and then came up onto the bridge. It was quite silent and deserted, as on the preceding night, and was clearly lit up, in contrast to many of the city streets. Again he stopped on the middle of the bridge, his elbows on the parapet, and stared down into the water. A tugboat passed beneath him. Far behind it came its load, four long barges tied together in pairs. Soundlessly gliding with their lights extinguished, only a shade darker than the night.
As he moved on a few yards, he heard his own footsteps give a faint echo somewhere on the silent bridge. He walked on a bit farther and again heard the echo. It seemed as if the sound could be heard a trifle too long. He stood still listening for a long time, but heard nothing. Then he walked quickly on for about twenty yards and stopped suddenly. The sound came again, and this time, too, he thought it came too late to be truly an echo. He walked as quietly as he could across to the other side of the bridge and looked back. It was quite silent now. Nothing moved. A trolley from the Pest side came up onto the bridge and made any further observations impossible. Martin Beck continued his promenade across the bridge. Evidently he was suffering from persecution mania. If someone had the energy and resources to watch him at this time of night, then it could hardly be anyone else but the police. And with that the problem was largely solved. So long as…
Martin Beck was almost over the bridge below Gellert Hill when the trolley rattled past. A lone passenger was sleeping with his mouth open, leaning against one of the windows.
He reached the steps leading down to the quay from the south side of the bridge and began to walk down them. Through the retreating rattle of the trolley, he thought he heard the sound of a car, which stopped somewhere in the vicinity, but he could not decide how far away or in which direction from him.
Martin Beck had reached the quay. Swiftly and silently he walked south, away from the bridge, and stopped where the darkness was thickest. He turned around, stood quite still and listened. Nothing could be heard or seen. In all probability there was no one on the bridge, but this in itself was not certain. If someone had followed him from the other side, he could easily also have got to the end of the bridge and gone down to the quay from the north side of the bridge. He was sure that no one other than himself had gone down the south steps.
The slight sounds which could be heard now came from traffic very far away. There was complete silence in the immediate vicinity. Martin Beck smiled in the darkness. He was now almost convinced that no one had followed him, but the game amused him, and in his innermost self he wished that there were some confused fellow creature over there in the dark on the other side of the bridge. He himself knew the routine backward and forward and knew that whoever might have gone down on the other side could not take the risk of returning the same way, crossing the bridge and going down the steps on the south side. Under the bridge two parallel streets ran along the quay, the inner one nearly six feet higher than the quay itself, which in its turn sloped down toward the river in steps. The two streets were separated by a low wall. Farther up, there was also a tunnel through the actual foundations of the bridge. But none of these ways was accessible to anyone shadowing him, provided that person knew his job. Every attempt to pass under the bridge would mean that the man would have the light behind him and thus risk immediate discovery. Consequently only one alternative remained: to go around the entire abutment of the bridge in a wide semicircle, cross several approach ramps and make his way down onto the quay as far south as possible. But this would take some time, even if the man took the risk of running, and during that time the person being shadowed—in this case Inspector Martin Beck from Stockholm—would have time to vanish in practically any direction he chose.
Now it was unlikely, however, that there was anyone shadowing him at all, and in addition Martin Beck had intended to walk north along the river and return to the hotel via the next bridge. Consequently, he left his observation post in the sheltering darkness and walked north at an easy pace. He chose the inner of the two streets, passed under the bridge and continued along the stone wall, six feet above the quay. On the opposite shore the hotel was dark except for two narrow perpendicular rectangles of light. The windows of his own room. He sat down on the low stone wall and lit a cigarette. Large houses of the kind built at the turn of the century lined the street. In front of them stood parked cars. All the windows were shuttered and dark. Martin Beck sat still and listened to the silence. He was still on guard, but without being conscious of the fact himself.
