlberg on it?" "Ahlberg's a good man," said the Superintendent. "Yes, of course."

The conversation ended. They arrived, left the car and went into their separate offices. The Commissioner placed a telephone call to the County Authority in Linköping who merely said: "I'll be waiting to hear from you."

The Superintendent had a short conversation with Ahlberg. "We have to find out who she is." "Yes," said Ahlberg.

He went into his office, called the Fire Department and requisitioned two frogmen. Then he read through the report on a burglary in the harbor. That one would be cleared up soon. Ahlberg got up and went to the officer on duty. "Is there anyone reported missing?" "No."

'No notification of missing persons?" "None that fit."

He went back to his office and waited. The call came after fifteen minutes. "We have to ask for an autopsy," said the doctor. "Was she strangled?" "I think so." "Raped?" "I think so."

The doctor paused a second. Then he said: "And pretty methodically, too."

Ahlberg bit on his index fingernail. He thought of his vacation which was to begin on Friday and how happy his wife was about it.

The doctor misinterpreted the silence. "Are you surprised?" "No," said Ahlberg.

He hung up and went into Larsson's office. Then they went to the Commissioner's office together.

Ten minutes later the Commissioner asked for a medico legal post-mortem examination from the County Administrator who contacted the Government Institute for Forensic Medicine. The autopsy was conducted by a seventy-year-old professor. He came on the night train from Stockholm and seemed bright and cheerful. He conducted the autopsy in eight hours, almost without a break.

Then he left a preliminary report with the following wording: "Death by strangulation in conjunction with gross sexual assault. Severe inner bleeding."

By that time the records of the inquiry and reports had already begun to accumulate on Ahlberg's desk. They could be summed up in one sentence: a dead woman had been found in the lock chamber at Borenshult.

No one had been reported missing in the city or in neighboring police districts. There was no description of any such missing person.

3

It was quarter after five in the morning and it was raining. Martin Beck took more time brushing his teeth than usual to get rid of the taste of lead in his mouth.

He buttoned his collar, tied his tie and looked listlessly at his face in the mirror. He shrugged his shoulders and went out into the hall, continued on through the living room, glanced longingly at the half-finished model of the training ship Danmark, on which he had worked until the late hours the night before, and went into the kitchen.

He moved quietly and softly, partly from habit and partly not to wake the children.

He sat down at the kitchen table.

'Hasn't the newspaper come yet?" he said.

'It never comes before six," his wife answered.

It was completely light outside but overcast. The daylight in the kitchen was gray and soupy. His wife hadn't turned on the lights. She called that saving.

He opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything. There would only be an argument and this wasn't the moment for it. Instead he drummed slowly with his fingers on the formica table top. He looked at the empty cup with its blue rose pattern and a chip in the rim and a brown crack down from the notch. That cup had hung on for almost the duration of their marriage. More than ten years. She rarely broke anything, in any case not irreparably. The odd part of it was that the children were the same.

Could such qualities be inherited? He didn't know.

She took the coffee pot from the stove and filled his cup. He stopped drumming on the table.

'Don't you want a sandwich?" she asked.

He drank carefully with small gulps. He was sitting slightly round-shouldered at the end of the table.

'You really ought to eat something," she insisted.

'You know I can't eat in the morning."

'You ought to in any case," she said. "Especially you, with your stomach."

He rubbed his fingers over his cheek and felt some places he'd missed with his razor. He drank some coffee.

'I can make some toast," she suggested.

Five minutes later he placed his cup on the saucer, moved it away without a sound, and looked up at his wife.

She had on a fluffy red bathrobe over a nylon nightgown and she sat with her elbows on the table, supporting her chin with her hands. She was blond, with fair skin and round, slightly popping eyes. She usually darkened her eyebrows but they had paled during the summer and were now nearly as light as her hair. She was a few years older than he and in spite of the fact that she had gained a good deal of weight in the last few years, the skin on her throat was beginning to sag a little.

She had given up her job in an architect's office when their daughter was born twelve years ago and since then had not thought about working again. When the boy started school, Martin Beck had suggested she look for some part-time work, but she had figured it would hardly pay. Besides, she was comfortable with her own nature and pleased with her role as a housewife.

'Oh, yes," thought Martin Beck and got up. He placed the blue-painted stool under the table quietly and stood by the window looking out at the drizzle.

Down below the parking place and lawn, the highway lay smooth and empty. Not many windows were lighted in the apartments on the hill in back of the subway station. A few seagulls circled under the low, gray sky. Otherwise there was not another living thing to be seen.

'Where are you going?" she said.

'Motala."

'Will you be gone long?"

'I don't know."

'Is it that girl?"

'Yes."

'Do you think you'll be gone long?"

'I don't know any more about it than you do. Only what I've seen in the newspapers."

'Why do you have to take the train?"

'The others took off yesterday. I wasn't supposed to go along."

'They'll drive with you, of course, as usual?"

He took a patient breath and gazed outside. The rain was letting up.

'Where will you stay?"

"The City Hotel."

"Who will be with you?"

"Kollberg and Melander. They went yesterday."

"By car?"

"Yes."

'And you have to sit and get shaken up on the train?"

"Yes."

Behind him he heard her washing the cup with the chip in the rim and the blue roses.

'I have to pay the electric bill and also Little One's riding lessons this week."

'Don't you have enough money for that?"

"I don't want to take it out of the bank, you know that."

"No, of course not."

He took his wallet out of his inner pocket and looked into it. Took out a 50 crown note, looked at it, put it back and placed the wallet in his pocket.

'I hate to draw out money," she said. "It's the beginning of the end when you start that."

He took the bill out again, folded it, turned around and laid it on the kitchen table.

"I've packed your bag, Martin."

"Thanks."

'Take care of your throat. This is a treacherous time of the year, particularly the evenings."

"Yes."

'Are you going to take that awful pistol with you?"

"Yes, no. Yes, no. What's the difference?" Martin Beck thought to himself.

'What are you laughing at?" she asked.

"Nothing."

He went into the living room, unlocked the drawer in the secretary and took out the pistol. He put it in his suitcase and locked the drawer again.

The pistol was an ordinary 7.6 millimeter Walther, licensed in Sweden. It was useless in most situations and he was a pretty poor shot anyway.

He went out into the hall, put on his trenchcoat, and stood with his dark hat in his hands.

'Aren't you going to say goodbye to Rolf and the Little One?"

'It's ridiculous to call a twelve year old girl 'Little One.'"

"I think it's sweet."

'It's a shame to wake them. And anyway, they know that I am going."

He put his hat on.

'So long. Ill call you."

'Bye bye, and be careful."

He stood on the platform and waited for the subway and thought that he really didn't mind leaving home in spite of the half-finished planking on the model of the training ship Danmark.

Martin Beck wasn't chief of the Homicide Squad and had no such ambitions. Sometimes he doubted if he would ever make superintendent although the only tilings that could actually stand in his way were death or some very serious error in his duties. He was a First Detective Inspector with the National Police and had been with the Homicide Bureau for eight years. There were people who thought that he was the country's most capable examining officer.

He had been on the police force half of his life. At the age of twenty-one he had begun at Jakob Police Station and after six years as a patrol officer in different districts in central Stockholm, he was sent to the National Police College. He was one of the best in his class and when the course was finished he was appointed a Detective Inspector. He was twenty-eight years old at the time.

His father had died that year and he moved from his furnished room in the middle of the city back to the family home in southern Stockholm to take care of his mother. That summer he met his wife. She had rented a cottage with a friend out in the archipelago where he happened to be with his sailing canoe. He fell very much in love. Then, in the autumn, when they were expecting a child, they got married at City Hall and moved to her small apartment back in the city.

One year after the birth of their daughter, there wasn't much left of the happy and lively girl he had fallen in love with and their marriage had slipped into a fairly dull routine.

Martin Beck sat on the green bench in the subway car and looked out through the rain-blurred window. He thought about his marriage apathetically, but when he realized that he was sitting there feeling sorry for himself, he took his newspaper out of his trenchcoat pocket and tried to concentrate on the editorial page.

He looked tired and his sunburned skin seemed yellowish in the gray light. His face was lean with a broad forehead and a strong jaw. His mouth, under his short, straight nose, was thin and wide with two deep lines near the corners. When he smiled, you could see his healthy, white teeth. His dark hair was combed straight back from the even hairline and had not yet begun to gray. The look in his soft blue eyes was clear and calm. He was thin but not especially tall and somewhat round-shouldered. Some women would say he was good looking but most of them would see him as quite ordinary. He dressed in a way that would draw no attention. If anything, his clothes were a little too discreet.

The air in the train was close and stuffy and he felt slightly uncomfortable as he usually did when he was on the subway. When they arrived at Central Station, he was the first one at the door with his suitcase in his hand.

He disliked the subway. But since he cared even less for bumper-to-bumper automobile traffic, and that'dream apartment' in the center of the city was still only a dream, he had no choice at the moment.

The express to Gothenburg left the station at 7:30 p.m. Martin Beck thumbed through his newspaper but didn't see a line about the murder. He turned back to the cultural pages and began to read an article on the anthroposophist Rudolf Steiner but fell asleep in a few minutes.

He awoke in good time to change trains at Hallsberg. The lead taste in his mouth had come back and stayed with him despite the three glasses of water that he drank.

He arrived in Motala at 10:30 p.m. and by then the rain had stopped. Since it was his first visit there, he asked at the kiosk in the station the way to the City Hotel and bought a pack of cigarettes and the Motala newspaper.

The hotel was on the main square only a few blocks from the railroad station. The short walk stimulated him. Up in his room he washed his hands, unpacked, and drank a bottle of mineral water which he got from the porter. He stood by the window for a moment and looked out over the square. It had a statue in the center which he guessed was of Baltzar von Platen. Then he left the room to go to the police station. Since he knew it was right across the street, he left his trenchcoat in the room.

He told the officer on duty who he was and was immediately shown to an office on the second floor. The name Ahlberg was on the door.

The man sitting behind the desk was broad and thick-set and slightly bald. His jacket was on the back of his chair and he was drinking coffee out of a container. A cigarette was burning on the corner of an ash tray which was already filled with butts.

Martin Beck had a way of slinking through a door which irritated a number of people. Someone once said that he was able to slip into a room and close the door behind him so quickly that it seemed as if he were still knocking on the outside.

The man behind the desk seemed slightly surprised. He pushed his coffee container away and got up.

'My name is Ahlberg," he said.

There was something expectant in his manner. Martin Beck had seen the same thing before and knew what this sprang from. He was the expert from Stockholm and the man behind the desk was a country policeman who had come to a standstill on an investigation. The next few minutes would be decisive for their cooperation.

'What's your first name?" said Martin Beck.

'Gunnar."

'What are Kollberg and Melander doing?"

'I have no idea. Something I've forgotten, I suspect."

'Did they have that we'll-settle-this-thing-in-a-flash look?"

The local policeman ran his fingers through his thin blond hair. Then he smiled wryly and took to his familiar chair.

'Just about," he said.

Martin Beck sat down opposite him, drew out a pack of cigarettes and laid it on the edge of the desk. "You look tired," Martin Beck stated.

'My vacation got shot to hell."

Ahlberg emptied the container of coffee, crumpled it and threw it into the wastebasket under the desk.

The disorder on his desk was remarkable. Martin Beck thought about his own desk in Stockholm. It was usually quite neat.

'Well," he said. "How goes it?"

'Not at all," said Ahlberg. "After more than a week we don't know anything more than what the doctor has told us."

Out of habit he went on to the routine procedures.

'Put to death by strangulation in conjunction with sexual assault. The culprit was brutal. Signs of perverse tendencies."

Martin Beck smiled. Ahlberg looked at him questioningly.

'You said 'put to death.' I say it myself sometimes. We've written too many reports."

'Yeah, isn't it hell?"

Ahlberg sighed and ran his fingers through his hair.

'We brought her up eight days ago," he said. "We haven't learned a thing since then. We don't know who she is, we don't know the scene of the crime, and we have no suspects. We haven't found a single thing that could have any real connnection with her."

4

'Death by strangulation," thought Martin Beck.

He sat and thumbed through a bunch of photographs which Ahlberg had dug out of a basket on his desk. The pictures showed the locks, the dredger, its bucket in the foreground, the body lying on the embankment, and in the mortuary.

Martin Beck placed a photo in front of Ahlberg and said:

'We can have this picture cropped and retouched so that she looks presentable. Then we can begin knocking on doors. If she comes from around here someone ought to recognize her. How many men can you put on the job?"

'Three at most," said Ahlberg. "We're short of men right now. Three of the boys are on vacation and one of them is in the hospital with a broken leg. Other than the Superintendent, Larsson and myself, there are only eight men at the station."

He counted on his fingers.

'Yes, and one of them is a woman. Then too, someone has to take care of the other work."

'We'll have to help if worst comes to worst. It's going to take a hell of a lot of time. Have you had any trouble with sex criminals lately by the way?"

Ahlberg tapped his pen against his front teeth while he was thinking. Then he reached into his desk drawer and dug up a paper.

'We had one in for examination. From Västra Ny, a rapist He was caught in Linköping the day before yesterday but he had an alibi for the entire week, according to this report from Blomgren. He's checking out the institutions."

Ahlberg placed the paper in a green file which lay on his desk.

They sat quietly for a minute. Martin Beck was hungry. He thought about his wife and her chatter about regular meals. He hadn't eaten for twenty-four hours.

The air in the room was thick with cigarette smoke.

Ahlberg got up and opened the window. They could hear a time signal from the radio somewhere in the vicinity.

'It's one o'clock," he said. "If you're hungry I can send out for something. I'm as hungry as a bear."

Martin Beck nodded and Ahlberg picked up the telephone. After a while there was a knock at the door and a girl in a blue dress and a red apron came in with a basket.

After Martin Beck had eaten a ham sandwich and had a few swallows of coffee, he said:

'How do you think she got there?"

'I don't know. During the day there are always a lot of people at the locks so it could hardly have happened then. He could have thrown her in from the pier or the embankment and then later the backwash from the boats' propellers might have moved her further out. Or maybe she was thrown overboard from some vessel."

'What kind of boats go through the locks? Small boats and pleasure craft?"

'Some. Not so terribly many. Most of them are freighters. And then there are the canal boats, of course, the Diana, the Juno and the Wilhelm Tham."

'Can we drive down there and take a look?" asked Martin Beck.

Ahlberg got up, took the photograph that Martin Beck had chosen, and said: "We can get going right away. I'll leave this at the lab on the way out."

It was almost three o'clock when they returned from Borenshult. The traffic in the locks was lively and Martin Beck had wanted to stay there among the vacationers and the fishermen on the pier to watch the boats.

He had spoken with the crew of the dredger, been out on the embankment and looked at the system of locks. He had seen a sailing canoe cruising in the fresh breeze far out in the water and had begun to long for his own canoe which he had sold several years ago. During the trip back to town he sat thinking about sailing in the archipelago in summers past.

There were eight, fresh copies of the picture from the Photo laboratory lying on Ahlberg's desk when they returned. One of the policemen, who was also a photographer, had retouched the picture and the girl's face looked almost as if she had been photographed alive.

Ahlberg looked through them, laid four of the copies in the green folder and said:

'Fine. Ill pass these out to the boys so that they can get started immediately."

When he came back after a few minutes Martin Beck was standing next to the desk rubbing his nose.

'I'd like to make a few telephone calls," he said.

'Use the office farthest down the corridor."

The room was larger than Ahlberg's and had windows on two walls. It was furnished with two desks, five chairs, a filing cabinet and a typewriter table with a disgracefully old Remington.

Martin Beck sat down, placed his cigarettes and matches on the table, put down the green folder and began to go through the reports. They didn't tell him much more than he had already learned from Ahlberg.

An hour and a half later he ran out of cigarettes. He had placed a few telephone calls without result and had talked to the Commissioner and to Superintendent Larsson who seemed tired and pressed. Just as he had crumpled the empty cigarette package, Kollberg called.

Ten minutes later they met at the hotel.

'God, you look dismal," Kollberg said. "Do you want a cigarette?"

'No thank you. What have you been doing?"

'I've been talking to a guy from the Motala Times. A local editor in Borensberg. He thought he had found something. A girl from Linköping was to have started a new job in Borensborg ten days ago but she never arrived. She was thought to have left Linköping the day before and since then, no one has heard from her. No one thought to report her missing since she was generally unreliable. This newspaperman knew her employer and started making his own inquiries but never bothered to get a description of her. But I did. And it isn't the same girl. This one was fat and blond. She's still missing. It took me the entire day."

He leaned back in his chair and picked his teeth with a match.

'What do we do now?"

'Ahlberg has sent out a few of his boys to knock on doors. You ought to give them a hand. When Melander gets here we'll have a run through with the Commissioner and Larsson. Go over to Ahlberg and he'll tell you what to do."

Kollberg straightened his chair and got up.

'Are you coming too?" he asked.

'No, not now. Tell Ahlberg that I'm in my room if he wants anything."

When he got to his room Martin Beck took off his jacket, shoes, and tie and sat down on the edge of the bed.

The weather had cleared and white puffs of cloud moved across the sky. The afternoon sun shone into the room.

Martin Beck got up, opened the window a little, and closed the thin, yellow drapes. Then he lay down on the bed with his hands folded under his head.

He thought about the girl who had been pulled out of Boren's bottom mud.

When he closed his eyes he saw her before him as she looked in the picture, naked and abandoned, with narrow shoulders and her dark hair in a coil across her throat.

Who was she? What had she thought? How had she lived? Whom had she met?

She was young and he was sure that she had been pretty. She must have had someone who loved her. Someone close to her who was wondering what had happened to her. She must have had friends, colleagues, parents, maybe sisters and brothers. No human being, particularly a young, attractive woman, is so alone that there is no one to miss her when she disappears.

Martin Beck thought about this for a long time. No one had inquired about her. He felt sorry for the girl whom no one missed. He couldn't understand why. Maybe she had said that she was going away? If so, it might be a long time before someone wondered where she was.

The question was: how long?

5

It was eleven-thirty in the morning and Martin Beck's third day in Motala. He had gotten up early but accomplished nothing by it. Now he was sitting at the small desk thumbing through his notebook. He had reached for the telephone a few times, thinking that he really ought to call home, but nothing had come of the idea.

