The Man Who Went Up in Smoke

'Budapest 298-317, a person-to-person call to Major Vil-mos Szluka. Yes, Major S-Z-L-U-K-A. No, it's in Hungary.'

He returned to the window and stared out into the rain without saying anything. Kollberg sat in the visitor's chair and studied his nails. Neither of them moved or spoke until the telephone rang.

Someone said in very bad German, 'Yes, Major Szluka will come in a minute.'

Steps echoed through police headquarters in Deak Ferenc Ter. Then Szluka's voice came over: 'Good morning. How are things in Stockholm?'

'It's raining and windy. Cold.'

'Oh, it's over 85° Fahrenheit here. Almost too hot. I was just thinking of going to Palatino. Anything new?'

'Not yet.'

'Same here. We haven't found him yet. Can I help you with anything?'

'Doesn't it sometimes happen that people lose their passports now during the tourist season?'

'Yes, unfortunately. It's always troublesome. Fortunately that's not one of my concerns.'

'Could you find out whether any foreigner has reported the loss of his passport at the Ifjusag or the Duna since the twenty-first of July?'

'Of course. But it's not my department, as I said. Will it be all right if I get the answer back by five?'

'You can telephone whenever you like. And one more thing.'

'Yes?'

'If someone has reported this, do you think you could find out what the person looked like? Just a brief description.'

'I'll call you at five o'clock. Good-bye.'

'Good-bye. Hope you don't miss going to the baths.'

He put down the receiver. Kollberg looked at him suspiciously.

'What the hell is the business about baths?'

'A sulfur bath, where you sit in marble armchairs under water.'

'Oh.'

There was a brief silence. Kollberg scratched his head and said, 'So in Budapest he was wearing a blue blazer and gray trousers and brown shoes.'

'Yes, and the raincoat.'

'And in his suitcase there was a blue blazer.'

'Yes.'

'And a pair of gray trousers.'

'Yes.'

'And a pair of brown shoes.'

'Yes.'

'And the night before he left he was wearing a dark suit and black shoes.'

'Yes, and the raincoat.'

'And neither the shoes nor the suit are in his flat.'

'No.'

'Christ!' said Kollberg simply.

'Yes.'

The atmosphere in the room changed and seemed to become less tense. Martin Beck rummaged in his drawer, found a dry old Florida and lit it. Like the man in Malmo, he was trying to give up smoking, but much more halfheartedly.

Kollberg yawned and looked at his watch.

'Shall we go and eat somewhere?'

'Yes, why not?'

'The Tankard?'

'Sure.'

27

The wind had dropped and in Vasa Park the light rain was falling peacefully down onto the double row of tombola stalls, a carousel and two policemen in black rain capes The carousel was running and on one of the painted horses sat a lone child: a little girl in a red-plastic coat with a hood. She was riding round and round in the rain with a solemn expression on her face and her eyes focused straight ahead. Her parents were standing under an umbrella a little way away, regarding the amusement park with melancholy eyes. A fresh smell of greenery and wet leaves came from the park. It was Saturday afternoon and, despite everything, still summer.

The restaurant diagonally opposite the park was almost empty. The only audible sound in the place was a faint comforting rustle from the evening papers of two elderly regular customers and the muted sound of darts thudding into the board in the dart room. Martin Beck and Kollberg took a seat in the bar, six feet or so from the table that was the favorite refuge of Alf Matsson and his fellow journalists. There was no one there now, but in the middle of the table stood a glass containing a red reservation card. Presumably this was a fixture.

'The lunch hour is over now,' said Kollberg. 'In an hour or so people begin dropping in again, and in the evening it's so chock-full of people spilling beer all over each other that you can hardly get your foot inside.'

The atmosphere did not make for extensive discussion. They ate a late lunch in silence. Outside the Swedish summer was pouring away. Kollberg drained a stein of beer, folded up his table napkin, wiped his mouth and said, 'Is it difficult to get across the border down there? Without a passport?'

'Fairly. They say the borders are guarded well. A foreigner who didn't know his way around would hardly make it.'

'And if you leave by the ordinary routes, then you have to have a visa in your passport?'

'Yes, and an exit permit besides. That's a loose piece of paper that you get on entry and keep in your passport until you leave the country. Then the passport control people take it. The police also stamp the date of departure beside the visa in your passport. Look.'

Martin Beck took his passport out of his inside pocket and put it on the table. Kollberg studied the stamps. Then he said:

'And assuming that you've got both a visa and an exit permit, then you can cross any border you like?'

'Yes. You have five countries to choose from—Czechoslovakia, the Soviet Union, Rumania, Yugoslavia and Austria. And you can go any way you like—by air, train, car or boat.'

'Boat? From Hungary?'

'Yes, on the Danube. From Budapest you can get to Vienna or Bratislava in a few hours by hydrofoil.'

'And you can ride a bicycle, walk, swim, ride horseback or crawl?!' said Kollberg.

'Yes, as long as you make your way to a border station.'

'And you can go to Austria and Yugoslavia without a visa?'

'That depends on what kind of passport you've got. If it's Swedish for instance, or German or Italian, then you don't need one. On a Hungarian passport you can go to Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia without a visa.'

'But it's hardly likely that he did that?'

'No.'

They went on to coffee. Kollberg was still looking at the stamps in the passport.

'The Danes didn't stamp it when you got to Kastrup,' he said.

'No.'

'Then in other words there's no evidence that you've returned to Sweden.'

'No,' said Martin Beck.

A moment later he added, 'But on the other hand, I'm sitting here—right?'

A number of customers had dropped in during the last half hour, and there was already a shortage of tables. A man of about thirty-five came in and sat down at the table with the red reservation card on it, was given a stein of beer and sat leafing through the evening paper, seemingly bored. Now and again he looked anxiously toward the door, as if he were waiting for someone. He had a beard and was wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a brown checked tweed jacket, a white shirt, brown trousers and black shoes.

'Who's that?' said Martin Beck.