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 Rang 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 Mjolby. 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.
