The Locked Room (13 page)

'That doesn't matter,' said Mauritzon mildly. 'It's quite right to keep your eyes peeled, especially at spots like this.'

The police have an office right next to the railway station. Among many other things it's intended as a place where they can drink coffee. It's also for the temporary custody of detained persons.

The formalities became elaborate. First the names and addresses of the witness and of the old lady who had supposedly been robbed were taken down.

'I reckon I was mistaken,' the witness said nervously. 'And I've my job to attend to.'

'We must clear this matter up,' said the more experienced of the policemen. 'Search his pockets, Kenneth.'

The man from Närke started searching Mauritzon, picking out various commonplace objects. Meanwhile the interrogation continued.

'What's your name, sir?'

'Arne Lennart Holm,' said Mauritzon. 'Known as Lennart.' 'And your address?'

'Vickergatan six.'

'Yes, the name's correct,' said the other officer. 'It's here on his driver's licence, so it's perfectly correct. His name's Arne Lennart Holm. So that fits.'

Next the interrogator turned to the old lady. 'Have you lost anything, madam?'

'No.'

'But I'm beginning to lose patience,' the blonde said sharply. 'What's your name?'

'That's irrelevant,' the policeman said bluntly.

'Oh, take it easy,' Mauritzon said, relaxed.

'Have you lost anything, madam?'

'No. You've just asked me that.'

'What articles of value did you have on you, madam?'

'Six thirty-five in my purse. And then my fifty-kronor card and pensioner's card.'

'Do you still have these things?'

'Of course.'

The officer closed his notebook, looked the assembled company over, and said: 'The matter seems settled. You two may leave. Holm stays.'

Mauritzon retrieved his belongings. The shopping bag was standing by the door. A cucumber and six rhubarb stalks protruded from it.

'What's in that shopping bag?' the policeman asked. 'Food.'

'Really? You'd better check on that too, Kenneth.'

The Närke man began plucking out the contents and laying them out on a bench by the door, used by off-duty policemen for putting down their caps and shoulder holsters.

Mauritzon said nothing. He followed the process calmly.

‘Yes,' said Kenneth. 'The bag contains food, exactly as Mr Holm here said it did. Bread, butter, cheese, rhubarb, and coffee... and, yes, well, what Holm has said.'

'Well,' his colleague said conclusively, 'then the matter's settled. You can put all those things back again, Kenneth.'

He thought for a moment, then turned to Mauritzon and said: 'Well, Mr Holm. This is an unfortunate affair. But as you may understand, we policemen have our job to do. We regret suspecting you of a criminal offence and hope we've not inconvenienced you.'

'By no means,' said Mauritzon. 'Obviously you have your duties.'

'Good-bye then, Mr Holm.'

'Good-bye, good-bye.'

The door opened and yet another policeman came in. He was dressed in blue-grey overalls and was holding an Alsatian on a lead. In his hand he had a bottle of soft drink. 'Bloody hell but it's hot,' he said, slinging his cap down on the bench. 'Sit, Jack.'

Unscrewing the top, he put the bottle to his mouth. He paused, and again said irritably: 'Sit, Jack!'

The dog sat down but almost immediately got up again and began sniffing at the bag against the wall. Mauritzon walked towards the door.

'Well, good-bye then, Mr Holm,' said Kenneth.

'Good-bye, good-bye,' said Mauritzon.

By now the dog's head was completely submerged in the bag.

Mauritzon opened the door with his left hand and reached out his right hand for the bag. The dog growled.

'Just a moment,' said the policeman in overalls.

His colleague stared at him, uncomprehending. Mauritzon pushed away the dog's head and picked up the bag.

'Stop,' said the third cop, putting down his bottle on the bench.

'Pardon?' enquired Mauritzon.

'This is a drug squad dog,' the policeman said, moving his hand to the butt of his pistol.

The head of the drug squad was called Henrik Jacobsson. He'd held down the job for almost ten years and was a man under extreme pressure. Everyone thought he ought to have bleeding ulcers, or a nervous disorder, or should be running around chewing up curtains. But his constitution was equal to most things and nowadays nothing so much as caused him to raise an eyebrow.

He contemplated die dissected cheese and the hollowed-out loaf, the bags of hash and the amphetamine capsules, also one of his assistants who was still standing there splicing up rhubarb.