Just like so many other things.

He put on his hat, locked the door to his room, and walked down the stairs. The easy chairs in the hotel lobby were occupied by several journalists and two camera cases with folded tripods, bound by straps, lay on the floor. One of the press photographers stood leaning against the wall near the entrance smoking a cigarette. He was a very young man and he moved his cigarette to the corner of his mouth and raised his Leica to look through the viewer.

When Martin Beck went past the group he drew his hat down over his face, ducked his head against his shoulder and walked straight ahead. This was merely a reflex action but always seemed to irritate someone because one of the repor ers said, surprisingly sourly:

'Say, will there be a dinner with the leaders of the search this evening?"

Martin Beck mumbled something without even knowing what he had said himself and continued toward the door. The second before he had opened the door, he heard the little click which indicated that the photographer had taken a picture.

He walked quickly down the street, but only until he thought he was out of the range of the camera. Then he stopped and stood there indecisively for about ten seconds. He threw a half-smoked cigarette into the gutter, shrugged his shoulders and walked over to a taxi stand. He slumped into the back seat, rubbed the tip of his nose with his right index finger, and peered over toward the hotel. From under his hat brim he saw the man who had spoken to him in the lobby. The journalist stood directly in front of the hotel and stared after the taxi. But only for a moment. Then he, too, shrugged his shoulders and went back into the hotel.

Press people and personnel from the Homicide Division of the National Police often stayed at the same hotel. After a speedy and successful solution to a crime, they often spent the last evening eating and drinking together. Over the years this had become a custom. Martin Beck didn't like it but several of his colleagues thought otherwise.

Even though he hadn't been on his own very much, he had still learned a little about Motala during the forty-eight hours he had been there. At least he knew the names of the streets. He watched the street signs as the taxi drove by them. He told the driver to stop at the bridge, paid him, and stepped out. He stood with his hands on the railing and looked along the canal. While he stood there he realized that he had forgotten to ask the driver to give him a receipt for the fare and that there would probably be some kind of idiotic nonsense back at the office if he were to make one out himself. It would be best to type out the information, it would give more substance to his request.

He was still thinking about that as he walked along the path on the north side of the canal.

During the morning hours there had been a few rain showers and the air was fresh and light. He stopped, right in the middle of the path, and felt how fresh it was. He drank in the cool, clean odor of wild flowers and wet grass. It reminded him of his childhood, but that was before tobacco smoke, gasoline odors and mucus had robbed his senses of their sharpness. Nowadays it wasn't often he had this pleasure.

Martin Beck had passed the five locks and continued along the sea wall. Several small boats were moored near the locks and by the breakwater, and a few small sailboats could be seen out in the open water. One hundred and fifty feet beyond the jetty, the dredger's bucket clanged and clattered under the watchful eye of some seagulls who were flying in wide, low circles. Their heads moved from one side to the other as they waited for whatever the bucket might bring up from the bottom. Their powers of observation and their patience were admirable, as was their staying power and optimism. They reminded Martin Beck of Kollberg and Melander.

He walked to the end of the breakwater and stood there for a while. She had been lying here, or more accurately, her violated body had been lying here, on a crumpled tarpaulin practically on view to anyone for public inspection. After a few hours it had been carried away by two businesslike, uniformed men with a stretcher and, in time, an elderly gentleman whose profession it was to do so, had opened it up, examined it in detail, and then sewed it together again before it was sent to the mortuary. He hadn't seen it himself. There was always something to be thankful for.

Martin Beck became conscious of the fact that he was standing with his hands clasped behind his back as he shifted his weight from the sole of one foot to another, a habit from his years as a patrolman which was totally unconscious and almost unbreakable. He was standing and staring at a gray and uninteresting piece of ground from where the chalk marks from the first, routine investigation had long since been washed away by the rain. He must have occupied himself with this for a long time because the surroundings had gone through a number of changes. When he looked up he observed a small, white passenger boat entering one of the locks at a good speed. When it passed the dredger, some twenty cameras pointed at it, and, as if to underscore the situation, the dredging foreman climbed out of his cabin and also photographed the passenger boat. Martin Beck followed the boat with his eyes as it passed the jetty and noted certain ugly details. The hull had clean lines but the mast was cut off and the original smokestack, which had surely been high and straight and beautiful, had been replaced by a strange, streamlined little tin hood. From inside the ship growled something that must have been a diesel engine. The deck was full of tourists. Nearly all of them seemed to be elderly or middle-aged and several of them wore straw hats with flowered bands.

The boat was named Juno. He remembered that Ahlberg had mentioned this name the first time they had met.

There were a lot of people on the breakwater and along the edge of the canal now. Some of them fished and others sunbathed, but most of them were chiefly occupied with watching the boat. For the first time in several hours Martin Beck found a reason to say something.

'Does the boat always pass here at this time of day?"

'Yes, if it comes from Stockholm. Twelve-thirty. Right The one that goes in the other direction comes by later, just after four. They meet at Vadstena. They tie up there."

'There are a lot of people here, on shore, I mean."

'They come down to see the boat." "Are there always so many?" "Usually."

The man he was talking to took the pipe from his mouth and spat in the water.

'Some pleasure," he said. "To stand and stare at a bunch of tourists."

When Martin Beck walked back along the brink of the canal he passed the little passenger boat again. It was now about halfway up, peacefully rising in the third lock. A number of passengers had gone on land. Several of them were photographing the boat, others crowded around the kiosk on shore where they were buying postcards and plastic souvenirs which, without doubt, were made in Hong Kong.

Martin Beck couldn't really say that he was short of tune so with his innate respect for government budgets he took the bus back to town instead of a taxi.

There were no newspapermen in the hotel lobby and no messages for him at the desk. He went up to his room, sat down at the table and looked out over the Square. Actually he should have gone over to the police station but he had already been there twice before lunch. A half hour later he telephoned Ahlberg. "Hi. I'm glad you called. The Public Prosecutor is here." "And?"

'He's going to hold a press conference at six o'clock. He seems worried." "Oh."

'He would like you to be there." "I'll be there."

'Will you bring Kollberg with you. I haven't had time to tell him yet." "Where is Melander?"

'Out with one of my boys following up a lead." "Did it sound as if it could be anything important?" "Hell, no." "And otherwise?"

'Nothing. The Prosecutor is worried about the press. The other telephone is ringing now." "So long. See you later."

He remained seated at the table and listlessly smoked all his cigarettes. Then he looked at the clock, got up, and went out into the corridor. He stopped three doors down the hall, knocked and walked in, quietly and very quickly, in his usual manner.

Kollberg lay on the bed reading an evening paper. He had taken off his shoes and jacket and opened his shirt. His service pistol lay on the night table, wrapped up in his tie.

'We've fallen back to page twelve today," he said. "The poor devils, they don't have an easy time of it."

'Who?"

'Those reporters. 'The mystery tightens around the bestial murder of the woman in Motala. Not only the local police but even the Homicide Division of the National Police are fumbling around hopelessly in the dark.' I wonder where they get all that?"

Kollberg was fat and had a nonchalant and jovial manner which caused many people to make fateful mistakes in judging him.

'The case seemed to be a routine one in the beginning but has become more and more complicated. The leaders of the search are uncommunicative but are working along several different lines. The naked beauty of Boren…' oh, crap!"

He looked through the rest of the article and threw the newspaper on the floor.

'Yes, she was some beauty! A completely ordinary bow-legged woman with a big rear end and very small breasts."

'She had a big crotch, of course," said Kollberg. "And that was her misfortune," he added philosophically.

'Have you seen her?" Martin Beck asked.

'Of course, haven't you?"

'Only her pictures."

'Well I've seen her," said Kollberg.

'What have you been doing this afternoon?"

'What do you think? Reports from knocking on doors. What garbage! It's insane to send out fifteen different guys all over the place. Everybody expresses themselves differently and sees things differently. Some of them write four pages about seeing a one-eyed cat and saying that the kids in a house are snot-nosed, and others write up finding three bodies and a time bomb in a few paragraphs. They even ask totally 1 different questions."

Martin Beck said nothing. Kollberg sighed.

'They should have a formula," he said. "They would save four-fifths of the time."

'Yes."

Martin Beck searched in his pockets.

'As you know I don't smoke," said Kollberg jokingly.

The Public Prosecutor is holding a press conference in a half an hour. He would like us to be there."

'Oh. That ought to be lively."

He pointed to the newspaper and said:

'If we questioned the reporters for once. For four days in a row that guy has written that an arrest can be expected before the end of the afternoon. And the girl looks a little bit like Anita Ekberg and a little bit like Sophia Loren."

He sat up in bed, buttoned his shirt and began to lace his shoes.

Martin Beck walked over to the window.

'It's going to rain any minute," he said.

'Oh damn," Kollberg said and yawned.

'Are you tired?"

'I slept two hours last night. We were out in the woods in the moonlight searching for that type from St. Sigfrid's."

'Yes, of course."

'Yes, of course! And after we had wandered around for seven hours in this damn tourist place someone got around to telling us that the boys back at Klara station in Stockholm got the guy in Berzelü Park the night before last."

Kollberg finished dressing and put his pistol in place. He took a quick look at Martin Beck and said: "You look depressed. What is it?"

'Nothing special."

'Okay, let's go. The world press is waiting."

There were about twenty journalists in the room in which the press conference was to be held. In addition, the Public Prosecutor, the Superintendent of Police, Larsson, and a TV photographer with two spotlights were there. Ahlberg wasn't there. The Prosecutor sat behind a table and was looking thoughtfully through a folder. Several of the others were standing. There weren't enough chairs for everyone. It was noisy and everyone was talking at once. The room was crowded and the air was already unpleasant. Martin Beck, who disliked crowds, took several steps away from the others and stood with his back to the wall in the space between those who would ask the questions and those who would answer them.

After several minutes the Public Prosecutor turned to the Chief of Police and asked, loudly enough to cut through all the other noise in the room: "Where the devil is Ahlberg?"

Larsson grabbed the telephone and forty seconds later Ahlberg entered the room. He was red-eyed and perspiring and still in the process of getting into his jacket.

The Public Prosecutor stood up and knocked lightly on the table with his fountain pen. He was tall and well built and quite correctly dressed, but almost too elegant.

'Gentlemen, I am pleased to see that so many of you have come to this impromptu press conference. I see representatives of all branches of media, the press, radio and television."

He bowed slightly toward the TV photographer, who was obviously the only press person present in the room whom he could definitely identify.

'I am also pleased to be able to say that from the outset your manner of handling this tragic and… sensitive matter has been, for the most part, correct and responsible. Unfortunately, there have been a few exceptions. Sensationalism and loose speculations do not help in such a… sensitive case as…"

Kollberg yawned and didn't even bother to put his hand in front of his mouth.

'As you all know this case has… and I certainly do not need to point it out again, special… sensitive aspects and'

From the opposite side of the room Ahlberg looked at Martin Beck, his pale blue eyes filled with gloomy recognition and understanding.

'… and just these… sensitive aspects call for a particularly careful way of treating them."

The Public Prosecutor continued to speak. Martin Beck looked over the shoulder of the reporter who sat in front of him and saw a drawing of a star on his notebook. The TV man was leaning against his tripod.

'… and naturally I want to, no, more properly said, we neither want to nor can we hide our gratefulness for all the help in this… sensitive case. In short, we need the support of what we often call that great detective, the Public."

Kollberg yawned again. Ahlberg looked desperately unhappy.

Martin Beck finally ventured a look at the people in the room. He knew three of the journalists, they were older and came from Stockholm. He also recognized a few others. Most of them seemed very young.

'In addition, gentlemen, the collected information that we do have is at your disposal," said the Public Prosecutor and sat down.

With that he had clearly said his piece. In the beginning Larsson answered the questions. Most of them were asked by three young reporters who followed each other's questions in rapid order. Martin Beck noted that a number of newspapermen sat quietly and didn't take any notes. Their attitude toward the lack of real leads in the case seemed to show compassion and understanding. The photographers yawned. The room was already thick with cigarette smoke.

QUESTION: Why hasn't there been a real press conference before this one?

ANSWER: There haven't been many leads in this case. In addition, there are certain important facts in this case that could not be made public without hindering its solution.

QUESTION: Is an arrest immediately forthcoming?

ANSWER: It is conceivable, but from the present standpoint we cannot give you a definite answer, unfortunately.

QUESTION: Do you have any real clues in this case?

ANSWER: All we can say is that our investigations are following certain distinct lines.

(After this amazing series of half truths the Chief of Police threw a sorrowful look at the Public Prosecutor who stubbornly examined his cuticles.)

QUESTION: Criticism has been directed toward several of my colleagues. Is it the opinion of those in charge of the case that these colleagues have more or less intentionally twisted the facts?

(This question was asked by the notoriously well known reporter whose article had made such a deep impression on Kollberg.)

ANSWER: Yes, unfortunately.

QUESTION: Isn't it more a case of the police leaving us reporters out in the cold and not giving us useful information? And deliberately leaving us to our own devices to find out whatever we can in the field?

ANSWER: Humn.

(Several of the less talkative journalists began to show signs of displeasure.)

QUESTION: Have you identified the corpse?

(Superintendent Larsson, with a quick glance, threw the ball over to Ahlberg, sat down, and demonstratively took a cigar out of his breast pocket.)

ANSWER: No.

QUESTION: Is it possible that she is from this city or somewhere around here?

ANSWER: It doesn't seem likely.

QUESTION: Why not?

ANSWER: If that were the case we would have been able identify her.

QUESTION: Is that your only reason for suspecting that comes from another part of the country?

(Ahlberg looked dismally at the Chief of Police who was devoting all his attention to his cigar.)

ANSWER: Yes.

QUESTION: Has the search of the bottom near the breakwater produced any results?

ANSWER: We have found a number of things.

QUESTION: Do these things have anything to do with the crime?

ANSWER: That is not easy to answer.

QUESTION: How old was she?

ANSWER: Presumably between twenty-five and thirty.

QUESTION: Exactly how long had she been dead when she was found?

ANSWER: That isn't easy to answer, either. Between three and four days.

QUESTION: The information that has been given to the public is very vague. Isn't it possible to tell us something more exact, information which really says something?

ANSWER: That's what we are trying to do here. We have also retouched a picture of her face which you are welcome to, if you want to have it.

(Ahlberg reached for a group of papers on the desk and started to hand them out. The air in the room was heavy and humid.)

QUESTION: Did she have any particular marks on her body?

ANSWER: Not as far as we know.

QUESTION: What does that mean?

ANSWER: Simply, that she had no marks at all.

QUESTION: Has a dental examination given any special clues?

ANSWER: She had good teeth.

(A long and pressing pause followed. Martin Beck noted that the reporter in front of him was still doodling with star he had drawn.)

QUESTION: Is it possible that the body was thrown into the water at some other place and that it was brought to breakwater by the current?

ANSWER: It doesn't seem likely.

QUESTION: Have you learned anything by knocking on doors?

ANSWER: We are still working on that.

QUESTION: To sum up, isn't it so that the police have a complete mystery on their hands?

It was the Public Prosecutor that answered: "Most crimes are a mystery in the beginning."

With that, the press conference ended.

On the way out, one of the older reporters stopped Martin Beck, laid his hand on his arm and said: "Don't you know anything at all?" Martin Beck shook his head.

In Ahlberg's office two men were going through all the material they had gathered from the operation of knocking on doors.

Kollberg walked over to the desk, looked at several of the papers, and shrugged his shoulders.

Ahlberg came in. He took off his jacket and hung it over the back of his chair. Then he turned to Martin Beck and said: "The Public, Prosecutor wants to talk to you. He is still in the other room."

The Prosecutor and the Police Superintendent were still sitting behind the table.

'Beck," said the Prosecutor, "I don't see that your presence is necessary here any longer. There simply is not any work for the three of you."

'That's true."

'In general I think that a lot of what is left to do can be done conveniently some other place."

'That is possible."

'To put it simply, I don't want to detain you here, especially if your presence is more motivated in another direction."

'That is also my point of view," the Chief of Police added.

'Mine also," said Martin Beck.

They shook hands.

In Ahlberg's office it was still very quiet. Martin Beck did not break that silence.

After a while Melander came in. He hung up his hat and nodded to the others. Then he went over to the desk, sat down at Ahlberg's typewriter, put some paper in it and knocked out a few lines. He pulled the paper out of the typewriter, signed it, and placed it in the folder on the desk.

'Was that anything?" asked Ahlberg.

'No," said Melander.

He hadn't changed his manner since he had come in.

'We are going home tomorrow," Martin Beck said.

'Great," said Kollberg and yawned.

Martin Beck took a step toward the door and then turned and looked at the man at the typewriter.

'Are you coming along to the hotel?" he asked.

Ahlberg put his head back and looked at the ceiling. Then he got up and began to straighten his tie.

In the hotel lobby they separated from Melander.

'I've already eaten," he said. "Good night."

Melander was a clean living man. In addition he was economical with his expense account and subsisted mainly on hot dogs and soft drinks when he was out on a job.

The other three went into the dining room and sat down.

'A gin and tonic," said Kollberg. "Schweppes."

The others ordered beef, aquavit and beer. Kollberg took his drink and finished it in three swallows. Martin Beck took I out a copy of the material which had been given to the reporters and read through it.

'Will you do me a favor," said Martin Beck looking at Kollberg.

'Always ready to," answered Kollberg.

'I want you to write a new description, write it for me personally. Not a report but a real description. Not a description of a corpse but of a human being. Details. How she might have looked when she was alive. There's no hurry about it."

Kollberg sat quietly for a while.

'I understand what you mean," he said. "By the way, our friend Ahlberg supplied the world press with an untruth today. She actually did have a birthmark, on the inside of her left thigh. Brown. It looked like a pig."

'We didn't see it," said Ahlberg.

Before he left he said:

'Don't worry about it. No one can see anything. Anyway, it's your murder now. Forget that you've seen me. It was only an illusion. So long."

'So long," said Ahlberg.

They ate and drank silently. A lot later and without looking up from his drink, Ahlberg said:

'Are you planning to let this one go now?"

'No," replied Martin Beck.

'I'm not either," said Ahlberg. "Never."'

