The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (12 page)

Martin Beck had just finished dressing and was on his way to the dining room when the telephone rang.

'From Stockholm," said the telephone operator. "A Mr. Eriksson."

The name was familiar to him: it was Alf Matsson's boss, the editor in chief of the aggressive weekly.

A pompous voice came over the line.

'That's Beck, is it? This is Eriksson, the editor in chief here."

'This is Inspector Beck."

The man ignored this and went on. "Well, as you are probably aware, I know all about your assignment. I was the one to put you on the track. And I've good connections with the Foreign Office, too."

So his hideous namesake had not been able to keep his mouth shut either.

'Are you still there?"

'Yes."

'Perhaps we'd better be a little careful what we say, if you know what I mean. But first I must ask: have you found the man you're looking for?"

'Matsson? No, not yet."

'No clue at all?"

'No."

'It's absolutely unheard-of."

'Yes."

'Well, how can I put it now… How's the atmosphere down there?"

'It's hot. A little misty in the mornings."

'What d'you say? Misty in the mornings? Yes, I think I understand. Yes, exactly. Now, however, I think the tune has come when in all good conscience we can't keep this thing under wraps any longer. Why, what's happened is perfectly incredible—it could lead to dreadful things. We have a great responsibility for Matsson personally too. He's one of our best people, an excellent man, thoroughly honest and loyal.

I've had him on my general staff for a couple of years now, and I know what I'm talking about."

'Where?"

'What?"

'Where have you had him?"

'Oh, that. On my general staff. We say that, you know. Editorial general staff. I know what I'm talking about. I'd stake my life on that man and that makes my responsibility even greater."

Martin Beck stood thinking about something else. He was trying to imagine what Eriksson looked like. Probably a fat, bumptious little man with pig eyes and a red beard.

'So today I've decided to publish our first article on the Alf Matsson case in next week's issue. This coming Monday, without further delay. The moment has come to focus public attention on this story. I just wanted to know whether you'd found any trace of him, as I said."

'I think you should take your article and—"

Martin Beck stopped himself just in time and said, "… throw it into the wastebasket."

'What? What did you say? I don't understand."

'Read the papers in the morning," said Martin Beck and put down the receiver.

His appetite had vanished during the conversation. He took out his bottle and poured himself a stiff whisky. Then he sat down and thought. He was in a bad temper and had a headache, and on top of that he had been discourteous. But that was not what he was thinking about.

Alf Matsson had come to Budapest on the twenty-second of July. He had been seen at the passport control. He had taken a taxi to the Hotel Ifjuság and stayed there for one night. Someone at the reception desk must have dealt with him. The following morning, Saturday the twenty-third, he had, again by taxi, moved to the Hotel Duna and stayed there for half an hour. At about ten o'clock in the morning he had gone out. The people at the reception desk had noticed him.

After that, as far as was known, no one had seen or spoken to 
Alf
 Matsson. He had left one single clue behind him: the key to his hotel room, which, according to Szluka, had been found on the steps outside the police station.

Assuming that Fröbe and Radeberger were telling the truth, he had not turned up at the meeting place in Újpest and, consequently, they had not been able either to kidnap or kill him.

So for some unknown reason, Alf Matsson had gone up in smoke.

The existing material was extremely thin but, nevertheless, it was all there was to work on.

Five people, it was established, had had contact with Alf Matsson on Hungarian soil and could be regarded as witnesses.

A passport officer, two taxi drivers and two hotel receptionists.

If something wholly unexpected had happened to him—if, for instance, he had been attacked, kidnapped or killed in an accident or gone insane—then their testimonies were useless. But, on the other hand, if he had made himself Invisible of his own free will, then those people might have observed some detail in his appearance or behavior which might be important to the investigation.

Martin Beck had personally been in contact with two of these hypothetical witnesses. Considering the language difficulties, however, it was uncertain whether he had been able to exploit them fully. Neither the taxi drivers nor the passport official could be located, and even if he found them, he would presumably not be able to speak to them.

The only substantial material he had to go on was Matsson's passport and luggage. Neither told him anything.

