against his chest At last the more sober of the men lost patience and tumbled the spluttering troublemaker into the gutter.
Rodin sighed.
'Well have to take him with us,' he said, starting to cross the road. 'I know him of old, he's always making trouble.'
'Which one?' Kvist asked.
'The one in the gutter. The other can manage on his own.'
They strode quickly up to the men. A third and equally seedy-looking type who had been watching the altercation from the small garden outside the Metropole restaurant, moved off towards Odengatan with hard-won dignity, looking back anxiously over his shoulder.
The two policemen lifted the drunk out of the gutter and stood him on his feet. He was in his sixties, very lean and very underweight by the look of him. Several passers-by, classed as ordinary decent citizens, stopped at a distance and gaped.
'Well, Johansson, how are things today?' Rodin said.
Johansson's head flopped and he made a feeble attempt to dust himself down.
'Jush f-fine, offisher. I was jush talking to my pal here, jush having a bit of f-fun, shee?'
His pal made a commendable attempt to straighten up and said:
'Nothing wrong with Oskar. He'll be all right.'
'Scram,' Rodin said good-naturedly, waving him away.
Relieved, the man hurried out of harm's way.
Rodin and Kvist took a firm grip under the drunk's arms and started hauling him towards the taxi stand twenty yards farther off.
The taxi .driver saw them coming, got out and opened the door to the back seat. He was one of the cooperative types.
'You're going to have a ride in a taxi, Johansson,' Rodin said. 'And then you can sleep.'
Johansson crawled meekly into the taxi, collapsed on the back seat and fell asleep. Rodin propped him up in the corner and said over his shoulder to Kvist:
'll1 book him and see you at the station. Buy a few cakes on the way back.'
Kvist nodded and as the taxi swung out from the curb he walked slowly back to the newsstand at the corner. He looked around for Johansson's mate and discovered him in Surbrunnsgatan, a few yards away from the liquor store. When Kvist took a couple of steps towards him the man waved him away with both hands and started walking up towards Hagagatan.
Kvist watched the man until he had disappeared around the corner. Then he turned on his heel and returned to Sveavagen.
The saleswoman in the newsstand stuck her head out of the opening and said:
'Thank you. Those drunkards ruin my business. And they're always hanging about just here.'
'It's the liquor store that attracts them,' Kvist said.
In a way he felt sorry for Johansson and his like, knowing that part of their trouble was that they had nowhere to spend their time.
He saluted and walked on. A little farther down Sveavagen he saw a shop sign: BAKERY. looking at his watch, he thought he might as well buy the cakes there and go back to the station and have coffee.
A little bell tinkled as he opened the door of the bakery. An elderly woman in a checked smock stood at the counter talking to the woman who was serving her.
Kvist put his hands behind his back and waited. He inhaled the smell of fresh-baked bread, thinking that these small bakeries were getting rare.
Soon they'll vanish altogether and you'll be able to buy nothing but mass-produced bread in plastic wrapping and the entire Swedish nation will eat exactly the same loaves and buns and cakes, thought Police Officer Kvist.
Kvist was only twenty-two but often had the feeling that his childhood was in the distant past. He listened with half an ear to the conversation between the two women.
'And to think old Palm in Number 81 went and died,' said the fat woman in the smock.
'Yes, but just as well he did really,' the shopwoman said. 'He was so old and decrepit.'
She was gray-haired and elderly and wore a white coat. Casting a glance at Kvist, she quickly put the goods into the customer's shopping bag.
'Will that be all, Mrs. Andersson?' she asked. 'No cream today?'
The customer picked up her bag and puffed.
'No, no cream today, thank you. And charge it as usual, please. Good morning.'
She moved towards the door and Kvist hurried to open it' for her.
'Good morning, Mrs. Andersson, dear,' the shopwoman said.
The fat woman squeezed past Kvist with a nod by way of thanks.
He smiled to himself at the 'dear' and was about to close the door behind her when a thought struck him. The shopwoman stared at him blankly as, without saying a word, he hurried out into the street and shut the door behind him.
As he caught up with her the woman in the check smock was already halfway inside the entrance next to the bakery. Saluting quickly, he said:
'Excuse me, madam, is your name Andersson?'
'Ye-es…?'
Taking her shopping bag, he held open the door for her. When it had shut behind them he said:
'Forgive my asking, but was it by any chance you who called up police headquarters on the morning of Friday the second of June?'
'The second of June? Ye-es, I did call the police. Maybe it was the second. What of it?'
'Why did you make that call?' Kvist asked.
He could not help betraying his eagerness and the woman called Andersson looked at him in astonishment.
'I spoke to a detective or whatever he was. A very rude man. Didn't seem in the least interested. I only wanted to re port something I'd noticed. That man had been standing there on his balcony for…'
'Do you mind if I come up with you and use your phone?' Kvist asked, already on his way to the elevator.
'I'll explain on the way up,' he said.
26
MARTIN BECK put down the phone and shouted to Kollberg. Then he buttoned his jacket, put his cigarettes and a box of matches in his pocket and looked at his wrist watch. Five to ten. Kollberg appeared in the doorway.
'What are you bawling for?' he said.
'They've found her. Mrs. Andersson. Granlund in ninth district just called up. She lives in Sveavagen.'
Kollberg vanished into the next room, fetched his jacket and was still struggling into it when he came back.
'Sveavagen,' he said thoughtfully, looking at Martin Beck, 'How did they get hold of her? Door-to-door?'
'No, a young officer from ninth met her in a bakery when he went in to buy cakes.'
As they went downstairs Kollberg said:
'Isn't it Granlund who says that coffee breaks should be abolished? Perhaps he'll change his mind now.'
Mrs. Andersson regarded them critically through the crack in the door.
'Was it either of you I spoke to when I called up that morning?' she asked.
'No,' Martin Beck said politely. 'You spoke to Detective Inspector Larsson.'
Mrs. Andersson undid the safety chain and admitted them to a small, dark hall.
'Detective inspector or not, he was very rude. As I said to the young officer who came up with me, the police ought to be grateful that people do report things. Who knows, I said to him, if people didn't report things you might not have any work. But step inside, please, and I'll get the coffee.'
Kollberg and Martin Beck went into the living room. Even though the apartment was on the third floor and the