On the other side of the street a car engine started up. He let his eyes sweep along the row of parked vehicles but could not locate the noise. The engine was turning over slowly, purring. This continued for about thirty seconds. Then he heard the car being put into gear. A pair of parking lights went on. More than fifty yards ahead a car came out of the shadows and moved away from the edge of the pavement. It came in his direction, but on the other side of the street, and extremely slowly. A dark-green Skoda, and he had a feeling he had seen it before. The car came nearer. Martin Beck sat still on the stone wall and followed it with his eyes. Almost level with him, it began to turn to the left, as if the driver were going to turn around in the street. But the turn was not completed: the car was moving almost more slowly than before, straight at him. Obviously someone wanted to meet him, but his way of going about it was astounding. The idea could hardly be to run him down—not at that speed—and, besides, he could get to safety behind the wall in a second, if necessary. Provided no one was hiding in the back seat, there was only one person in the car.
Martin Beck put out his cigarette. He was in no way afraid, but very curious to know what was going to happen.
The green Skoda had stopped with its engine running and its right front wheel against the curb, only nine feet away from him. The driver switched on the headlights and everything was drowned in a flood of light. But only for a few seconds, then all the lights went out. The car door opened and a man stepped out onto the pavement.
Martin Beck had seen him often enough to be able to recognize him at once, despite the blinding effect of the light The tall man with dark hair brushed back on his head. The man was empty-handed. He took a step nearer. The engine of the car purred slowly.
He sensed something. Not a shadow, nor even a sound, only a small movement in the air, just behind him. So faint that only the stillness of the night made it perceptible.
Martin Beck knew that he was no longer alone on the wall, that the car was only meant to distract his attention while someone silently approached down on the quay and heaved himself up onto the stone wall behind him.
And in the same second he also realized clearly and penetratingly that this was not shadowing, not a game, but deadly serious. And more than that. It was death: this time out for
Martin Beck was a bad fighter, but his reflex actions were remarkable. At the exact moment he felt the slight draft, he ducked his head down between his shoulders, put his right foot upon the edge of the wall, kicked away, twisted his body and threw himself backward, all in one lightning movement. The arm that had been on its way around his throat was pressed hard against the ridge of his nose and eyebrows before it slid away over his forehead. He felt a hot, astonished breath against his cheek and caught the swift glint of a knife blade, which had already missed its mark and was on its way away from him. He fell backward down onto the quay, hit his left shoulder hard on the stone paving and rolled around to give himself time, if possible, to get his balance and get onto his feet. On the wall he saw two figures, silhouetted against the starry sky. Then there was only one and while he still had one knee on the stone paving, the man with the knife was on him again. His left arm was temporarily paralyzed after his fall against the quay, but for a second or two the light was in his favor: he himself was low in the dark and the other man was etched against the background. His attacker missed and a second later Martin Beck managed to seize hold of the man's right wrist. It was not a good grip and the wrist was unusually large, but he held on, very conscious of the fact that it was his only chance. For a tenth of a second or so, they stood up and he noted that the other man was shorter than himself, but considerably broader. Mechanically, he applied one of the hoary old method holds learned at police college and succeeded in getting his opponent onto the ground. The only thing wrong was that he did not dare let go of the hand with the knife and was himself drawn down in the fall. They rolled around once and were now extremely close to the edge of the quay, where the steps down to the water began. The paralysis in his left arm had let up and he got a hold on the man's other wrist. But his opponent was stronger and slowly broke away. A hard kick in the head reminded him that he was not only physically but also numerically inferior. He was lying on his back so close to the stairs that he felt the first step with his foot. The man with the knife was panting heavily in his face, smelling of sweat, shaving water and throat pastilles. His opponent began slowly but relentlessly to free his right hand.
Martin Beck felt it was all over—at least very nearly. Lightning bolts clashed in the throbbing haze, his heart seemed to swell more and more and more, like a purple tumor about to burst. His head was thumping like a pile driver. He thought he heard terrible roars, shots, piercing shrieks, and he saw the world drowned in a flood of blinding white light that obliterated all shapes and all life. His last conscious thought was that he was going to die
