Stenstrom sounded out of breath as if he had been || running and he hung up the phone before Martin Beck had a chance to say anything.
'He's on his way there,' said Kollberg. The next call came at half past seven and was even shorter and just as one-sided.
'I'm at Englebrekts Square. He's walking on Birger Jarls Street at a pretty fast pace.'
They waited. They watched the clock and the telephone in turn.
Five after eight. Martin Beck picked up the receiver in the middle of the ring. Stenstrom sounded disappointed.
'He's swung onto Eriksberg Street and crossed the viaduct. We're on Oden Street now. I guess, he's going home. He's walking slowly again.'
'Damn it! Call me when he's home.' A half hour went by before Stenstrom called again. 'He didn't go home. He turned onto Uppland Street. He doesn't seem to realize that he has feet. He just walks and walks. Mine won't hold up much longer.' 'Where are you now?'
'North Ban Square. He's passing the City Theater now.' Martin Beck thought about the man who had just passed the City Theater. What was he thinking about? Was he really thinking at all; or was he just walking around unconscious of his surroundings, withdrawn and with one thought or possibly one decision ripening within him?
During the next three hours Stenstrom telephoned four times from different places. The man stayed on the streets near Eriksberg Square but never went really close to her house.
At 2:30 a.m. Stenstrom reported that Bengtsson had finally gone home and that the light in his room had just gone out.
Martin Beck sent Kollberg as a replacement.
At eight o'clock on Sunday morning Kollberg came back, awakened Ahlberg who was sleeping on a sofa, threw himself down on it and slept.
Ahlberg went over to Martin Beck who sat brooding by the telephone.
'Has Kollberg arrived?' he asked and looked up with bloodshot eyes.
'He's sleeping. Out like a light. Stenstrom's on watch.'
They only had to wait two hours for the first telephone call of the day.
'He's gone out again,' Stenstrom reported. 'He's walking toward the bridge to Kungsholm.'
'How does he look?'
'Just the same. Even the same clothes. God knows if he even took them off.'
'Is he walking fast?'
'No, rather slowly.'
'Have you slept?'
'Yes, a little. But I don't exactly feel like a man of steel.'
Between ten in the morning and four in the afternoon Stenstrom called in approximately every hour. Except for two short breaks in a coffee shop, Folke Bengtsson had been walking for six hours. He had wandered around Kungsholm, the old part of the city, and southern Stockholm. He hadn't gone anywhere near Sonja Hansson's apartment.
At five-thirty Martin Beck fell asleep in his chair by the telephone. Fifteen minutes later Stenstrom's call awakened him.
'I'm at Norrmalms Square. He's walking toward her part of the city. He seems different now.'
'In what way?'
'It's as if he's come to life. He seems compelled in some way.'
Eight-fifteen.
'I have to be more careful now. He's just swung onto Sveavagen still headed in her direction. He's looking at girls now.'
Nine-thirty.
'Sture Street He's going slowly toward Stare Square. He seems calmer and is still looking at the girls.'
'Take it easy,' Martin Beck said.
Suddenly he felt fresh and rested in spite of the fact that he hadn't really slept for forty-eight hours.
He stood and looked at the map on which Kollberg was trying to follow Bengtsson's wandering with a red pen. The phone rang again.
'That's the tenth time he's called today,' said Kollberg.
Martin Beck picked up the receiver and looked at the clock. One minute to eleven.
It was Sonja Hansson. Her voice was hoarse and quivered a little.
'Martin! He's here again.'
'We'll be right there,' he said.
Sonja Hansson pushed the telephone away and looked at the clock. One minute after eleven. In four minutes Ahlberg would come through the door and relieve her of that helpless, creeping feeling of unpleasantness she had at the thought of being alone. She wiped her perspiring palms on her cotton dressing gown. The cloth clung to her hips with the dampness.
She walked softly into the dark bedroom and over to the window. The parquet floor felt cold and hard under her bare feet. She stood on her toes, supported herself with her right hand against the window frame, and peeked carefully through the thin curtains. A number of people were on the street, several of them in front of the restaurant across the way but she didn't see Bengtsson for at least a minute and a II half. He turned off of Runeberg Street and continued straight out onto Birger Jarls Street. Right in the middle of the trolley tracks he turned sharply to the right. After about half a minute, he disappeared from her sight. He had moved very fast, with long, gliding steps. He looked directly in front of him as if he didn't see anything around him or was concentrating on something in particular.
She went back into the living room which seemed welcoming with its light and warmth and the familiar accessories she liked. She lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. In spite of the fact that she was fully conscious of what she had taken on, she was also a little relieved when he walked by and didn't stop at the telephone booth. She had already waited too long for that clanging telephone ring which would smash her peace of mind into splinters and bring an irrational and unpleasant element into her home. Now she hoped that it would never come, that everything was wrong, that she could go back to her regular work routine and never have to think about that man again.
She picked up the sweater she had been knitting for the last three weeks, walked over to the mirror and held it to her shoulders. It would soon be finished. She looked at the clock again. Ahlberg was now about ten seconds late. He wouldn't break any records today. She smiled because she knew that would irritate Mm. She met her own calm smile in the mirror and saw the small beads of perspiration that glittered along her hairline,
Sonja Hansson walked through the hall and into the bathroom. She stood with her feet spread apart on the cool tile floor, bent forward and washed her face and hands with cold water.
When she turned off the tap she heard Ahlberg clattering with his key in the front door. He was already more than a minute late.
With the towel still in her hand she stepped out into the hall, stretched out her other hand, unlocked the safety latch, and threw open the door.
'Thank God. I'm so glad that you're here,' she said.
It wasn't Ahlberg.
With a smile still on her lips she backed slowly into the apartment. The man called Folke Bengtsson didn't let go of her with his eyes as he locked the door behind him and put on the safety chain.
Martin Beck was the last man out and already through the door when the telephone rang again. He ran back and grabbed the receiver.
'I'm in the lobby of the Ambassador Hotel,' said Stenstrom. 'I've lost him. Somewhere outside here in the crowd. It can't have been more than four or five minutes ago.'
'He's already on Runeberg Street. Get there as fast as you can.'
Martin Beck threw the phone down and rushed out to the stairs after the others. He climbed in the car past the back of Ahlberg's front seat. They always sat in the same places. It was important that Ahlberg got out first.
Kollberg put the car in gear but had to release the clutch immediately and swerve to avoid a gray police truck
