The Man on the Balcony

the day daddy was still less detailed, but there was a faint possibility that it might be the same person.

There was no Eskil Engstrom in the vice squad's records. Martin Beck closed the file and went into the adjoining room. Gunvald Larsson sat behind his desk, staring broodingly out of the window and picking his teeth with the paper knife.

'Where's Lennart?' Martin Beck asked. Gunvald Larsson reluctantly finished his dental research, wiped the paper knife on his sleeve and said: 'How the hell do I know?' 'Melander then?'

Gunvald Larsson put the paper knife down on the pen tray and shrugged.

'In the lavatory, I suppose. What do you want?' 'Nothing. What are you doing?'

Gunvald Larsson did not answer at once. Not until Martin Beck moved towards the door did he say: 'People are goddam crazy.' 'What do you mean?'

'I've just been talking to Hjelm. He wants a word with you, by the way. Well, one of the men at Maria police station finds a pair of women's pants in the shrubbery at Homstulls Strand. Without telling us he goes and hands them in to the forensic laboratory, saying that they may be the pants that were missing from the body in Tanto Park. So the boys at the lab stand there staring at a pair of outsize pink pants too big even for Kollberg and wondering what the hell it's all about. Can you blame them. How stupid can you get in this job?'

'I've often asked myself the same thing,' Martin Beck said. 'What else did he say?' 'Who?' 'Hjelm.'

'For you to call him up when you'd finished your little chat on the phone.'

Martin Beck went back to his temporary desk and called up the forensic laboratory.

'Oh yes, your subway ticket,' Hjelm said. 'We couldn't develop any worthwhile fingerprints, the paper's too fluffy.' 'I was afraid of that,' Martin Beck said. 'We're not quite finished with it yet. Ill send the usual report later. Oh yes, we did find some blue cotton fiber, presumably from the lining of a pocket.'

Martin Beck thought of the little blue jacket that Bosse had clasped in his arms. He thanked Hjelm and put down the receiver. Then he called a taxi and put on his coat.

It was Friday, and the big weekend exodus out of the city had already begun, although it was still fairly early in the afternoon. The traffic moved sluggishly over the bridges and despite the driver's skillful and shrewd maneuvering, the taxi took nearly half an hour to reach Timmermansgatan, on the south side.

The house was near the southern railroad station. It was old and dilapidated and the entrance was dark and chilly. There were only two doors on the ground floor; one of them opened onto a paved yard with garbage cans and a frame on which carpets were beaten. Martin Beck could just make out the name ENGSTROM on the tarnished brass plate on the second door. The bell burton was missing and he knocked loudly on the panel of the door.

The woman who opened the door was about fifty. She was small and lean and was wearing a brown woolen dress and slippers made of floral turkish toweling. She peered doubtfully at Martin Beck through noticeably thick spectacles. 'Mrs. Engstrom?'

'Yes,' she replied in a voice that seemed far too rough to be coming from such a frail woman, 'Is Mr. Engstrom at home?' 'N-no,' she said slowly. 'What do you want?' 'I'd like a word with you. I know one of your day children.'

'Which one?' she asked suspiciously.

'Bo Oskarsson. His mother gave me your address. May I come in?'

The woman held open the door and he went through the little hall, past the kitchen and into the apartment's one room. Outside the window he saw the garbage cans and the carpet frame. A sofa-bed cluttered with ill- assorted cushions dominated the sparsely furnished room. Martin Beck saw nothing to indicate that children were ever there.

'I'm sorry,' the woman said, 'but what have you come about? Has anything happened to Bosse?'

'I'm a policeman,' Martin Beck said. 'It's purely a routine matter. Nothing to worry about. And Bosse's quite all right.'

The woman seemed rather frightened at first, then she seemed to brighten up.

'Why should I worry?' she said. 'I'm not afraid of the police. Is it to do with Eskil?'

Martin Beck smiled at her.

'Yes, Mrs. Engstrom, I really came to speak to your husband. It seems, by the way, that he met Bosse the other day.'

'Eskil?'

She looked at Martin Beck in distress.

'Yes,' he said. 'Do you know when he will be home?'

She stared at Martin Beck with round blue eyes, which looked unnaturally large through the thick lenses.

'But… but Eskil's dead,' she said.

Martin Beck stared back. It was some moments before he recovered himself and was able to say:

'Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't know. I'm awfully sorry. When did it happen?'

'On the thirteenth of April this year. A car crash. The doctor said he didn't have time to think much before the end.'

The woman went up to the window and stared out at the dismal yard. Martin Beck looked at her bony back in the dress that was a size too large.

'My deepest sympathy, Mrs. Engstrom,' he said.

'Eskil was on his way to Sodertalje with his truck,' she went on. 'It was a Monday.'

She turned around and said in a firmer voice:

'Eskil drove a truck for thirty-two years with a clean license. It wasn't his fault.'

'I see,' Martin Beck said. 'I'm awfully sorry to have troubled you. There must be some mistake.'

'And the hooligans who crashed into him were let off lightly,' she said. 'Even though the car was stolen.'

She nodded with a faraway look in her eyes. Went up to the settee and fiddled with the cushions. 'Ill go now,' Martin Beck said.

He was suddenly overcome by claustrophobia. He would like to have walked straight out of the gloomy room with the dreary little woman, but he controlled himself and said:

'If you don't mind, I'd be glad if I could see a photograph of your husband before I go.' 'I have no photo of Eskil.'

'But you've a passport, haven't you? Or a driver's license?' 'We never traveled anywhere so Eskil didn't have a passport. And the driver's license is very old.' 'May I see it?' Martin Beck asked.

She opened a drawer and took out the license. It was made out in the name of Eskil Johan Albert Engstrom and had been issued in 1935. The photo showed a young man with shiny, wavy hair, big nose and a small mouth with thin lips. 'He didn't look like that now,' the woman said. 'How did he look? Can you describe him?' She didn't seem at all surprised at the question but answered promptly:

'He wasn't as tall as you but a good bit taller than me. And rather thin. His hair was turning gray and had started to fall out. I don't know what else to say. He had a nice appearance—at least I thought so. though you couldn't call him handsome, with his big nose and small mouth. But he looked nice.'

'Thank you, Mrs. Engstrom,' Martin Beck said. 'I've disturbed you long enough.'

She saw him to the door and did not shut it until the street door had closed behind him.

Martin Beck took a deep breath and strode quickly along the street, northward, longing to get back to his desk.

On it lay two brief messages.

The first one was from Melander: The woman who sold the subway ticket is called Gunda Persson. Remembers nothing. No time to look at the passengers, she says.

The other was from Hammar: Come at once. Urgent.

20

GUNVALD LARSSON stood at the window studying six road workmen, who in their turn were studying a seventh, who was leaning on a shovel.

'Reminds me of a story,' he said. 'We lay in Kalmar once with a minesweeper. I was sitting in the navigation cabin together with the second mate and the boy on watch came in and said, 'Please, sir, there's a dead man on the quayside.'

'Nonsense,' I said. 'Yes, sir,' he said,'there's a dead man on the quayside.'

'Dead men don't stand about on quaysides,' I said, 'you must pull yourself together, Johansson.'