Kollberg drove swiftly through the empty Sunday streets and then they crossed the bridge. The sun came out from behind driving clouds and a light breeze swept across the water. Martin Beck looked absently at a group of small sailing boats which were just rounding a buoy in the bay.
They drove in silence and parked in the same place as the day before. Kollberg pointed at a black Lancia parked a little farther on.
'That's his car,' he said. 'Then he's probably at home.'
They crossed Svartensgatan and pushed open the door. The air felt raw and damp. They walked in silence up the worn stairs to the fifth floor.
29
The door was opened immediately.
The man in the doorway was wearing a dressing gown and slippers, and looking extremely surprised.
'Sorry,' he said. 'I thought you were my fiancee.'
Martin Beck recognized him at once. It was the same man Molin had pointed out to him at the Tankard, the day before his Budapest trip. An open, pleasant face. Calm blue eyes. Quite powerfully built. He had a beard and was of medium height, but this was—as in the case of the Belgian student, Roeder—the only resemblance to Matsson.
'We're from the police. My name is Beck. This is Inspector Kollberg.'
The introductions were stiff and courteous.
'Kollberg.'
'Gunnarsson.'
'May we come in for a minute?' said Martin Beck.
'Of course. What's it about?'
'We would like to talk about Alf Matsson.'
'A policeman came yesterday and asked me about the same thing.'
'Yes, we know that.'
As Martin Beck and Kollberg entered the flat, they underwent a change. It happened to them both at the same time and without either of them being aware of it. All that had been tense, uncertain and vigilant about them vanished and was replaced by a routine calm, a mechanical determination which showed that they knew what was going to happen and that they had been through the same thing before.
They walked through the flat without saying anything. It was light and spacious and furnished with care and consideration, but in some way gave the impression that it had not yet been lived in properly. Much of the furniture was new and still looked as if it were standing in a shop window.
Two of the rooms had windows facing the street and the bedroom and kitchen looked out over the courtyard. The door to the bathroom was open and the light was on inside. Evidently the man had just begun getting washed and dressed when they had rung the bell. In the bedroom there were two wide beds standing close together, and one had recently been slept in. On the bedside table by the unmade bed stood a half-empty bottle of mineral water, a glass, two pillboxes and a framed photograph. There was also a rocking chair in the room, two stools, and a dressing table with drawers and movable mirror. The photo was of a young woman. She had fair hair, clean, healthy features and very light-colored eyes. No makeup, but a silver chain around her neck, a so-called Bismarck chain. Martin Beck recognized the kind. Sixteen years ago he had given his wife an exact replica of it. They went back into the study. The tour was complete.
'Do please sit down,' said Gunnarsson.
Martin Beck nodded and sat down in one of the basket chairs by the desk, which was clearly intended for two people. The man in the dressing gown remained standing and glanced at Kollberg, who was still moving round the flat.
Manuscripts, books and papers lay in neat piles on the table. A page already started was inserted into the typewriter, and beside the telephone stood yet another framed photograph. Martin Beck at once recognized the woman with the silver chain and light eyes. But this picture had been taken out-of-doors. Her head was thrown back and she was laughing at the photographer, the wind tugging at her ruffled fair hair.
'What can I do to help you,' said the man in the dressing gown, politely.
Martin Beck looked straight at him. His eyes were still blue and calm and steady. It was quiet in the room. Kollberg could be heard doing something in another part of the flat, presumably in the washroom or the kitchen.
'Tell me what happened,' said Martin Beck.
'When?'
'The eve of the twenty-second of July, when you and Matsson left the Opera House bar.'
'I've already done that. We parted in the street. I took a taxi and came home. He wasn't going in the same direction and waited for the next one.'
Martin Beck leaned his forearms on the desk and looked at the woman in the photograph.
'May I look at your passport?' he said.
The man walked around the desk, sat down and pulled out one of the drawers. The basket chair creaked amiably.
'Here you are,' he said.
Martin Beck turned over the pages of the passport. It was old and worn and the last stamp was indeed an entry stamp from Arlanda on the tenth of May. On the next page—which was also the last one in the passport— there were a few notes, among others two telephone numbers and a short verse. The inside cover was also full of notes. Most of them seemed to be comments on cars or engines, made long ago and in great haste. The verse was written across on a slant, with a green ball-point pen. He twisted the passport and read:
There was a young man of Dundee Who said 'They can't do without me. No house is complete Without me and my seat My initials are W.C.'
The man on the other side of the table followed his glance and explained, 'It's a limerick.'
'So I see.'
'It's about Winston Churchill. They say that he wrote it himself. I heard it on the plane from Paris and thought it was so good that I ought to write it down.'
Martin Beck said nothing. He stared at the verse. Underneath the writing, the paper was a little lighter and there were several small green dots that should not have been there. They could have been some perforations from a green stamp on the other side of the page, but no such stamp existed. Stenstrom ought to have noticed that.
'If you had left the plane in Copenhagen and taken the ferry to Sweden, you'd have been saved the trouble,' he said.
'I don't understand what you mean.'
The telephone rang. Gunnarsson answered. Kollberg came into the room.
'It's for one of you,' said the man in the dressing gown.
Kollberg took the receiver, listened and said, 'Oh, yes. Get them going then. Yes, wait out there. We'll be there soon.'
He put the receiver down.
'That was Stenstrom. The fire department burned the house down last Monday.'
'We have people searching through the remains of that burnt-out house in Hagalund,' said Martin Beck.
'Well, what about it?' said Kollberg.
'I still don't know what you mean.'
The man's eyes were still just as steady and open. There was a brief silence, and then Martin Beck shrugged his shoulders and said, 'Go in and get dressed.'
Without a word, Gunnarsson walked toward the bedroom door. Kollberg followed him.
Martin Beck remained where he was, immobile. His eyes rested again on the photograph. Although actually it was unimportant, for some reason he was annoyed that the conversation should end like this. After having seen the passport, he felt utterly certain, but the idea about the fire department's practice site was a guess, which might very well prove to be wrong. In that case, and if the man managed to maintain his attitude, the investigation would be very troublesome. And yet this was not really the main reason for his dissatisfaction.
Gunnarsson came back five minutes later wearing a gray sweater and brown trousers. He looked at his watch
