He thought it was the Royal Palace.'
Seagulls, gracefully flapping their wings. Shots from the suburb Farsta, lines of people getting onto a bus with a plexiglass roof. Fishermen, sinisterly staring into the camera.
'Who took the pictures?' asked the County Police Superintendent.
'Wilfred S. Bellamy, Jr. from Klamath Falls, Oregon,' said Martin Beck.
'Never heard of it,' said the County Superintendent
Svartmans Street, the pump of Brunkeberg Street, underexposed.
'Now,' said the County Police Superintendent.
The
'There she is,' said the County Superintendent.
'Oh God,' said Kollberg.
The woman with the violet lips moved in from the left, with a toothy smile. Everything except for the shipping company's flag and the City Hall tower could be seen. White dots. Flickerings. Red-brown shadows. Darkness.
The lights were turned on and the man in the white coat glanced at the door.
'Just one second. There's a little trouble with the projector.'
Ahlberg turned around and looked at Martin Beck.
'Now it caught fire and burned up,' said First Detective Assistant Lennart Kollberg, who was a mind reader.
At the same moment the lights went out.
'Let's get it in focus, now, boys,' said the County Superintendent.
Some more shots of the city, the backs of tourists, West Bridge, a pan shot of the bridge. Whitecaps on the water, the Swedish flag, some sailboats in a race. A long sequence of Mrs. Bellamy with her eyes closed sunning herself in a deck chair.
'Watch the background,' said the County Police Superintendent.
Martin Beck recognized several of the people on the film: none of them were Roseanna McGraw.
The Sodertalje locks, a road bridge, a railroad bridge. The mast seen from below with the shipping line's flag blowing lightly in the breeze against a blue sky. A motor sailer coming toward them with fish piled up on its deck, someone waving. The same motor sailer seen from the stern. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled profile to the right in the picture.
Oxelosund, from the water, its modern church tower against the sky, the steel mill with billowing chimneys. The film rose and fell with the boat's slow, soft rolling and had a diffuse, gray-green tone.
'The weather is worse now,' said the County Superintendent.
The entire screen looked light gray, a quick turn of the camera, a bit of the bridge deck which was empty. The City of Gothenburg's flag, wet and slack, on the bow ahead in the distance. The helmsman in the picture, balancing a tray on the way down a ladder.
'What now?' asked the County Police Superintendent.
'They're outside of Havringe,' said Martin Beck. 'Sometime around five or six o'clock. They've stopped because of the fog.'
A shot from the stern of the shelter deck, deserted deck chairs, light gray, damp. No people.
The camera to the right, then with a light turn, back again. Roseanna McGraw on the ladder-way leading up from A deck, still bare-legged and in sandals but with a thin, plastic raincoat over her dress and a scarf drawn over her hair. Past the lifeboat, right into the camera, a quick, indifferent look at the photographer, her face calm and relaxed, out of the picture to the right. A quick turn. Roseanna McGraw from the back, with her elbows on the railing, the weight of her body resting on her right foot, on her toes, scratching her left ankle with her right hand.
Just about twenty-four hours from her death. Martin Beck held his breath. No one in the room said anything. The woman from Lincoln faded away while white spots streamed over the screen. The film had come to an end.
The fog had disappeared. A strained, violet-lipped smile. Shots of an elderly couple in deck chairs with blankets over their knees. There was no sunshine but it was not raining either.
'Who are they?' asked the County Superintendent.
'Two other Americans,' said Kollberg. 'Their name is Anderson.'
The boat in a lock. A picture from the bridge over the forward deck, a lot of backs. A member of the crew on land, bent forward, pushing the wheel for the lock chamber's gates. The camera flew on, the lock gates opened. Mrs. Bellamy's wrinkled, double chin seen from below with the bridge and the name of the ship in the background.
Another shot from the bridge. A new lock. The forward deck full of people. A change of scene to a man talking busily and wearing a straw hat.
'Cornfield, an American. He traveled alone,' said Koll-berg.
Martin Beck wondered if he had been the only one to see Roseanna McGraw in the scene that had just passed. She had been standing by the starboard railing, leaning on her elbows as usual, dressed in slacks and a dark sweater.
Shots of the locks continued but she was not in any of them.
'Where would that be?' asked the County Superintendent.
'Karlsborg,' answered Ahlberg. 'Not at Lake Vattern though. This is l bit west of Soderkoping. They left Soderkoping at a quarter to ten. This ought to have been around eleven o'clock.'
A new lock. Another view of the forward deck. There she was again. Her sweater was black and had a turtleneck collar. A lot of people stood near her. She turned her face toward the camera and seemed to laugh. A fast change of scene. A shot of the water. A long sequence with Mrs. Bellamy and the Andersons. At one point the colonel from North Malarstrand walked by, between the subject and the eye of the camera.
Martin Beck's neck was perspiring. Ten hours left. Had she laughed?
A short shot of the forward deck with only three or four persons on it. The boat was out on a lake. White spots. End of that roll.
The County Police Superintendent turned around.
'Roxen?'
'No, Aspllngen,' said Ahlberg.
A drawbridge. Buildings on the shore. People on shore, waving and staring.
'Norsholm,' said Ahlberg. 'It's a quarter after three now.'
The camera stayed stubbornly on the shore. Trees, cows, houses. A little girl, seven or eight years old, walked on the path along the edge of the canal. A blue cotton summer dress, two pigtails and wooden shoes. Someone on board threw a coin on the path. She picked it up, curtsied shyly, and looked confused. More coins were thrown. The child picked them up. She ran a few steps to keep up. A woman's-hand with a shining half-dollar between two sinewy fingers with crimson colored fingernails. The camera came back again. Mrs. Bellamy with an exalted expression, throwing coins. The girl on the shore with her entire right hand full of money, totally confused, with her astonished blue eyes.
Martin Beck didn't see it. He heard Ahlberg take a deep breath, and Kollberg move in his chair.
In back of the do-gooding woman from Klamath Falls, Oregon, Roseanna McGraw had crossed the shelter deck from left to right. She had not been alone. At her left, and pressed closely to her, there had been another person. A man in a sport cap. He was a head taller than she and his profile could be seen during a brief tenth of a second against the light background.
Everyone had seen him.
'Stop the film,' said the County Police Superintendent.
'No, no,' said Ahlberg.
The camera did not return to the boat. A number of green shores glided past. Meadows, trees, tall grass blowing in the breeze, until the summer countryside faded away behind a lot of white spots.
Martin Beck took his handkerchief out of his breast pocket, crumpled it in his hands, and dried his neck.
The picture that covered the screen was new and surprising. The canal lay before and below them; it curved through a long, soft distance between tree-covered shores. Along the left side ran a path, and far off to the left