A half hour later they separated.

When Martin Beck went up to his room he found some folded papers under his door. He opened them and immediately recognized Kollberg's orderly, easy to read, handwriting. Because he had known Kollberg well for a long time he wasn't at all surprised.

He undressed, washed the top of his body in cold water and put on his pajamas. Then he put his shoes out in the corridor, laid his trousers under the mattress, turned on the night table lamp, turned off the ceiling light and got into bed.

Kollberg had written:

'The following can be said about the woman who is occupying your thoughts:

1) She was (as you already know) 5 feet, 6 1,'2 inches tall, had gray-blue eyes and dark brown hair. Her teeth were good and she had no scars from operations or other marks on her body with the exception of a birthmark, high up on the inside of her left thigh about an inch and a half from her groin. It was brown and about as large as a dime, but uneven and looked like a little pig. She was, according to the man who performed the autopsy (and I had to press him to tell me this on the telephone), twenty-seven or twenty-eight years old. She weighed about one hundred and twenty-three pounds.

2) She was built in the following manner: Small shoulders and a very small waist, broad hips and a well developed rear end. Her measurements ought to have been approximately: 32-23-37. Thighs: heavy and long. Legs: muscular with relatively heavy calves but not fat. Her feet were in good condition with long, straight toes. No corns but heavy calluses on the soles of her feet, as if she had gone barefoot a lot and worn sandals or rubber boots a great deal of the time. She had a lot of hair on her legs, and must have been bare-legged most of the time. Condition of her legs: some defects. She was somewhat knock-kneed and seems to have walked with her toes pointed outward. She had a good deal of flesh on her body but was not fat. Slender arms. Small hands but long fingers. Shoe size was seven.

3) The suntan on her body showed: she had sunbathed in a two-piece bathing suit and worn sunglasses. She had worn thong sandals on her feet.

4) Her sex organ was well developed with a heavy growth of dark hair. Her breasts were small and slack. The nipples were large and dark brown.

5) Rather short neck. Strong features. A large mouth full lips. Straight, thick, dark eyebrows and lighter eyelashes. Not long. Straight, short nose which was rather broad. No traces of cosmetics on her face. Fingernails and toenails hard, and clipped short. No traces of nail polish.

6) In the record of the autopsy (which you have read) I place special attention on the following: She had not had a child and never had an abortion. The murder had not been committed in connection with any conventional act (no trace of sperm). She had eaten three to five hours before she died: J meat, potatoes, strawberries and milk. No traces of sickness or any organic changes. She did not smoke.

I've left a call to be awakened at six o'clock. So long."

Martin Beck read through Kollberg's observations twice before he folded the papers and laid them on his night table. Then he turned off the light and rolled over toward the wall.

It had begun to get light before he fell asleep.

6

The heat was already trembling over the asphalt when they drove away from Motala. It was early in the morning and the road lay flat and empty ahead of them. Kollberg and Melander sat in the front and Martin Beck sat in the back seat with the window down and let the breeze blow on his face. He didn't feel well and it was probably due to the coffee that he had gulped down while he was getting dressed.

'Kollberg was driving, poorly and unevenly," Martin Beck thought, but for once he remained silent. Melander looked blankly out the window and bit hard on the stem of his pipe.

After they had driven silently for about three-quarters of an hour Kollberg nodded his head to the left where a lake could be seen between the trees.

'Lake Roxen," he said. "Boren, Roxen and Glan. Believe it or not that's one of the few things I remember from school." The others said nothing.

They stopped at a coffee house in Linköping. Martin Beck still didn't feel well and remained in the car while the others had something to eat.

The food had put Melander in a better mood and the two men in the front seat exchanged remarks during the rest of the trip. Martin Beck still remained silent. He didn't want to talk.

When they reached Stockholm he went directly home. His wife was sitting on the balcony sunbathing. She had shorts on and when she heard the front door open she took her brassiere from the balcony railing and got up.

'Hi," she said. "How are you?"

'Terrible. Where are the children?"

'They took their bikes and went off to swim. You look pale. You haven't eaten properly of course. I'll fix some breakfast for you."

'I'm tired," said Martin Beck. "I don't want anything to eat."

'But it will be ready in a second. Sit down and…"

'I don't want any breakfast. I think I'll sleep for a while. Wake me up in an hour."

It was a quarter after ten.

He went into the bedroom and closed the door after him.

When she awakened him he thought he had only slept for a few minutes.

The clock showed that it was quarter of one.

'I told you one hour."

'You looked so tired. Commissioner Hammar is on the telephone."

'Oh, damn."

An hour later he was sitting in his chief's office.

'Didn't you get anywhere?"

'No. We don't know a thing. We don't know who she was, where she was murdered, and least of all by whom. We know approximately how and where but that's all."

Hammar sat with the palms of his hands on the top of the desk, and studied his fingernails and wrinkled his forehead. He was a good man to work for, calm, almost a little slow, and they always got along well together.

Commissioner Hammar folded his hands and looked up at Martin Beck.

'Keep in contact with Motala. You are most probably right. The girl was on vacation, thought to be away, maybe even out of the country. It might take two weeks at least before anyone misses her. If we count on a three week vacation. But I would like to see your report as soon as possible."

'You'll get it this afternoon."

Martin Beck went into his office, took the cover off his typewriter, thumbed through the papers he had received from Ahlberg, and began to type.

At five-thirty the telephone rang.

'Are you coming home to dinner?"

'It doesn't seem so."

'Aren't there any other policemen but you?" said his wife. "Do you have to do everything? When do they think you'll see your family? The children are asking for you."

'I'll try to get home by six-thirty."

An hour and a half later his report was finished.

'Go home and get some sleep," said Hammar. "You look tired."

Martin Beck was tired. He took a taxi home, ate dinner and went to bed.

He fell asleep immediately.

At one-thirty in the morning the telephone awakened him.

'Were you asleep? I'm sorry that I woke you up. I only wanted to tell you that the case has been solved. He turned himself in."

'Who?"

'Holm, the neighbor. Her husband. He collapsed, totally. It was jealousy. Funny, isn't it?"

'Whose neighbor? Who are you talking about?"

'The dame in Storängen, naturally. I only wanted to tell you so that you wouldn't lie awake and think about it unnecessarily… Oh, God, have I made a mistake?"

'Yes."

'Damn it, of course. You weren't there. It was Sten-ström. I'm sorry. I'll see you in the morning."

'Nice of you to call," said Martin Beck.

He went back to bed but he couldn't sleep. He lay there looking at the ceiling and listening to his wife's mild snoring. He felt empty and depressed.

When the sun began to shine into the room he turned over on his side and thought: "Tomorrow I'll telephone Ahlberg."

He called Ahlberg the next day and then four or five times a week during the following month but neither of them had anything special to say. The girl's origins remained a mystery. The newspapers had stopped writing about the case and Hammar had stopped asking how it was going. There was still no report of a missing person that matched in any way. Sometimes it seemed as if she had never existed. Everyone except Martin Beck and Ahlberg seemed to have forgotten that they had ever seen her.

In the beginning of August, Martin Beck took one week's vacation and went out to the archipelago with his family. When he got back he continued to work on the routine jobs which came to his desk. He was depressed and slept poorly.

One night, at the end of August, he lay in his bed and looked out in the dark.

Ahlberg had called rather late that evening. He had been at the City Hotel and sounded a little drunk. They had talked for a while about the murder and before Ahlberg had hung up, he had said: "Whoever he is and wherever he is, we'll get him."

Martin Beck got up and walked barefooted into the living room. He turned on the light over his desk and looked at the model of the training ship Danmark. He still had the rigging to finish.

He sat down at the desk and took a folder out of a cubbyhole. Kollberg's description of the girl was in the folder together with copies of the pictures that the police photographer in Motala had taken nearly two months ago. In spite of the fact that he practically knew the description by heart he read it again, slowly and carefully. Then he placed the photographs in front of him and studied them for a long time.

When he put the papers back in the folder and turned off the light, he thought: "Whoever she was, and wherever she came from, I'm going to find out."

7

'Interpol, the devil with them," said Kollberg.

Martin Beck said nothing. Kollberg looked over his shoulder.

'Do those louses write in French too?"

'Yes. This is from the police in Toulouse. They have a missing person."

'French police," said Kollberg. "I made a search with them through Interpol last year. A little gal from Djursholm section. We didn't hear a word for three months and then got a long letter from the police in Paris. I didn't understand a word of it and turned it in to be translated. The next day I read in the newspaper that a Swedish tourist had found her. Found her, hell. She was sitting in that world famous cafe where all the Swedish beatniks sit…"

'Le Dôme."

'Yes, that one. She was sitting there with some Arab that she was living with and she had been sitting there every day for nearly six months. That afternoon I got the translation. The letter stated that she hadn't been seen in France for at least three months and absolutely was not there now. In any case, not alive. 'Normal' disappearances were always cleared up within two weeks, they wrote, and in this case, unfortunately, one would have to assume some kind of crime."

Martin Beck folded the letter and placed it in one of his desk drawers.

'What did they write?" asked Kollberg.

'About the girl in Toulouse? The Spanish police found her in Mallorca a week ago."

'Why the devil do they need so many official stamps and so many strange words to say so little."

'You're right," said Martin Beck.

'Anyway, your girl must be Swedish. As everyone thought from the beginning. Strange."

'What's strange?"

'That no one has missed her, whoever she is. I sometimes about her too."

Kollberg's tone changed gradually.

'It irritates me," he said. "It irritates me a lot. How many blanks have you drawn now?"

'Twenty-seven with this one."

'That's a lot."

'You're right"

'Don't think too much about the mess."

'No."

'Well meant advice is easier to give than to take," thought Martin Beck. He got up and walked over to the window.

'I'd better be getting back to my murderer," said Kol berg. "He just grins and gnashes his teeth. What behavior! First he drinks a bottle of soda water and then he kills wife and children with an axe. Then he tries to set fire to house and cuts his throat with a saw. On top of everything else he runs to the police crying and complains about food. I'm sending him to the nut house this afternoon.

'God, life is strange," he added and slammed the door after him as he left the room.

The trees between the police station and Kristineberg's Hotel had begun to turn and to lose some of their leaves. The sky lay low and gray with trailing rain curtains and storm-torn clouds. It was the twenty-ninth of September and autumn was definitely on the way. Martin Beck looked distastefully at his half-smoked cigarette and thought about his sensitivity to temperature change and of the six months of winter's formidable colds which would soon strike him.

'Poor little friend, whoever you are," he said to himself.

He was conscious of the fact that their chances were reduced each day that passed. Maybe they would never even find out who she was, not to speak of getting the person who was guilty, unless the same man repeated the crime, woman who had lain out there on the breakwater in the sun at least had a face and a body and a nameless grave, murderer was nothing, totally without contours, a dim figure if that. But dim figures have no desires and no sharp pointed weapons. No strangler's hands.

Martin Beck straightened up. "Remember that you have three of the most important virtues a policeman can have,' he thought. "You are stubborn and logical, and completely calm. You don't allow yourself to lose your composure am you act only professionally on a case, whatever it is. Words like repulsive, horrible, and bestial belong in the newspapers, not in your thinking. A murderer is a regular human being, only more unfortunate and maladjusted."

He hadn't seen Ahlberg since that last evening at the City Hotel in Motala but they had talked on the telephone often. He had spoken to him last week and he remembered Ahlberg's final comment: "Vacation? Not before this thing is solved. I'll have all the material collected soon but I'm going to continue even if I have to drag all of Boren myself."

These days Ahlberg wasn't much more than merely stubborn, Martin Beck thought.

'Damn, damn, damn," he mumbled and rapped his forehead with his fist.

Then he went back to his desk and sat down, swung his chair a quarter turn to the left and stared listlessly at the paper in the typewriter. He tried to remember what it was he wanted to write before Kollberg had come in with the letter from Interpol.

Six hours later, at two minutes before five he had put on his hat and coat and already begun to hate the crowded subway train to the south. It was still raining and he could already perceive both the musty odor of wet clothing and the frightening feeling of having to stand hemmed in by a compact mass of strange bodies.

One minute before five, Stenström arrived. He opened the door without knocking as usual. It was irritating but endurable in comparison with Melander's woodpecker signals and Kollberg's deafening pounding.

'Here's a message for the department of missing girls. You'd better send a thank you letter to the American Embassy. They sent it up."

He studied the light red telegram sheet.

'Lincoln, Nebraska. What was it the last time?"

'Astoria, New York."

'Was that when they sent three pages of information but forgot to say that she was a Negro?"

'Yes," said Martin Beck.

Stenström gave him the telegram and said:

'Here's the number of some guy at the embassy. You ought to call him."

With guilty pleasure at every excuse to postpone the subway torture, he went back to his desk but it was too late. The embassy staff had gone home.

The next day was a Wednesday and the weather was worse '—ever. The morning paper had a late listing of a missing twenty-five year old housemaid from a place called Räng which seemed to be in the south of Sweden. She had no returned after her vacation.

During the morning registered copies of Kollberg's description and the retouched photographs were sent to the police in southern Sweden and to a certain Detective Lieutenant Elmer B. Kafka, Homicide Squad, Lincoln, Nebraska, U.S.A.

After lunch Martin Beck felt that the lymph glands in his neck were beginning to swell and by the time he got home that evening it was hard for him to swallow.

'Tomorrow the National Police can manage without you,| I've decided," said his wife.

He opened his mouth to answer her but looked at the children and closed it again without saying anything.

It didn't take her long to take advantage of her triumph.

'Your nose is completely stopped up. You're gasping for breath like a fish out of water."

He put down his knife and fork, mumbled "thanks for dinner," and absorbed himself with his rigging problem. Gradually, this activity calmed him completely. He worked slowly and methodically on the model ship and had no unpleasant thoughts. If he actually heard the noise from the television in the next room, it didn't register. After a while his daughter stood on the threshold with a sullen look traces of bubblegum on her chin.

'Some guy's on the phone. Wouldn't you know, right in the middle of Perry Mason."

Damn it, he would have to have the telephone move Damn it, he would have to start getting involved in his children's upbringing. Damn it, what does one say to a child who is thirteen years old and loves the Beatles and is already developed?

He walked into the living room as if he had to excuse existence and cast a sheepish look at the great defense lawyer's worn out dogface which filled the television screen He picked up the telephone and took it out into the hall with him.

'Hi," said Ahlberg. "I think I've found something."

'Yes?"

'Do you remember that we spoke about the canal boats which pass here in the summer at twelve-thirty and at four o'clock during the day?"

'Yes."

'I have tried to check up on the small boats and the freight traffic this week. It's almost impossible to do with all the boats that go by. But an hour ago one of the boys on the regular police staff suddenly said that he saw a passenger boat go past Platen's moat in a westerly direction in the middle of the night sometime last summer. He didn't know when and he hadn't thought about it until now, when I asked him. He had been doing some special duty in that area for several nights. It seems completely unbelievable but he swore that it was true. He went on vacation the next day and after that he forgot about it."

'Did he recognize the boat?"

'No, but wait. I called Gothenburg and spoke to a few men in the shipping office. One of them said that it certainly could be true. He thought the boat was named Diana and gave me the captain's address."

A short pause followed. Martin Beck could hear that Ahlberg had struck a match.

'I got hold of the captain. He said he certainly did remember although he would rather have forgotten it. First they had to stop at Hävringe for three hours because of heavy fog and then a steam pipe in the motor had broken…"

'Engine."

'What did you say?"

'In the engine. Not the motor."

'Oh yes, but in any case they had to stay over more than eight hours in Söderköping for repairs. That means that they were nearly twelve hours late and passed Borenshult after midnight. They didn't stop either in Motala or Vadstena but went directly on to Gothenburg."

'When did this happen? Which day?"

'The second trip after midsummer, the captain said. In other words, the night before the fifth."

Neither of them said anything for at least ten seconds. Then Ahlberg said:

'Four days before we found her. I called the shipping office guy again and checked out the time. He wondered what it was all about and I asked him if everyone on board had reached Gothenburg in good order. He said, 'Why shouldn't they have,' and I answered that I didn't really know. He must have thought that I was out of my mind."

It was quiet again.

'Do you think it means anything?" Ahlberg said finally.

'I don't know," answered Martin Beck. "Maybe. You've done a fine job in any event."

'If everyone who went on board arrived in Gothenburg, then it doesn't mean very much."

His voice was a strange mixture of disappointment and modest triumph.

'We have to check out all the information," Ahlberg said.

'Naturally."

'So long."

'So long. I'll call you."

Martin Beck remained standing a while with his hand on the telephone. Then he wrinkled his forehead and went through the living room like a sleepwalker. He closed the door behind him carefully and sat down in front of the model ship, lifted his right hand to make an adjustment on the mast, but dropped it immediately.

He sat there for another hour until his wife came in and made him go to bed.

8

'No one could say that you look particularly well," said Kollberg.

Martin Beck felt anything but well. He had a cold, and a sore throat, his ears hurt him and his chest felt miserable. The cold had, according to schedule, entered its worst phase. Even so, he had deliberately defied both the cold and the home front by spending the day in his office. First of all he had fled from the suffocating care which would have enveloped him had he remained in bed. Since the children had begun to grow up, Martin Beck's wife had adopted the role of home nurse with bubbling eagerness and almost manic determination. For her, his repeated bouts of colds and flu were on a par with birthdays and major holidays.

In addition, for some reason he didn't have the conscience to stay home.

'Why are you hanging around here if you aren't well?" said Kollberg.

'There's nothing the matter with me."

'Don't think so much about that case. It isn't the first time we have failed. It won't be the last either. You know that just as well as I do. We won't be any the better or the worse for it."

'It isn't just the case that I'm thinking about"

'Don't brood. It isn't good for the morale."

'The morale?"

'Yes, think what a lot of nonsense one can figure out with plenty of time. Brooding is the mother of ineffectiveness."

After saying this Kollberg left.

It had been an uneventful and dreary day, full of sneezing and spitting and dull routine. He had called Motala twice, mostly to cheer up Ahlberg, who in the light of day, had decided that his discovery wasn't worth very much as long as it couldn't be connected with the corpse at the locks.

'I suspect that it is easy to overestimate certain things when you've been working like a dog for so long without results."

