44
Hugo Malmberg woke early on Monday morning. He got up, went into the bathroom and splashed water over his face and torso. Then he went back to bed. His two American cocker spaniels, Elvis and Marilyn, were asleep in their basket and didn’t seem to notice that he was awake. He absent-mindedly studied the detailed stucco work on the ceiling. He was in no hurry — he didn’t have to be at the gallery until just before ten. He always took his dogs with him to work, so they were used to having their morning walk on the way there. Hugo let his gaze slide over the brocade of the canopy bed, the dark tapestries of red and gold, the ostentatious mirror on the opposite wall. Amused, he reached for the remote control to have a look at the morning news.
A bold robbery had taken place in the early hours at Waldemarsudde. The famous painting ‘The Dying Dandy’ had been stolen. It was incomprehensible. A journalist was filing a live report from the scene at the museum. In the background Hugo caught a glimpse of the police and the blue-and-white tape cordoning off the area.
He made himself a breakfast of Eggs Benedict and a pot of strong coffee as he listened to the news on both the radio and TV. An incredibly brazen theft. The police suspected that the thief had made his getaway on skates.
He was late leaving. The fresh air felt exhilarating as he opened the door to the street. John Ericssonsgatan linked Hantverkargatan to the exclusive shoreline boulevard of Norr Malarstrand, which ran from Ralambshov Park all the way to City Hall. Malmberg owned a corner flat with a view of both the water and the beautiful boulevard with its trees, wide pavements, and lawns in the courtyard of every building.
There was a thick layer of ice on the water, but he still chose to take the route along the quay where the old boats were lined up even in the wintertime. When he glanced over towards Vasterbron, he recalled the man he’d seen on the bridge on Friday night. What a strange experience that had been.
He turned his back to the bridge and briskly continued on, passing the proud City Hall, designed in the National Romantic style and built near the shore of Kungsholmen from 1911 to 1923. In his opinion, that had been the most exciting period in the history of Swedish art. His dogs were frolicking in the snow. For their sake he cut across the ice towards Gamla Stan. They loved to race over the open expanses created by the ice.
Several times that day Malmberg thought he caught sight of the man from Vasterbron. Once a young guy happened to stop outside the gallery. He wore a down jacket and the same type of cap. The next second he was gone. Was that the same man who had followed him on Friday night? Malmberg brushed the thought aside. He was probably just imagining things. Maybe he was subconsciously hoping to meet the handsome man with the intense gaze again. It was possible that the youth had, in fact, been interested in Hugo, but then changed his mind.
Just before lunch, Hugo Malmberg received a phone call. The gallery was deserted at the time. When he picked up the receiver, there seemed to be nobody on the line.
‘Hello?’ he repeated, but got no response.
‘Who is this?’ he tried again, as he stared out at the street.
Silence.
All he heard was the sound of someone breathing.
45
There was an air of tension when the investigative team gathered for their meeting on Monday afternoon. Everyone had heard about the Gotland sculpture that was left at Waldemarsudde, and they were all eager to hear more. Even Kihlgard was silent as he fixed his eyes on Knutas taking his seat at the head of the table.
‘All right now, listen to this,’ Knutas began. ‘This case just seems to get more and more mysterious. Apparently there’s a connection between the murder and the theft that took place at Waldemarsudde in the middle of the night.’
He told them what Kurt Fogestam had reported.
‘Plus we have the stolen paintings found in Egon Wallin’s home,’ said Jacobsson. ‘So there must be some sort of link. Is there some disgruntled gangster who had dealings with the victim? Maybe Wallin neglected to pay him, so the guy ended up killing him. And now for some reason he wants to talk about it, so to speak.’
‘What else could it be? It’s obvious that this has something to do with stolen artworks,’ said Wittberg.
‘But why did the thief take only one painting?’ Kihlgard looked at his colleagues. ‘If this has to do with art thieves who are willing to take the risk to carry out a coup against one of Sweden’s most well-protected museums, why then steal only one painting? And not even the most valuable one. I can’t figure it out,’ he said as he unwrapped a chocolate cake he’d brought along.
No one said a word.
‘We actually know nothing about what Egon Wallin was doing with those stolen paintings,’ Jacobsson then said. ‘How extensive was his involvement? And how long had it been going on? None of the interviews done here on Gotland has proved productive, and he seems to have been totally unknown among the art thieves and fences in Stockholm. Good Lord, surely we should be able to flush out at least one person who knows something about his shady art dealings. Those paintings hidden in his house weren’t just trifles.’
‘We should actually be glad that Waldemarsudde was burgled,’ said Norrby tersely. ‘At least we have something new to investigate, and we really needed that.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Knutas, rubbing his chin. ‘But why would the thief make such a point of linking the two crimes? I just don’t understand it.’
No one had any response to that.
‘Another question is why he chose to take “The Dying Dandy”. He made no attempt to hide the purpose of his actions by stealing at least one other painting.’
‘He probably didn’t have time,’ Jacobsson objected. ‘Because the alarms went off.’
‘That may be true, but the question still remains: why the Dardel? Why that particular painting?’
‘It could have been a contract job,’ suggested Wittberg. ‘A fanatic collector who hired somebody to steal the painting. It won’t be possible to sell it, at least not in Sweden. What do we know about the painting?’
Lars Norrby looked through his papers. ‘I’ve done a little research. It was painted in 1918 by Nils von Dardel, or rather just plain Nils Dardel. He came from a noble family, but he dropped the “von” from his name after he grew up. I’ve actually found out all sorts of titbits about him.’
He smiled with satisfaction. His colleagues looked at him, uncomprehending.
‘Dardel began painting in early 1900 and had his heyday in the twenties and thirties. His painting “The Dying Dandy” has been owned by various private individuals, but in the early nineties the Museum of Modern Art bought it from the financier Tomas Fischer. It was also once sold at an auction run by Bukowski’s firm for a record amount. You may remember the sale; there were plenty of articles about it in the newspapers at the time.’
Bukowski’s, thought Knutas. How strange that the firm keeps cropping up. Erik Mattson’s name flitted through his mind. He still hadn’t received any explanation for why Mattson hadn’t mentioned going to Egon Wallin’s gallery opening. Something wasn’t right. He needed to talk to Mattson again. He wrote himself a reminder in his notebook.
‘Who in Sweden has a strong interest in Nils Dardel? Should we be looking at that angle?’ Jacobsson suggested.
‘Yes, but what did Egon Wallin have to do with Nils Dardel? There must be some kind of link,’ said Wittberg.
‘We don’t know, but that’s one of the threads we need to follow,’ said Knutas. ‘I recommend that one of you go to Stockholm immediately to meet the police, visit Waldemarsudde, and try to do some more digging into the whole art business. It might also be a good idea to meet Sixten Dahl and Hugo Malmberg on their home turf.’
‘I’ll go,’ offered Kihlgard.
‘In that case, I’d like someone from our team to go with you,’ said Knutas.
‘I can do it,’ said Jacobsson. ‘I’d like to go.’
‘Fine. That’s settled then,’ said Knutas, giving her a rather disapproving look. Why her? And why him?
