The Man on the Balcony

paper fluttered down to the floor. Martin Beck stooped to pick it up and the boy shouted:

'Bosse's ticker! Bosse get ticker man!'

Martin Beck looked at the piece of paper in his hand.

It was an ordinary subway ticket.

18

A GOOD DEAL had already happened on this Friday morning, June 16, 1967.

The police sent out a description which had the disadvantage of fitting tens of thousands of more or less blameless citizens.

Rolf Evert Lundgren had slept on the matter and wanted to bargain. If the police would let bygones be bygones he offered to take part in the search and to give 'supplementary information,' whatever that might be. Having received a flat refusal, he sank into gloomy meditation and at last asked of his own accord to talk to a lawyer.

One of the detectives persisted in pointing out that Lundgren still lacked an alibi for the evening of the murder in Vanadis Park and in questioning his reliability as a witness. This in its turn led to Gunvald Larsson making a woman extremely embarrassed and to another woman making Kollberg, if possible, even more embarrassed.

Gunvald Larsson dialed a telephone number to an apartment near Vanadis Park. The following conversation ensued:

'Jansson speaking.'

'Good morning. This is the police, homicide squad, Detective Inspector Larsson.'

'Oh yes.'

'May I speak to your daughter, please? Majken Jansson.'

'Certainly. Just a moment. We're having breakfast. Majken!'

'Hello. This is Majken Jansson speaking.'

The voice was bright and cultured.

'This is the police. Detective Inspector Larsson.'

'Oh yes.'

'You have stated that you took a breath of air in Vanadis Park on the evening of the ninth of June.'

'Yes.'

'What were you wearing when you took this breath of air?'

'What was I… Well, let me see, I had on a black-and-white cocktail dress.'

'What else?'

'A pair of sandals.'

'Aha. What else?'

'Nothing. Quiet, Daddy, he's only asking what I…'

'Nothing? You had nothing else on?'

'N-no.'

'I mean, didn't you by any chance have anything under your dress?'

'Yes. Yes of course. Naturally I had underclothes.'

'Aha. And what kind of underclothes?'

'What kind of underclothes?'

'Yes, exactly.'

'Well, naturally I had what… well, what one usually has. Oh, Daddy, it's the police.'

'And what do you usually have?'

'Well, a bra naturally and… well, what do you think?'

'I don't think anything. I have no preconceived opinions. I am merely asking.'

'Pants of course.'

'I see. And what kind of pants?'

'What kind? I don't know what you mean. I had pants of course, underpants.'

'Panties?'

'Yes. I'm sorry but…'

'And what did these panties look like? Were they red or black or blue or maybe patterned?'

'A pair of…'

'Yes?'

'A pair of white lace panties. Yes, Daddy, I'll ask him. Why on earth are you asking me all this?'

'I am just checking the evidence of a witness.' 'The evidence of a witness?' 'Exactly. Good-bye.'

Kollberg drove to an address in the Old Town, parked the car at Storkyrkobrinken and climbed a worn, winding stone staircase. He looked for a doorbell which wasn't there and then, true to habit, he pounded deafeningly on the door.

'Come in!' a woman's voice called.

Kollberg went in.

'Good Lord,' she said. 'Who are you?'

'Police,' he said lugubriously.

'Well, let me say that the police have a helluva nice habit of…'

'Is your name Lisbeth Hedvig Maria Karlstrom?' Kollberg asked, looking demonstratively at the piece of paper in his hand.

'Yes. Is it about that business yesterday?'

Kollberg nodded and looked about him. The room was untidy but pleasant. Lisbeth Hedvig Maria Karlstrom was wearing a blue-striped pajama jacket, which came down only far enough to show that she had not even lace panties on underneath. She had evidently just got up. She was making coffee, stirring it with a fork to make it drip more quickly through the filter bag.

'I've just got up and am making coffee,' she said.

'Oh.'

'I thought it was the girl who lives next door. She's the only one who ever thumps on the door like that And at this hour. Like some?'

'What?'

'Coffee.'

'Well…' Kollberg said.

'Do sit down.'

'What on?'

She pointed with the fork to a leather-covered ottoman beside the exceedingly unmade bed. He sat down dubiously. She put the coffeepot and two cups on a tray, pushed forward a small, low table with her left knee, put the tray down and sat on the bed, crossing her legs and thus revealing quite a lot of her anatomy, which was not altogether without its charms.

She poured out the coffee and handed a cup to Kollberg.

'Thank you,' he said, looking at her feet

He was a susceptible person and at the moment felt strangely disturbed. In some way she reminded him far too much of someone, probably his wife.

She gave him a worried look and said:

'Would you like me to put something more on?'

'It might be just as well,' Kollberg said thickly.

She got up at once, went over to the closet, took out a pair of brown corduroy slacks and pulled them on. Then she unbuttoned the pajama jacket and took it off. For a moment she stood with her upper body naked—with her back to him, to be sure, but that hardly improved matters. After a short hesitation she pulled a knitted sweater over her head.

'It's just that it makes me so damned hot,' she said.

He drank some coffee.

'What do you want to know?' she asked.