Ahlberg had sounded crushed and regretful. It was almost heartbreaking.

The girl who had disappeared from Räng was still missing. That didn't worry him. She was 5 feet, 1 inch tall, had blond hair and a Bardot hair style.

At five o'clock he took a taxi home but got out at the subway station and walked the last bit in order to avoid the devastating economic argument which undoubtedly would have followed if his wife had happened to see him get out of a taxi.

He couldn't eat anything but drank a cup of camomile tea. "For safety's sake, so that he'd get a stomach ache too," Martin Beck thought. Then he went and lay down and fell asleep immediately.

The next morning he felt a little better. He ate a biscuit and drank with stoic calm the cup of scalding hot honey water which his wife had placed in front of him. The discussion about his health and the unreasonable demands that the government placed on its employees dragged on and by the time he arrived at his office at Kristineberg, it was already a quarter after ten.

There was a cable on his desk.

One minute later Martin Beck entered his chiefs office without knocking even though the "Don't Disturb" red light was on. This was the first time in eight years he had ever done this.

The ever-present Kollberg and Commissioner Hammar were leaning against the edge of the desk studying a blueprint of an apartment. They both looked at him with amazement.

'I got a cable from Kafka."

'That's a hell of a way to start a work day," said Koll-berg.

'That's his name. The detective in Lincoln, in America. He's identified the woman in Motala."

'Can he do that by cable?" asked Hammar.

'It seems so."

He put the cable on the desk. All three of them read the text.

THAT'S OUR GIRL ALL RIGHT. ROSEANNA MCGRAW, 27, LIBRARIAN. EXCHANGE OF FURTHER INFORMATION NECESSARY AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.

KAFKA, HOMICIDE

'Roseanna McGraw," said Hammar. "Librarian. That's one you never thought of."

'I had another theory," said Kollberg. "I thought she was from Mjölby. Where's Lincoln?"

'In Nebraska, someplace in the middle of the country," said Martin Beck. "I think."

Hammar read through the cable one more time.

'We had better get going again then," he said. "This doesn't say particularly much."

'Quite enough for us," said Kollberg. "We aren't spoiled."

'Well," said Hammar calmly. "You and I ought to clear up what we're working on first."

Martin Beck went back to his office, sat down a moment and massaged his hairline with his fingertips. The first surprised feeling of progress had somehow disappeared. It had taken three months to come up with information that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred you had free from the beginning. All the real work remained to be done.

The embassy people and the County Police Superintendent could wait. He picked up the telephone and dialed the area code for Motala.

'Yes," said Ahlberg.

'She's been identified."

'For sure?"

'It seems so."

Ahlberg said nothing.

'She was an American. From a place called Lincoln in Nebraska. Are you writing it down?"

'Hell, yes."

'Her name was Roseanna McGraw. I'll spell it: R for Rudolf, O for Olof, S for Sigurd, E for Erik, A for Adam, N for Niklas, again N for Niklas, A for Adam. New word: capital M for Martin, C for Cesar, capital G for Gustav, R for Rudolf, A for Adam, W for Wilhelm. Have you got that?"

'Sure I've got it."

'She was twenty-seven years old and a librarian. That's all I know at the moment."

'How did you manage that?"

'Only routine. They began to look for her after a while. Not through Interpol. Via the embassy."

'The boat?" said Ahlberg.

'What did you say?"

'The boat. Where would an American tourist be coming from if not from a boat? Maybe not from my boat but from some pleasure yacht. Quite a few go through here."

'We don't know if she was a tourist."

'That's right. I'll get going immediately. If she knew anyone here or lived in town, I'll know about it in twenty-four hours."

'Fine. I'll call you as soon as I know more."

Martin Beck ended the conversation by sneezing in Ahlberg's ear. By the time he tried to apologize, the other had already hung up.

In spite of his headache and his clogged up ears he felt better than he had for a long time. He felt like a longdistance runner one second before the starting gun. There were only two things that worried him: the murderer had jumped the gun and was three months ahead of him, and he didn't know in which direction to run.

Somewhere under this surface of disquieting perspective and speculations of unknown worth his policeman's brain had already begun to plan the routine searches of the next forty- I eight hours, which, he knew in advance, would obtain certain results. This was as sure as the fact that sand will run down in an hour glass.

For three months he hadn't really thought about anything but this. The moment when the investigation would really begin. It had been like trying to get out of a swamp in coal-black darkness and now he was feeling the first solid piece of ground under his feet. The next one would not be as far away.

He wasn't expecting any quick results. If Ahlberg found out that the woman from Lincoln had worked in Motala, or had been visiting friends in the city, or had even been there, he would be more surprised than if the murderer walked through the door and placed the evidence of the murder on j his desk.

On the other hand he was waiting for the supplementary 1 material from the U.S.A. without feeling particularly impa-tient. He thought about all the different statements that would gradually be sent on from the man in America and about Ahlberg's stubborn contention, which was actually to-tally groundless, that the woman had come by boat. It was more logical to think that the body had been brought down to the water by car.

Immediately afterwards he began thinking about Detective Lieutenant Kafka, how he looked, and if the police station where he worked resembled the ones people saw on television.

He wondered what time it was right now in Lincoln and where the woman had lived. He wondered if her apartment was empty, with white sheets covering the furniture, if the air in it was close and heavy, and filled with dust.

It struck him that his knowledge of the geography of North America was rather poor. He didn't know where Lincoln was at all and the name Nebraska was just another name to him.

After lunch he went to the library and took a look at a world atlas. He soon found Lincoln. The city certainly was inland, in fact as far in the middle of the United States as any city could be. It seemed to be a rather large city but he couldn't find any books containing information on North American cities. With the help of his pocket almanac he studied the time difference and figured it to be seven hours. It was now two-thirty in the afternoon in Stockholm and it was seven-thirty in the morning in Lincoln. Presumably Kafka was still in bed, reading his morning newspaper.

He studied the map for several minutes, then placing his finger on the pin-sized point in the southeast corner of the state of Nebraska, which was nearly one hundred longitude degrees west of Greenwich, he said to himself: "Roseanna McGraw."

He repeated the name several more times almost as if to nail it down in his consciousness.

When he got back to the police station Kollberg was sitting at the typewriter.

The telephone rang before either of them had time to say anything. It was the switchboard.

'The Central Telephone Office has advised us that there is a phone call coming from the United States. It is coming in about thirty minutes. Can you take it?"

Detective Lieutenant Kafka was not lying in bed reading the newspaper! Once again he had drawn too hasty a conclusion.

'From America. Well, I'll be damned," said Kollberg.

The call came after three-quarters of an hour. At first there were only confused noises and then a lot of telephone operators all talking at once, and then a voice came through, amazingly clear and distinct.

'Yeah, Kafka speaking. That you Mr. Beck?"

'Yes."

'You got my wire?"

'Yes. Thank you."

'It's all clear, isn't it?"

'Is there not any doubt about that it is the right woman?" asked Martin Beck.

'You sound like a native," said Kollberg.

'Nope, sir, that's Roseanna all right. I got her identified i less than one hour—thanks to your excellent description. even double-checked it. Gave it to her girlfriend and that ex-boyfriend of hers down in Omaha. Both were quite sure. All the same, I've mailed photographs and some other stuff for you."

'When did she leave home?"

'Beginning of May. Her idea was to spend about two months in Europe. It was her first trip abroad. As far as I know she was traveling alone."

'Do you know anything about her plans?"

'Not very much. In fact no one here does. I can give you one clue. She wrote a postcard from Norway to her girlfriend, saying that she was to stay one week in Sweden, then proceed to Copenhagen."

'Did she not write anything more?"

'Well, she said something about boarding a Swedish ship. For some sort of lake cruise through the country or something like that. That point is not very clear."

Martin Beck held his breath.

'Mr. Beck, are you still there?"

'Yes."

The connection was getting worse rather quickly.

'I understand she was murdered," shouted Kafka. "Did you get the guy?"

'Not yet."

'I can't hear you."

'In a short time, I hope, not yet," said Martin Beck.

'You shot him?"

'I did what? No, no, not shot…"

'Yeah, I hear, you shot the bastard," screamed the man on the other side of the Atlantic. "That's great I'll give that to the papers here."

'You are misunderstanding," Martin Beck roared.

He heard Kafka's final reply like a weak whisper through ethereal noise.

'Yeah, I understand perfectly well. I've got your name all right. So long. You'll be hearing from me. Well done, Martin."

Martin Beck put down the receiver. He had been standing up during the entire conversation. He was panting and perspiration had broken out all over his face.

'What are you doing?" asked Kollberg. "Do you think that they have speaking-tubes to Nebraska?"

'We couldn't hear very well toward the end. He thought that I had shot the murderer. He said he was going to tell that to the newspapers."

'Great. Tomorrow you'll be the hero of the day over there. The day after, they'll make you an honorary citizen and at Christmas time they'll send you the key to the city. A gilded one. 'Shoot-em-up-Martin, The avenger from south Stockholm.' The boys are going to have a good time with this one."

Martin Beck blew his nose and wiped the perspiration from his face.

'Well, what did he say? Or did he only go on about how clever you are?"

'It was mostly you that was praised. For your description. 'Excellent description,' he said."

'Was he positive of the identification?"

'Yes, definitely. He had checked with her friend and with some sort of former beau."

'What else?"

'She left home in the middle of May. She was to spend two months in Europe. It was her first trip out of the country. She sent a postcard from Norway to her girlfriend and wrote that she would be here for a week and then continue on to Copenhagen. He said that he had mailed some pictures of her and some other things."

'Was that all?"

Martin Beck went over to the window and gazed out. He bit on his thumbnail.

'She wrote on the postcard that she was going to take a boat trip. Some sort of cruise through Sweden on the lakes and inland waterways…"

He turned around and looked at his colleague. Kollberg was no longer smiling and the teasing look had left his eyes. After a while he said, very slowly:

'So she did come with the canal boat Our friend in Motala was right."

'It seems so," said Martin Beck.

9

Martin Beck took a deep breath when he came out of the subway station. The trip, with its crowded subway cars, had made him feel slightly ill as usual.

The air was clear and light and a fresh breeze swept in over the city from the Baltic. He crossed the street and bought a pack of cigarettes in a tobacco store. He walked on toward Skepps Bridge and stopped, lit a cigarette and stood with his elbows on the bridge railing. A cruise ship bearing an English flag was anchored at a pier in the distance. He couldn't make out the name but guessed that it was the Devonia. A group of seagulls screeched as they fought over some garbage which had been thrown overboard. He stood for a while looking at the ship and then continued on toward the pier.

Two dismal looking men sat on a pile of wood. The first one tried to light a cigarette butt in a wooden holder and when he didn't succeed the other one, whose hands shook less, tried to help him. Martin Beck looked at his wristwatch. Five minutes to nine. "They must be broke," he thought, "otherwise they would be waiting by the door of the liquor store at this time of day."

He passed the Bore H which was tied up at the pier loading freight and stood on the curb directly across from the Hotel Reisen. It took a few minutes before he managed to break through the unending line of automobiles and get across the street.

The passenger list for the Diana's trip on July 3 was not in the canal boat's shipping office. It was in the Gothenburg office but they had promised to send it as soon as possible. However, a list of the crew and other personnel was given to him immediately. When he left, he took a few brochures with him which he read on the way back to the office.

Melander was already sitting in his visitor's chair when he arrived.

'Hi there," Martin Beck said.

'Good morning," said Melander.

'That pipe smells dreadful. But by all means sit here and poison the air. You are most welcome. Or was there something special you wanted?"

'You don't get cancer as quickly if you smoke a pipe. Your brand of cigarettes are said to be the most dangerous, by the way. At least that's what I've heard. Otherwise, I'm on duty."

'Check with American Express, the Post Office, banks, the telephone company, other contacts, you understand, don't you?"

'I believe so. What was the woman's name again?"

Martin Beck wrote the name on a piece of paper, ROSEANNA MCGRAW, and gave it to Melander.

'How do you pronounce it?"

He left and Martin Beck opened the window. It was chilly -and the wind blew through the tree tops and swept up the leaves on the ground. After a while he shut the window again, hung his jacket over the back of his chair and sat down.

He picked up the telephone and dialed the number of the National Office for Aliens. If she had registered at a hotel she ought to be on file there. Some record of her ought to be there in any event. He had to wait a long time before anyone answered and then it took ten minutes before the girl came back to the phone. She had found the card. Roseanna McGraw had stayed at the Hotel Gillet in Stockholm from June 30 until July 2.

'Please send me a photocopy," said Martin Beck.

He pressed down the buttons on the telephone and waited for the disconnected signal with the receiver still in his hand. Then he telephoned for a taxi and put on his jacket. Ten minutes later he got out of the taxi, paid the driver, and entered the hotel through its glass doors.

In front of the reception desk stood a group of six men. They had name tags on their lapels and were all talking at the same time. The desk clerk looked unhappy and threw up his arms in a complaining gesture. It looked as if the discussion would take some time, so Martin Beck sat down in one of the armchairs in the lobby.

He waited until the discussion was over and let the group disappear into the elevator before he went up to the desk.

The desk clerk looked stoically through the register until he found the name. He turned the book toward Martin Beck so that he could read it. She had printed with attractive, even letters. Place of Birth: Denver, Col. USA. Home Address: Lincoln, Nebr. Last Place Visited: Nebr. USA.

Martin Beck checked the guests who had registered on June 30 and the days immediately preceding and following. Above Roseanna McGraw's name were the names of no less than eight Americans. All except the two names on top of the list had given some place in the U.S.A. as their last place visited. The first one had written Phyllis with the rest of the name illegible. She had written North Cape, Sweden, as the last place visited. The person who had registered just beneath her had written North Cape, Norway, in the same column.

'Was it a group tour?" asked Martin Beck.

'Let's see," said the desk clerk and turned his head to look. "No, I don't really remember, but it is very likely. We sometimes have American groups here. They arrive with the'dollar train' from Narvik."

Martin Beck showed the man a photograph but he shook his head in reply.

'No, I'm sorry, we have so many guests here…"

No one had recognized her but the trip to the hotel had some results. Now he knew where she had stayed, he had seen her name in the register and had even looked at the room she had stayed in. She had left the hotel on July 2.

'And then? Where did you go?" he said quietly to himself.

His temples were throbbing and his throat hurt. He wondered how much fever he had, and went back to the office.

She could have traveled with the canal boat and gone on board the night before it left Stockholm. He had read in the brochure from the shipping office that passengers could go on board the night before the boat left. He was more and more convinced that she had been on the Diana in spite of the fact that there was still no evidence of it

He wondered where Melander was and reached for the telephone. Just as he was about to dial the number he heard a distinct pecking at the door.

Melander stood in the doorway.

'No," he said. "Neither American Express nor any other such place knows anything about her. I'll go and get something to eat now if you don't mind."

He had no objection and Melander disappeared.

He telephoned Motala but Ahlberg wasn't in.

His headache was getting worse. After looking for some headache pills for a while he went up to Kollberg's office to borrow a few. Just inside the door he started coughing so badly that he couldn't say anything for a long tune.

Kollberg cocked his head and looked at him worriedly.

'You sound worse than eighteen Ladies of the Camelias. Come here and let the doctor look at you."

He looked at Martin Beck through his magnifying glass.

'If you don't listen to the doctor you won't have much time left. Go home and creep into bed and drink a real large glass of toddy. Preferably three of them. Rum toddies. That's the only thing that will help. Then go to sleep and you'll wake up like new."

'What do you think it is? And, by the way, I don't like rum," said Martin Beck.

'Take cognac then. Don't worry about Kafka. If he calls, I'll take care of him. My English is excellent."

'He won't call. Do you have any headache pills?"

'No, but you can have a chocolate praline."

Martin Beck returned to his office. The air in the room was thick and smoky but he didn't want to open the window and let the cold air in.

Ahlberg still wasn't there when he telephoned a half hour later. He took out the list of the Diana's crew. It contained eighteen names and addresses from different parts of the country. Six of them were in Stockholm and there were two names without an address. Two of them lived in Motala.

At four-thirty he decided to take Kollberg's advice. He cleaned off his desk and put his hat and coat on.

On the way home he stopped at a pharmacy and bought a box of pills.

He found a drop of cognac in the pantry, poured it into a cup of bouillon, and took the cup with him into the bedroom. By the tune his wife had come in with a heat lamp he was already asleep.

He awoke early the next morning but stayed in bed until a quarter to eight. Then he got up and got dressed. He felt a great deal better and his headache had disappeared.

On the dot of nine he opened the door to his office. An envelope with a red special delivery sticker lay on his desk. He opened it up with his index finger without taking the time to take off his overcoat

The envelope contained a passenger list

His eyes caught her name immediately.

McGraw, R., Miss, USA: Single cabin A 7.

10

'I knew that I was right," Ahlberg said. "I had a feeling. How many passengers were there on the boat?"

'According to the list there were sixty-eight," said Martin Beck and filled in the number on the paper in front of him with a pen.

'Are their addresses listed?"

'No, only nationalities. It's going to be one hell of a job to find all these people. We can cross off some of them, of course. Children and old women, for example. Then too, we have the crew and other personnel to get hold of. That makes eighteen more but I have their addresses."

'You said that Kafka thought that she was traveling alone. What do you think?"

'It doesn't seem as if she was with anyone. She had a single cabin. According to the deck plan it was the one farthest back toward the stern on the middle deck."

'I must admit that it doesn't tell me very much," said Ahlberg. "In spite of the fact that I see that boat several times a week every summer I don't really know what it looks like. I've never been on board any of them. All three seem alike to me."

'Actually, they are not really alike. I think we ought to try and get a look at the Diana. Ill find out where she is," said Martin Beck.

He told Ahlberg about his visit to the Hotel Gillet, gave him the address of the pilot and chief engineer both of whom lived in Motala, and promised to call again when he found out where the Diana was now.

After he had finished the conversation with Ahlberg, he went into his chief's office with the passenger list.

Hammar congratulated him on the progress and asked him to go and have a look at the boat as soon as possible. Kollberg and Melander would have to worry about the passenger list for the time being.

