The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

don't know I'm here.'

Kollberg sounded clearly offended.

'D'you think I'm a moron?'

'Only occasionally,' said Martin Beck, amiably.

'I didn't speak to anyone. Just sat at the table next to that gang and listened to them shoot the breeze. For five hours. They sure put away the liquor.'

The telephone operator broke in and said something incomprehensible.

'You're bankrupting the government,' said Martin Beck. 'What's up? Get it off your chest.'

'Well, the guys were shooting the bull back and forth, one thing and another about Alfie, as they call him. They're just the type to let off a lot of hot air behind each other's backs. As soon as one of them goes to the head, then the others all get started on him.'

'Don't be so long-winded.'

'That Molin seems to be the worst. He was the one who started talking about the thing I'm calling about, too. Nasty, but it might not be all lies.'

'Come on now, look sharp, Lennart.'

'And you tell me that! Anyhow it turned out that Matsson makes off like a shot for Hungary because he's got a gal down there. Some sort of small-time athlete he met while he was a sports reporter here in Stockholm—at some international sports meet or other. While he was still living with his wife.'

'Uh-huh.'

'They also said it was very likely that he arranged his trips to other places—Prague and Berlin and so forth— so he could meet her when she was competing there.'

'Doesn't sound likely to me. Girl athletes are usually kept under lock and key.'

'Take it for what it's worth.'

'Thanks,' said Martin Beck, without a trace of enthusiasm. 'So long.'

'Wait a second, I haven't finished yet. They never mentioned her name—I don't think they even knew it. But they gave enough details for me to be able to… It rained yesterday too.'

'Lennart,' said Martin Beck desperately.

'I managed to force my way into the Royal Library and sat all day yesterday looking through back numbers. As far as I can make out, it can only be a gal named—I'll spell it.'

Martin Beck switched on the bedside lamp and wrote the letters on the edge of the map of Budapest. A-R-J B-O-K-K.

'Got it?' said Kollberg.

'Of course.'

'She's German actually, but a Hungarian citizen. Don't know where she lives, nor that the spelling's quite right. Not very famous. I couldn't think of any name that reminded me of hers in any connection since May of last year. Apparently she was some kind of substitute. On the second team.'

'Have you finished now?'

'One more thing. His car is where it ought to be. In the airport parking place here at Arlanda. An Opel Rekord. Nothing special about it.'

'Really. Have you finished now?'

'Yes.'

'G'bye, then.'

'Bye.'

Martin Beck stared listlessly at the letters he had written down. Ari Bokk. It did not even look like the name of a human being. Probably the particulars were wrong and the information completely useless.

He got up, opened the shutters and let in the summer. The view over the river and the Buda side was just as fascinating as it had been twenty-four hours ago. The Czech paddle steamer had left, making way for a propeller- driven motor vessel with two low funnels. It was Czechoslovakian too and was called Druzba. People dressed for summer were sitting eating breakfast at the tables in front of the hotel. It was already half past nine. He felt useless and negligent of his duties, so he swiftly washed and dressed, put the map in his pocket and hurried downstairs to the vestibule. Having hurried all the way down, he then remained standing absolutely motionless. To hurry seemed pointless when you didn't know what to do when you got there anyway. He meditated on this for a moment, then went into the dining room, sat down by one of the open windows and had breakfast served to him. Boats of every size were passing by. A large Soviet tugboat towing three oil barges worked its way upstream. Presumably it came from Batum. That was a long way away. The captain was wearing a white cap. The waiters swarmed around Martin Beck's table as if he were Rockefeller. Small boys were kicking a ball on the street. A big dog wanted to join in and almost knocked over the well-dressed lady holding its leash. She had to grab hold of one of the stone pillars of the balustrade to keep from falling. After a while she let go of the pillar but retained her hold on the leash, running, at a sharp backward tilt behind the dog, in among the ballplayers. It was already very warm. The river sparkled.

His lack of constructive ideas was conspicuous. Martin Beck turned his head and saw a person staring at him: a sunburned man of his own age, with graying hair, straight nose, brown eyes, gray suit, black shoes, white shirt and gray tie. He had a large signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and beside him on the table lay a speckled green hat with a narrow brim and a fluffy little feather in the band. The man returned to his double espresso.

Martin Beck moved his eyes and saw a woman staring at him. She was African and young and very beautiful, with clean features, large brilliant eyes, white teeth, long slim legs and high insteps. Silver sandals and a tight- fitting light-blue dress of some shiny material.

Presumably they were both staring at Martin Beck—the man with envy, the woman with ill-concealed desire —because he was so handsome.

Martin Beck sneezed and three waiters blessed him. He thanked them, went out into the vestibule, took the map out of his pocket and showed the letters he had written on it to the porter.

'Do you know of anybody by this name?'

'No sir.'

'It's supposed to be some kind of sports star.'

'Really?'

The porter looked politely sympathetic. Naturally, a guest was always right.

'Perhaps not so well known, sir.'

'Is it a man's or a woman's name?'

'Ari is a woman's name—almost a nickname. A different version of Aranka, for children.'

The porter cocked his head and looked at the words.

'But the last name, sir. Is it really a name?'

'May I borrow a telephone directory?'

Naturally there was no one called Bokk, anyhow no human being. But he didn't give up that easily. (A cheap virtue when a person still doesn't know what to do.) He tried several other possibilities. The result was as follows: BOECK ESZTER penzio XII Venetianer ut 6 292-173.

Struck by his first thought of the day, he took out the slip of paper he had received from the girl at the young people's hotel. Venetianer ut. It could hardly be a coincidence.

At the reception desk a young lady had taken the august old porter's place.

'What does this mean?'

'Penzio. Pension—boarding house. Shall I call the number for you?'

He shook his head.

'Where is this street?'

'The Fourth District. In Ujpest.'

'How do you get there?'

'It's quickest by taxi, of course. Otherwise, Trolley Line Three from Marx Square. But it's more comfortable to take one of the boats that tie up outside here. Heading north.'

11

The boat was called Uttoro and was a joy to the eye. A little coal-fired steamer