The Man on the Balcony

for a moment the possibility of being the first interrogator in the history of crime to extract a confession by sneezing, but refrained.

Of course the normal thing, Martin Beck thought, was to let the accused sleep on the matter. But was there time to sleep on the matter? The man in the green T-shirt and khaki trousers did not seem particularly sleepy and had not even mentioned the matter. Oh well, sooner or later they would have to let him rest.

'That lady who came here this morning,' Ronn said by way of introduction, and sneezed.

'That goddam stinking little slob,' the accused muttered, sinking into a dejected silence.

After a while he said:

'She loves me, so she says. She says I need her.'

Martin Beck nodded. Another minute or so passed before the man went on:

'I don't love her. I need her about as much as I need dandruff.'

Don't nag, Martin Beck thought. Say nothing.

'I like to have decent girls,' Lundgren said. 'What I'd really like is one decent girl. Then to get picked up thanks to that jealous slob.'

Silence.

'Slob,' Lundgren muttered to himself.

Silence.

'She's good for only one thing.'

Sure, thought Martin Beck, but this time he was wrong. Thirty seconds later the man in the green T-shirt said:

'Okay.'

'Let's talk now,' Martin Beck said.

'Okay. But I want one thing straight first. That slob can give me an alibi for that business last Monday. In Tanto Park. I was with her then.'

'We know that already,' Ronn said.

'You do? Oh, so she did tell you that.'

'Yes,' Ronn said.

Martin Beck stared at him; so Ronn had not bothered to mention this simple fact to anyone else in the department. He could not help saying:

'That's nice to know. It absolves Lundgren here from suspicion.'

'Yes, it does,' Ronn said calmly.

'Let's talk now,' Martin Beck said.

Lundgren eyed him narrowly.

'Not us,' he said.

'What do you mean?'

'Not you, I don't want to talk to you,' Lundgren explained.

'Who then?' Martin Beck asked patiently.

'With the guy that nabbed me. The tall one.'

'Where's Gunvald?' Martin Beck asked.

'Gone home,' Ronn replied with a sigh.

'Phone for him.'

Ronn sighed again. Martin Beck knew why. Gunvald Larsson lived at Bollmora, a suburb far to the south.

'He needs rest,' Ronn said. 'He's had a tiring day. Nabbing a big gangster like this.'

'Shut up,' Lundgren said.

Ronn sneezed and reached for the phone.

Martin Beck went into another room and called up Ham-mar, who said at once:

'Can this Lundgren be considered cleared of suspicion as regards the murder?'

'Ronn questioned his mistress earlier today. She seems able to give him an alibi for the murder in Tanto Park. As for Vanadis Park last Friday, of course, he hasn't one.'

'I grasp that,' Hammar said. 'What do you think yourself?'

Martin Beck hesitated before replying.

'I don't think he's the one.'

'You consider he's not the murderer?'

'I don't see how he can be. Nothing fits. Quite apart from the alibi for Monday, he's the wrong type. Sexually he seems quite normal.'

'I see.'

Even Hammar had seemed a trifle irritable. Martin Beck went back to the other two. Ronn and Lundgren were sitting in stony silence.

'Don't you really want anything to eat?' Martin Beck asked.

'No,' Lundgren said. 'When's that guy coming?'

Ronn sighed and blew his nose.

16

GUNVALD LARSSON entered the room. Exactly thirty-seven minutes had passed since he had been called up and the taxi receipt was still in his hand. Since they had last seen him he had shaved and put on a clean shirt. He sat down at the desk opposite Rolf Lundgren, folded the receipt and put it in the top righthand drawer. He was now ready for some of the two million four hundred thousand hours of overtime that the Swedish police have to put in annually. But in view of his rank it was uncertain if he would ever be paid for his work during the next few hours.

It was some little while before Gunvald Larsson said anything. He busied himself with the tape recorder, the note pad and his pencils. There was no doubt some sort of psychological reason for this, Martin Beck thought as he regarded his colleagues. He disliked Gunvald Larsson and had no high opinion of Ronn. He had no high opinion of himself either for that matter. Kollberg made out he was scared and Ham-mar had seemed irritated. They were all very tired, added to which Ronn had a cold. Many of the men in uniform on patrol duty, either on foot or in radio cars, were also working overtime and were also worn out. Some of them were scared and Ronn was certainly not the only one with a cold.

And in Stockholm and its suburbs by this time there were over a million frightened people.

The hunt was entering its seventh abortive day.

And they were the bulwarks of society.

Some bulwarks.

Ronn blew his nose.

'Well,' Gunvald Larsson said, laying one of his huge hairy hands on the tape recorder.

'It was you who picked me up,' Rolf Evert Lundgren said in a tone that was almost reluctant admiration.

'Yes,' Gunvald Larsson said, 'that's correct. But it's nothing I feel particularly proud of. It's my job. I pick up scum like you every day. By next week I'll probably have forgotten you.'

This of course was a qualified truth, but the bombastic opening evidently had some effect. The man called Rolf Evert Lundgren seemed to droop.

Gunvald Larsson switched on the tape recorder,

'What's your name?'

'Rolf Evert Lundgren.'

'Born?'

'Yes.'

'No insolence.'

'Fifth of January nineteen forty-four.''

'Where?'

'In Gothenburg.'

'Which parish?'

'Lundby.'

'What are your parents' names?'

Come on now, Gunvald, Martin Beck thought. You've several weeks for that. There's only one thing that really