'Don't know. They all look alike. Besides, there are a number of marginal creatures who only show up now and then.'
'It's not Molin, anyhow, because I'd recognize him.'
Kollberg glanced at the man.
'Gunnarsson maybe.'
Martin Beck thought. 'No, I've seen him too.'
A woman came in. She had red hair and was quite young, dressed in a brick-red sweater, tweed skirt and green stockings. She moved easily, letting her eyes wander over the room as she fingered her nose. She sat down at the table with the red card and said, 'Ciao, Per.'
'Ciao, sweetheart.'
'Per,' said Kollberg. 'That's Kronkvist. And that's Pia Bolt.'
'Why have they all got beards?'
Martin Beck said it thoughtfully, as if he had pondered the problem for a long time.
'Perhaps they're false,' said Kollberg solemnly.
He looked at his watch.
'Just to give us trouble,' he said.
'We'd better get back,' said Martin Beck. 'Did you tell Stenstrom to come on up?'
Kollberg nodded. As they were leaving, they heard the man named Per Kronkvist call out to the waitress:
'More beer! Over here!'
It was very quiet at the police station. Stenstrom was sitting in the downstairs office playing patience.
Kollberg looked critically at him, and said, 'Have you already started with that? What are you going to do when you get old?'
'Sit thinking the same thing I'm thinking now: why am I sitting here?'
'Your're going to check some alibis,' said Martin Beck. 'Give him the list, Lennart.'
Stenstrom was given the list. He glanced at it.
'Now?'
'Yes, this evening.'
'Molin, Lund, Kronkvist, Gunnarsson, Bengtsfors, Pia Bolt. Who is Bengtsfors?'
'That's a mistake,' said Kollberg gloomily. 'Supposed to be Bengt Fors. The
'Shall I question the girl too?'
'Yes, if it amuses you,' said Martin Beck. 'She's at the Tankard.'
'Can I talk to them direct?'
'Why not? Routine investigation in the Alf Matsson case. Everyone knows what it's all about now. How's things with the Narcotics boys, by the way?'
'I spoke to Jacobsson,' said Stenstrom. 'They'll soon have it all tied up. As soon as the heads here knew that Matsson had had it, they began to talk. I was thinking of something, by the way. Matsson sold the stuff directly to a few people who were really desperate and he made them pay through the nose.'
'What were you thinking?'
'Couldn't it be one of the poor devils he skinned—that one of his customers got tired of him, so to speak?'
'Could be,' said Martin Beck solemnly.
'Especially at the movies,' said Kollberg. 'In America.'
Stenstrom put the piece of paper into his pocket and got up. At the door he stopped and said huffily, 'Sometimes something different actually might happen here too.'
'Possibly,' said Kollberg. 'But you've forgotten that Matsson disappeared in Hungary, on his way to pick up some more stuff for his poor customers. Now scram.'
Stenstrom left.
'That was nasty of you,' said Martin Beck.
'He might do a little thinking for himself too,' said Kollberg.
'That's what he was doing.'
'Huh!'
Martin Beck went out into the corridor. Stenstrom was just j putting on his coat.
'Look at their passports.'
Stenstrom nodded.
'Don't go alone.'
'Are they dangerous?' said Stenstrom sarcastically.
'Routine,' said Martin Beck.
He went back in to Kollberg. They sat in silence until the telephone rang. Martin picked up the receiver.
'Your call to Budapest will be coming through at seven o'clock instead of five,' said the telephone operator.
They digested the message for a moment. Then Kollberg said, 'God. This is no fun.'
'No,' said Martin Beck. 'It's not much fun.'
'Two hours,' said Kollberg. 'Shall we drive around a little and have a look-see?'
'Yes, why not?'
They drove over West Bridge. The Saturday traffic had thinned out and the bridge was practically deserted. On the crest they passed a German tourist coach that had slowed down. Martin Beck saw the passengers inside standing up and staring out across the silvery bay and at the misty silhouette of the city.
'Molin is the only one who lives outside the city,' said Kollberg. 'Let's take him first.'
They went on over Liljeholm Bridge, and Kollberg swung in off the main road among the houses, twisting along the narrow roads for a while, before finding the right house. He let the car run slowly past the row of hedges and fences as he read the names on the gateposts.
'Here it is,' he said. 'Molin lives on the left. That's his porch you can see. The house must have been occupied once by a single family, but now it's divided. The other entrance is around the back.'
'Who lives in the other part of the house?' said Martin Beck.
'A retired customs official and his wife.'
The garden in front of the house was wild, with gnarled apple trees and overgrown berrybushes. But the hedges around it were well trimmed, and the white fencing looked recently painted.
'Big garden,' said Kollberg. 'And well sheltered. Do you want to see any more?'
'No. Drive on.'
'Then we'll take Svartensgatan,' said Kollberg. 'Gunnarsson.'
They drove back into the south side of the city, parking the car in Mosebacke Square.
Svartensgatan 6 was right by the square. It was an old building with a large paved courtyard. Gunnarsson lived three floors up, facing the street.
'He hasn't lived here all that long,' said Martin Beck when they had got back to the car.
'Since the first of July.'
'And before that he lived in Hagalund. Do you know where?'
Kollberg stopped at a red traffic light.
He nodded toward the large corner window of the Opera House bar.
'Perhaps they're all sitting together in there now,' he said. 'All of them except Matsson. In Hagalund? Yes, I've got the address.'
'Then we'll go there later,' said Martin Beck. 'Go along Strandvagen. I'd like to look at the boats.'
They drove along Strandvagen and Martin Beck looked at the boats. At one quay lay a large white ocean- going vessel with the American flag aft, and farther on, flanked by two Aland sailing-smacks, lay a Polish motor launch.
Outside the entrance of the building where Pia Bolt lived on Strindbergsgatan, a small boy in a checked sou'wester and poncho was pushing a plastic double-decker bus back and forth across the step as he imitated the sound of its motor with his lips. The sound grew muted and uneven as he braked the bus to allow Kollberg and
