indisputable as the contents of her handbag.
Martin Beck thought a great deal about this while he waited for something to happen.
Meanwhile, in Motala, Ahlberg was occupied in annoying the authorities by insisting that every square inch of the bottom of the canal should be dragged and gone over by frogmen. He rarely got in touch with Martin Beck himself but was constantly waiting for the telephone to ring.
After a week, a new telegram arrived from Kafka. The message was cryptic and surprising:
YOU WILL HAVE A BREAK ANY MINUTE NOW.
Martin Beck telephoned Ahlberg. 'He says that there will be a break for us any time now.' 'He probably knows that we need one,' said Ahlberg Kollberg added his dissenting opinion: 'The man is nearsighted. He's suffering from the disease we call intuition.' Melan4er didn't say anything at all.
In ten more days, they had received about fifty pictures and had about three times as many negatives printed. Many of the pictures were of poor quality and they could find Roseanna McGraw in only two of them. Both were taken at the Riddarholm pier and she was still standing alone in the stern of A deck, not very far from her cabin. One of the pictures showed her bending over and scratching her right ankle, but that was all. Otherwise they identified the twenty-three more passengers, bringing the total identified up to twenty-eight.
Melander was in charge of scrutinizing the pictures and after he was through with them, he sent them to Kollberg who tried to place them in some kind of chronological order. Martin Beck studied all of them, hour after hour, but said nothing.
The next few days brought a few dozen more pictures but Roseanna McGraw wasn't to be seen on any of them.
On the other hand a letter arrived from Ankara, at last. It was on Martin Beck's desk the morning of the thirteenth day, but it took two more days before the Turkish Embassy presented them with a translation. Contrary to all expectations the contents of that letter seemed to represent the most progress in a long time.
One of the Turkish passengers, a twenty-two year old medical student named G?nes Fratt said that he recognized the woman in the picture but he didn't know her name or her nationality. After a 'forceful examination' conducted by a high level police officer with a very long name which seemed made up of only the letters o, ?, and z, the witness had admitted that he had found the woman attractive and had made two 'verbal overtures' to her in English during the first day of the trip, but that he had not been encouraged. The woman had not replied. Somewhat later on the trip, he thought he had seen her with a man and had drawn the conclusion that she was married and that she had only happened to appear alone. The only thing the witness could say about the man's appearance was that he was 'presumably tall.' During the latter part of the trip, the witness had not seen the woman. G?nes Fratt's uncle, who was examined 'informally' by the official with that impossible name, stated that he had kept a watchful eye on his nephew during the entire trip and that the boy had not been left alone for more than ten minutes at a tune.
The embassy added the comment that both the travelers belonged to wealthy and highly respected families.
The letter did not particularly surprise Martin Beck. He had known all along that a letter containing that kind of information would appear sooner or later. Now they had moved a step forward and while he was getting the information together to send to Motala, he was mostly thinking about how it would feel to be 'forcefully examined' by a high official of the Turkish police.
One flight up, Kollberg took the news in his stride.
M 'The Turks? Yes, I've heard about their methods.'
He looked through his lists.
'Picture number 23, 38, 102, 109…'
'That's enough.'
Martin Beck looked through the pile of pictures until he found one which showed both of the men very clearly. He looked for a moment at the uncle's white mustache and then moved his eyes to Gunes Fratt who was short, elegantly dressed, and had a small, dark mustache and even features. He didn't look so unattractive.
Unfortunately, Roseanna McGraw had thought differently.
This was the fifteenth day since they had thought of collecting photographs. By now they had definitely identified forty-one passengers who had appeared in one or another of the pictures. In addition, two more pictures of the woman from Lincoln had been added to the collection. Both of them had been taken while the boat was in the Sodertalje canal. Roseanna McGraw was in the background of one of them, out of focus and with her back turned toward the camera. But in the other, she was seen in profile by the railing with a railroad bridge behind her. She was three hours nearer her death, and had taken off her sunglasses and was squinting up at the sun. The wind had blown her dark hair and her mouth was half-open, as if she were on the verge of saying something or had just yawned. Martin Beck looked at her for a long time through the magnifying glass. Finally he said:
'Who took this picture?'
'One of the Danes,' answered Melander. 'Vibeke Amdal from Copenhagen. She was traveling alone in a single cabin.'
'Find out whatever you can about her.'
A half hour later the bomb exploded.
'There's a cable from the United States,' said the woman on the other end of the telephone. 'Shall I read it to you?'
'STRUCK A GOLD MINE YESTERDAY. TEN ROLLS OF EIGHT MILLIMETER COLOR FILM AND 150 STILLS. YOU WILL SEE A LOT OF ROSEANNA MCGRAW. SOME UNKNOWN CHARACTER SEEMS TO BE WITH HER. PAN AMERICAN GUARANTEES DELIVERY STOCKHOLM THURSDAY.
KAFKA
'Shall I try to translate it?' 'No thank you. That's okay for now.'
Martin Beck fell into his chair. He rubbed his hairline and looked at his desk calendar. It was Wednesday, November 25.
Outside, it was raining, and it was chilly. It would soon begin to snow.
They showed the film at a studio right across the street from the North Station. It was crowded in the screening room and even at that moment Martin Beck had difficulty in getting over his aversion to groups of people.
His chief was there and so were the County Police Superintendent, the Public Prosecutor, Superintendent Larsson and Ahlberg. They had driven up from Motala. In addition, Kollberg, Stenstrom and Melander were there.
Even Hammar, who had seen more crime in his day than all the others put together, seemed quiet and tense and alert.
The lights were turned out.
The projector started to whirl.
'Oh, yes, yes… ah.'
As usual it was hard for Kollberg to keep quiet.
The film started with a shot of the king's guard in Stockholm. They passed Gustaf Adolf's Square. Swung toward the North Bridge. The camera panned toward the Opera House.
'No style,' said Kollberg. 'They look like military police.'
The County Police Superintendent whispered 'shush.'
Then came shots of pretty Swedish girls with turned up noses sitting in the sun on the steps of the Concert Hall. The tall buildings in the center of the city. A tourist poster in front of a Laplander's tent at Skansen's Park. Gripsholm Castle with a group of folk dancers in the foreground. Some middle-aged Americans with violet lips and sunglasses. The Hotel Reisen, Skepps Bridge, the stern of the
'Which boat is that?' asked the County Police Superintendent.
'Moore-McCormack's
'What building is that?' asked the County Police Superintendent a little later.
'It's an old people's home,' said Kollberg. 'Haile Selassie saluted it once when he was here before the war.