This was his summary of the Alf Matsson case. Extremely depressing insofar as it showed that, as far as he was concerned, the investigation had ended in complete deadlock. If, despite everything, Matsson's disappearance was connected with the gang of smugglers—and it was difficult to believe that it was 
not
—then Szluka would sooner or later clear the matter up. In that case, the best support he could give the Hungarian police would be to go home, bring in the Narcotics Squad and help wind up the Swedish end of the case.

Martin Beck came to a decision and converted it immediately into action by means of two telephone calls.

First, the well-dressed young man from the Swedish Embassy.

'Have you managed to find him?"

'No."

'Nothing new, in other words."

'Matsson was a narcotics smuggler. The Hungarian police are looking for him. For our part, we'll put out a description through Interpol."

'How very unpleasant."

'Yes."

'And what is this going to mean for you?"

'That I go home. Tomorrow, if it can be arranged. I'd like some help with that little matter."

'It may be difficult, but I'll do my best."

'Yes, do that. It's very important."

'I'll phone early tomorrow morning."

'Thank you."

'Good-bye. I hope you've had a nice time these few days, all the same."

'Yes, very nice. Good-bye."

After that, Szluka. He was at police headquarters.

'I'm going back to Sweden tomorrow."

'Oh, yes. Have a good trip."

'You'll get our report eventually."

'And you'll get ours. We've still not found Matsson."

'Are you surprised?"

'Very. Frankly, I've never seen anything like it. But we'll get him soon."

'Have you checked the camping sites?"

'We're doing that. Takes a little time. Fröbe's tried to kill himself, by the way."

'And?"

'Didn't succeed, of course. He threw himself at the wall head first. Got a bump on his skull. I've had him transferred to the psychiatric department. The doctor says he's a manic-depressive. The question is whether we'll have to let the girl go the same way."

'And Radeberger?"

'All right. Asking whether there's a gymnasium in the prison. There is."

'Could I ask you something?"

'Go ahead."

'We know that Matsson had contact with five people here in Budapest from Friday evening until Saturday morning."

'Two hotel receptionists and two taxi drivers. Where do we get the fifth from?"

'The passport control officer."

'My only excuse is that I haven't been home for thirty-six hours. So you want him questioned?"

'Yes. Everything he can remember. What he said, how he behaved, what he was wearing."

'I see."

'Can you get the report done in German or English and airmail it to Stockholm?"

'Telex is better. Anyhow, perhaps there'll be time to get it to you before you leave."

'Hardly. I'll probably be going about eleven."

'We're famous for our speed. The wife of the Minister of Trade had her bag snatched at Nep Stadium last autumn. She took a taxi here to report it. When she got here, she was handed back her bag at the desk downstairs. That kept us in good shape for a long time. Well, we'll see."

'Thanks then. And good-bye."

'Good-bye. Pity there wasn't time to meet a little more informally."

Martin Beck paused briefly to think. Then he set up a call to Stockholm. The call came through in ten minutes.

'Lennart's away," said Kollberg's wife. "As usual, he didn't say where he was going. 'Duty calls, be back on Sunday, take care of yourself.' He took the car with him. To hell with policemen."

Melander next. This time it took only five minutes.

'Hi! Did I disturb you?"

'I'd just gone to bed."

Melander was famous for his memory, his ten hours' sleep a night and a singular capacity for constantly being in the W. C.

'Are you in on the Matsson case?"

'Yeah."

'Find out what he did the night before he left. In detail. How he behaved, what he said, what he was wearing."

'Tonight?"

'Tomorrow will do."

'Uh-huh."

'Bye, then."

'Bye."

Martin Beck had finished with the telephone. He took pen and paper and went downstairs.

Alf Matsson's luggage was still standing in the room behind the reception desk.

He took the cover off the typewriter, placed it on the table, inserted a piece of paper in the machine and typed:

Portable typewriter, Erika, with case
Yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with strap, fairly new

He opened the case and set its contents out on the table. He then went on typing.

