'Yes. Have you heard from him?'
'No. Nothing at all. The only thing we know for certain is that he checked in at Ferihegyi, that's the airport here, on the evening of the twenty-second. He spent the night at some kind of youth hotel called Ifjusag up on the Buda side. The next morning he moved in here. About half an hour later, he went out and took his room key with him. Since then, no one has seen him.'
'What do the police say?'
'Nothing.'
'Nothing?'
'The ones I've spoken with don't seem interested. Officially speaking, that attitude is defensible. Matsson had a valid visa and he has registered as a resident at this hotel. The police have no reason to concern themselves with him until he leaves the country, so long as he doesn't overstay the period of his residence permit.'
'Couldn't he have left the country?'
'Quite unthinkable. And even if he had succeeded in getting over the border illegally, where would he go then? Without a passport. Anyhow, we've made some inquiries at the embassies in Prague, Belgrade, Bucharest and Vienna. Even in Moscow, for safety's sake. No one knows anything.'
'His employer seemed to think that he had two things to do here. An interview with Laszlo Papp, the boxer, and an article on the Jewish museum.'
'He hasn't been to either place. We've done a little investigating. He had written a letter from Sweden to the curator of the museum, a Dr. Sos, but did not look him up. We've also talked to Papp's mother. She had never heard of Matsson's name and Papp himself is not even in town.'
'Is his luggage still in his hotel room?'
'His possessions are at the hotel. Not in his room. He had reserved a room for three nights only. The hotel management retained it at our request, then moved his luggage into the office. Out here. Behind the reception desk. In fact, it wasn't even unpacked. We paid the bill.'
The man sat in silence for a while, as if he were thinking something over. Then he said solemnly, 'Naturally we're going to demand the amount back from his employers.'
'Or his estate,' said Martin Beck.
'Yes, if things turn out to be as bad as that.'
'Where's his passport?'
'I have it here,' said the man from the Embassy.
He unzipped his flat briefcase, took out the passport and handed it over, simultaneously taking his fountain pen out of his inside pocket.
'Here you are. Would you sign for it, please?'
Martin Beck signed. The man put away his pen and the receipt.
'Well, then. Is there anything else? Yes, of course, the hotel bill. You needn't worry about that. We've had instructions to cover your expenses. Rather unorthodox, I feel. Naturally you should have had daily expenses in the usual fashion. Well, if you need any cash, you can collect it at the Embassy.'
'Thank you.'
'Then I don't think there's anything else, is there? You can go through his possessions whenever you like. I've let them know.'
The man got up.
'In fact you're occupying the same room that Matsson had,' he said in passing. 'It's 105, isn't it? If we hadn't insisted on the room remaining in Matsson's name, you would probably have had to stay at some other hotel. It's the height of the season.'
Before they parted, Martin Beck said, 'What do you personally think about this? Where's he gone?'
The man from the Embassy looked at him expression-lessly.
'If I think anything at all, I prefer to keep it to myself.'
A moment later he added, 'This thing is very unpleasant.'
Martin Beck went up to his room. It had already been cleaned. He looked around. So Alf Matsson had stayed here, had he? For an hour, at the most. To expect any clues from his activities during that brief period would be demanding too much.
What had Alf Matsson done during that hour? Had he stood by the window like this, looking out at the boats? Perhaps. Had he seen somebody or something that made him leave the hotel so quickly he'd forgotten to hand in his key? Possibly. What would it have been, then? Impossible to say. If he'd been run over in the street, it would have been reported at once. If he had planned to jump into the river, he would have had to wait until dark. If he had tried to nurse his hangover with apricot brandy and had plunged into another drinking bout as a result, then he'd had sixteen days in which to sober up. That was a bit much. Anyway, he had not been in the habit of drinking while on an assignment. He was the modern type of journalist, it had said someplace in the report from the Third Division: quick, efficient and direct. He was the type who did the job first and relaxed afterward.
Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Singularly unpleasant. Damned unpleasant. Blasted unpleasant. Almost painfully so.
Martin Beck lay down on the bed. It creaked magnificently. Gone were thoughts of Baron Conrad von Hotzendorf. Had it scrunched beneath Alf Matsson? Presumably. Was there anybody who didn't test the bed as soon as he stepped into a hotel room? So Matsson had lain here and looked up at the ceiling over twelve feet above. Then, without unpacking and without handing in his key, he had gone out… and disappeared. Had the telephone rung? With some startling news?
Martin Beck unfolded his map of Budapest and studied it at length. Then he was seized with an urge to perform some kind of duty, so he rose, put the map and his passport into his hip pocket and went down to inspect the luggage.
The porter was a somewhat stout, elderly man, friendly, dignified and admirably intelligible.
No, no one had phoned Mr. Matsson while Mr. Matsson was still in the hotel. Later, when Mr. Matsson had left, there had been several calls. They had been repeated the following days. Was it the same person who had phoned? No, several different people—the operator at the board was sure of that. Men? Both men and women, at least one woman. Had the people who phoned left any messages or telephone numbers? No, they had left no messages. They hadn't given their telephone numbers either. Later there had been calls from Stockholm and from the Swedish Embassy. Then, however, both messages and telephone numbers had been left. They were still here. Would Mr. Beck like to see them? No, Mr. Beck would not like to see them.
The luggage was indeed to be found in a room behind the reception desk. It was very easily inspected. A portable typewriter of the standard make Erika and a yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with a strap around it. A calling card was fitted into the leather label dangling from the handle. Alf Matsson, Reporter, Fleminggatan 34, Stockholm K. The key was in the lock.
Martin Beck took the typewriter out of its case and studied it for a long time. Having come to the conclusion that it was a portable typewriter of the Erika make, he went over to the suitcase.
The bag appeared neatly and carefully packed, but all the same he had a feeling that someone with a practiced hand had been through it and put everything back into place. The contents consisted of a checked shirt, a brown sport shirt, a white poplin shirt with the laundry band still around it, a pair of freshly pressed light-blue trousers, a kind of blue cardigan, three handkerchiefs, four pairs of socks, two pairs of colored shorts, a fishnet undershirt and a pair of light-brown suede shoes. Everything was clean. In addition, a shaving kit, a sheaf of typing paper, a typewriter eraser, an electric razor, a novel and a dark-blue plastic wallet of the kind that travel agencies usually give away free and that aren't big enough for the tickets. In the shaving kit were shaving lotion, talcum powder, a cake of soap still in its wrapper, a tube of toothpaste that had been opened, a toothbrush, a bottle of mouthwash, a box of aspirin and a pack of contraceptives. In the dark-blue plastic wallet were $1500 in $20 bills and six Swedish 100-kronor notes. An astonishingly large sum for traveling money, but Alf Matsson seemed to be accustomed to doing things in a grand manner.
Martin Beck put everything back as nicely and neatly as possible and returned to the reception desk. It was noon and high time to go out. As he still didn't know what he should do, he might at least do it out in the fresh air —for instance, in the sun on the quay. He took his room key out of his pocket and looked at it. It looked just as old, as venerable and as solid as the hotel itself. He put it down on the desk. The porter at once reached out his hand for the key.
