The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

'That's a spare key, isn't it?'

'I don't understand,' said the porter.

'I thought that the previous guest took the key with him.'

'Yes, that's right. But we got the key back the next day.'

'Got it back? Who from?'

'From the police, sir.'

'From the police? Which police?'

The porter shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.

'From the ordinary police, of course. Who else? A policeman handed in the key to the doorman. Mr. Matsson must have dropped it somewhere.''

'Where?'

'I'm afraid I don't know, sir.'

Martin Beck asked one more question.

'Has anyone else besides me gone through Mr. Matsson's luggage?'

The porter hesitated for a moment before answering.

'I don't think so, sir.'

Martin Beck went through the revolving door. The man with the gray mustache and a visored cap was standing in the shade beneath the balcony, perfectly still with his hands behind his back, a living memorial to Emil Jannings.

'Do you remember receiving a room key from a policeman two weeks ago?'

The old man looked at him questioningly.

'Of course.'

'Was it a uniformed policeman?'

'Yes, yes… A patrol car stopped here and one of the policemen got out and turned in the key.'

'What did he say?'

The man thought.

'He said: 'Lost property.' Nothing else, I believe.'

Martin Beck turned around and walked away. After three steps, he remembered that he had forgotten to leave a tip. He went back and placed a number of the unfamiliar light-metal coins into the man's hand. The doorman touched the visor of his cap with the fingertips of his right hand and said, 'Thank you, but it isn't necessary.'

'You speak excellent German,' said Martin Beck.

And he thought: Hell of a lot better than I do, anyway.

'I learned it at the Isonzo front in 1916.'

As Martin Beck turned the corner of the block, he took out the map and looked at it. Then he walked, map still in hand, down toward the quay. A big white paddle steamer with two funnels was forging its way upriver. He looked at it joylessly.

There was something fundamentally wrong with all this. Something was quite definitely not as it should be. What it was he did not know.

9

It was Sunday and very warm. A light haze of heat trembled over the mountain slopes. The quay was crowded with people walking back and forth or sitting sunning themselves on the steps down to the river. On the small steamers and motor launches shuttling up and down the river people clad in summer clothes crowded together on their way to bathing sites and holiday spots. Long lines were waiting at the ticket offices.

Martin Beck had forgotten that it was Sunday and was at first surprised by the crowds. He followed the stream of strollers and walked along the quay, watching the lively boat traffic. He had thought of starting the day with a walk across the next bridge to Margaret Island, out in the middle of the river, but changed his mind when he imagined the crowds of Budapest citizens spending their Sunday out there.

He was slightly irritated by the crush, and the sight of all these people, happy on their free Sunday, filled him with an urge for activity. He would visit the hotel at which Alf Matsson spent his first and perhaps only night in Budapest--a young people's hotel on the Buda side, the Embassy man had said.

Martin Beck broke out of the stream of people and went up to the street above the quay. He stood in the shade of the gable of a house and studied the map. He hunted for a long time, but could not find a hotel called Ifjusag, and finally he folded up the map and began to walk toward the bridge over to the island and onto the Buda side. He looked around for a police patrolman but did not succeed in finding one. At the end of the bridge there was a taxi stand and a taxi was waiting there. It looked free.

The driver could speak only Hungarian and did not understand a word until Martin Beck showed him the piece of paper with the hotel's name written on it.

They drove across the bridge, past the green island, where he caught sight of a high-flung surge of water between the trees, then on along a shopping street, up steep narrow streets and in onto an open square with lawns and a modernistic bronze group representing a man and a woman sitting staring at each other.

The taxi stopped there and Martin Beck paid—probably much too much, for the driver thanked him profusely in his incomprehensible language.

The hotel was low and spread out along the square, which was more like a widening of the street, with flower beds and parking places. The building appeared to be built just recently, in contrast to the other houses that surrounded the square. The architecture was modern and the entire facade was covered with balconies. The steps leading up to the entrance were wide and few.

Inside the glass doors was a long, light foyer, containing a souvenir stand (which was closed), elevator doors, a couple of groups of chairs and a reception desk. The reception desk was empty and there was not a soul in the foyer.

Adjoining the foyer was a big lounge with armchairs and low tables and large windows all along the far wall. This room was empty too.

Martin Beck went across to the wall with the windows and looked out.

A few young people were lying on the lawn outside, sunning themselves in bathing suits.

The hotel was situated on a hill with a view across to the Pest side. The houses on the slope between the hotel and the river appeared old and shabby. From the taxi Martin Beck had seen bullet holes in most of the facades, and on a number of houses the plastering had been almost entirely shot away.

He looked out into the foyer, which was still just as deserted, and sat down in one of the armchairs in the lounge. He did not expect much from his visit to the Ifjusag. Alf Matsson had stayed here one night, there was a shortage of hotel rooms in Budapest in the summer, and the fact that this particular hotel had a room free was probably sheer chance. It was hardly plausible that anyone would remember a guest who had come late in the evening and left the next morning, at the height of the summer season.

He extinguished his last Florida cigarette and looked gloomily at the sunburned youngsters out on the lawn. It suddenly seemed to him quite ridiculous that he should be gadding about Budapest trying to find a person to whom he was completely indifferent. He could not remember ever being given such a hopeless, meaningless assignment.

Steps could be heard out in the foyer, and Martin Beck got up and went out after them. A young man was standing behind the reception desk with a telephone receiver in his hand, staring up at the ceiling and biting his thumbnail as he listened. Then he began to speak and at first Martin Beck thought the man was speaking Finnish, but then remembered that Finnish and Hungarian stemmed from the same linguistic stock.

The young man put down the receiver and looked inquiringly at Martin Beck, who hesitated while trying to decide which language he should begin with.

'What can I do for you?' said the youth in perfect English, to Martin Beck's relief.

'It's about a guest who stayed at this hotel the night of July twenty-second. Have you any idea who was on duty here that night?'

The young man looked at a wall calendar.

'I really don't remember,' he said. 'It's more than two weeks ago. One moment, and I'll have a look.'

He hunted around for a while on a shelf under the desk, retrieved a little black book and leafed through it. Then he said, 'It was me, in fact. Friday night, yes… What kind of person? Did he stay just one night?'

'Yes, as far as I know,' said Martin Beck. 'He might have stayed here later, of course. A Swedish journalist