'Stomach-pump case,' said Kollberg. 'It's quite urgent. We'll follow you.'
When Gunnarsson was already seated in the car, Kollberg seemed to remember something. He held the door open for a moment and said, 'When you went from the hotel to the train, did you go to the wrong station at first?'
The man who had killed Alf Matsson looked at him with eyes that had already begun to look glazed and unnatural.
'Yes. How did you know that?'
Kollberg shut the door. The car drove away. The policeman at the wheel switched on the sken at the first corner.
Policemen in gray overalls were moving carefully among heaps of ash and charred beams on the site of the burnt-out house. A small group of Sunday walkers with baby carriages and pastry cartons had gathered outside the roped-off area and were staring inquisitively. It was already past four o'clock.
As soon as Martin Beck and Kollberg got out of the car, Stenstrom detached himself from a group of policemen and came over to them.
'You were right,' he said. 'He's in there, but there isn't much left of him.'
An hour later they were again on their way into the city. As they passed the old city limit Kollberg said, 'In a week the firm that is building there would have driven over it all with a bulldozer.'
Martin Beck nodded.
'He did his best,' said Kollberg philosophically. 'And it wasn't that bad. If he'd known a little more about Matsson, and gone to the trouble of looking to see what was in the bag, and left the plane in Copenhagen instead of taking the risk of rubbing things out in his passport…'
He left the sentence unfinished. Martin Beck looked at him sideways.
'Then what? Do you mean he might have got away with it?'
'No,' said Kollberg. 'Of course not.'
Despite the debatable summer weather, there were crowds of people at Vanadis Baths. As they passed it, Kollberg cleared his throat and said, 'I don't see why you should go on with this any longer. Why, you're supposed to be on holiday.'
Martin Beck looked at his watch. He would not have time to get out to the island today.
'You can drop me at Odengatan,' he said.
Kollberg stopped in front of a movie theater on the corner.
'G'by, then,' he said.
'Bye.'
They did not even shake hands. Martin Beck stood on the pavement watching the car drive away. Then he walked diagonally across the street, around the corner and into a restaurant there, the Metropole. The lighting in the bar was subdued and pleasant and at one of the corner tables a low-keyed conversation was going on.
He sat down at the bar.
'Whisky,' he said.
The barman was a large man with calm eyes, swift movements and a snow-white jacket.
'Icewater?'
'Yes, why not?'
'Right,' said the barman. 'Great. Double whisky with icewater. Can't be beat.'
Martin Beck stayed on the bar stool for four hours. He did not speak again, but now and again pointed at his glass. The man in the white jacket did not say anything either. It was better that way.
Martin Beck looked at his own face in the smoky mirror behind the row of bottles. When the image began to blur, he called for a taxi and went home. He began to undress while he was still in the hall.
30
Martin Beck woke up with a start from a deep and dreamless sleep. The blanket and sheet had fallen to the floor and he was cold. When he got up to shut the balcony door, he saw stars before his eyes. His head thumped and his mouth felt stiff and dry. He went out into the bathroom and with difficulty swallowed two anodyne tablets, which he rinsed down with a tumbler of water. Then he went back to bed, pulled the sheet and blanket over him and tried to go back to sleep. After a couple hours half-sleep filled with nightmares, he got up and stood under the shower for a long time before dressing slowly. Then he went out onto the balcony and stood there with his elbows on the balcony rail, his chin in his hands.
The sky was high and clear and the cool morning air held an omen of autumn. For a while, he watched a fat dachshund leisurely making its way through the tree trunks in the little green arc outside the building. It was called a grove, but hardly lived up to its name. The ground between the evergreens was covered with pine needles and trash, and the little grass that had been there in the early summer had long since been trampled away.
Martin Beck went back into the bedroom and made his bed. Then he walked restlessly through the rooms for a while, putting a few trifles and books into his briefcase before leaving the flat.
He took the subway to the quay. The boat was not due to leave for an hour, so he strolled slowly along the quay toward the bridge. His boat was in and the gangway down: a couple of the crew were piling boxes on the foredeck. Martin Beck did not go on board but continued walking and then stopped for a cup of tea, which immediately made him feel even worse.
A quarter of an hour before the time of departure, he boarded the island boat, which had now got up steam and was belching white smoke out of its funnel. He went up on J deck and sat in the same place he had sat when he had begun his holiday, scarcely two weeks ago. Now nothing would stop him completing it, he thought, but he no longer felt any pleasure or enthusiasm at the thought of his holiday or the island.
The engine thumped, the boat backed out, the whistle sounded out and Martin Beck leaned over the railing, staring down into the foaming whirlpools of water. The sense of a summer holiday was gone and he felt nothing but misery.
After a while, he went into the saloon and drank a mineral water. When he came out on deck again, his place had been taken by a fat, red-faced gentleman in a sportsuit and a beret. Before Martin Beck had time to retreat, the fat man introduced himself and let loose a gushing stream of words on the beauty of the archipelago, which he knew intimately. Martin Beck listened apathetically while the man pointed out the islands they passed and gave their names. Finally managing to break off the one-sided conversation, Martin Beck fled to the aft saloon.
For the rest of the journey he lay in the half-light on one of the hard, plush-upholstered benches, looking at the dust swirling in the shaft of greenish light from the scuttle.
Nygren was sitting waiting in his motorboat at the steamer jetty. As they approached the island, he switched off the motor and let the boat glide past the little jetty so that Martin could jump ashore. Then he switched on the motor again, waved his hand and vanished around the point.
Martin Beck walked up to the cottage. His wife was lying in the lee behind the house, sunbathing naked on a blanket. 'Hi.'
'Hi, I didn't hear you coming.' 'Where are the kids?' 'Out with the boat.' 'Oh.'
'How was Budapest?'
'Very beautiful. Didn't you get the postcard I sent?' 'No.'
'It'll come later, I suppose.'
He went on into the cottage, drank a scoop of water and stood still, staring at the wall. He thought of the fair-haired woman with the chain necklace and wondered whether she had stood for a long time ringing the bell without anyone coming to open the door. Or whether she had come so late that the apartment had already been crawling with policemen with tweezers and cans of powder. He heard his wife coming into the room. 'How are you, really?' 'Not well,' said Martin Beck.
PER WAHLOO and MAJ SJOWALL, his wife and co-author, wrote ten Martin Beck mysteries. Mr. Wahloo, who died in 1975, was a reporter for several Swedish newspapers and magazines and wrote numerous radio and television plays, film scripts, short stories and novels, Maj Sjowall is also a poet.
