'Oh, good God, no. Not since that morning at the police station. He was sitting in the corridor when I came out from seeing that cop—sorry, policeman—who was questioning me. And then that bastard had the nerve to say, 'Hey, you've got a bit left. Let's go back to your place and finish it off later.' I didn't even answer and thank God, I haven't seen him since.'
Bengt Jonsson rose and went down to the boy, who was standing hitting the tricycle with the wrench. He crouched down and went on working on the chain.
'I've nothing else to tell you about it all. That was exactly what happened,' he said over his shoulder.
Martin Beck and Kollberg got up and he nodded to them as they went out through the gate.
On the way into Malmo, Kollberg said, 'Nice guy, our friend Matsson. I don't think humanity has suffered any great loss if something really has happened to him. If so, then it's only your holiday that suffered.'
25
Kollberg was staying at the St. Jorgen Hotel on Gustav Adolf's Square, so after they had picked up Martin Beck's suitcase at the police station, they went there. The hotel was full, but Kollberg used his powers of persuasion and it was not long before he had arranged for a room.
Martin Beck did not bother to unpack his suitcase. He considered phoning his wife out on the island, but realized that it was too late. She would hardly be pleased at having to row across the Sound in the dark in order to hear him tell her that he did not know when he could get there.
He undressed and went into the bathroom. As he stood under the shower, he heard Kollberg's characteristic thumping on the door to the corridor. As he had forgotten to take the key out from the outside, a second or two elapsed before Kollberg rushed into the room, calling out to him.
Martin Beck turned off the shower, swept a bath towel around himself and went out to Kollberg.
'A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me,' said Koll-berg. 'It's five days since the opening of the crayfish season and you probably haven't had a single one. Or do they have crayfish in Hungary?'
'Not so far as I know,' said Martin Beck. 'I didn't see any.'
'Get yourself dressed. I've ordered a table.'
The dining room was crowded, but a corner table had been reserved for them and laid for a crayfish dinner. On each of their plates lay a paper hat and a bib, and each of the bibs had a verse printed in red across it. They sat down and Martin Beck looked dismally at his hat, made of blue crepe paper, with a shiny paper visor and POLICE in gold letters above the visor.
The crayfish were delicious, and the men did not talk much as they ate. When they had finished them, Kollberg was still hungry—an almost permanent state of affairs—so he ordered a steak fillet. While they waited for it, he said:
'There were four guys and a broad together with him that night before he left. I made a list for you. It's up in my room.'
'Good,' said Martin Beck. 'Was it difficult?'
'Not especially. I got some help from Melander.'
'Melander, yes. What's the time?'
'Half past nine.'
Martin Beck got up and left Kollberg alone with his steak.
Of course, Melander had already gone to bed and Martin Beck waited patiently through several rings before the telephone was answered.
'Were you asleep in bed?'
'Yes, but it doesn't matter. Are you back?'
'In Malmo. How did things go with Alf Matsson?'
'I found out what you asked me to. Do you want to know now?'
'Yes, please.'
'Wait a moment.'
Melander went away, but returned very shortly.
'I wrote a report, but it's still at the office. Perhaps I can tell you from memory,' he said.
'I'm sure you can,' said Martin Beck.
'It deals with Thursday, the twenty-first of July. In the morning Alf Matsson first went up to the magazine, where he picked up his tickets from the office and four hundred kronor from the cash desk. Then he left almost at once and collected his passport and visa from the Hungarian Embassy. After that, he went back to Fleminggatan and, I imagine, packed his suitcase. Anyhow, he changed clothes. In the morning he had been wearing gray trousers, a gray jersey sweater, a blue machine-knit blazer with no lapels and beige suede shoes. In the afternoon and evening, he was wearing a lead-gray suit of thin flannel, a white shirt, black knit tie, black shoes and a gray- beige poplin coat.'
It was warm in the phone booth. Martin Beck had got a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling down some notes as Melander was talking.
'Yes, go on,' he said.
'At quarter past twelve, he took a taxi from Fleminggatan to the Tankard, where he had lunch with Sven-Erik Molin, Per Kronkvist and Pia Bolt Her name's Ingrid, but she's called Pia. He drank several steins of beer during and after the meal. At three o'clock, Pia Bolt left and the three men stayed on. About an hour later that is, about four o'clock—Stig Lund and Ake Gunnarsson came in and sat down at their table. They went over to drinking whisky then. Alf Matsson drank whisky and water. The conversation at the table was shop talk, but the waitress remembers that Alf Matsson said he was going away. Where to, she didn't hear.'
'Was he drunk?' said Martin Beck.
'Must have been a little, but not noticeably. Not then. Can you hang on a moment?'
Melander went away again and Martin Beck opened the door of the telephone booth wide to let in a little air while he waited. Then Melander came back.
'Just getting my dressing gown on. Where was I? Yes, of course, at the Tankard. At six o'clock, they left— that's Kronkvist, Lund, Gunnarsson, Molin and Matsson—and took a taxi to the Golden Peace and had dinner and drinks. The conversation was mostly about various mutual acquaintances and liquor and girls. Alf Matsson was beginning to get very high and made loud comments about female guests there. Among other things, he's said to have shouted to a middle-aged woman artist, who was sitting at the other side of the room, something like, 'Stunning pair of tits you've got there. Can I rest my head on them?' At half past nine they all moved on to the Opera House bar by taxi. There, they went on drinking whisky. Alf Matsson was drinking whisky and soda. Pia Bolt, who was already at the Opera House bar, joined Matsson and the other four men. At about midnight, Kronkvist and Lund left the restaurant, and shortly before one, Pia Bolt left with Molin. They were all drunk. Matsson and Gunnarsson stayed until the place closed and they were both very drunk. Matsson could not walk straight and accosted several women. I haven't managed to find out what happened after that, but presume he went home in a taxi.'
'Didn't anyone notice when he left?'
'No, no one I talked to. Most of the guests leaving at that time were raore or less drank, and the staff were in a hurry to get home.'
'Thanks a lot,' said Martin Beck. 'Will you do me another favor? Go up to Matsson's flat early tomorrow morning and see if you can find that lead-gray suit he was wearing that evening.'
'Didn't you go there?' said Melander. 'Before you went to Hungary?'
'Yes,' said Martin Beck, 'but I haven't got the memory of an elephant, like you. Go to bed and sleep now. I'll phone you tomorrow morning.'
He returned to Kollberg, who had already polished off the steak and a dessert which had left sticky pink traces behind it on the plate in front of him.
'Had he found anything?'
'I don't know,' said Martin Beck. 'Perhaps.'
They had coffee and Martin Beck told Kollberg about Budapest and Szluka and about Ari Boeck and her German friends. Then they took the elevator up and Martin Beck fetched Kollberg's typed report before going to bed.
He undressed, switched on the bed lamp and turned out the overhead light. Then he got into bed and began to read.
