here on a quay in a foreign city, just as Alf Matsson had presumably done, and without knowing why.
With a last reflex-like effort, Martin Beck gripped the other man's right wrist with both hands as he kicked with his foot and tipped both himself and his opponent over the edge of of the quay. He hit his head on the second step and lost ' consciousness.
Martin Beck opened his eyes after an epoch of time that seemed boundless, and that in any case must have been very long. Everything was bathed in a white light. He was lying on his back with his head to one side and his right ear against the stone paving. The first thing he saw was a pair of well-polished black shoes, which almost filled his field of vision. He turned his head and looked up.
Szluka, in a gray suit and with that silly hunting hat still on his head, bent down over him and said:
'Good evening.'
Martin Beck propped himself up on his elbow. The flood of light was coming from two police cars, one on the quay and the other driven up to the stone wall on the street above. About ten feet away from Szluka stood a policeman in a visored cap, black leather boots and a light-gray-blue uniform. He was holding a black night stick in his right hand and looking thoughtfully at a person lying at his feet. It was Tetz Radeberger, the man who had played with Ari Boeck's bathing suit in the house in Ujpest. He was now on his back, deeply unconscious, with blood on his forehead and in his blond hair.
'The other one,' said Martin Beck. 'Where is he?'
'Shot,' said Szluka. 'Carefully, of course. In the leg.'
A number of windows had been thrown open in the houses along the street and people were peering inquisitively down toward the quay.
'Lie still,' said Szluka. 'The ambulance will be here soon.'
'No need,' said Martin Beck, beginning to get up.
Exactly three minutes and fifteen seconds had passed since he had been sitting on the stone wall and had felt that draft at the back of his neck.
17
The car was a blue-and-white 1962 model Warsvawa. It had a flashing blue light on the roof and the siren sounded in a subdued, melancholy wail along the empty night streets. The word RENDORSEG was painted in block capitals in the white band across the front door. It meant police.
Martin Beck was sitting in the back seat. At his side sat a uniformed officer. Szluka was sitting in the front seat, to the right of the driver.
'You did well,' said Szluka. 'Rather dangerous young men, those two.'
'Who put Radeberger out of action?'
'He's sitting beside you,' saad Szluka. Martin Beck turned his head. The policeman had a narrow black mustache and brown eyes with a sympathetic look in them.
'He speaks only Hungarian,' said Szluka.
'What's his name?'
'Foti.'
Martin Beck put out his hand.
'Thanks, Foti,' he said.
'He had to give it to them pretty hard,' said Szluka. 'Hadn't much time.'
'Lucky he was around,' said Martin Beck.
'We're usually around,' said Szluka. 'Except in the cartoons.'
'They have their hangout in Ujpest,' said Martin Beck. 'A boarding house on Venetianer ut.'
'We know that.'
Szluka sat quietly a moment. Then he asked, 'How did you come into contact with them?'
'Through a woman named Boeck. Matsson had asked for her address. And she had been in Stockholm. Competing as a swimmer. There could be a connection. That's why I looked her up.'
'And what did she say?'
'That she was studying at the university and working at a museum. And that she had never heard of Matsson.'
They had reached the police station at Deak Ferenc Ter. The car swung into a concrete yard and stopped. Martin Beck followed Szluka up to his office. It was very spacious and the wall was covered with a large map of Budapest, but to all intents and purposes it reminded him of his own office back in Stockholm. Szluka hung up his hunting hat and pointed to a chair. He opened his mouth, but before he had time to say anything, the telephone rang. He went over to his desk and answered. Martin Beck thought he could make out a torrent of words. It went on for a long time. I Now and again Szluka replied in monosyllables. After a while he looked at his watch, exploded in a rapid, irritated ha rangue and put down the receiver. 'My wife,' he said. He went over to the map and studied the northern part of I the city, with his back to his visitor.
'Being a policeman,' said Szluka, 'is not a profession. And it's certainly not a vocation either. It's a curse.'
A little later he turned around and said:
'Of course, I don't mean that. Only think it sometimes. Are you married?'
'Yes.'
'Then you know.'
A policeman in uniform came in and put down a tray with two cups of coffee on it. They drank. Szluka looked at his watch.
'We're searching the place up there at the moment. The report should soon be here.'
'How did you manage to be around?' said Martin Beck.
Szluka replied with exactly the same sentence as in the car.
'We're usually around.'
Then he smiled and said, 'It was what you said about being shadowed. Naturally it wasn't us watching you. Why should we do that?'
Martin Beck poked his nose, a little conscience-stricken.
'People imagine so many things,' said Szluka. 'But of course you're a policeman, and policemen seldom do. So we began to watch the man who was tailing you. Backtailing as the Americans call it, if I remember rightly. This afternoon our man saw that there were two men watching you. He thought it looked peculiar and sounded the alarm. It's as simple as that.'
Martin Beck nodded. Szluka looked at him thoughtfully. 'And yet it was all so quick we just barely got there in time.'
He finished his coffee and carefully put his cup down.
'Backtailing,' he said, as if savoring the word. 'Have you ever been to America?'
'No.'
'Neither have I.'
'I worked with them on a case, two years ago. With someone called Kafka.'
'Sounds Czech.'
'It was an American tourist who got murdered in Sweden. Ugly story. Complicated investigation.'
Szluka sat silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, 'How did it go?'
'O.K.,' said Martin Beck.
'I've only read about the American police. They have a peculiar organization. Difficult to understand.'
Martin Beck nodded.
'And a lot to do,' said Szluka. 'They have as many murders in New York in a week as we have in the whole country in a year.'
A uniformed police officer with two stars on his shoulder straps came into the room. He discussed something with Szluka, saluted Martin Beck and left. While the door was standing open, Ari Boeck walked along the corridor outside, with a woman guard. She was wearing the same white dress and the same sandals as the day before, but had a shawl over her shoulders. She threw a flat, vacant look at Martin Beck.
'Nothing of importance in Ujpest,' said Szluka. 'We're taking the car apart now. When Radeberger comes around and the other one has been patched up, we'll tackle them. There's quite a bit I still don't understand.'
He fell silent, hesitantly.