Melander didn't seem very enthusiastic about the task of locating the addresses of sixty-seven unknown people spread out over the entire globe. He sat in Martin Beck's office with a copy of the passenger list in his hand and made a fast tabulation:

'Fifteen Swedes, of which five are named Andersson, three named Johansson, and three named Petersson. That sounds promising! Twenty-one Americans, minus one, of course. Twelve Germans, four Danes, four Englishmen, one Scot, two Frenchmen, two South Africans—we can look for them with tom-tom drums—five Dutchmen and two Turks."

He tapped his pipe against the wastepaper basket and put the list into his pocket.

'Turks. On the Göta Canal," he mumbled and left the room.

Martin Beck telephoned the canal boat office. The Diana was at Bohus for the winter, a community on the Göta River about twelve miles from Gothenburg. A man from the Gothenburg office would meet them there and show them the boat.

He called Ahlberg and informed him that he would take the afternoon train to Motala. They agreed that they would leave Motala at seven o'clock the following morning in order to be in Bohus around ten o'clock.

For once he missed the rush hour going home and the subway car was almost empty.

His wife had begun to understand how important this case was to him and only ventured a mild protest when he told her that he was leaving. She packed his suitcase in sullen silence but Martin Beck pretended not to notice her demonstrable sulkiness. He kissed her absentmindedly on the cheek and left home a full hour before train time.

'I didn't bother to reserve a room for you at the hotel," said Ahlberg, who was waiting with his car in front of the railroad station in Motala. "We have a formidable sofa you can sleep on."

They sat up late and talked that evening and when the alarm clock rang the next morning they felt anything but rested. Ahlberg telephoned S.K.A.* [* Statens Kriminal Teknista Anstalt—the federal criminal technical bureau.] and they promised to send two men to Bohus. Then they went down to the car.

The morning was cold and gray and after they had driven a while it began to rain lightly.

'Did you get hold of the pilot and the chief engineer? Martin Beck asked, when they had left the city behind them.

'Only the chief engineer," said Ahlberg. "He was a tough guy. I had to drag every word out of him. In any case he had very little to do with the passengers. And on this particular trip he was obviously fully occupied due to the trouble with the motor… sorry, the engine. He was in a bad mood the minute I mentioned that trip. But he said that there had been two boys helping him and that as far as he knew, they had signed on a boat which was going to England and Germany right after the Diana's last trip."

'Oh, well." Martin Beck replied. "We'll get hold of them. We'll have to go through all the shipping company lists."

The rain increased and by the time they reached Bohus the water was pouring over the windshield. They didn't see very much of the town because the heavy rain blocked their view but it looked rather small with a few factories and a large building which stretched out along the river. They found their way to the edge of the river and after they had driven slowly for a while, they caught sight of the boats. They looked deserted and spooky and the men couldn't make out the names of the boats until they were almost on top of the pier.

They remained in the car and watched for the man from the shipping office. There was no one in sight but another car was parked not too far from them. When they drove over to it, they saw a man sitting behind the wheel, looking in their direction.

They pulled up and parked their car next to the other one. The man rolled down his side window and shouted something. Through the noise of the rain they could make out their names and Martin Beck nodded 'yes' while he opened his window.

The man introduced himself and suggested that they go on board immediately in spite of the heavy rain.

He was short and heavy and when he hurried off ahead of them toward the Diana, he almost seemed to be rolling forward. With a certain amount of trouble, he got over the railing and waited while Martin Beck and Ahlberg climbed after him.

The little man unlocked a door on the starboard side and they walked into some kind of a coatroom. On the other side there was a similar door which led out to the port promenade deck.

On the right there were two glass doors leading into the dining room and between the doors was a large mirror. Directly in front of the mirror a flight of stairs led to a lower deck. They followed them and then went down still another flight of stairs which led to four large cabins and a large lounge with lace-covered sofas. The little man showed them how the sofas could be hidden by a curtain.

'When we have deck passengers they can usually sleep here," he said.

The climbed back up the stairs to the next deck where there were cabins for passengers and crew, toilets and bathrooms. The dining room was on the middle deck. There were sk round tables which could each accommodate six persons, a buffet toward the stern, a reading and writing room where one could look out through a large window, and a small serving room, with a dumbwaiter, leading to the galley below.

When they went out on the promenade deck again the rain had nearly stopped. They walked toward the stern. On the starboard side there were three doors, the first one led to the serving room and the other two to cabins. On the other side there was a ladder going to the upper deck and on up to the bridge. Next to the ladder was Roseanna McGraw's cabin.

The door to that cabin opened directly toward the stern. The cabin was small, no more than twelve feet long, and lacked ventilation. The back rest on the bed could be lifted up and turned into a top bunk. There was also a wash basin with a mahogany cover which, when down, provided some counter space. On the bulkhead over the wash basin was a mirror with a holder for a glass and toilet articles. The cabin floor was covered with a rug which was tacked down and there was a place for luggage under the bunk. At the end of the bed there was an empty space with some clothing hooks on the bulkhead.

There was hardly room for three people in there which was soon obvious to the man from the shipping office. He went out and sat on a box containing life jackets and looked anxiously at his soaking wet shoes which dangled a good bit above the deck.

Martin Beck and Ahlberg examined the small cabin. They hadn't hoped to find any traces of Roseanna since they knew that the cabin had been cleaned a good number of times since she had occupied it. Ahlberg lay down on the bed carefully and stated that there was hardly enough room in it for an adult person.

They left the cabin door open and went out and sat down beside the man on the life jacket box.

After they had been sitting quietly for a while, looking into the cabin, a large, black car drove up. It was the men from the S.K.A. They carried a large, black case between them and it didn't take long before they had begun to work.

Ahlberg poked Martin Beck in the ribs and nodded his head toward the ladder. They climbed up to the upper deck. There were two lifeboats there, one on each side of the smokestack, and several large containers for deck chairs and blankets, but otherwise the deck was quite empty. Up on the bridge deck were two passenger cabins, a storeroom, and the captain's cabin which was behind the pilot room.

At the foot of the ladder Martin Beck stopped and took out the deck plans which he had received from the canal boat office. Following this, they went through the boat one more time. When they returned to the stern of the middle deck, the little man was still sitting on the box, looking sorrowfully at the men from the S.K.A. who were on their knees in the cabin pulling tacks out of the rug.

It was two o'clock by the tune the large, black police car drove off toward the Gothenburg road with a shower of mud spraying from its wheels. The technicians had taken everything that was loose in the cabin with them, although it wasn't very much. They didn't think it would take long for them to have the results of their analysis finished.

Martin Beck and Ahlberg thanked the man from the shipping office and he shook their hands with exaggerated enthusiasm, clearly grateful to be finally getting away from there.

When his car had disappeared round the first bend in the road, Ahlberg said: "I am tired and rather hungry. Let's drive down to Gothenburg and spend the night there. Okay?"

About a half hour later they parked outside of a hotel on Post Street. They took single rooms, rested for an hour, and then went out to eat dinner.

While they were eating Martin Beck talked about boats and Ahlberg talked about a trip he had taken to the Faroe Islands.

Neither of them mentioned Roseanna McGraw.

11

To get from Gothenburg to Motala one takes Route 40 eastward via Borĺs and Ulricehamn to Jönköping. There, one turns northward onto the European Route 3 and continues on to ödeshög, and follows Route 50 from there past Tĺkern and Vadstena into Motala. It is a. distance of approximately 165 miles and on this particular morning it took Ahlberg only about three and a half hours to cover it.

They had started at five-thirty in the morning, just at daybreak, while the garbage trucks were loading and newspaper women and one or two policemen were the only people to be seen on the rain-cleaned streets. A good many flat, gray miles disappeared behind the car before Ahlberg and Martin Beck broke the silence. After they had passed Hindĺs, Ahlberg cleared his throat and said:

'Do you really think it happened there? Inside that crowded cabin?"

'Where else?"

'With other people only a few inches away, behind the wall in the next cabin?"

'Bulkhead."

'What did you say?"

'Behind the bulkhead, not the wall."

'Oh," said Ahlberg.

Six miles later Martin Beck said:

'With others so close by, he would have to keep her from screaming."

'But how could he stop her? He must have… been at it rather long?"

Martin Beck did not answer. Each of them was thinking about the small cabin with its few Spartan conveniences. Neither of them could keep their imagination from entering the picture. Both of them were experiencing the same feeling of helpless, creeping unpleasantness. They reached in their pockets for cigarettes and smoked in silence.

When they drove into Ulricehamn, he said: "She could have received some of the injuries after she was already dead, or at least, unconscious. There are things in the autopsy statement that suggest it could have happened that way."

Ahlberg nodded. Without having to talk about it they both knew that such a thought made them feel better.

In Jönköping they stopped at a cafeteria and got some coffee. It didn't sit well with Martin Beck as usual, but at the same time it perked him up a little.

At Gränna, Ahlberg said what they had both been thinking for the last few hours:

'We don't know her."

'No," replied Martin Beck without taking his eyes from the hazy but pretty view.

'We don't know who she was. I mean…"

He was silent.

'I know what you mean."

'You do, don't you? How she lived. How she acted. What kind of people she went around with. That kind of thing."

'Yes."

All that was true. The woman on the breakwater had received a name, an address and an occupation. But nothing more…

'Do you think that the technical boys will find something?"

'We can always hope."

Ahlberg gave him a quick look. No, they didn't need fancy phrases. The only thing they could conceivably hope for from the technical report was that it would, at least, not contradict their assumption that cabin A 7 was the scene of the crime. The Diana had made twenty-four trips on the canal since the woman from Lincoln had been on board. That would mean that the cabin had been well cleaned at least as many times; that the bedclothes, towels and other paraphernalia which had been there had been washed over and over again and were hopelessly mixed together by now. It also meant that between thirty and forty people had occupied the cabin after Roseanna McGraw. All of them had naturally left their traces.

'We still haven't heard the records of witnesses' examinations," said Ahlberg.

'Yes."

Eighty-five people, one of whom was presumably guilty, and the rest of whom were possible witnesses, each had their small pieces that might fit into the great jig-saw puzzle. Eighty-five people, spread over four different continents. Just to locate them was a Herculean task. He didn't dare think about the process of getting testimony from all of them and collecting the reports and going through them.

'And Roseanna McGraw," said Ahlberg.

'Yes," said Martin Beck.

And after a while:

'I can only see one way."

'The guy in America?"

'Yes."

'What's his name?"

'Kafka."

'That's a strange name. Does he seem competent?"

Martin Beck thought about the absurd telephone conversation a few days earlier and produced the first smile of that dismal day.

'Hard to say," he replied.

Halfway between Vadstena and Motala Martin Beck said, more or less to himself:

'Suitcases. Clothing. Toilet articles, the toothbrush. Souvenirs she had bought. Her passport, money, traveler's checks."

Ahlberg's hands gripped the wheel harder.

'I'll comb the canal carefully," he said. "First between Borenshult and the harbor. Then east of Boren. The locks have already been covered, but…"

'Lake Vättern?"

'Yes. We have almost no chance there and maybe not even in Boren if the dredger has buried everything there by now. Sometimes I dream about that damned apparatus and wake up in the middle of the night swearing. My wife thinks that I've gone mad. Poor thing," he said and drove to a stop in front of the police station.

Martin Beck looked at him with a quick, passing feeling of envy, disbelief, and respect.

Ten minutes later Ahlberg was sitting at his desk in his shirtsleeves as usual, talking to the lab. While he was talking, Larsson entered the room, shook hands with Martin Beck and raised his eyebrow questioningly. Ahlberg hung up the receiver.

'There were some traces of blood on the mattress and the rug. Fourteen counting carefully. They are analyzing them."

If these traces of blood had not been found, the theory of cabin number A 7 as the scene of the crime would not have been likely.

The Superintendent didn't seem to notice their relief. Their wordless communication was carried on wave-lengths that were unfamiliar to him. He raised his eyebrow again and said: "Was that all?"

'A few old fingerprints," said Ahlberg. "Not particularly many. They must have cleaned pretty well."

'The Public Prosecutor is on his way here," said Larsson.

'He's most welcome, of course," Ahlberg responded.

Martin Beck left on a 5:20 p.m. train via Mjölby. The trip took four and a half hours and he worked on a letter to America the entire time. When he got to Stockholm, the draft was finished. He wasn't completely satisfied with it but it would have to do. To save time he took a taxi to Nikolai Station, borrowed an examining room, and typed up the letter. While he was reading the finished copy, he heard brawling and swearing nearby and heard a constable say: "Take it easy, boys, take it easy."

For the first time in a long while he remembered his own days as a patrolman and how deeply -he had disliked the results of Saturday nights.

At a quarter of eleven he stood in front of the mailbox on Vasa Street. The metal top closed with a bang.

He walked southward in the light rain, past the Hotel Continental and the new, tall department stores. On the escalator down to the subway, he thought about Kafka and wondered if this man, whom he didn't know, would understand what he meant.

Martin Beck was tired and fell asleep soon after he got into the subway, safe in the knowledge that he wouldn't be getting off before the end of the line.

12

Ten days later Martin Beck received a reply from America. He saw it on his desk when he arrived in the morning, even before he had shut the door behind him. While he hung up his coat he glanced at his face in the mirror. He was pale and looked sallow and he had dark circles under his eyes. This was no longer due to the flu but to the fact that he had gone without much sleep. He tore open the large brown envelope and took out two transcripts of examinations, a typewritten letter and a card with biographical data. He thumbed through the papers with curiosity but thwarted his impulse to begin reading them immediately. Instead, he went in to the administrative office and asked for a rapid translation with three copies.

Afterwards he walked up one flight of stairs, opened a door, and walked into Kollberg's and Melander's office. They sat at their desks working, with their backs to one another.

'Have you changed the furniture?"

'It's the only way we can manage," said Kollberg.

He was pale and red-eyed just like Martin Beck. The imperturbable Melander looked no different than usual.

A copy of a report on thin, yellow paper lay in front of Kollberg. He was following each line with his index finger and said:

'Mrs. Lise-Lotte Jensen, sixty-one years old, has told the police in Vejle, Denmark, that it was a wonderful trip. That the smörgĺsbord was wonderful, that it rained one whole day and one whole night and that the boat was delayed and that she was seasick the night it rained out in the lake, which was the second night. In spite of all that, the trip was wonderful and all the other passengers were so nice. She can't remember the nice girl in the picture. In any case they didn't sit at the same table. But the captain was charming and her husband said that it wasn't possible to eat all that good food so it certainly could have been possible that not everyone went to all the meals. The weather was wonderful except when it rained. They had no idea that Sweden could be so nice! Damn it, I had no idea it could be either," continued Kollberg. "They mostly played bridge with that charming gentleman from South Africa and his wife, Mrs. Hoyt, who came from Durban. Of course the cabins were rather small and the second night—here's something—there was a big, hairy arachnida on the bed. Her husband had a great deal of trouble getting it out of the cabin. Well, does arachnida mean a sex maniac?"

'A spider," said Melander without taking his pipe out of his mouth.

'I love the Danes," Kollberg continued. "They have nei- ther seen nor heard anything unusual and, 'finally,' writes the policeman named Toft in Vejle who conducted the examina-tion,'there is obviously nothing in the testimony of this delightful, elderly couple which can spread any light on the case.' His art of deduction is crushing."

'Let's see, let's see," Melander grumbled to himself.

'Here's to our Danish brothers," said Kollberg.

Martin Beck leaned over the desk and leafed through the papers. He mumbled something which was inaudible. After ten days of work they had managed to locate two-thirds of the people who had been on board the Diana. By one means or another they had contacted more than forty persons and in twenty-three cases, they had regular examination transcripts at their disposal. The results were meager. Of those who had thus far been examined there was no one who could remember anything about Roseanna McGraw other than that they thought they had seen her on board some time during the trip.

Melander took his pipe out of his mouth and said: "Karl-Ĺke Eriksson, one of the crew. Have we found him?"

Kollberg checked one of his lists.

'A stoker. No, but we know a little about him. He shipped out from the Seamen's House in Gothenburg three weeks ago. On a Finnish freighter."

'Uhum," said Melander. "And he is twenty-two years old?"

'Yes, and what do you mean with that uhum?"

'His name reminded me of something. You ought to remember it too. But he didn't call himself by the same name then."

'Whatever you remember must certainly be right," said Kollberg with resignation.

'That devil has a memory like a circus elephant," he said to Martin Beck. "It's like sharing an office with a computer."

'I know."

'One who smokes the world's worst tobacco," said Koll-berg.

'I'll have it in a minute," said Melander.

'Sure, I know. Damn it I'm tired," answered Kollberg.

'You don't get enough sleep," said Melander.

'Yes."

'You ought to see to it that you get plenty of sleep. I sleep eight hours every night. Fall asleep the minute I put my head on the pillow."

'What does your wife say about that?"

'Nothing. She goes to sleep even faster. Sometimes we don't even get to turn out the light."

'Nonsense. No, in any case, I don't get enough sleep these days."

'Why not?"

'I don't know. I just can't sleep."

'What do you do then?"

'Just lie there and think about how dreadful you are."

Kollberg grabbed his letter basket. Melander knocked the ashes out of his pipe and gazed at the ceiling. Martin Beck, who knew him, realized that he had just fed new material into that priceless memory where he stored everything he had ever seen, read, or heard.

A half hour after lunch one of the girls from the administrative office came in with the translations.

Martin Beck took off his jacket, locked his door and began to read.

First the letter. It read:

Dear Martin:

I think I understand what you mean. The transcripts of examinations which I am enclosing have been typed directly from the tapes. I haven't made any changes or shortened them in any way. You can judge the material for yourself. If you would like me to, I can dig up a few more people who knew her but I think that these two are the best. I hope to God that you get the devil that did it. If you get the guy, don't forget to give it to him for me too. I am enclosing a collection of all the biographical

data I could get hold of and a commentary on the transcripts.

Sincerely, Elmer

He laid the letter aside and took out the transcripts. The first one contained the heading:

'Examination of Edgar M. Mulvaney at the office of the District Attorney, Omaha, Nebraska, October 11, 1964. Examining Officer: Detective Lieutenant Kafka. Witness to the Examination: Sergeant Romney.

KAFKA: You are Edgar Moncure Mulvaney, thirty-three years old, living at 12 East Street here in town. You are an engineer and have been employed for one year as an Assistant Department Head at the Northern Electric Company in Omaha. Is that correct?

