'But sir,' he said, 'it must be a dead man, I've been watching him all the time and he hasn't moved for several hours.' And the second mate got up and looked out of the porthole and said, 'Hah, it's a municipal workman.''
The man in the street let the shovel fall and went off with the others. It was five o'clock and still Friday.
'Nice job if you can get it,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'Just stand there staring.'
'What are you doing yourself?' Melander asked.
'Standing and staring of course. And if the assistant commissioner had his office across the street I bet you anything he would stand in the window staring at me, and if the commissioner was on the floor above here he would stand staring at the assistant commissioner and if the home secretary…'
'Answer the phone instead,' Melander said.
Martin Beck had just entered the room. He stood by the door looking thoughtfully at Gunvald Larsson, who was just saying:
'What do you want me to do about it? Send out the dog van?'
He banged down the receiver, stared at Martin Beck and said:
'What's up with you?'
'You said something just now that made me think of…'
'The dog van?'
'No, something you said just before that.'
'What did it make you think of?'
'I don't know. It's something I can't call to mind.'
'You're not alone in that,' Gunvald Larsson said.
Martin Beck shrugged.
'There's to be a roundup tonight,' he said. 'I was just talking to Hammar.'
'Roundup? But everyone's already worn out,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'What will they look like tomorrow?'
'Doesn't seem very constructive,' Melander said. 'Whose idea is it?'
'I don't know. Hammar didn't seem very happy about it either.'
'Who's happy nowadays,' Gunvald Larsson said.
Martin Beck had not been there when the decision was made and had he had a chance he would probably have opposed it. He suspected that the motive was aimlessness in the investigation work and a general feeling that something must be done. The position was indeed very serious; the newspapers and television worked the public up with their vague accounts of the search, and people began saying that 'the police did nothing' or 'were helpless.' Seventy-five men were now working in the actual search force and the external pressure they were subjected to was enormous. Tips were pouring in every hour and every single one had to be checked, even though it could be seen at a glance that most of them were useless. Added to this was the internal pressure, the knowledge that the murderer not only must be caught but that he must be caught quickly. The investigation was a macabre race with death, and so far there was very little to go on. A vague description based on the evidence of a three-year-old child and a ruthless criminal. A subway ticket. A general idea of the mentality of the man they were hunting. The whole lot intangible and very disturbing.
'This isn't an investigation, it's a guessing game,' Hammar had said in regard to the subway ticket.
While this was one of his pet phrases and Martin Beck had heard it often before, it was an apt description of the situation at the moment.
Of course there was just a chance that a big roundup might give a clue, but the possibility seemed remote. The latest roundup had been made as late as Tuesday night and it had failed in its main purpose: to catch the mugger. Against that it had resulted in the seizure of about thirty criminals of various kinds, mainly dope pushers and burglars. This had further increased the burden of work for the police and moreover had caused panic in the underworld.
The roundup tonight meant that many would be jaded tomorrow. And tomorrow perhaps…
But a roundup it was to be and a roundup it was. It started about eleven o'clock and the news spread like wildfire through condemned houses and junkies' pads. The result was discouraging. Thieves, fences, pimps, prostitutes, all lay low, even most of the junkies. Hour after hour passed and the raid continued with undiminished strength. They caught a burglar red-handed and a fence who had not enough instinct of self-preservation to go to earth. All that the police really succeeded in doing was to stir up the dregs—the homeless, the alcoholics, the drug addicts, those who had lost all hope, those who could not even crawl away when the welfare state turned the stone over. A fourteen-year-old schoolgirl was found naked in an attic. She had taken fifty preludin pills and been raped at least twenty times. But when the police came she was alone. Bleeding, filthy and bruised. She could still talk and gave a rambling account of what had happened, saying she didn't care. They couldn't even find her clothes but had to wrap her in an old quilt. They drove her to an address she gave and a person who made out she was her mother said that she had been missing for three days and refused to let her in. Only when the girl collapsed on the stairs did they send for an ambulance. Several similar cases came to light.
At half past four Martin Beck and Kollberg were sitting in a car at Skeppsbron.
'There's something funny about Gunvald,' Martin Beck said.
'Yes, he's stupid,' Kollberg said.
'No, something else. Something I can't put my finger on.'
'Oh?' said Kollberg with a yawn.
Just then an alarm came through on the radio.
'This is Hansson of fifth district. We're in Vastmannagatan. We've found a body here. And…'
'Yes?'
'He fits the description.'
They drove straight there. A couple of police cars were drawn up in front of a condemned house. The dead man lay on his back in a room on the third floor. It was extraordinary that he had been able to get up there, for the house was half pulled down and most of the stairs were missing. Martin Beck and Kollberg climbed a light-metal ladder that the police had put up. The man was about thirty-five, with a striking profile, light-blue shirt and dark- brown trousers. Worn-out black shoes. No socks. Thin hair brushed back. They looked at him, someone stifled a yawn.
'Nothing to do but rope off and wait for the technical division to open up,' Kollberg said.
'Hardly worth waiting for,' said Hansson, who was an old hand. 'Suffocated by vomit. Clear as daylight.'
'Yes, it looks like it,' Martin Beck said. 'How long do you think he's been dead?'
'Not very long,' Kollberg said.
'No,' Hansson said. 'Not in this heat.'
An hour later Martin Beck went home and Kollberg went to Kungsholmsgatan.
They exchanged a few remarks before parting.
'The description did fit.'
'It fits a damn sight too many,' Martin Beck answered.
'And it's the right district.'
'We must find out who he is first.'
The time was half past six when Martin Beck got home to Bagarmossen. His wife had evidently just woken up. At any rate she was awake and still lay in bed. She looked critically at him and said:
'What a sight you look.'
'Why aren't you wearing a nightie?'
'It's so hot. Does it offend you?'
'No, I don't mind.'
He felt unshaven and frowzy but was too tired to do anything about it. Got undressed and put on his pajamas. Got into bed. Thought: damn stupid idea this double bed, next pay day I'll buy a divan and put it in the other room.
'Does it get you all excited perhaps?' she said sarcastically.
But he was already asleep.
At eleven o'clock the same morning he was back at Kungsholmsgatan, somewhat hollow-eyed, but bathed and slightly refreshed. Kollberg was still there, and the dead man in Vastmannagatan had not yet been identified.
'Not a paper of any kind in his pockets, not so much as a subway ticket.'
