Roseanna

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 Mjolby. 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 smorglsbord 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-Lke 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.