briefcase on the edge of the wall and sat down in the water. Martin Beck sat down beside him. It was very comfortable in the spacious stone armchair, which had broad arms about six inches below the surface of the water.

Szluka leaned his head against the back and closed his eyes. Martin Beck said nothing and looked at the bathers.

Nearly opposite him sat a small, pale, thin man, bouncing a fat blonde on his knee. They were both looking seriously and absent-mindedly at a little girl who was splashing about in front of them with a rubber ring around her stomach.

A pale, freckled boy in white bathing trunks came slowly wading by. Behind him he was towing a sturdy youth by a loose grip on his big toe. The youth was lying on his back, staring up at the sky, his hands clasped over his stomach.

On the edge of the pool stood a tall sunburned man with wavy dark hair. His bathing trunks were pale-blue with wide flapping legs, more like undershorts than trunks. Martin Beck suspected that this was in fact the case. Perhaps he should have warned him that he was going swimming, so that the man would have had time to go and get his trunks.

Suddenly, without opening his eyes, Szluka said, 'The key was lying on the steps of the police station. A patrolman found it there.'

Martin Beck looked in surprise at Szluka, who was lying utterly relaxed beside him. The hair on his sunburned chest was fluttering slowly about tike white seaweed in the shimmering green water.

'How did it get there?'

Szluka turned his head and looked at him beneath half-closed lids.

'You won't believe me, of course, but the fact is, I don't know.'

A long-drawn-out cry of disappointment, in unison, was heard coming from the smaller pool. The wave bathing was over for this time and the large pool filled up with people again.

'Yesterday you didn't want to tell me where you'd got the key from. Why did you tell me now?' said Martin Beck.

'As you seem to misinterpret most things anyway, and it was a piece of information you could have got hold of elsewhere, I considered it better to tell you myself.'

After a while Martin Beck said, 'Why are you having me tailed?'

'I don't understand what you're talking about,' said Szluka.

'What did you have for lunch?'

'Fish soup and carp,' said Szluka.

'And apple strudel?'

'No, wild strawberries and whipped cream and powdered sugar,' said Szluka. 'Delicious.'

Martin Beck looked around. The man in the undershorts had gone.

'When was the key found?' he said.

'The day before it was handed in to the hotel. On the afternoon of the twenty-third of July.'

'On the same day that Alf Matsson disappeared, in fact.'

Szluka straightened up and looked at Martin Beck. Then he turned around, opened his briefcase, took out a towel and dried his hands. Then he pulled out a file and leafed through it.

'We have made some inquiries, actually,' he said, 'despite the fact that we have had no official request for an investigation.'

He took a paper out of the file and went on, 'You seem to be taking this matter more seriously than appears to be necessary. Is he an important person, this Alf Matsson?'

'Insofar as he has disappeared in a way that can't be explained, yes. We consider that sufficiently important grounds to find out what's happened to him.'

'What is there to indicate that something has happened to him?'

'Nothing. But the fact is, he's gone.'

Szluka looked at his paper.

'According to the passport and customs authorities, no Swedish citizen by the name Alf Matsson has left Hungary since the twenty-second of July. Anyway, he left his passport at the hotel, and he can hardly have left the country without it. No person—known or unknown—who might have been this Alf Matsson has been taken to a hospital or morgue here in this country during the period in question. Without his ssport, Matsson cannot have been accepted at any other hotel in the country either. Consequently, everything indicates that for some reason or another your compatriot has made up his mind to stay in Hungary for an additional period.'

Szluka put the paper back into the file and closed his briefcase.

'The man's been here before. Perhaps he's acquired some friends and is staying with them,' he went on, settling himself down again.

'And yet there's no reasonable explanation for his leaving the hotel and not letting anyone know where he is,' said Martin Beck a little later.

Szluka rose and picked up his briefcase.

'So long as he has a valid visa, I cannot—as I said—do anything more in the matter,' he said.

Martin Beck also rose.

'Stay where you are,' said Szluka. 'Unfortunately I have to go. But perhaps we'll meet again. Good- bye.'

They shook hands and Martin Beck watched him wading away with his briefcase. From his appearance, one would not think he ate four slices of fat bacon for breakfast.

When Szluka had disappeared, Martin Beck went over to the large pool. The warm water and the sulfur fumes had made him drowsy, and he swam around for a while in the clear cooling water before sitting in the sun on the edge of the pool to dry. For a while he watched two deadly serious middle-aged men standing in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a red ball to each other.

Then he went in to change. He felt lost and confused. He was none the wiser for his meeting with Szluka.

14

After his bathe, the heat did not seem quite so oppressive any longer. Martin Beck found no reason to overtax his strength. He strolled slowly along the paths in the spacious park, often stopping to look around. He saw no sign of his shadow. Perhaps they had at last realized how harmless he was and had given up. On the other hand, the whole island was swarming with people and it was difficult to pick out anyone special in the crowd, especially when one had no idea what the person concerned looked like. He made his way down to the water on the eastern side of the island and followed the shoreline out to a landing stage where all the boats he had previously ridden on came in. He thought he could even remember the name of the station: Casino.

Along the edge of the shore above the landing stage stood a row of benches where a few people were waiting for the boats. On one of them sat one of the few people in Budapest familiar to him: the easily frightened girl from the house in Ujpest. Ari Boeck was wearing sunglasses, sandals and a white dress with shoulder straps. She was reading a German paperback and beside her on the bench lay a nylon string bag. His first thought was to walk past, but then he regretted it, halted and said, 'Good afternoon.'

She raised her eyes and looked at him blankly. Then she appeared to recognize him and smiled.

'Oh, it's you, is it? Have you found your friend?'

'No, not yet.'

'I thought about it after you'd gone yesterday. I can't understand how he came to give you my address.'

'I don't understand it either.'

'I thought about it last night too,' she said frowning. 'I could hardly sleep.''

'Yes, it's peculiar.'

(Not at all, my dear girl, there's an extremely simple explanation. For one thing, he didn't give me any address. For another, this is probably what happened: he saw you in Stockholm when you were swimming and thought there's a sweet piece, I'd like to—yes, exactly. And then when he came here six months later, he found out your address and the location of your street, but didn't have time to go there.)

'Won't you sit down? It's almost too hot to be standing upright today.'

He sat down as she moved the nylon net. It held two things he recognized, namely the dark-blue bathing suit

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