MULVANEY: Yes, that's right.

K: You are not under oath and your testimony will not be registered with a notary public. Some of the questions that I am going to ask you have to do with intimate details of your private life and you may find them unpleasant. You are being examined for information and none of the things that you say will be made public or will be used against you. I cannot force you to answer but I want to state the following: by answering all the questions fully and truthfully and as explicitly as possible, you can make a contribution which will help to see that the person or persons responsible for the murder of Roseanna McGraw are captured and punished.

M: I'll do my best.

K: You were living in Lincoln until eleven months ago. You also worked there.

M: Yes, as an engineer with the Department of Public Works, the section that took care of street lighting.

K: Where did you live?

M: In a building at 83 Greenrock Road. I shared an apartment with a colleague. We were both bachelors then.

K: When did you get to know Roseanna McGraw?

M: It was nearly two years ago.

K: In other words the autumn of 1962?

M: Yes, in November.

K: Under what circumstances did you meet?

M: We met at the house of one of my colleagues, Johnny Matson.

K: At a party?

M: Yes.

K: Did that Matson go around with Roseanna McGraw?

M: Hardly. It was an open house party where a lot of people came and went. Johnny knew her slightly from the library where she worked. He had invited all kinds of people.

Lord knows where he got hold of all of them.

K: How did you meet Roseanna McGraw?

M: I don't know. We simply met there.

K: Had you gone to the party specifically looking for female company?

(Pause)

K: Will you kindly answer the question.

M: I'm trying to remember. It's possible. I didn't have a particular girl I was going with at that time. But more likely I went there because I didn't have anything better to do.

K: And what happened?

M: Roseanna and I met by sheer chance, so to speak. We talked for a while. Then we danced.

K: How many dances?

M: The first two. The party had hardly begun.

K: Then you met right away?

M: Yes, we must have.

K: And?

M: I suggested that we leave.

K: After only two dances?

M: More exactly, during the second dance.

K: And what did Miss McGraw answer?

M: She said:'Yes, let's go.'

K: Without any other comment?

M: Yes.

K: How did you presume to make such a suggestion?

M: Do I have to answer questions like that?

K: If you don't, this conversation is meaningless.

M: Okay, I noticed that she was getting excited while we were dancing.

K: Excited? In what way? Sexually?

M: Yes, naturally.

K: How did you know?

M: I can't (pause) exactly explain. In any case it was obvious. It was her behavior. I can't really be more precise.

K: And you? Were you sexually excited?

M: Yes.

K: Had you had anything to drink?

M: One martini, at most.

K: And Miss McGraw?

M: Roseanna never drank liquor.

K: So you left the party together? What happened then?

M: Neither of us had driven there. We took a taxi to the house that she was living in, 116 Second Street. She still lives there. Lived, I mean.

K: She let you go with her—just like that?

M: Oh, we made some conversation. The usual stuff, you know. I don't remember the words. Actually, they seemed to bore her.

K: Did you get close to one another in the taxi?

M: We kissed.

K: Did she object?

M: Not at all. Anyway, I said we kissed.

(Pause)

K: Who paid the taxi driver?

M: Roseanna. I didn't have time to stop her.

K: And then?

M: We went into the apartment. It was very nice. I remember that I was surprised. She had a lot of books.

K: What did you do?

M: Aw…

K: Did you have intercourse?

M: Yes.

K: When?

M: Almost immediately.

K: Will you please give an account, as carefully as possible, of what happened.

M: Say, what the hell are you doing? Is this some kind of private Kinsey Report?

K: I'm sorry. I want to remind you of what I said at the beginning of our conversation. This can be important.

(Pause)

K: Are you having difficulty remembering?

M: God, no.

(Pause)

M: It feels strange to sit here and talk about a person who hasn't done any harm and who is dead anyway.

K: I understand your feelings. If I keep on insisting it's only because we need your help.

M: Okay, ask.

K: You came into the apartment together. What happened?

M: She took off her shoes.

K: And then?

M: We kissed.

K: And then?

M: She went into the bedroom.

K: And you?

M: I followed her. Do you want the details?

K: Yes.

M: She undressed and lay down.

K: On the bed?

M: No, in the bed. Under the sheets and blankets.

K: Was she totally undressed?

M: Yes.

K: Did she seem shy?

M: Not at all.

K: Did she turn out the lights?

M: No.

K: And you?

M: What do you think?

K: Did you have sexual intercourse then?

M: What in hell do you think we did? Crack nuts? Yes, I'm sorry but…

K: How long did you stay?

M: I don't know exactly, until one or two. Then I went home.

K: And this was the first time you saw Miss McGraw?

M: Yes, it was the first time.

K: What did you think of her when you left there? And the next day?

(Pause)

M: I thought… first I thought that she was just an ordinary, cheap tramp although she had not given that impression at all in the beginning. Then I thought that she was a nymphomaniac. One idea was crazier than the other. Now, here, especially since she is dead, it seems absurd that I ever could have thought either of those things.

(Pause)

K: Listen to me, my friend. I assure you that it is just as painful for me to ask these questions as it is for you to answer them. I would never have done this if there hadn't been a purpose. The worst part of it is that we are not through yet. Not by a longshot.

M: I'm sorry that I got upset just now. It's just that I'm not accustomed to the situation and the surroundings. It seems so crazy to sit here and say things about Roseanna, things I have never said to anyone, with detectives running around outside the room and while the tape recorder turns and turns and the sergeant just sits over there and stares. Unfortunately, I'm not exactly a cynic, particularly when it has to do with…

K: Jack, close the Venetian blinds over there. Then wait outside.

(Pause)

ROMNEY: Goodbye.

M: I'm sorry.

K: You have nothing to be sorry about. What actually happened between you and Miss McGraw? After your first meeting?

M: I telephoned her two days later. She didn't want to see me then, she said so quite directly. But she said to call again if I wanted to. The next time I called her—it must have been about a week later—she invited me up.

K: And you…

M: Yes, we slept together. Then it continued like that. Sometimes once a week, sometimes twice. We always met at her apartment. Often on Saturdays, then we were together on Sundays if we were both free.

K: How long did this go on?

M: For eight months.

K: Why did it break up?

M: I fell in love with her.

K: I'm afraid that I don't really understand.

M: Actually it's quite simple. To tell the truth I had been in love with her for a long time. I really loved her. But we never talked about love, so I said nothing.

K: Why not?

M: Because I wanted to hold her. Then when I told her… Well, then it was all over.

K: How did it happen?

M: You have to understand that Roseanna was the most upright person I have ever met. She liked me a lot and above all, she liked to sleep with me. But she didn't want to live with me. She never made any secret of that. Both she and I knew precisely why we would meet.

K: How did she react when you told her that you loved her?

M: She was sad. Then she said: 'We'll sleep together one more time and tomorrow you'll leave here and that's the end. We are not going to hurt one another.'

K: Did you accept that?

M: Yes. If you had known her as well as I had you would have understood that there wasn't anything else to do.

K: When did this happen?

M: On July 3 last year.

K: And that was the end of all contact between you?

M: Yes.

K: Did she see other men during the period you were going together?

M: Yes and no.

K: In other words, did you have the impression that she was together with other men from time to time?

M: It wasn't a question of impressions. I know. In March I attended a four-week course in Philadelphia. Even before I left, she told me that I couldn't count on her being… faithful for such a long time. When I came back I asked her and she said that she had done it once, after three weeks.

K: Had sexual intercourse?

M: Yes. Boy, that's a hell of an expression. I asked her with whom, stupidly enough.

K: What did she answer?

M: That it was none of my business. And it wasn't either, especially from her point of view.

K: During the eight months that you saw her did you have intimate… sleep together regularly? Do I understand you correctly?

M: Yes.

K: But what about the evenings and nights that you weren't together? What did she do then?

M: She was alone. She liked being alone. She read a great deal and, anyway, she sometimes worked evenings. She wrote some, too, but I don't know what. She never mentioned it to me. You understand, Roseanna was very independent. Then too, we really didn't have the same interests. Except for one thing. But we got along well together and that's the truth.

K: How can you be sure that she was alone when you weren't there?

M: I… I was jealous sometimes. Once in a while when she wouldn't see me I went there and stood outside her apartment house watching. Twice I even stood there from the time she came home until the time that she left in the morning.

K: Did you give her money?

M: Never.

K: Why not?

M: She didn't need my money, she told me so from the very beginning. If and when we went out, she always paid for herself.

K: And when you stopped seeing each other? What did she do then?

M: I don't know. I never saw her again. It wasn't too long before I got a new job and moved here.

K: How would you describe her character?

M: She was very independent, as I said earlier. Honest.

Completely natural, in every way. For example, she never wore make-up or jewelry. She seemed calm and relaxed for the most part, but once she said that she didn't want to see me too often because she knew that if she did I would get on her nerves. She said everyone did and that in our case it was unnecessary.

K: I am going to ask you some rather intimate questions now.

M: Go ahead. I'll answer anything now.

K: Have you any idea of how many times you were together?

M: Yes. Forty-eight times.

K: Are you sure? Exactly?

M: Yes. I can even tell you why. Every time we met and slept together I drew a small, red ring around the date on my office calendar. Just before I threw it away I counted the days.

K: Would you say that her sexual behavior patterns were normal?

M: She was very sexual.

K: Had you had enough experience to judge that?

M: I was thirty-one years old when we met. A certain amount had happened before that time.

K: Did she usually have an orgasm when you had sexual intercourse?

M: Yes, always.

K: Did you usually have intercourse several times in an evening?

M: No. Never. It wasn't necessary.

K: Did you use contraceptives?

M: Roseanna had some kind of pills. She took one every morning.

K: Did you usually discuss sexual matters?

M: No, never. We knew what we needed to know.

K: Did she often speak about her previous affairs?

M: Never.

K: And you?

M: Only once. She seemed totally uninterested and I never talked about it again.

K: What did you speak about?

M: Anything and everything. Mostly everyday things.

K: Whom did she see, other than you?

M: No one. She had a friend, a girl at the library, but they rarely saw one another outside of work. Roseanna liked to be alone, as I said.

K: But she went to that party where you met?

M: Yes, in order to meet someone to sleep with. She had been… abstaining for a long time then.

K: How long?

M: For more than six weeks.

K: How do you know that?

M: She said so.

K: Was she difficult to satisfy?

M: Not for me, in any case.

K: Was she demanding?

M: She wanted what all normal women want. That a man would take her until she didn't have anything left, if I understand you correctly.

K: Did she have any particular habits?

M: In bed?

K: Yes.

M: Harrison's Law isn't valid in Nebraska, is it?

K: No, you don't have to worry about that.

M: It doesn't really matter. She had only one habit which could possibly be called special. She scratched.

K: When?

M: Generally speaking, all the time. Especially when she had an orgasm.

K: How?

M: How?

K: Yes, how did she scratch?

M: I understand. Well, with both hands and all her fingers. Like a claw. From the hips, over the back and all the way up to the neck. I still have marks. It looks like they'll never go away.

K: Did she show much variety in her sexual exertions? M: What unbelievable expressions you use! No, not at all. She always lay in the same way. On her back with a pillow under her hips and her legs spread wide apart and raised high. She was completely natural and direct and open in this as in everything else. She wanted to do it, she wanted a lot and at one time, without digression or deviations and in the only way that was natural for her.

K: I understand.

M: You ought to understand at this point.

(Pause)

K: Just one more thing. From what you've said I have the impression that during your time together it was you who took the initiative, that it was always you who contacted her. You telephoned and she answered, either that you should come up, or that she didn't care to see you then and that you should call another day. It was always she who decided if and when you would meet?

M: I believe so.

K: Did she ever call you and ask you to come over?

M: Yes, four or five times.

(Pause)

K: Was it hard for you when you broke up?

M: Yes.

K: You have been very helpful. And very honest. Thank you.

M: I hope you understand that this conversation must be confidential. I met a girl here last Christmas and we got married in February.

K: Naturally. I said that in the beginning.

M: Okay, now maybe you can turn off the tape recorder.

K: Of course."

Martin Beck put down the bound report and thoughtfully dried the perspiration from his forehead and palms with a crumpled handkerchief. Before he began to read again he went out to the toilet, washed his face and drank a glass of water.

13

The second report from Kafka was not as long as the first. It also had a rather different tone.

'Examination of Mary Jane Peterson held at Police Headquarters, Lincoln, Nebraska, October 10, 1964. Examining Officer: Detective Lieutenant Kafka. Witness to the Examination: Sergeant Romney.

ROMNEY: This is Mary Jane Peterson. She is single, twenty-eight years old, and lives at 62 South Street. Employed at the Community Library here in Lincoln.

KAFKA: Have a seat, Miss Peterson.

PETERSON: Thank you. What's this all about?

K: Just a few questions.

P: About Roseanna McGraw?

K: That's right.

P: I don't know any more than what I've already said. I received a postcard from her. That's all. Have you brought me here from my work just to hear me say it again?

K: Were you and Miss McGraw friends?

P: Yes, of course.

K: Did you live together before Miss McGraw took her own apartment?

P: Yes, for fourteen months. She came here from Denver and had no place to go. I let her live with me.

K: Did you share the expenses for the apartment?

P: Naturally.

K: When did you separate?

P: More than two years ago. It was sometime during the spring of 1962.

K: But you continued to see one another?

P: We met every day at the library.

K: Did you also see each other in the evening?

P: Not very often. We saw enough of each other during working hours.

K: What did you think of Miss McGraw's character?

P: De mortuis nihil nisi bene.

K: Jack, take over here. I'll be right back.

R: Lieutenant Kafka asked you what you thought of Miss McGraw's character?

P: I heard him and I answered: De mortuis nihil nisi bene.

That's Latin and means 'One shouldn't speak ill of the dead.'

R: The question was this: what was her character like?

P: You can ask someone else about that. May I go now?

R: Just try and you'll see.

P: You're a dope. Has anyone ever told you that?

R: If I were in your shoes, God forbid, I'd be pretty careful about talking like that.

P: Why?

R: Maybe because I don't like it.

P: Ha!

R: What was her character like?

P: I think you had better ask someone else about that, you idiot.

K: That's fine, Jack. Now, Miss Peterson?

P: Yes, what is it?

K: Why did you and Miss McGraw separate?

P: We were crowded. Anyway, I can't see that it's any business of yours.

K: You were good friends, weren't you?

P: Yes, of course.

K: I have a report from the police in the third district from the record on April 8, 1962. At ten past two in the morning several tenants in the building at 62 South Street complained of screaming, loud arguments and continuous noise from an apartment on the fourth floor. When police officers Flynn and Richardson got there ten minutes later they were not let into the apartment and had to get the superintendent to open the door with a pass key. You and Miss McGraw were found in the apartment. Miss McGraw had on bathrobe, and you were dressed in high-heeled shoes and what Flynn described as a white cocktail dress. Miss McGraw was bleeding from a scratch on her forehead. The room was disorderly. Neither of you would make a complaint, and order was restored—at least that's what it says here—and the policemen left the apartment.

P: What do you mean by bringing that thing up?

K: The next day Miss McGraw moved to a hotel, and one week later found her own apartment a few blocks up the same street.

P: I'm asking you again. What do you mean by bringing up that old scandal story? As if I haven't had enough unpleasantness already.

K: I am trying to convince you of the necessity of answering our questions. It's also a good idea to tell the truth.

P: Okay, I threw her out. Why not? It was my apartment.

K: Why did you throw her out, as you put it?

P: What difference does that make today? Who would be interested in a three year old fight between two girlfriends?

K: Anything that has to do with Roseanna McGraw is of interest just now. It seems—as you see in the papers—that there's not much to write about her.

P: Do you mean to say that you can blow up this story for the newspapers if you want to?

K: This report is a public document.

P: In that case isn't it odd that they haven't already gotten hold of it.

K: That's partly because Sergeant Romney got hold of it first. The minute he sends it back to the central archives anyone is free to take any part of it.

P: And if he doesn't send it back?

K: Then it's a different story.

P: Will the record of this examination also be available to the public?

K: No.

P: Can I depend on that?

K: Yes.

P: Okay, what do you want to know? Hurry up, though, so I can get out of here before I become hysterical.

K: Why did you force Miss McGraw to leave your apartment?

P: Because she embarrassed me.

K: In what way?

P: Roseanna was trash. She was in heat like a bitch. And I said it to her face.

K: What did she answer to that?

P: My dear Lieutenant, Roseanna didn't answer such commonplace statements. She held herself above them. Just lay naked on the bed as usual and read some philosopher. And then she would look at me. Large-eyed, uncomprehending and indulgent.

K: Was she very temperamental?

P: She had no temperament at all.

K: What was the direct cause of your sudden breakup?

P: You can try to figure that one but yourself. Even you ought to have enough imagination for that.

K: A man?

P: A slob she wanted to sleep with while I sat and waited for him in some hole about thirty miles from here. He had misunderstood in some way—he was pretty dumb too—and thought that he was to pick me up at home. When he got there I'd already left. Roseanna was home, naturally. She was always home. And so whatever happened, happened. Thank God that slob had left by the time I got back. Otherwise I would have been behind bars in Sioux City at this point.

K: How did you find out what had happened?

P: Roseanna. She always told the truth. I asked her why she had done it. She said, 'Now, Mary Jane, I wanted to do it.' And besides she was logical: 'Now, Mary Jane, it only shows that he isn't worth putting stock in.'

K: Would you still state that you and Miss McGraw were friends?

P: Yes, oddly enough. If Roseanna ever had a friend it was I. It was better after she moved and we didn't have to see each other day in and day out. When she first came here—from college—she was always alone. Her parents had just died in Denver at almost the same time. She didn't have any brothers or sisters or any other relatives or any friends. She was also short of money. There was something muddled about her inheritance and year after year went by without it being settled. Eventually she got the money, right after she took that apartment.

K: What was her character like?

P: I think that she suffered some kind of independence complex which had some unusual expression. One of her attitudes was to dress sloppily. She took a certain pride in looking horrible. At best she went around in slacks and a large, baggy sweater. It was hard for her to force herself to put on a dress to go to work. She had a lot of strange ideas. She almost never wore a bra and she needed to more than most of us. She hated to wear shoes. In general, she said she didn't like clothing. When she was at home she often ran around naked the entire day. She never wore a nightgown or pajamas. That irritated me terribly.

