booked his return ticket?'
The last question was worthy of some thought. The manner in which it was put indicated that the man already knew the answer. Szluka rose to his feet.
'Just a moment,' said Martin Beck. 'I'd like to ask you about one thing.'
'Please go ahead. What do you want to know?'
'When Alf Matsson left the hotel, he took his room key with him. The next day, it was handed in here by a uniformed policeman. Where did the police get the key from?'
Szluka looked straight at him for at least fifteen seconds. Then he said, 'Unfortunately, I cannot answer that question. Good-bye.'
He walked swiftly through the lobby, stopped at the coat-check counter, received his gray-brown hat with a feather in it and stood with it in his hand, as if thinking about something. Then he turned around and went back to Martin Beck's table.
'Here is your passport.'
'Thank you.'
'It wasn't at the reception desk, as you thought. You were mistaken.'
'Yes,' said Martin Beck.
He found nothing amusing about the other man's behavior and did not bother to look up. Szluka remained standing there.
'What do you think of the food here?' he said.
'It's good.'
'I'm delighted to hear it.'
The Hungarian said this as if he really meant it, and Martin Beck raised his head.
'You see,' explained Szluka, 'nothing very dramatic or exciting happens here nowadays—it's not like in your country or in London or New York.'
The combination was somewhat bewildering.
'We've had more than enough of that in the past,' said
Szluka solemnly. 'Now we want peace and quiet, and we take an interest in other things. Food, for instance. I myself had four slices of fat bacon and two fried eggs for breakfast And for lunch I had fish soup and fried, breaded carp. Apple strudel for dessert.'
He paused. Then he said thoughtfully, 'The children don't like fat bacon, of course. They usually have cocoa and buttered sweet rolls before they go to school.'
'Uh-huh.'
'Yes. And this evening I'm going to have veal schnitzel with rice and paprika sauce. Not bad. Have you tasted the fish soup here, by the way?'
'No.'
Indeed, he had come across this fish soup on his first evening, but he could not see that this had anything to do with the Hungarian police.
'You definitely ought to try it. It's excellent. But it's even better at Matya's, a place quite near here. You ought to take the tune to go there—like most of the other foreigners.'
'Uh-huh.'
'But I can assure you that I know a place where they have even better fish soup. The best fish soup in all Budapest. It's a little place up on Lajos ut. Not many tourists find their way there. You have to go down to Szeged to find a soup like this.'
'Uh-huh.'
Szluka had become noticeably exhilarated during this report on culinary matters. He appeared to be collecting his thoughts now and looked at his watch. Presumably he was thinking about his veal schnitzel.
'Have you had time to see anything of Budapest?'
'A little. It's a beautiful city.'
'Yes, it is, isn't it? Have you been to the Palatine Baths?'
'No.'
'They're worth a visit I'm planning to go there myself tomorrow. Perhaps we could go together.'
'Why not?'
'Excellent. In that case I'll meet you at two o'clock outside the entrance.'
'Good-bye.'
Martin Beck remained seated awhile, thinking. The conversation had been unpleasant and disquieting. Szluka's last sudden change in attitude did not in any way alter that impression. More intensely than ever, he had a feeling that something did not fit, and at the same time, his own impotence seemed more and more apparent.
At about half past eleven, the foyer and the dining room began to empty and Martin Beck went up to his room. After he had undressed, he stood for a moment by the open window, inhaling the warm night air. A paddle steamer slid by on the river, brightly illuminated with green, red and yellow lights. People were dancing on the aft deck and the sound of the music came through intermittently across the water.
A few people were still sitting at the tables in front of the hotel, one of them a tall man in his thirties, with dark wavy hair. The man had a glass of beer in front of him and had obviously been home and exchanged his blue suit for a light-gray one.
He shut the window and went to bed. Then he lay in the dark thinking: the police may not be especially interested in Alf Matsson, but they're certainly interested in Martin Beck.
It was a long time before he fell asleep.
13
Martin Beck sat in the shade by the stone balustrade in front of the hotel, eating a late breakfast. It was his third day in Budapest and it promised to be just as warm and beautiful as the previous ones.
Breakfast was nearly over, and he and an elderly couple, who sat in silence a few tables away, were the only guests. There were a good many people moving about on the street and down on the quay, mostly mothers with children and low streamlined baby carriages like small white tanks.
The tall dark man with a stick was not visible, which in itself did not necessarily mean that he was no longer being watched. The police corps was large and there were no doubt replacements.
A waiter came over and cleared his table.
'Fruhstuck nicht gut?'
He looked unhappily at the untouched salami.
Martin Beck assured him that the breakfast had been very good. When the waiter had gone away, he took out a picture postcard he had bought in the hotel kiosk. It was of a paddle steamer on its way up the Danube, with one of the bridges in the background. The lady in the kiosk had stamped the card for him and he pondered for a moment over whom he should send it to. Then he addressed it to Gunnar Ahlberg, Police Station, Motala, wrote a few words of greetings on it, and put it back into his pocket.
He had met Ahlberg two summers ago, when the body of a woman had been found in the Gota Canal at Motala. They had become good friends during the six-month investigation and had kept in touch sporadically ever since. At the time the investigation and search for the murderer had become a personal affair for him. It had not been only the policeman in him that caused him to think of nothing else but the case for months on end.
And now, here in Budapest, it was only with the greatest effort that he could summon up any interest for his assignment.
Martin Beck felt stupidly useless as he sat there. He had several hours to dispose of before his meeting with Szluka, and the only constructive thing he could think of doing was putting the postcard to Ahlberg into the mailbox. It annoyed him that Szluka had asked him (before he had thought of it himself) whether he had checked to see if Matsson had booked a return flight. He took out his map and found one of the airline's branch offices near a square close to the hotel. Afterward he got up, walked through the dining room and the foyer, and put the postcard in the red mailbox outside the hotel entrance. Then he began walking in toward town.
The square was large, with shops and travel agencies and a great deal of traffic. Many people were already sitting at a sidewalk cafe, drinking coffee at the small tables. Outside this cafe he saw a stairway that led down underneath the street. 'Foldalatti' appeared on a sign and he supposed that the word meant W. C. He felt sticky and warm and decided to go down there and wash before he visited the airline office. He crossed the street
