Roseanna

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.'