Gray-and-black checked shirt
Sport shirt, brown
White poplin shirt, fresh-laundered, Metro Laundry, Stockholm
Light-gray gabardine trousers, well-pressed
Three handkerchiefs, white
Four pairs socks, brown, dark-blue, light-gray, wine-red
Two pairs colored undershorts, green-and-white check
One fishnet undershirt
One pair light-brown suede shoes

He looked gloomily at the cardigan-like garment, picked it up and went out to the girl at the reception desk. She was very pretty, in a sweet, ordinary way. Rather small, well built, long fingers, pretty calves, fine ankles, a few dark hairs on her shins, long thighs under her skirt. No rings. He stared at her with his thoughts far away.

'What's this kind of thing called?" he said.

'A jersey blazer," she said.

He remained standing there, thinking about something. The girl blushed. She moved to the other end of the reception desk, adjusting her skirt and pulling at her bra and girdle. He could not understand why. He went back, sat down at the table and typed:

He repacked all the things, folded the list and left. The girl at the reception desk looked at him in confusion. Now she appeared prettier than ever.

Martin Beck went into the dining room and ate a late dinner, with an absent-minded expression still on his face.

The waiter put a Swedish flag in front of him. The maestro came up to his table and played a patriotic Swedish melody in his left ear. He did not seem to notice it.

He drank his coffee in one gulp, put a red hundred-forint note on the table without even waiting for the bill and went upstairs to bed.

It was just a few minutes past nine o'clock when the young man from the Embassy telephoned.

'You're in luck," he said. "I've managed to get a seat on the plane that leaves Budapest at twelve o'clock. You get to Prague at ten to two and you have five minutes to wait before the SAS plane to Copenhagen leaves."

'Thanks," said Martin Beck.

'It wasn't easy to arrange at such short notice. Can you pick up the tickets yourself at Malev's? I've arranged for the payment of them, so they can just be collected."

'Naturally," said Martin Beck. "Thanks very much indeed."

'Have a nice flight then, Mr. Beck. It's been very pleasant having you here."

'Thank you," said Martin Beck. "Good-bye."

As predicted the tickets were waiting for him, with the dark curly-haired beauty he had spoken to three days earlier.

He returned to his hotel room, packed his bag and sat at the window for a while, smoking and looking out over the river. Then he left the room (in which he had stayed for five days and Alf Matsson had stayed for half an hour), went down to reception and ordered a taxi. As he came outside onto the steps, he saw a blue-and-white police car approaching at great speed. It braked in front of the hotel, and a uniformed policeman whom he had not seen before leaped out and hurried through the revolving doors. Martin had time to see that he had an envelope in his hand.

His taxi swung around and stopped behind the police car, and the doorman with a gray mustache opened the back door. Martin Beck asked him to wait and went back into the revolving doors just as the policeman went into them from the other direction, closely followed by the receptionist. When the receptionist caught sight of Martin Beck, he waved and pointed to the policeman. After having whirled around a couple of times in the revolving doors, they all three succeeded in meeting up on the hotel steps and Martin Beck was given his envelope. He stepped into the taxi after having given out his last aluminum coins to the receptionist and the doorman.

On the plane, he was seated beside a boastful, loud-voiced Englishman, who hung over him, spraying saliva into his face as he related stories about his totally uninteresting activities as some kind of commercial traveler.

In Prague, Martin Beck just had time to rush through the transit hall into the next plane, before it took off. To his relief the expectorating Englishman was nowhere to be seen, and when they were up in the air, he opened the envelope.

Szluka and his men had done their best to live up to their reputation for speed. They had questioned six witnesses and done the report in English. Martin Beck read:

Summary of interrogation of those persons known by the police to have had contact with the Swedish citizen Alf Sixten Matsson from the time of his arrival at Ferihegyi Airport in Budapest at 10:15 P.M. on July 22, 1966, until his disappearance from Hotel Duna in Budapest at unknown time between 10:00 A.M. and 11:00 A.M. on July 23 of the same year.

Ferenc Havas
, passport control officer who was on duty alone at the passport control point at Ferihegyi on the night between July 22 and July 23, 1966, says that he does not remember seeing Alf Matsson.