Before him sat Mauritzon, apparently calm, but his mind in a turmoil. His double security system had been broken through in the most unlikely and idiotic fashion. How could such a thing happen? That it should happen once, he could accept; but some¬thing similar had happened to him only a couple of months ago. And that made twice. This week he'd presumably get thirteen score-draws in the football pools.

Already he'd said almost all that could be said. For example, that the unfortunate shopping bag wasn't his; that he'd been given it by a stranger at the Central Station to hand over to another stranger on Maria Square. It was true he'd guessed there was something shady about the transaction, but he hadn't been able to resist the hundred-kronor note the stranger had offered him.

Jacobsson had listened without interrupting or comment, but also without appearing to be the slightest bit convinced. And now he said: 'Well, Holm. You'll be taken into custody, as I said. You will probably be placed under formal arrest tomorrow morning. You're allowed to make a phone call, providing it doesn't hinder or complicate the investigation.'

'Is it so serious?' said Mauritzon humbly.

'Depends on what you mean by serious. We'll have to see what we find when we search your home.'

Mauritzon knew precisely what they would find in the one-room flat on Vickergatan, namely some very meagre sticks of furniture and a few old clothes. So that didn't worry him. That they might ask him which locks his other keys fitted he also took fairly coolly, since he did not intend to answer. Consequently his other dwelling, on Armfeldtsgatan out at Gärdet, had every chance of remaining safe from poking cops and repugnant quadrupeds.

'Will there be a fine?' he asked, even more humbly.

'No, there won't, old boy,' Jacobsson said. 'This'll be prison, for sure. So you're in a pretty bad way, Holm. Incidentally, would you like some coffee?'

'Thanks, I'd prefer tea, if it's not too much trouble.' Mauritzon was doing some sharp thinking. His position was worse than Jacobsson yet suspected. The fact was, he'd had his fingerprints taken. And very soon the computer would spew out a punch card on which was printed not the name 'Lennart Holm' but quite different things - things that would give rise to many questions he was going to find it hard to answer. They drank tea and coffee and ate half a cake while the assistant, with the air of a top-notch surgeon at work, solemnly sliced up the cucumber with a scalpel. 'Nothing else here,' he said.

Jacobsson nodded slowly and said between bites: 'As far as you're concerned, it'll make no difference.'

A decision was ripening inside Mauritzon. True, he was down; but he was far from out for the count. And before he was counted out he had to get back up onto his feet - before the informa¬tion from the identification bureau lay on Jacobsson's desk. After that no one would believe a word he said, no matter which line he adopted. He put down his paper cup, straightened his back, and said in a wholly new tone of voice: 'I may as well lay my cards on the table. I'm not going to try to wriggle out of it any more.'

'Thanks,' Jacobsson said evenly. 'My name isn't Holm.' 'No?'

'No, it's true I call myself that But it isn't my real name.'

'What is it then?'

'Filip Faithful Mauritzon.'

'Is it a name you're ashamed of?'

'Truth to tell, I've been inside once or twice, a long time back. One gets to be known by the name one was convicted under. You know how it is.'

'Sure.'

'People get to know you've been inside, and then the cops come to check up... Sorry, the police, I mean.' 'Don't worry. I'm not touchy.'

For a while Jacobsson said nothing. Mauritzon cast ah anxious glance up at the clock on the wall. 'I didn't get caught for anything serious, really,' he said. 'Just receiving a few stolen goods, fixing, possession of firearms, and so on. A breaking-and-entering job. But that was ten years ago.'

'So you've been good since then, have you?' Jacobsson said. 'Become a better person, perhaps? Or just learned a few more tricks?'

Mauritzon's reply to this was a rather crooked smile.

Jacobsson wasn't smiling at all. He said: 'What are you driving at, really?'

'I don't want to go inside.'

'But you've been inside already. And when all's said and done it isn't all that serious, is it? This town's full of people who've been inside. I meet them every day. A couple of months' rest, that never hurts.'