K: Was she messy?

P: Only with her appearance, but I am sure that was put on. She pretended that she never realized there were such things as cosmetics, hairdressers or nylon stockings. But with other things she was almost meticulous, above all with her books.

K: What kind of interests did she have?

P: She read a lot. Wrote a bit, but don't ask me what because I don't know. In the summer she was often out for hours. She said that she liked to walk. And then men. But she didn't have a lot of interests.

K: Was Miss McGraw an attractive woman?

P: Not at all. You ought to have understood that from what I've said. But she was man crazy and that goes a long way.

K: Did she have any steady man in her life?

P: When she moved out she did go around now and then with a man who worked for the Highway Department for a half a year. I met him a few times. Lord knows how often she cheated on him, probably hundreds.

K: While you were living together, did she often bring men to the apartment?

P: Yes.

K: What do you mean by often?

P: What do you mean?

K: Did it happen several times a week?

P: Oh, no, there had to be some moderation.

K: How often did it happen? Answer!

P: Don't use that tone of voice.

K: I'll use any tone of voice I want to. How often did she bring men home to the apartment?

P: Once or twice a month.

K: Was it always different men?

P: I don't know. I didn't always see them. As a matter of fact I usually didn't see them. At times she kept pretty much to herself. Often she had people there when I was out dancing or someplace.

K: Didn't Miss McGraw go out with you?

P: Never. I don't even know if she could dance.

K: Can you give me the names of any of the men she went around with?

P: There was a German student whom we met at the library. I introduced them. I remember his name was Milden-berger. Uli Milden-berger. She brought him home three or four times.

K: During how long a period?

P: A month, possibly five weeks. But he telephoned her every day, and between times they certainly met somewhere else. He lived here in Lincoln for several years but went back to Europe last spring.

K: What did he look like?

P: Handsome. Tall, blond and broad-shouldered.

K: Did you have intimate relations with this Mildenberger?

P: What the hell business is that of yours?

K: How many different men do you think she brought home during the time you lived together?

P: Oh, six or seven.

K: Was Miss McGraw attracted to a certain type of man?

P: In this instance she was perfectly normal. She wanted to have good looking guys. The kind that at least looked like men.

K: What do you know about her trip?

P: Only that she had been planning it for a long time. She wanted to take the boat over and then travel around Europe for a month and see as much as possible. Then she thought she might stay in one place for the rest of the time, in Paris or Rome or someplace. Why are you asking about all this anyway? The police over there shot the man that murdered her.

K: That information was unfortunately incorrect. Due to a misunderstanding.

P: May I finally go now? , I actually have work to do.

K: How did you react when you learned what had happened to Miss McGraw?

P: At first it was a real shock but I wasn't terribly surprised.

K: Why not?

P: And you ask that? After you know how she lived?

K: That will be all now. Goodbye Miss Peterson.

P: And you won't forget what you've promised?

K: I haven't promised anything. You can shut off the tape recorder now, Jack."

Martin Beck swung back in his chair, put his left hand to his mouth and bit on the knuckle of his index finger. Then he took the last remaining paper that he had received from Lincoln, Nebraska, and read through Kafka's explanation absentmindedly.

'Roseanna Beatrice McGraw. Born, May 18, 1937 in Denver, Colorado. Father, small-scale farmer. The farm was about twenty miles from Denver. Education: college in Denver and three years at the University of Colorado. Both parents died in the fall of 1960. Inheritance, about $20,000, paid out in July, 1962. Miss McGraw has not left a will and as far as one knows has no heirs.

'As far as the reliability of the witnesses: my impression was that in some way Mary Jane Peterson altered reality and that she held back certain details, obviously ones that might be disadvantageous to her. I have had a chance to check out Mulvaney's testimony on several points. The statement that R. McG. had only met one other man during the period from November 1962 to July 1963 seems to be correct. I got this from some kind of diary that I found in her apartment. The date was March 22 and the man's initials are U. M. (Uli Mildenberger?) She always made a note of her relationships in the same way, a sort of code with the date and the initials. I have not been able to find any untruths or direct lies in Mulvaney's story.

'Regarding the witnesses: Mulvaney is about 6 feet 2 inches tall, quite strong, blue eyed and has dark blond hair. Seems straightforward but a little naive. Mary Jane Peterson is quite a girl, attractive, stylishly dressed, strikingly slender and well developed. Neither of them have a police record, other than the ridiculous story about the trouble in the girls' apartment in 1962.

(signed)"

Martin Beck put on his jacket and set the lock on the door. Then he went back to his desk. He spread Kafka's papers out in front of him and sat completely still with his elbows on the desk arid his forehead in his hands.

14

Martin Beck looked up from the records of the examinations when Melander opened the door to his office. This was something that didn't happen very often.

'Karl-Ĺke Eriksson-Stolt," said Melander. "Do you remember him?"

Martin Beck thought for a moment.

'Do you mean the fireman on the Diana? Was that his name?"

'He calls himself Eriksson now. Two and a half years ago he was called Eriksson-Stolt. That's when he was sentenced to a year in prison because he had seduced a girl who was not yet thirteen years old. Don't you remember? A tough, long-haired, fresh guy."

'Yes, I think I remember. Are you sure it's the same fellow?"

'I checked with the Seamen's Association. It's the same guy."

'I don't remember very well how it happened. Didn't he live in Sundyberg?"

'No, in Hagalund, with his mother. It happened one day when his mother was at work. He didn't go to work. He took the janitor's daughter home with him. She wasn't quite thirteen and it was later proven that she was a bit retarded. He managed to get her to drink alcohol, I think it was aquavit mixed with juice and when she was drunk enough, he slept with her."

'Was it her parents who reported him?"

'Yes, and I went out to get him. During the examination he tried to play tough and stated that he had thought that the girl was of age and that she wanted to. She really didn't look a day over eleven and even then she seemed young for her age. The doctor who examined her said that she may have gone through shock, but I don't know. In any case, Eriksson was sentenced to a year of hard labor."

Martin Beck had a chill when he realized that this man had been on board the Diana at the same time as Roseanna.

'Where is he now?" he asked.

'On a Finnish freighter. It's called the Kalajoki. I'll find out where she is. Notice that I said she."

The same minute that Melander closed the door behind him, Martin Beck picked up the telephone and called Ahlberg.

'We've got to get hold of him," said Ahlberg. "Call me as soon as you have talked to the shipping line. I want him here, even if I have to swim after him myself. The other fireman has also shipped out on another boat, but I'll find out where soon. In addition, I ought to talk with the chief engineer again. He's left the sea and is now working for Electrolux."

They hung up. Martin Beck sat unoccupied for a few minutes while he wondered what he should do. Suddenly, he became nervous, left his office, and walked upstairs.

Melander had just finished a telephone conversation when he entered the room. Kollberg wasn't there.

'That boat, the Kalajoki. It's just leaving Holmsund. It's tied up at Söderhamn for the night. The shipping line has confirmed the fact that he's on board."

Martin Beck returned to his office and called Ahlberg again.

'I'll take one of my boys with me and drive up and get him," said Ahlberg. "I'll call you when we have got him."

They were silent for a moment. Then Ahlberg said: "Do you think it was he?"

'I don't know. It could be a possibility of course. I have only seen him once, and that was more than two years ago, just before he was sentenced. A pretty twisted type."

Martin Beck spent the rest of the afternoon in his office. He wasn't in the mood to work but he managed to get a number of routine things done. He kept thinking about the Finnish freighter that was on its way to Söderhamn. And about Roseanna McGraw.

When he went home he tried to work on his model ship but after a while he merely sat there with his elbows on the table and his hands clasped in front of him. He could hardly expect to hear anything from Ahlberg before the next morning and finally he went to bed. He slept fitfully and awakened at five o'clock in the morning.

By the time the morning newspaper hit the floor with a thump he was already shaved and dressed. He had read through the sports pages by the time Ahlberg called.

'We have him here now. He's playing hard-boiled. Not saying anything. I can't exactly say that I like him. By the way, I've spoken to the Prosecutor. He says that we need an expert examiner and that I should ask you to come down. I think it's necessary."

Martin Beck looked at his wristwatch. By now he knew the time-table by heart.

'Okay. I can make the seven-thirty train. See you. So long."

He asked the taxi to drive past Kristineberg where he stopped for his file containing the examination records. At twenty-five minutes after seven he was sitting on the train.

Karl-Ĺke Eriksson-Stolt was born in Katarina parish twenty-two years ago. His father died when he was six years old and the following year his mother had moved to Hagalund. He was an only child. His mother, who was a seamstress, had supported him until he had finished school. The only teacher who had remembered him said that he had been of average intelligence, noisy and insubordinate. After he left school, he had held several different jobs, mostly as a messenger boy or a construction worker. When he was eighteen years old he went to sea, first as an ordinary seaman and then as a fireman. The Seamen's Association had nothing particular to say about him. One year later he moved back to his mother's and let her support him for a year until the State took over that detail. A year and a half ago he was released from the penitentiary.

Martin Beck had studied this record the day before but read through it carefully one more time. There was also a statement from the examining psychiatrist in the folder. It was rather short and mainly spoke about libido, lethargy and frigidity. In addition it stated that Karl-Ĺke Eriksson-Stolt had psychopathic tendencies and a strongly developed sex drive, a combination that could lead to abnormal expressions.

Martin Beck went directly to the police station from the railroad station and knocked on Ahlberg's door at ten minutes to eleven. Superintendent Larsson was in Ahlberg's office. They looked tired and worried and seemed relieved to pass the ball to someone else. Neither of them had succeeded in getting a word out of Eriksson with the exception of a number of swear words.

Ahlberg looked through the file quickly. When he closed it Martin Beck said: "Did you get hold of the other fireman?"

'Yes, in a way. He's working on a German boat that is in the Hook of Holland right now. I telephoned Amsterdam this morning and spoke with the police superintendent there who knew & little German. You ought to hear my German. If I understood him correctly there is someone in the Hague who speaks Danish who could take care of the official examination. Now if he understood me correctly, we ought to hear something from there tomorrow."

Ahlberg sent out for coffee and after Martin Beck had two cups, he said: "Okay. We might as well start now. Where shall we work?"

'In the next room. There's a tape recorder and whatever else you need there."

Eriksson looked just about the way Martin Beck had remembered him. About five feet, eleven inches tall, thin and gangly. A long, thin face with close-set blue eyes under long, curly eyelashes and straight, heavy eyebrows. A straight nose, a small mouth with thin lips and a weak chin. Long whiskers and a little dark mustache which Martin Beck could not remember having seen before. He had bad posture and was round-shouldered. He was dressed in a pair of old blue-jeans, a blue workshirt, black leather vest and black shoes with pointed toes.

'Sit down," said Martin Beck and nodded toward a chair on the other side of the desk. "Cigarette?"

Eriksson took the cigarette, lit it and sat down. He placed the cigarette in the corner of his mouth, slunk down in his chair and raised his right foot on his left knee. Then he put his thumbs inside his belt and tapped his left foot while he looked at the wall above Martin Beck's head.

Martin Beck looked at him for a moment, turned on the tape recorder which was placed on a low table beside him, and began to read some of the papers in his file.

'Eriksson, Karl-Ĺke. Born November 23, 1941. Seaman, currently employed on the Finnish freighter Kalajoki. Home address, Hagalund, Solna. Is that right?" Eriksson made a small motion with his head. "I asked you a question. Is that right? Is the information correct? Answer. Yes or no."

E: Yes, damn it.

B: When did you sign on the Kalajoki?

E: Three or four weeks ago.

B: What did you do before that?

E: Nothing particular.

B: Where did you do nothing particular?

E: What?

B: Where were you living before you signed on the Finnish boat?

E: With a friend in Gothenburg.

B: How long did you stay in Gothenburg?

E: A few days. Maybe a week.

B: And before that?

E: At my old lady's, my mother's.

B: Were you working then?

E: No, I was sick.

B: What was wrong with you?

E: I was just sick. Felt bad and bad a fever.

B: Where did you work before you were sick?

E: On a boat.

B: What was the name of the boat?

E: The Diana.

B: What kind of job did you have on the Diana?

E: Fireman.

B: How long were you on the Diana?

E: The whole summer.

B: From…?

E: From the first of July until the middle of September. Then they lay off. They put the boat up, too. They only run in the summer. Back and forth with a bunch of corny tourists. Damn dull. I wanted to sign off the tub but my buddy wanted to stay on, and anyway, I needed the cash.

After that strain on his oratorical powers, Eriksson seemed completely exhausted and sank even further down in his chair.

B: What's your buddy's name? What was his job on the Diana?

E: Fireman. There were three of us at the engine. Me, my buddy and the engineer.

B: Did you know any of the other crew members?

Eriksson bent forward and put out his cigarette in the ash tray. "What the hell kind of an examination is this," he said, i and threw himself back in his chair. "I haven't done any- j thing. Here I've gone and gotten a job and some damn cops come and…"

B: You will answer my questions. Did you know any of the other crew members?

E: Not when I started. I only knew my buddy then. But you get to meet the others later. There was a guy who worked on the deck that was kind of fun.

B: Did you meet any girls on the trips?

E: There was only one gal who was anything at all but she went around with the cook. The rest of them were old bags.

B: The passengers then?

E: We didn't see much of them. I really didn't meet any girls.

B: Did you work in shifts, the three of you in the engine room?

E: Yes.

B: Do you remember if anything unusual happened at any time during the summer?

E: No, what do you mean, unusual?

B: If any one trip was different from the rest. Didn't the engine break down at some point?

E: Yes, that's right. A steampipe broke. We had to go into Söderköping for repairs. It took a hell of a long time. But that wasn't my fault.

B: Do you remember when it happened?

E: Just after we'd passed Stegeborg.

B: Yes, but which day did it happen?

E: Who the hell knows. What kind of damn nonsense is this? It wasn't my fault that the engine broke down. Anyway,

I wasn't working then. It wasn't my shift.

B: But when you left Söderköping? Was it your shift then?

E: Yes, and before that too. All three of us had to work like hell to get the barge going again. We worked all night and then we worked the next day, the engineer and I.

B: What time did you go off the shift during the day?

E: The day after Söderköping? Quite late in the afternoon, I think.

B: Then what did you do when you were free?

Eriksson looked emptily at Martin Beck and didn't answer.

B: What did you do when you had finished working that day?

E: Nothing.

B: You must have done something? What did you do?

(The same empty look.)

B: Where was the boat when you were free?

E: I don't know. At Roxen, I think.

B: What did you do when you got off the shift?

E: Nothing, I told you.

B: You must have done something. Did you meet anyone?;

Eriksson looked bored and stroked his neck.

B: Think about it. What did you do?

E: What a lot of garbage. What do you think anyone can do on that damned tub? Play football? The boat was right out in the middle of the water. Now listen, the only things'; you could do on that tub were eat and sleep.

B: Did you meet anyone that day?

E: Sure, I met Brigitte Bardot. How the hell can I know if I met anyone. It was a few years ago.

B: Okay. We'll start over. Last summer, when you were working on the Diana, did you meet anyone or any of the passengers?

E: I didn't meet any passengers. We didn't get to meet the passengers anyway. And even if we had, I wasn't interested. A bunch of snotty tourists. The hell with them.

B: What's the name of your buddy who also worked on the Diana?

E: Why? What's this all about anyway? We didn't do anything.

B: What's his name?

E: Roffe.

B: First name and last name.

E: Roffe Sjöberg.

B: Where is he now?

E: He's on some German boat. I don't know where the hell he is. Maybe he's in Kuala Lampur. I don't know.

Martin Beck gave up. He turned off the tape recorder and j got up. Eriksson began to stretch slowly to get out of his chair.

'Sit down," roared Martin Beck. "Sit there until I tell you to get up."

He called in to Ahlberg who stood in the doorway five seconds later.

'Get up," said Martin Beck, and went out of the room ahead of him.

When Ahlberg came back to his office Martin Beck was sitting beside his desk. He looked up at him and shrugged his shoulders.

'Let's go and eat now," he said. "I'll try again later."

15

At nine-thirty the next morning Martin Beck sent for Eriksson for the third time. The examination continued for two hours and brought equally poor results.

When Eriksson slouched out of the room escorted by a young constable, Martin Beck put the tape recorder on rewind and went to get Ahlberg. They listened to the tape mostly in silence which was broken only now and then by Martin Beck's short comments.

A few hours later they were sitting in Ahlberg's office.

'Well, what do you think?"

'It wasn't he," said Martin Beck. "I'm almost sure of it. In the first place he isn't intelligent enough to keep up the mask. He simply doesn't understand what it's all about He's not faking."

'Maybe you're right," said Ahlberg.

'In the second place, and this is only instinct, but I'm convinced of it in any case. We know a little about Roseanna McGraw, don't we?"

Ahlberg nodded.

'So it's very hard for me to believe that she would willingly go to bed with Karl-Ĺke Eriksson."

'No, that's right. She was willing, but not with just anyone. But who said that she did willingly?"

'Yes. It must have been that way. She met someone that she thought she would like to go to bed with and by the time it had gone far enough for her to discover her mistake, it was too late. But it wasn't Karl-Ĺke Eriksson."

'It could have happened some other way," said Ahlberg doubtfully.

'How? In that tiny cabin? Someone forced open the door and threw himself on her? She would have fought and screamed like mad and people on board would have heard her."

'He could have threatened her. With a knife or maybe a pistol."

Martin Beck shook his head slowly. Then he got up quick ly and walked over to the window. Ahlberg followed him with his eyes.

'What should we do with him?" asked Ahlberg. "I can't hold him much longer." I

'I'd like to talk with him one more time. I don't think he really knows why he is here. I am going to tell him now."

Ahlberg got up and put on his jacket. Then he went out.

Martin Beck remained seated for a while, thinking. After that he sent for Eriksson, took his briefcase and went into the examining room next door.

'What the hell is all this about?" asked Eriksson. "I haven't done anything. You can't keep me here when I haven't done anything. God damn it…"

'Be quiet until I tell you you can talk. You are here to answer my questions," said Martin Beck.

