The Man on the Balcony

Djurgardsstaden before that.

There was not much chance of taking him by surprise, he must already have noticed that the police were out in full force.

Martin Beck and Kollberg got into their car and drove across the bridge, closely followed by two prowl cars. They stopped on the road between the deaf and dumb school and the bridge and started to organize the hunt from there.

A quarter of an hour later all available men from several of Stockholm's police districts had arrived on the scene and about a hundred policemen had been sent out to cover the area between Skansen and Blockhusudden.

Martin Beck sat in the car directing the search by radio. The search groups were equipped with walkie-talkies and the roads were patrolled by squad cars. Dozens of innocent pedestrians were stopped time and again, forced to prove their identity and told to leave the area. At the roadblocks all cars on their way into town were stopped and checked.

In the park by Rosendal Manor a young man broke into a run when a policeman asked to see his identity card and in panic he ran right into the arms of two other policemen. He refused to say who he was and why he had run. When they searched him they found a loaded 9-millimeter Parabellum in his coat pocket and he was taken straight to the nearest police station.

'In this way well soon have pulled in every criminal in Stockholm except the one we want,' Kollberg said.

'He's lying low somewhere,' said Martin Beck. 'This time he can't escape.'

'Don't be so sure. We can't keep the area cordoned off indefinitely. And if he has got past Skansen…'

'He didn't have time. Unless he drove a car and that doesn't seem likely.'

'Why not? He might have stolen one,' Kollberg said.

A voice crackled on the radio. Martin Beck pressed the button and answered.

'Car ninety-seven, nine seven, here. We've found him. Over.'

'Where are you?' Martin Beck asked.

'At Biskopsudden. Above the boat club.'

'Well be right over.'

It took them three minutes to drive to Biskopsudden. Three radio cars, a motorcycle policeman and several plain-clothes and uniformed policemen were standing in the road.

Between the cars and surrounded by the police stood the man. A radio policeman in a leather jacket was holding his arm bent behind his back.

The man was thin and somewhat shorter than Martin Beck. He had a big nose, blue-gray eyes, and sandy hair brushed back and rather thin on top. He was dressed in brown trousers, white shirt with no tie, and dark-brown jacket. As Martin Beck and Kollberg came towards him he said:

'What's all this?'

'What's your name?' Martin Beck asked.

'Fristedt. Wilhelm Fristedt.'

'Can you prove your identity?'

'No, my driver's license is in the pocket of another coat.'

'Where have you been during the last two weeks?'

'Nowhere. I mean at home. In Bondegatan. I've been ill.'

'Alone at home?'

It was Kollberg who asked. He sounded sarcastic.

'Yes,' the man replied.

'Your name's Fransson, isn't it?' Martin Beck said kindly.

'No, it's Fristedt. Must he grip my arm so tightly? It hurts.'

Martin Beck nodded to the policeman in the leather jacket.

'Okay. Put him in the car.'

He and Kollberg moved to one side and Martin Beck said:

'What do you think? Is it our man?'

Kollberg scratched his head.

'I don't know. He seems so neat and ordinary. But his appearance tallies and he has no proof of identity. I don't know.'

Martin Beck went up to the car and opened the door to the rear seat.

'What are you doing here in Djurgarden?'

'Nothing. Just out for a walk. What's all this about?'

'And you can't prove your identity?'

'No, unfortunately.'

'Where do you live?'

'In Bondegatan. Why are you asking me all this?'

'What were you doing last Tuesday?'

'The day before yesterday? I was at home. I was ill. Today's the first time I've been out in over two weeks.'

'Who can prove it?' Martin Beck asked. 'Was anyone with you when you were ill?'

'No, I was alone.'

Martin Beck drummed on the car roof and looked at Kollberg. Kollberg opened the door on the other side, leaned into the car and said:

'May I ask what it was you said when you were over by Grondal half an hour ago?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'You said something when you stood 'below Grondal earlier today.'

'Oh!' the man said. 'Oh, that.'

He smiled and said:

I am the sick lime-tree that withers while still young.

Dry leaves I scattered to the wind when on my

crown they hung.

Is that what you mean?'

The policeman in the leather jacket was gaping at the man.

'Froding,' Kollberg said.

'Yes,' the man said. 'Our great poet Froding. He was living at Grondal when he died. Not so old but out of his mind.'

'What's your job?' Martin Beck asked.

'I'm a butcher,' the man replied.

Martin Beck straightened up and looked at Kollberg over the car roof. Kollberg shrugged. Martin Beck lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. Then he bent down and looked at the man.

'Okay,' he said. 'Let's start again. What's your name?'

The sun beat down on the car roof. The man in the back seat mopped his brow and said:

'Wilhelm Fristedt.'

30

ONE MIGHT take Martin Beck for a greenhorn from the country and Kollberg for a sex murderer. One could put a false beard on Ronn and get someone to believe he was Santa Claus, and a confused witness might say that Gunvald Larsson was Chinese. One could no doubt dress up the assistant commissioner as a laborer and the commissioner as a tree. One could probably persuade someone that the minister for home affairs was a policeman. One could, like the Japanese during the Second World War and certain monomaniac photographers, disguise oneself as a bush and make pretense at not being found out One could hoodwink people about 'almost anything at all.

But nothing in this world could make people be mistaken about Kristiansson and Kvant

Kristiansson and Kvant were dressed in uniform caps and leather jackets with gilded buttons. Their belts