The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (13 page)

The taxi stopped outside the police station on Da-vidhall Square. Martin Beck got out, walked up the wide steps and deposited his bag in the glass reception office. He had not been there for two years but was struck, as always, by the massiveness and majestic solemnity of the building and by its pompous halls and wide corridors. Two flights up, he stopped in front of a door marked INSPECTOR, knocked and slipped in. Someone had once said that Martin Beck knew the art of standing inside a room having already shut the door behind him at the same time as he knocked on it from the outside. There was a grain of truth in this.

'Hiya," he said.

There were two people in the room. One of them was standing leaning against the window, chewing a toothpick. He was very large. The other, who was sitting at the desk, was tall and thin, with his hair brushed straight back and his eyes lively. Both were in civilian clothes. The man at the desk looked critically at Martin Beck and said, "Quarter of an hour ago I read in the paper that you were abroad, breaking up international narcotics rings. And now you just walk in here saying hiya. Is that any way to behave? Do you want something?"

'Do you remember a stabbing case here on the eve of Twelfth Day? Guy called Matsson?"

'No. Should I?"

'I remember it," said the man by the window, apathetically.

'This is Månsson," said the Inspector. "He does… what are you doing, actually, Månsson?"

'Nothing. I was just thinking of going home."

'Exactly. He isn't doing anything and was thinking of going home. Well, what is it you remember?"

'I've forgotten."

'Is there any other way you can be of service?"

'Not until Monday. I'm off duty now."

'Must you munch like that?"

'I'm giving up smoking."

'What do you remember about that stabbing case?" "Nothing." "Nothing at all?" "No. Backlund was in charge." "What did he think, then?"

'Don't know. He worked hard on the preliminary investigation for several days. Was very secretive about it."

'You're very lucky," said the man at the desk to Martin Beck. "Why?"

'Well, to be allowed to meet Backlund," said Månsson. "Exactly. He's popular. Coming back in half an hour. Room 312. Take a ticket for the queue." "Thanks."

'This Matsson, is he the same guy you're looking for?" "Yes."

'Was he here in Malmö?" "I don't think so."

'They're no fun," said Månsson mournfully. "What aren't?" "Toothpicks."

'Then for God's sake, smoke. No one asked you to eat toothpicks."

'They say there's a kind with taste to them," said Månsson.

Martin Beck recognized the lingo only too well. Something had probably wrecked their day. Their wives had no doubt called and pointed out that their food was spoiling and inquired whether there were no other policemen.

He left them to their troubles, went up to the canteen and had a cup of tea. He took out Szluka's paper from his inside pocket and read through the meager testimonies once again. Somewhere behind him there was an exchange of remarks.

'Excuse me for asking, but is this really a mazarine cupcake?"

'What else do you think it is?"

'Some kind of cultural monument, maybe. Seems a pity to eat it. The Bakery Museum ought to be interested." "If you don't like it, you can go somewhere else." "Yeah, two floors down for instance, and report you for harboring dangerous weapons. I order a mazarine cupcake and you go and give me a fossilized fetus that not even the

Swedish State Railway would serve up without the locomotive blushing. I'm a sensitive person and—"

'Sensitive, eh? And by the way, you took it off the counter yourself."

Martin Beck turned around and looked at Kollberg.

'Hi," he said.

'Hi." .

Neither of them seemed particularly surprised. Kollberg pushed away the objectionable cake and said, "When did you get back?"

'This moment. What are you doing here?"

'I thought I'd talk to someone named Backlund."

'Me too."

'Actually, I had something else to do here," said Kollberg apologetically.

Ten minutes later it was five o'clock. They went down together. Backlund turned out to be an elderly man with a friendly, ordinary face. He shook hands and said:

'Oh, yes. VIP's from Stockholm, eh?"

He put out two chairs for them and sat down, saying:

'Well, I am grateful. To what do I owe this honor?"

'You had a stabbing case on the eve of Twelfth Day," said Kollberg. "A guy called Matsson."

'Yes, that's quite correct. I remember the case. It's closed. No charge brought."

'What really happened?" said Martin Beck.

'Well, hm-m… Wait a minute and I'll get the file."

The man called Backlund went out and returned about ten minutes later with a typed report stapled together. It seemed remarkably detailed. He leafed through it for a moment, evidently renewing his acquaintance with it with both delight and pride. Finally he said, "We'd better take it from the beginning."

'We only want a general idea of what happened," said Kollberg.

'I see. At 1:23 A.M. on January 6 of this year a radio patrol consisting of Patrolman Kristiansson and Patrolman Kvant—who were patrolling in their car on Linnégatan here in town—received orders to go to Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn, where someone was said to have been stabbed. Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant at once went to this address, where they arrived at about 1:29 A.M. They took charge of a person who stated that he was a journalist: one Alf Sixten Matsson, residing in Stockholm at Fleminggatan 34. Matsson also stated that he had been assaulted and stabbed by Bengt Eilert Jönsson, a journalist who is a resident of Malmö and lives at Sveagatan 26 in Limhamn. Matsson, who had a flesh wound approximately two inches long on the outside of his left wrist, was taken to the emergency ward of General Hospital by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant while Bengt Eilert Jönsson was held and taken to police headquarters in Malmö by Patrolmen Elofsson and Borglund, who had been called in by Patrolmen Kristiansson and Kvant. Both men were under the influence of alcohol."

