19
The cleaning woman had been into his room and switched off the light and closed the shutters. He did not bother to open them again. Now he knew that there would be no tall, dark man ouside looking up at his window.
Martin Beck switched on the overhead light and undressed. His head and left arm ached. He looked in the long mirror in the wardrobe. He had a large bruise above his right knee, and his left shoulder was swollen and black and blue. He ran his hand over his head and felt a large bump at the back of it. He could not find any more injuries.
The bed looked soft and cool and inviting. He switched off the light and crept down between the sheets. He lay on his back for a while and tried to think as he stared out into the half-light. Then he turned over on his side and fell asleep.
It was nearly two o'clock when he woke to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was Szluka.
'Have you slept?'
'Yes.'
'Good. Can you come over?'
'Yes. Now?'
'I'll send a car. It'll be there in half an hour. Is that all right?'
'Yes. I'll be down in half an hour.'
He showered and dressed and opened the shutters. The sun was blazing and the sharp light stung his eyes. He looked toward the quay on the other side of the river. The past night seemed unreal and remote to him.
The car, with the same driver as before, was waiting. He found his way to Szluka's room by himself and knocked before opening the door and going in.
Szluka was alone. He was sitting behind his desk with a sheaf of papers and the indispensable coffee cup in front of him. He nodded and motioned toward the chair Frobe had sat in. Then he lifted the receiver, said something and put it back again.
'How are you feeling?' he said, looking at Martin Beck.
'Fine. I've slept. And you? How's it going?'
A policeman came in and placed two cups of coffee on the table. Then he took Szluka's empty cup and left.
'It's all finished now. I've got everything here,' said Szluka, picking up the sheaf of papers.
'And Alf Matsson?' said Martin Beck.
'Well,' said Szluka. 'That's the only point that's not clear yet. I haven't managed to get anything there. They insist that they don't know where he is.'
'But he was one of the gang?'
'Yes, in a way. He was their middleman. The whole thing was organised by Frobe and Radeberger. The girl was just used as a sort of clearinghouse for the whole business. Boeck, whatever her first name is.'
Szluka fumbled in his papers.
'Ari,' said Martin Beck. 'Aranka.'
'Yes, Ari Boeck. Frobe and Radeberger had already been smuggling hashish from Turkey some time before they met her. Both of them seem to have had relations with her. After a while, they realized they could use her in another way and told her about the narcotics smuggling. She had no objections to joining in on it. Then they both lived with her when she moved to Ujpest. She seems to be a fairly loose sort of creature.'
'Yes,' said Martin Beck. 'I suppose so.'
'Radeberger and Frobe went to Turkey as travel guides. In Turkey they got hold of the hashish, which is quite cheap and easily obtainable there, and then smuggled it into Hun gary. It was fairly easy, especially since they were group guides and had to deal with all the luggage belonging to the party. Ari Boeck made contact with the middlemen and helped sell the drugs here in Budapest. Radeberger and Frobe also traveled to other countries such as Poland, Czechoslovakia, Rumania and Bulgaria with hashish for their pushers.'
'And Alf Matsson was one of them?' said Martin Beck.
'Alf Matsson was one of the pushers,' said Szluka. 'They had some others who came from England, Germany and Holland, either here or to some other East European country where they met Radeberger and Frobe. They paid in Western currencies—pounds, dollars or marks—and got their hashish, which they then took back home with them and sold there.'
'So everyone profited a good deal from the business, except the people who in the end bought the junk to use,' said Martin Beck. 'It's odd that they've managed to get away with this for so long without being discovered.'
Szluka rose and went across to the window. He stood there for a while, his hands behind his back, looking out onto the street. Then he went back and sat down again.
'No,' he said. 'It's not really that strange. So long as none of the stuff was sold here or in any other socialist country, except to the middlemen, then they had every chance of getting away with it. In the capitalist countries concerned, they don't think there's anything worth smuggling out of Eastern Bloc countries, so customs control hardly exists for travelers from these countries. On the other hand, if they'd tried to find a market for their goods here, they'd have soon been caught. But that wouldn't have been worth their while, either. It's Western currencies they want.'
'They must have made a good deal of money,' said Martin Beck.
'Yes,' said Szluka. 'But the pushers made a lot out of it too. The whole thing was quite cleverly organized, actually. If you hadn't come out here looking for Alf Matsson, it might have been a long time before we'd found all this out.'
'What do they say about Alf Matsson?'
'They've admitted he was their pusher in Sweden. Over a period of a year he'd bought quite a lot of hashish from them. But they maintain they haven't seen him since May, when he was here to pick up a consignment. He didn't get as much as he wanted at that time, so he'd communicated with Ari Boeck again fairly soon. They say that they'd agreed to meet him here in Budapest almost three weeks ago, but he never turned up. They claim that the stuff bidden in the car was put aside for him.'
Martin Beck sat in silence for a moment. Then he said:
'He might have quarreled with them for one reason or another and threatened to report them. Then they might have got scared and done away with him. The way they tried to get rid of me last night.'
Szluka sat in silence. After a while Martin Beck went on, quietly, as if talking to himself, 'That's what must have happened.'
Szluka got up and paced the floor for a bit. Then he said, 'That's what I thought had happened too.'
He fell silent again and stopped in front of the map.
'What do you think now?' said Martin Beck.
Szluka turned and looked at him.
'I don't know,' he said. 'I thought perhaps you'd like to talk to one of them yourself. This Radeberger. The one you fought with last night. He's talkative and I have an impression that he's too stupid to be able to lie well. Would you like to question him? Perhaps you'd do better than I did.'
'Yes, please,' said Martin Beck. 'I'd very much like to question him.'
20
Tetz Radeberger came into the room. He was dressed as he had been the previous night, in a snug pullover, thin Dacron trousers with elastic at the waist and light, rubber-soled cloth shoes. Dressed to kill. He stopped inside the door and bowed. The policeman escorting him prodded him lightly in the back.
Martin Beck gestured toward the chair on the other side of the desk, and the German sat down. There was an expectant and uncertain look in his deep-blue eyes. He had a bandage on his forehead and there was a blue swelling at his hairline. Otherwise he looked well and strong and fairly intact.
'We're going to talk about Alf Matsson,' said Martin Beck.
'I don't know where he is,' said Radeberger immediately.
'Possibly. But we're going to talk about him all the same.'
Szluka had got out a tape recorder. It was standing on the right of the desk and Martin Beck stretched out his hand and switched it on. The German kept a close watch on his movements.