János Lucacs
, taxi driver, says that he remembers that on the night between July 22 and 23 he took a passenger from Ferihegyi to Hotel Ifjuság. According to Lucacs, the passenger was a man between 25 and 30 years of age, had a beard and spoke German. Lucacs, who does not speak Ger man, understood only that the man wanted to be taken to Ifjusag. Lucacs thinks he remembers that the man had a suitcase, which he put down beside him on the back seat.

Léo Szabo
, medical student, night porter at Hotel Ifjusag on July 22-23, remembers a man who came to the hotel late one evening between July 17-24. Everything indicates that this man was Alf Matsson although Szabo remembers neither the exact time of the man's arrival, nor his name or nationality. According to Szabo, the man was between 30 and 35 years old, spoke good English and had a beard. He was wearing light-colored trousers, blue jacket, probably a white shirt, and tie, and had light luggage—one or two bags. Szabo cannot remember having seen this man on any other occasion but this one.

Béla Péter
, taxi driver, drove Alf Matsson from the Hotel Ifjusag to the Hotel Duna on the morning of July 23. He remembers a young man with a brown beard and glasses, whose luggage consisted of one large and one smaller bag, the smaller probably a typewriter.

Béla Kovacs
, porter at the Hotel Duna, received Matsson's passport and gave him the key to Room 105 on the morning of July 23. According to Kovacs, Matsson was then wearing light, probably gray trousers, white shirt, blue jacket and a plain-colored tie. He was carrying a light-colored coat over his arm.

Eva Petrovich
, receptionist at the same hotel, saw Matsson both when he arrived at the hotel shortly before 10:00 A.M. on July 23, and when he left the hotel about half an hour later. She has given the most extensive description of Matsson and maintains she is certain about all details, except the color of his tie. According to Miss Petrovich, Matsson was of medium height, had blue eyes, dark-brown hair, beard and mustache and steel-rimmed glasses. He was wearing light-gray trousers, dark-blue summer blazer, white shirt, blue or red tie, and beige shoes. Over his arm he had a light-beige poplin coat

Szluka had added something:

As you see we have not found out much more than what we already knew. None of the witnesses can remember anything special that Matsson did or said. I have added the description of his clothing at his disappearance to the personal description we have sent all over the country. Should any other facts come to light, I shall let you know immediately. Have a good trip!

Vilmos Szluka

Martin Beck read through Szluka's summary again. He wondered whether Eva Petrovich was the same girl who had helped him identify the cardigan-like garment in Alf Matsson's suitcase. On the back of Szluka's letter, he wrote:

Light-gray trousers
White shirt
Dark-blue blazer
Red or blue tie
Beige shoes
Light-beige poplin coat

Then he took out the list he had made of the contents of Alf Matsson's bag and read through it before putting everything into his briefcase and closing it.

He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. He did not sleep, but sat like this until the plane began to go down through the thin cloud bank over Copenhagen.

Kastrup was as usual. He had to stand in a line before being sluiced into the transit hall, where people of all nationalities were crowding in front of the counters. He drank a Tuborg in the bar to gather his strength before tackling the trying task of collecting his luggage.

It was past three o'clock when he finally stood with his bag outside the airport building. A whole row of taxis was standing in the stand and he put his bag in the first one, got into the front seat and gave the driver the address of the harbor in Dragør.

The ferry, which was in and appeared ready to leave, was called 
Drogden
 and was an unusually ugly creation. Martin Beck put his bag and briefcase down in the cafeteria and went up on deck as the ferry eased its way out and headed for Sweden.

After the heat of the last few days in Budapest, the breeze in the Sound felt cold and after a while Martin Beck went in and sat down in the cafeteria. There were a great many people on board, mostly housewives who had been shopping over in Denmark.

The trip took scarcely an hour, and in Limhamn he at once got a taxi that would take him to Malmö. The taxi driver was talkative and spoke a southern Swedish dialect that sounded to Martin Beck almost as incomprehensible as Hungarian.