The Man on the Balcony

Gunvald Larsson looked from Melander to Martin Beck and shrugged. He went on listening and poked his ear with the pen.

'Sorry, madam. You say this man is standing on his own balcony? Has he molested you?

'Oh, he hasn't. What? On the other side of the street? On his own balcony?

'Then how can you see that he has blue-gray eyes? It must be a very narrow street.

'What? You're doing what?

'Now wait a minute, madam. All this man has done is to stand on his own balcony. What else is he doing?

'Looking down into the street? What's happening in the street?

'Nothing? What did you say? Cars? Children playing?

'At night too? Do the children play at night too?

'Oh, they don't. But he stands there at night? What do you want us to do? Send the dog van?

'As a matter of fact there's no law forbidding people to stand on their balconies, madam.

'Report an observation, you say? Heavens above, madam, if everyone reported their observations we'd need three policemen for every inhabitant.

'Grateful? We ought to be grateful?

'Impertinent? I've been impertinent? Now look here, madam…'

Gunvald Larsson broke off and sat with the receiver a foot from his ear.

'She hung up,' he said in amazement.

After three seconds he banged down the receiver and said:

'Go to hell, you old bitch.'

He tore off the sheet of paper he had been writing on and carefully wiped the ear wax off the tip of the pen.

'People are crazy,' he said. 'No wonder we get nothing done. Why doesn't the switchboard block calls like that? There ought to be a direct line to the nut house.'

'You'll just have to get used to it,' Melander said, calmly taking his telephone directory, closing it and going into the next room.

Gunvald Larsson, having finished cleaning his pen, crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. With a sour look at the suitcase by the door he said:

'Where are you off to?'

'Just going down to Motala for a couple of days,' Martin Beck replied. 'Something there I must look at.'

'Oh.'

'Be back inside a week. But Kollberg will be home today. He's on duty here as from tomorrow. So you needn't worry.'

'I'm not worrying.'

'By the way, those robberies…'

“Yes?”

'No, it doesn't matter.'

'If he does it twice more well get him,' Melander said from the next room.

'Exactly,' said Martin Beck. 'So long.'

'So long,' Gunvald Larsson replied.

3

MARTIN BECK got to Central Station nineteen minutes before the train was due to leave and thought he would fill in the time by making two telephone calls.

First home.

'Haven't you left yet?' his wife said.

He ignored this rhetorical question and merely said:

'll1 be staying at a hotel called the Palace. Thought you'd better know.'

'How long will you be away?'

'A week.'

'How do you know for certain?'

This was a good question. She wasn't dumb at any rate, Martin Beck thought.

'Love to the children,' he said, adding after a moment, 'take care of yourself.'

'Thanks,' she said coldly.

He hung up and fished another coin out of his trouser pocket. There was a line in front of the call boxes and the people standing nearest glared at him as he put the coin in the slot and dialed the number of southern police headquarters. It took about a minute before he got Kollberg on the line.

'Beck here. Just wanted to make sure you were back.'

'Very thoughtful of you,' Kollberg said. 'Are you still here?'

'How's Gun?'

'Fine. Big as a house of course.'

Gun was Kollberg's wife; she was expecting a baby at the end of August. 'Ill be back in a week.'

'So I gather. And by that time I shall no longer be on duty here.'

There was a pause, then Kollberg said:

'What takes you to Motala?'

'That fellow…'

'Which fellow?'

'That junk dealer who was burned to death the night before last. Haven't you…'

'I read about it in the papers. So what?'

'I'm going down to have a look.'

'Are they so dumb they can't clear up an ordinary fire on their own?'

'Anyway they've asked…'

'Look here,' Kollberg said. 'You might get your wife to swallow that, but you can't kid me. Anyway, I know quite well what they've asked and who has asked it. Who's head of the investigation department at Motala now?' 'Ahlberg, but…'

'Exactly. I also know that you've taken five vacation days that were due to you. In other words you're going to Motala in order to sit and tipple at the City Hotel with Ahlberg. Am I right?' 'Well…'

'Good luck,' Kollberg said genially. 'Behave yourself.'

'Thanks.'

Martin Beck hung up and the man standing behind him elbowed his way roughly past him. Beck shrugged and went out into the main hall of the station.

Kollberg was right up to a point. This in itself didn't matter in the least, but it was vexing all the same to be seen through so easily. Both he and Kollberg had met Ahlberg in connection with a murder case three summers earlier. The investigation had been long and difficult and in the course of it they had become good friends. Otherwise Ahlberg would hardly have asked the national police board for help and he himself would not have wasted half a day's work on the case.

The station clock showed that the two telephone calls had taken exactly four minutes; there was still a quarter of an hour before the train left. As usual the big hall was swarming with people of all kinds.

Suitcase in hand, he stood there glumly, a man of medium height with a lean face, a broad forehead and a strong jaw. Most of those who saw him probably took him for a bewildered provincial who suddenly found himself in the rush and bustle of the big city.

'Hi, mister,' someone said in a hoarse whisper. He turned to look at the person who had accosted him. A girl in her early teens was standing beside him; she had lank fair hair and was wearing a short batik dress. She was barefoot and duty and looked the same age as his own daughter. In her cupped right hand she was holding a strip of four photographs, which she let him catch a glimpse of.

It was very easy to trace these pictures. The girl had gone into one of the automatic photo machines, knelt on the stool, pulled her dress up to her armpits and fed her coins into the slot.

The curtains of these photo cubicles had been shortened to knee height, but it didn't seem to have helped much. He glanced at the pictures; young girls these days developed earlier than they used to, he thought. And the