Mauritzon had a strong feeling it was no brief holiday that he was facing. He surveyed his fateful groceries and thought how if he really was arrested, the cops would soon be poking their noses into all sorts of matters and come across one thing or another, maybe; and that wouldn't be nice at all. On the other hand he had a fair amount of capital stowed away in certain banks abroad. And if he could slip out of his present quandary he'd lose no time in quitting first this town and then the country. After which everything would sort itself out. Anyway he was planning to retire from his line of business. He intended to finish with pornog¬raphy and drugs. Nor did he have any great desire to go on being an errand boy, however well paid, for people like Malmström and Mohrén. Instead he intended to get into the dairy business. Smuggling Danish butter into Italy was amazingly profitable. Moreover it was virtually legal; its only real risk lay in the possi¬bility of being liquidated by the Mafia. Which was no small risk either, come to think of it. Anyway the time had come to resort to extraordinary methods. Mauritzon said: 'Who's in charge of bank robberies?'

'Bulldo -' Jacobsson let slip.

'Bulldozer Olsson,' said Mauritzon at once.

'District Attorney Olsson,' said Jacobsson. 'You thinking of grassing?'

'I might be able to give him some information.' 'Couldn't you just as well give this information to me?' 'It's a rather confidential matter,' Mauritzon said. 'I'm sure a brief phone call is all that's needed.'

Jacobsson considered this. He knew the National Police Commissioner and his assistants had declared bank robberies to be of prime importance. The only crime that could be considered more serious was throwing eggs at the United States ambassador. He drew the telephone towards him and dialled the direct number to the special squad's headquarters on Kungsholmen. Bulldozer himself answered.

'Olsson speaking.'

"This is Henrik Jacobsson. We've arrested a pusher, who claims he has something to say.' 'About the bank robberies?' 'Apparently.' 'I'll be right there.'

And he was. Bulldozer entered the room stooping with enthu¬siasm. A brief conversation ensued.

'What is it you want to talk about, Mr Mauritzon?' asked Bulldozer.

'Would you happen to be interested in a couple of guys called Malmström and Mohrén?'

'Indeed,' said Bulldozer. 'Yes indeed.' He licked his lips, tremendously interested. What exactly do you know, Mr Mauritzon?'

'I know where Malmström and Mohrén are.'

'Right now?'

'Yes.'

Bulldozer rubbed his hands excitedly. Then he said, as if struck by an afterthought: 'I presume you want certain concessions, Mr Mauritzon?'

'I'd prefer to discuss the whole matter in more agreeable surroundings.'

'Hmm,' said Bulldozer. 'Would my office on Kungsholmsgatan be more agreeable?'

'Sure thing,' said Mauritzon. 'But I expect, Mr District Attorney, you'll have to talk the matter over with this gentleman here?'

Jacobsson's face as he had followed the discussion had been expressionless.

'Right,' said Bulldozer eagerly. ‘We must have a little chat, Jacobsson. Can we talk in private?' Jacobsson nodded resignedly.

Jacobsson was a practical man. He took the matter coolly. His acquaintance with Bulldozer Olsson was superficial, but on the other hand he knew him by reputation. And that was reason enough to give up the fight before it even began.

The scene was simple. A cold room with a desk, two chairs, and a filing cabinet - not even a carpet on the floor. Jacobsson sat quite quietly at his desk.

Bulldozer rushed to and fro, head down, hands clasped behind his back. 'Just one important technicality,' he said. 'Is Mauritzon under arrest?'

'No. Not yet'

'Perfect,' said Bulldozer. 'Splendid. Then we hardly need discuss the matter.' 'Maybe not'

'If you like we could contact the National Commissioner... the Commissioner and the Chief Superintendent, too?'

Jacobsson shook his head. He knew all about the potentates in question.

'Then the matter's clear?' said Bulldozer. Jacobsson didn't reply.

'You did well to nab him. You know who he is and can keep an eye on him. For the future.'

‘Yes. I'll have a word with him.' 'Splendid.'

Jacobsson went up to Mauritzon, looked at him for a moment, then said: 'Well, Mauritzon, I've thought the matter over. You were given that bag by a stranger and were to hand it over to another stranger. Such things do happen sometimes in this business. It would be difficult to prove you're not telling the truth, so there's no need to arrest you.'

'I see,' said Mauritzon.

'Of course we'll keep the goods. We're assuming you acted in good faith.'

'Are you letting me go?'

‘Yes, providing you put yourself at Bull -... District Attorney Olsson's disposal.'

Bulldozer must have been listening at the door. It flew open and he entered headlong. 'Come along,' he said.

'Right away?'