The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

'This is Mansson,' said the Inspector. 'He does… what are you doing, actually, Mansson?'

'Nothing. I was just thinking of going home.'

'Exactly. He isn't doing anything and was thinking of going home. Well, what is it you remember?'

'I've forgotten.'

'Is there any other way you can be of service?'

'Not until Monday. I'm off duty now.'

'Must you munch like that?'

'I'm giving up smoking.'

'What do you remember about that stabbing case?' 'Nothing.' 'Nothing at all?' 'No. Backlund was in charge.' 'What did he think, then?'

'Don't know. He worked hard on the preliminary investigation for several days. Was very secretive about it.'

'You're very lucky,' said the man at the desk to Martin Beck. 'Why?'

'Well, to be allowed to meet Backlund,' said Mansson. 'Exactly. He's popular. Coming back in half an hour. Room 312. Take a ticket for the queue.' 'Thanks.'

'This Matsson, is he the same guy you're looking for?' 'Yes.'

'Was he here in Malmo?' 'I don't think so.'

'They're no fun,' said Mansson mournfully. 'What aren't?' 'Toothpicks.'

'Then for God's sake, smoke. No one asked you to eat toothpicks.'

'They say there's a kind with taste to them,' said Mansson.

Martin Beck recognized the lingo only too well. Something had probably wrecked their day. Their wives had no doubt called and pointed out that their food was spoiling and inquired whether there were no other policemen.

He left them to their troubles, went up to the canteen and had a cup of tea. He took out Szluka's paper from his inside pocket and read through the meager testimonies once again. Somewhere behind him there was an exchange of remarks.

'Excuse me for asking, but is this really a mazarine cupcake?'

'What else do you think it is?'

'Some kind of cultural monument, maybe. Seems a pity to eat it. The Bakery Museum ought to be interested.' 'If you don't like it, you can go somewhere else.' 'Yeah, two floors down for instance, and report you for harboring dangerous weapons. I order a mazarine cupcake and you go and give me a fossilized fetus that not even the

Swedish State Railway would serve up without the locomotive blushing. I'm a sensitive person and—'

'Sensitive, eh? And by the way, you took it off the counter yourself.'

Martin Beck turned around and looked at Kollberg.

'Hi,' he said.

'Hi.' .

Neither of them seemed particularly surprised. Kollberg pushed away the objectionable cake and said, 'When did you get back?'

'This moment. What are you doing here?'

'I thought I'd talk to someone named Backlund.'

'Me too.'

'Actually, I had something else to do here,' said Kollberg apologetically.

Ten minutes later it was five o'clock. They went down together. Backlund turned out to be an elderly man with a friendly, ordinary face. He shook hands and said:

'Oh, yes. VIP's from Stockholm, eh?'

He put out two chairs for them and sat down, saying:

'Well, I am grateful. To what do I owe this honor?'

'You had a stabbing case on the eve of Twelfth Day,' said Kollberg. 'A guy called Matsson.'

'Yes, that's quite correct. I remember the case. It's closed. No charge brought.'

'What really happened?' said Martin Beck.

'Well, hm-m… Wait a minute and I'll get the file.'

The man called Backlund went out and returned about ten minutes later with a typed report stapled together. It seemed remarkably detailed. He leafed through it for a moment, evidently renewing his acquaintance with it with both delight and pride. Finally he said, 'We'd better take it from the beginning.'

'We only want a general idea of what happened,' said Kollberg.

'I see. At 1:23 A.M. on January 6 of this year a radio patrol consisting of Patrolman Kristiansson and Patrolman Kvant—who were patrolling in their car on Linnegatan here in town—received orders to go to Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn, where someone was said to have been stabbed. Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant at once went to this address, where they arrived at about 1:29 A.M. They took charge of a person who stated that he was a journalist: one Alf Sixten Matsson, residing in Stockholm at Fleminggatan 34. Matsson also stated that he had been assaulted and stabbed by Bengt Eilert Jonsson, a journalist who is a resident of Malmo and lives at Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn. Matsson, who had a flesh wound approximately two inches long on the outside of his left wrist, was taken to the emergency ward of General Hospital by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant while Bengt Eilert Jonsson was held and taken to police headquarters in Malmo by Patrolmen Elofsson and Borglund, who had been called in by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant. Both men were under the influence of alcohol.'

'Kristiansson and Kvant?'

Backlund gave Kollberg a look of reproach and went on:

'After Matsson had been treated at the emergency ward of General Hospital, he was also taken to testify at police headquarters in Malmo. Matsson stated that he was born on August 5, 1933, in Molndal and was a resident of—'

'Just a minute,' said Martin Beck. 'We don't really need all the details.'

'Oh. But I must tell you, it isn't easy to get a clear picture if you don't go through it all.'

'Does that report give a clear picture?'

'I can answer both yes and no to that question. The stories differ considerably. Times too. The testimonies are very vague. That's why there was no charge brought.'

'Who questioned Matsson?'

'I did. I questioned him very thoroughly.'

'Was he drunk?'

Backlund leafed through the report.

'One moment. Yes, here it is. He admitted to consuming alcohol, but denied that he had done so in excess.'

'How did he behave?'

'I didn't make a note of that. But Kristiansson said—here, just a second—that his walk was unsteady and his voice was calm but occasionally slurred.'

Martin Beck gave up. Kollberg was more obstinate.

'What did he look like?'

'I didn't make any kind of note on that. But I remember that his apparel was neat and tidy.'

'What happened when he was stabbed?'

'It can be said that it is difficult to get a clear picture of the actual course of events. Their stories differ. If I remember rightly—yes, that's right—Matsson stated that the injury was inflicted upon him at about midnight. On the other hand, Jonsson stated that the incident did not occur until after one o'clock. It was very difficult to get this point cleared up.'

'Had he been assaulted?'

'I have Jonsson's statement here. Bengt Eilert Jonsson states that he and Matsson, whom he met through his profession, had been acquaintances for almost three years, and on the morning of January 5 he happened to meet Matsson, who was staying at the Savoy Hotel and was alone, so Jonsson invited him home to dinner, to commence at—'

'Yes, but what did he say about the assault itself?'

Backlund now began to appear a trifle irritated. He turned over a few more pages.