He took out the retouched photograph of Roseanna McGraw and held it up in front of Eriksson.

'Do you recognize this woman?" he asked.

'No," Eriksson answered. "Who is she?"

'Look carefully at the picture and then answer. Have you ever seen the woman in this photograph?"

'No."

'Are you sure?"

Eriksson placed one elbow on the back of his chair and rubbed his nose with his index finger.

'Yes. I've never laid eyes on the dame."

'Roseanna McGraw. Does that name mean anything to you?"

'What a hell of a name. Is this a joke?"

'Have you heard the name Roseanna McGraw before?"

'No."

'Then I'm going to tell you something. The woman in the photograph is Roseanna McGraw. She was an American and a passenger on the Diana's first trip out of Stockholm on July 3. The Diana was delayed on that trip by twelve hours, first due to fog south of Oxelösund and then due to an engine breakdown. You have already said that you were on that trip. When the vessel arrived in Gothenberg ten hours off schedule Roseanna McGraw wasn't on it. She was killed during the night between July 4-5 and was found three days later in the lock chamber at Borenshult."

Eriksson sat straight up in his chair. He grabbed the arm rests and chewed on the left corner of his mouth.

'Is that why…? Do you think that…?"

He pressed the palms of his hands together, placed his hands tightly between his knees and bent forward so that his chin nearly rested on the desk. Martin Beck saw how the skin on the bridge of his nose had paled.

'I haven't murdered anyone! I've never seen that dame! I swear!"

Martin Beck said nothing. He kept looking directly at the man's face and saw the fear grow in his enlarged eyes.

When he spoke his voice was dry and toneless.

'Where were you and what were you doing on the night of July 4-5?"

'In my cabin. I swear! I was in my cabin sleeping! I haven't done anything! I've never seen that dame! It isn't true!"

His voice rose to a falsetto and he threw himself back in his chair. His right hand went up to his mouth and he began to bite on his thumb while he stared at the photograph in front of him. Then his eyes narrowed and his voice became thin and hysterical.

'You're trying to trick me. You think you can frighten me, don't you? All that about the girl is fake. You've talked with Roffe and that devil said it was me. He's squealed. He did it, not me. I haven't done anything. That's the truth. I haven't done anything. Roffe said it was me, didn't he? He said it."

Martin Beck didn't take his eyes away from the man's face.

'That bastard. He fixed the lock and he stole the money."

He bent forward and his voice became eager. The words poured out of him.

'He forced me to go along with it. He had worked in that damn building. It was his idea all along. I didn't want to. I said so. I refused. I didn't want to have anything to do with such a thing. But he forced me, that damned louse. He squealed, that ass…"

'Okay," said Martin Beck. "Roffe squealed. You'd better tell me everything now."

One hour later he played back the tape for Larsson and Ahlberg. There was a complete confession of a burglary which Karl-Ĺke Eriksson and Roffe Sjöberg had committed in a garage in Gothenburg one month earlier.

When Larsson had left to telephone to the Gothenburg police, Ahlberg said: "In any case we know where we have him for the time being."

He sat quietly for a while and drummed on the desk.

'Now there are about fifty possible suspects left," said Ahlberg. "If we go on the premise that the murderer was among the passengers."

Martin Beck remained silent and looked at Ahlberg who sat with his head down and seemed to be examining his fingernails. He looked just as depressed as Martin Beck had felt when he realized that the examination of Eriksson wasn't leading anywhere.

'Are you disappointed?" he asked.

'Yes, I'll have to admit it. For a while I really thought we were there and now it seems that we have just as far to go."

'We've made some progress in any case. Thanks to Kafka."

The telephone rang and Ahlberg answered it. He sat listening for a long while with the receiver pressed against his ear. Then he cried suddenly:

"Ja, ja, ich bin hier. Ahlberg hier."

'Amsterdam," he said to Martin Beck who left the room discreetly.

While he was washing his hands he thought 'an, auf, hinter, in, neben, über, unter, vor, zwischen,' and he was reminded of the first sticky odor of a room many years ago and of a round table with a baize cloth and an elderly teacher with a thin German grammar book between her fat fingers. When he went back Ahlberg had just put down the phone.

'What a language," he said. "Roffe Sjöberg wasn't on the boat. He had signed on in Gothenburg but he never went on board. Well, that will be Gothenburg's headache now."

Martin Beck slept on the train. He didn't wake up before it arrived in Stockholm. He really only woke up when he got into his own bed at home.

16

At ten minutes after five Melander tapped at the door. He waited about five seconds before he showed his long, thin face in the door opening and said: "I thought I'd leave now. Is that all right?"

He had no official reason for asking but he went through the same process every day. On the other hand, he never bothered to announce his arrival in the morning.

'Certainly," said Martin Beck. "So long."

After a moment he added, "Thanks for your help today."

Martin Beck remained and listened to the work day die away. The telephones were the first to become silent, then the typewriters, and then the sound of voices stopped until finally even the footsteps in the corridors could no longer be heard.

At five-thirty he called home.

'Shall we wait for dinner?"

'No, go ahead and eat."

'Will you be late?"

'I don't know. It's possible."

'You haven't seen the children for ages."

Without doubt he had both seen and heard them less than nine hours ago, but she knew that just as well as he.

'Martin?"

'Yes."

'You don't sound well. Is it anything special?"

'No, not at all. We have a lot to do."

'Is that all?"

'Yes, of course."

Now she sounded like herself again. The moment had passed. A few of her standard phrases and the discussion was over. He had held the receiver to his ears and heard the click when she put hers down. A click, and empty silence and it was as if she were a thousand miles away. Years had passed since they had really talked.

He wrinkled his forehead and sighed and looked at the papers on his desk. Each one of them had something to say about Roseanna McGraw and the last days of her life. He was sure of that. And still, they didn't tell him anything.

It seemed meaningless to read through all of them once again but he probably should do it anyway, and do it now. He would start soon.

He stretched out his hand to get a cigarette but the package was empty. He threw it into the wastepaper basket and reached in the pocket of his jacket for another pack. During the past few weeks he had smoked twice as much as he usually did and he felt it, both in his wallet and in his throat. It seemed that he had used up his reserve pack because the only thing he found in his pockets was something that he did not immediately recognize.

It was a postcard, bought at a tobacco shop in Motala. It showed the lock chamber at Borenshult seen from above. The lake and the breakwater were in the background and two men were in the process of opening the sluice gates for a passenger boat rising in the foreground. The picture was obviously quite old because the ship on the photograph no longer existed. Her name was Astrea and she had long since succumbed to the wreckers and the blowtorches.

But then, at the time when the photograph was taken, it had been summer and suddenly he remembered the fresh odor of flowers and wet shrubbery.

Martin Beck opened a drawer and took out his magnifying glass. It was shaped like a scoop and there was an electric battery in the handle. When he pressed the button, the object under study was illuminated with a small bulb. It was a good photograph and he could quite clearly make out the skipper on the port side of the bridge and several of the passengers who were hanging on the railing. The forward deck of the ship was loaded with cargo, still another sign that the picture was far from new.

He had just moved his glance slightly to the right when Kollberg walloped on the door with his fists and walked in.

'Hi, were you frightened?"

'Frightened to death," answered Martin Beck and felt his heart skip a beat.

'Haven't you gone home yet?"

'Sure. I'm sitting three stories up in my apartment and eating chicken."

'By the way, when do we get paid?"

'Tomorrow, I hope."

Kollberg collapsed in the visitor's chair.

They sat quietly for a while. Finally Kollberg said: "That was a flop, wasn't it? Examining that tough guy you went down and mangled?"

'He didn't do it."

'Are you absolutely sure?"

'No."

'Do you feel sure?"

'Yes."

'That's good enough for me. When you get right down to it there is a difference between seducing a twelve year old girl and killing a full grown woman."

'Yes."

'And anyway, she would never have gone for a type like that. Not if I've read my Kafka right."

'No," Martin Beck agreed with conviction. "She wouldn't have."

'What did the guy in Motala think? Was he disappointed?"

'Ahlberg? Yes, somewhat. But he's stubborn. What did Melander say, by the way?"

'Nothing. I've know that fellow since our training days and the only thing that ever depressed him was tobacco rationing."

Kollberg took out a notebook with a black cover and thumbed through it thoughtfully.

'While you were away I went through everything again. I tried to make up a summary."

'Yes?"

'I asked myself, for example, the question that Hammar is going to ask us tomorrow: What do we know?"

'And what did you answer?"

'Wait a minute. It's better if you answer. What do we know about Roseanna McGraw?"

'A little. Thanks to Kafka."

'That's right. I would even venture to say that we know all the important factors about her. Further: what do we know about the actual murder?"

'We have the scene of the crime. We also know approximately how and when it happened."

'Do we actually know where it happened?"

Martin Beck drummed his fingers on the top of the desk. Then he said:

'Yes. In cabin 7 on board the Diana."

'According to the blood-type that's right. But that would never hold as evidence."

'No, but we know it," said Martin Beck quickly.

'Okay. We'll pretend that we know it. When?"

'On the night of July 4. After dark. In any event sometime after dinner which ended at eight o'clock. Presumably sometime between nine o'clock and midnight."

'How? Yes, on that point we have the autopsy report. We can also guess that she undressed herself, of her own free will. Or possibly under threat for her life. But that doesn't seem likely."

'No."

'And so, last but not least, what do we know about the culprit?"

Kollberg answered his own question in twenty seconds: "That the person in question is a sadist and sexually twisted."

'That the person in question is a, man," Martin Beck added.

'Yes, most likely. And pretty strong. Roseanna McGraw was clearly not dropped off a wagon."

'We know that he was on board the Diana."

'Yes, if we assume that our earlier theory was correct."

'And that he must belong in one of two categories: passengers or the crew."

'Do we really know that?"

It was silent in the room. Martin Beck massaged his hairline with the tips of his fingers. Finally he said: "It must be so."

'Must it?"

'Yes."

'All right, we'll say it is. But on the other hand, we don't have any idea what the murderer looks like or of his nationality. We have no fingerprints and nothing that can tie him to the crime. We don't know if he knew Roseanna McGraw earlier. We don't know where he came from, or where he went or where we could find him today."

Kollberg was very serious now.

'We know damned little, Martin," he said. "Are we even absolutely sure that Roseanna McGraw didn't step off the boat in Gothenburg safe and sound? That someone didn't kill her afterwards? Someone who knew where she had come from and who might have transported her body back to Motala and then thrown it in?"

'I've thought of it. But it's too absurd. Things don't happen that way."

'Since we haven't yet received the menu from the boat for those days, it is still theoretically possible. Even if it stretches the imagination. And even if we manage to prove, really prove, that she never got to Gothenburg, there is still another possibility: she could have gone ashore while the boat was in the lock chamber at Borenshult and met some nut who was wandering around in the bushes."

'In that case we ought to have found something." "Yes, but 'ought to' is a weak concept. There are things in this case that almost drive me crazy. How in hell could she disappear during half the trip without anyone noticing it, not even the room steward or the waiter in the dining room?"

'The person who killed her must have stayed on board. He arranged the cabin to make it look normal and used. It was only a question of one night."

'Where did the sheets go? And the blankets? They must have had blood on them. He couldn't very well just sit down and start doing laundry. And if he had thrown everything in the water, where did he get fresh things from?"

'There wasn't that much blood, the autopsy didn't say so. And if the person who killed her was familiar with the vessel, he could have gotten fresh bedding from the supply closet."

'Would a passenger be that much at home on the boat? And wouldn't someone notice?"

'It isn't so hard. Have you ever been on a passenger ship at night?" "No."

'Everyone goes to sleep. It's completely quiet and empty. Almost all the closets and cupboards are unlocked. When this boat passed Lake Vättern, during the night watch, there were only three people who were definitely awake. Those on watch, two on the bridge and one in the engine room."

'Shouldn't someone have noticed that she didn't get off in Gothenburg?"

'There is no set procedure for getting off when the boat lands there. They tie up at Lilla Bommen and the passengers grab their things and rush down the gangway. On this particular trip, most people were in a hurry because the ship had been delayed. In addition, contrary to usual, it was dark when they got in."

Martin Beck stopped speaking and gazed at the wall for a while.

'What irritates me most is that the passengers in the next cabin didn't notice anything," he said.

'I can explain that, I found out just two hours ago that a

Dutch couple had cabin A 3. Both were over seventy and nearly stone deaf."

Kollberg turned the page and scratched his head.

'Our so-called theory of how, when and where the crime took place is mainly built on principles of probability, logical assumptions and the application of some psychology. It certainly is weak on evidence. We have to hold to it in any case because it's all we have to go on. But we must also appraise the statistics in the same way, right?"

Martin Beck leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest.

'Let's hear it," he said.

'We know the names of eighty-six people who were on board. Sixty-eight passengers plus the eighteen that made up the crew. Thus far we have located, or in some way been in contact with all of them, with the exception of eleven. But we know the nationalities, sexes, and—with three exceptions—the ages of all of them. Now, let's use a process of elimination. First of all we have to eliminate Roseanna McGraw. That leaves eighty-five. After that, all the women, eight in the crew and thirty-seven among the passengers. That leaves forty. Among these there are four boys under ten and seven men over seventy. That leaves twenty-nine. Furthermore, there was the captain and the helmsman. They were on watch between eight o'clock and midnight, giving each other alibis. They hardly had time to murder anyone. It's a bit less clear with the people in the engine room. Deduct those two and we have a grand total of twenty-seven. We have, however, the names of twenty-seven male persons between the ages of fourteen and sixty-eight. Twelve are Swedish, seven of whom were crew members, five Americans, three Germans, one Dane, one South African, an Englishman, a Frenchman, a Scot, a Turk and a Dutchman. The geographic spread is equally terrifying. One of the Americans lives in Texas, another in Oregon. The English-man lives in Nassau in the Bahamas, the South African in Durban, and the Turk in Ankara. It's going to be one hell of a trip for whoever examines them. In addition, there are four out of this twenty-seven whom we haven't been able to locate. One Dane, and three Swedes. We haven't been able to show that any of these passengers have traveled with the canal boats earlier, in spite of the fact that Melander has plowed through passenger lists for the past twenty-five years. My own theory is that none of the passengers could have done it. Only four of them were traveling in single cabins. The others ought to have been more or less observed by their spouses or whomever they shared a cabin with. None of them really knew their way around the boat well enough or the routine on board to have done it That leaves the eight men in the crew, the helmsman, the two firemen, a cook, and three deck boys. We have already eliminated the chief engineer, he fell by the wayside because of his age. My theory is that none of them could have done it either. They were under too much observance by each other and the possibilities of fraternizing with the passengers were quite limited. So my theory says that no one murdered Roseanna McGraw. And it must be wrong. My theories are always wrong. Oh, the perils of thought."

It was quiet for thirty seconds. Then Kollberg said:

'Now if it wasn't that creature Eriksson… Damn, but it was good luck that you got him arrested anyway… By the way, are you listening? Have you heard what I said?"

'Yes, of course," said Martin Beck absentmindedly. "Yes, I'm listening."

It was true. Martin Beck had been listening. But Kollberg's voice had sounded more and more distant during the last ten minutes. Two totally different ideas had suddenly occurred to him. One was an association with something he had heard someone say, and it had immediately penetrated the bottom of his unfulfilled and forgotten thoughts. The other was more tangible, a new plan of attack that could well be worked out.

'She must have met someone on board," he said to himself.

'Unless it was suicide," said Kollberg with a measure of irony.

'Someone who didn't plan to kill her, at least in the beginning, and who also had no reason to keep himself hidden…"

'Sure, that's what we think, but what difference does it make when we don't…"

Martin Beck saw clearly a scene from his last July day in Motala. The ugly vessel, Juno, as she rounded the dredger and nosed in toward the harbor chamber.

He straightened up, took out the old postcard, and stared at it.

'Lennart," he said to Kollberg. "How many cameras were used during those days? At least twenty-five, more likely thirty, maybe even forty. At each lock, people went on shore to take pictures of the boat and of each other. There must be pictures from that trip pasted into twenty or thirty family albums. All kinds of pictures. The first ones were probably taken right at the pier in Stockholm, and the last ones in Gothenburg. Let's say that twenty people took thirty pictures each during those three days. That's about one roll per person, and some might have taken more. Lennart, that means there must be at least six hundred photographs… Do you understand… six hundred photographs. Maybe even a thousand."

'Yes," said Kollberg slowly. "I understand what you mean."

17

"It will be a terrible job, of course," said Martin Beck.

'No worse than what we're already doing," answered Koll-berg.

'Maybe it's only a wild idea. I could be completely wrong."

This was a game that they had played many times before, Martin Beck doubting and needing support. He knew in advance what the answer would be and he also knew that Kollberg knew he knew. Even so, they stuck to their ritual.

'It will have tö give us something," said Kollberg stubbornly.

And after a few seconds he added: "Anyway, we have a head start. We already know where they are with a few exceptions, and we've already had contact with most of them."

It was easy for Kollberg to sound convinced. That was one of his specialties.

After a while Martin Beck asked: "What time is it?"

'Ten minutes after seven."

'Is there anyone on the list who lives in the vicinity?"

Kollberg studied his notebook.

'Nearer than you think," he said. "On North Malar-strand. A retired colonel and his wife."

'Who's been there? You?"

'No, Melander. Nice people," he said.

'Was that all?"

'Yes."

The street was wet and slippery and Kollberg swore bitterly when his back wheels skidded. Three minutes later they were there.

The colonel's wife opened the door.

'Axel, there are two gentlemen from the police here," she called in towards the living room in a very loud voice.

'Ask them to come in," roared the colonel. "Or would you rather I came out and stood in the hall?"

Martin Beck shook the rain off his hat and walked in. Kollberg wiped his feet energetically.

'We are having maneuver weather," bellowed the colonel. "Please excuse me, gentlemen, for not getting up."

On the low table in front of him was a half-played game of dominoes, a cognac glass, and a bottle of Rémy Martin. Nearby, the television was blaring away deafeningly.

'Maneuver weather, as I said. Would you gentlemen like to have some cognac? That's the only thing that helps."

'I'm driving," shouted Kollberg as he looked seriously at the bottle.

It took ten seconds before Martin Beck's feelings of solidarity won out. He shook his head.