Eight minutes after nine, Stenstrom arrived. Nothing had happened except that the light had been turned off at eight o'clock and after that there had been only a weak, cold blue stream of light from between the blinds.
Stenstrom had an evening paper in his pocket and announced that the man was probably looking at a long, American film on the television.
'That's fine,' said Kollberg. 'I saw it ten or fifteen years ago. It has a wonderful ending. Everyone dies except the girl. I'll run along now and maybe I'll get to see some of it If you call me before six I'll come over here.'
It was a cold and clear morning. Ten hours later Sten strom hurried off toward St. Erik's Square. Since the light had been turned off at ten-thirty in the room on the third floor, nothing had happened.
'Be careful that you don't freeze,' Stenstrom had said before he left. When the door opened and the tall man came out, Kollberg was thankful for a chance to move.
Bengtsson had on the same overcoat as he had the day before but he had changed his hat to a gray Crimea cap. He walked quickly and the breath from his mouth looked like white smoke. At St. Erik's Square he took a bus to Hamn Street and a few minutes before eight Kollberg saw him disappear behind the door to the moving company.
A few hours later he came out again, walked the few steps to the cafe in the house next door, drank a cup of coffee and ate two sandwiches. At twelve o'clock he went to the cafeteria and when he had eaten, he took his walk through the city and went back to his office. At a few minutes after five he locked the door behind him, took the bus to St. Erik's Square, bought some bread in a bakery, and went home.
At twenty minutes after seven he came out of his front door again. At St. Erik's Square he walked to the right, and continued over the bridge and finally swung in to Kungsholm Street where he disappeared into a doorway. Kollberg stood for a while outside the door where the word BOWLING shone in large, red letters. Then he opened the door and went in.
The bowling hall had seven lanes and in back of a railing was a bar with small, round tables and some chairs. Echoes of voices and laughter filled the room. Now and then he heard the sound of rolling balls and the bang that followed.
Kollberg couldn't see Bengtsson anywhere. On the other hand he immediately spotted two of the three men from the bar the previous day. They sat at a table in the bar and Kollberg drew back toward the door in order not to be recognized. After a while the third man came toward the table together with Bengtsson. When they had begun to bowl, Kollberg left.
After a few hours the four bowlers came out. They separated at the trolley stop at St. Erik's Square and Bengtsson walked back the way he had come, alone.
At eleven o'clock it got dark in Bengtsson's apartment but by that time Kollberg was already home and in bed, while his bundled up colleague paced back and forth on Burk Street. Stenstrom had a cold.
The next day was a Wednesday and it went by pretty much as the earlier days. Stenstrom nursed his cold and spent the major part of the day in the cafe on Smlland Street.
That evening Bengtsson went to the movies. Five rows in back of him Kollberg watched while a blond, half naked Mr. America struggled with an ancient monster in cinemascope.
The next two days were similar. Stenstrom and Kollberg took turns following the man's uneventful and highly regimented life. Kollberg visited the bowling alley again and found out that Bengtsson played well and that for years he had played every Tuesday with his three friends from work.
The seventh day was a Sunday and according to Stenstrom the only interesting thing that happened during the entire day was a hockey match between Sweden and Czechoslovakia which, together with Bengtsson and ten thousand others, he attended.
Kollberg found a new door to stand in on Sunday night.
When, for the second Saturday in a row, he saw Bengtsson come out of his office, lock the door at two minutes after twelve and begin to walk toward Regering Street, he thought: 'Now we'll go to the Lowenbrau, and have a beer.' When Bengtsson opened the door to the Lowenbrau, Kollberg stood at the corner of Drottning Street and hated him.
That evening he went up to his office at Kristineberg and looked at some pictures from the film. He didn't know how many times he had looked at them.
He looked at each picture for a long time and very carefully, but in spite of the fact that it was hard to believe, he still saw the man whose quiet life he had witnessed for two weeks.
'It must be the wrong guy,' said Kollberg.
'Are you getting tired?'
'Don't misunderstand me. I have nothing against standing and sleeping in a doorway on Birk Street night after night, but…'
'But what?'
'For ten out of fourteen days this is exactly what has happened: at seven o'clock he opens the blinds. At one minute after seven he opens the window. At twenty-five minutes to eight he shuts the window. At twenty minutes to eight he walks out of his front door, walks over to St. Erik's Square and takes the number 56 bus to the corner of Regering Street and Hamn Street, walks to the moving company and unlocks the door at one half minute before eight. At ten o'clock he goes down to the City Cafe, drinks two cups of coffee and eats a cheese sandwich. At one minute after twelve he goes to either one of two cafeterias. He eats…'
'What does he eat?' asked Martin Beck.
'Fish or fried meat. He is finished at twenty minutes past twelve, takes a quick walk through the middle of town, and goes back to work. At five minutes past five he locks up and goes home. If the weather is terrible he takes the number 56 bus. Otherwise he walks up Regering Street, King Street, Queen Street, Barnhus Street, Uppland Street, Observatory Street, through Vasa Park, across St. Erik's Square, past Birk Street and home. On the way he sometimes shops in some supermarket where there aren't too many people. He buys milk and cake every day and every few days he gets bread, butter, cheese and marmalade. He has stayed home and looked at the boob tube eight evenings out of the fourteen. On Wednesdays he has gone to the seven o'clock show at the movies. Fanciful nonsense films, both times. I was the one that had to sit through them. On the way home he stuffs a frankfurter into himself, with both mustard and catsup. Two Sundays in a row he has taken the subway to the stadium to see the ice hockey games. Stenstrom got to see those. Two
Tuesdays in a row he has gone bowling with three men from his company. On Saturdays he works until twelve. Then he goes to the Lowenbrau and drinks a stein of beer. In addition, he eats a portion of frankfurter salad. Then he goes home. He doesn't look at the girls on the street. Sometimes he stops and looks at the posters in front of the movie houses or in the shop windows, mostly sporting goods and hardware stores. He doesn't buy any newspapers and doesn't subscribe to any either. On the other hand he does buy two magazines,
'What is he like?'
'How the devil should I know?' Kollberg said.
'Seriously.'
'He seems healthy, calm, strong and dull. He keeps his window open every night. Moves naturally and without trouble, dresses well, doesn't seem nervous. He never seems to be in a hurry but doesn't drag. He ought to smoke a pipe. But doesn't.'
'Has he noticed you?'
'I don't think so. Not me, in any case.'
They sat quietly for a while watching the snow which came down in large, wet flakes.
'You understand,' Kollberg said, 'I have a feeling that we could keep on like this right up until he has his vacation next summer. It is a fascinating act, but can the country afford to keep two supposedly capable detectives…'
He stopped in the middle of the sentence.
'Capable, yes, by the way, last night there was a drunk who said 'boo' to me while I stood there and watched the apartment. I almost got a heart attack.'
