fell with a thud. That was all Kollberg had time to take in, for there was a second man, who, his face blank with astonishment, stuck his right hand into his jacket pocket and looked just as amazed when Kollberg, with one knee still on the ground, seized his arm and twisted it.
It was a grip that would have dislocated the arm or even broken it, if Kollberg had not checked himself halfway and contented himself with flinging the man backwards into the bushes.
The man who had struck him was sitting on the ground making faces while he rubbed his right shoulder with his left hand. The rubber truncheon had dropped from his hand. He was dressed in a blue track suit and looked several years younger than Kollberg. The second man crawled out of the bushes. He was older and smaller, and was wearing a corduroy jacket and sports trousers. Both had white sneakers with rubber soles. They looked like a couple of amateur yachtsmen.
'What the hell's all this?' Kollberg asked.
'Who are you?' asked the man in the track suit
'Police,' Kollberg replied.
'Oh,' the smaller man said.
He had got up and was sheepishly dusting down his trousers.
'Then I presume we must apologize,' the first man said. 'A good trick that, where did you learn it?'
Kollberg made no reply. He had caught sight of a flat object on the ground. He stooped down and picked it up, and saw at once what it was. A small black automatic pistol, an Astra, made in Spain. Kollberg weighed it in his hand and looked suspiciously at the two men.
'Just what the hell is all this?' he said.
The big man stood up and shook himself.
'As I said, we apologize. You stood here behind the bushes spying on the children. And… you know, the murderer…'
'Yes? Go on.'
'We live up here,' the smaller man said, pointing to the apartment houses on the other side of the railroad.
'And?'
'We have children of our own and we know the parents of the girl who was murdered the other day.'
'And?'
'And so as to help…'
'Yes?'
'We have formed our own voluntary civic guard that patrols in the park.'
'You have what?'
'We have formed a voluntary militia…'
Kollberg was overcome by a sudden rage.
'What the hell are you saying, man?' he roared.
'Don't stand there shouting at us,' the older man said angrily. 'We're not a couple of drunks that you can bully and push around in the cells. We're decent people with a sense of responsibility. We must protect ourselves and our children.'
Kollberg stared at him. Then he opened his mouth to bellow but controlled himself with an effort and said as quietly as he could:
'Is this your pistol?'
'Yes.'
'Have you a license?'
'No. I bought it in Barcelona some years ago. I keep it locked in a drawer normally.'
'Normally?'
The black-and-white patrol bus from Maria police station drove into the park with headlights full on. It was nearly dark now. Two policemen in uniform got out.
'What's going on here?' one of them said.
Then, recognizing Kollberg, he repeated in a different tone:
'What's going on here?'
'Take these two with you,' Kollberg said tonelessly.
'I've never set foot in a police station in my life,' said the older man.
'Nor have I,' said the one in the track suit
'Then it's about time you did,' Kollberg said.
He paused for a moment, looked at
'll1 be along soon.'
Then he turned on his heel and walked off.
At Maria police station in Rosenlundsgatan there was already a line of drunks.
'What am I to do with these two civil engineers?' asked the police inspector on duty.
'Search them and put them in the cells,' Kollberg said. 'I'm taking them along to headquarters later.'
You'll be sorry for this,' said the man in the track suit 'Do you know who I am?'
'No,' Kollberg said.
He went into the guardroom to phone and as he dialed the number to his home he gazed mournfully at the ancient interior. He had done patrol duty here once; it seemed a very long time ago, but even then this district had been one of the worst for drunkards. Nowadays there was a better class of people living round about, but the district still came a good third in drunkard statistics after Klara and Katarina.
'Kollberg,' his wife said, answering the phone.
'Ill be a bit late,' he said.
'You sound so funny, is anything wrong?'
'Yes,' he said. 'Everything.'
He put the phone down and sat without moving for a moment Then he called up Martin Beck.
'I was struck down from behind in Tanto Park a while ago,' he said. 'By two armed civil engineers. They've formed a militia here.'
'Not only there,' Martin Beck said. 'An hour ago a pensioner was battered in Haga Park. He was standing having a leak. I just heard about it.'
'Everything's going to hell.'
'Yes,' Martin Beck said. 'Where are you now?'
'Still at Maria. Sitting in an interrogation room.'
'What have you done with those two?'
'They're in the cells here.'
'Bring them along.'
'Okay.'
Kollberg went down into the cell block. Many of the cells were already occupied. The man in the track suit stood staring out through the steel bars. In the next cell sat a tall, lean man aged about thirty-five with his knees drawn up to his chin. He was singing mournfully and sonorously:
'My pocketbook is empty, my heart is full of pain…'
The singer glanced at Kollberg and said:
'Hi, marshal, where's your six-shooter?'
'Haven't got one,' Kollberg said.
'This is the goddamn wild west,' said the guard.
'What have you done?' Kollberg asked.
'Nothing,' the man said.
'It's true,' the guard said. 'We're letting him out soon. Some naval police brought him here. Five of them, can you imagine. He had annoyed some bo'sun or other on guard at Skeppsholmen. And they go and lug him all the way here. Idiots. Said they couldn't find a police station any closer. I had to shut him up in order to get rid of them. As if there wasn't enough already…'
Kollberg went on to the next cell.
'Now you've set foot in a police station,' he said to the man in the track suit. 'In a little while you'll see what