'Kristiansson and Kvant?"

Backlund gave Kollberg a look of reproach and went on:

'After Matsson had been treated at the emergency ward of General Hospital, he was also taken to testify at police headquarters in Malmö. Matsson stated that he was born on August 5, 1933, in Mölndal and was a resident of—"

'Just a minute," said Martin Beck. "We don't really need all the details."

'Oh. But I must tell you, it isn't easy to get a clear picture if you don't go through it all."

'Does that report give a clear picture?"

'I can answer both yes and no to that question. The stories differ considerably. Times too. The testimonies are very vague. That's why there was no charge brought."

'Who questioned Matsson?"

'I did. I questioned him very thoroughly."

'Was he drunk?"

Backlund leafed through the report.

'One moment. Yes, here it is. He admitted to consuming alcohol, but denied that he had done so in excess."

'How did he behave?"

'I didn't make a note of that. But Kristiansson said—here, just a second—that his walk was unsteady and his voice was calm but occasionally slurred."

Martin Beck gave up. Kollberg was more obstinate.

'What did he look like?"

'I didn't make any kind of note on that. But I remember that his apparel was neat and tidy."

'What happened when he was stabbed?"

'It can be said that it is difficult to get a clear picture of the actual course of events. Their stories differ. If I remember rightly—yes, that's right—Matsson stated that the injury was inflicted upon him at about midnight. On the other hand, Jönsson stated that the incident did not occur until after one o'clock. It was very difficult to get this point cleared up."

'Had he been assaulted?"

'I have Jönsson's statement here. Bengt Eilert Jönsson states that he and Matsson, whom he met through his profession, had been acquaintances for almost three years, and on the morning of January 5 he happened to meet Matsson, who was staying at the Savoy Hotel and was alone, so Jönsson invited him home to dinner, to commence at—"

'Yes, but what did he say about the assault itself?"

Backlund now began to appear a trifle irritated. He turned over a few more pages.

'Jönsson denies intentional assault, but admits that at one fifteen he gave Matsson a shove, at which the latter may have fallen over and cut himself on a glass which he had been holding in his hand."

'But had he been stabbed?"

'Well, that question is dealt with in an earlier section. I'll have a look. Here it is. Matsson states that some time before eleven P.M. he had a scuffle with Bengt Jönsson and thus, probably from a knife he had previously seen in Jonsson's home, he received an injury to his left arm. You can see for yourselves. Just before eleven P.M.! A quarter past one! A difference of two hours and twenty minutes! We also received a certificate from the doctor at the General Hospital. He describes the injury as a two-inch flesh wound, which was bleeding freely. The edges of the wound—"

Kollberg leaned forward and stared hard at the man with the report.

'We're not so interested in all that. What do you think yourself? Something happened, anyway. Why? And how did it come about?"

The other man could now conceal his irritation no longer. He removed his glasses and cleaned them feverishly.

'Oh now, please—please," he said. " 'Happened.' Hm-mph. Everything is examined thoroughly here in these preliminary investigations. If I can't present an account of it all, then I don't see how I can clearly explain the case for you. You can go through the material for yourselves if you like."

He put the report down on the edge of the desk. Martin Beck leafed through it listlessly and looked at the photographs of the scene of the crime attached at the back. The photos showed a kitchen, a living room and some stone stairs. Everything was clean and tidy. On the stairs there were a few dark spots, hardly bigger than a one-öre piece. If they had not been marked with white arrows, they would have been scarcely visible. He handed the document over to Koll-berg, drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair and said, "Was Matsson questioned here?"

'Yes, here in this room."

'You must have talked for a long time."

'Yes, he had to give a detailed statement."

'What sort of impression did he make—as a person, I mean?"

Backlund was now so irritated that he could not sit still. He kept moving the objects on the bare varnished surface of his desk and putting them back in exactly the same places.

'Impression!" he said. "Everything is covered thoroughly in the preliminary investigation. I've already told you that. Anyhow, the incident occurred on private property and when it came down to it, Matsson did not wish to bring a charge. I cannot understand what it is you want to know."

Kollberg put down the report without even having opened it. Then he made one last attempt.

'We want to know your personal opinion of Alf Matsson."

'I haven't got one," said the man.

When they left him, he was sitting at his desk reading the report of the preliminary investigation, his expression stiff and disapproving.

'Some people," said Kollberg in the elevator.

Bengt Jonsson's house was a rather small bungalow with an open veranda and a garden. The gate was open and on the gravel path inside was a blond, suntanned man, poised on his haunches in front of a tricycle. His hands were covered with grease and he was trying to repair the chain, which had come off. A boy of about five was standing watching him, a Wench in his hand.

When Kollberg and Martin Beck came through the gate, the man rose and wiped his hands on the back of his trousers. He was about thirty and wearing a checked shirt, dirty khaki trousers and wooden-soled shoes.

'Bengt Jönsson?" said Kollberg.

'Yes, that's me." f he man looked at them suspiciously.

We're from the Stockholm police," said Martin Beck. "We've come to ask for some information about a friend of yours—Alf Matsson."

'Friend," said the man. "I'd hardly call him that. Is it about what happened last winter? I thought that was all dead and buried a long time ago."

'Yes, it is. The case is closed and won't be taken up again. It's not your part in the affair we're interested in, but Alf Matsson's," said Martin Beck.

'I saw in the papers that he's disappeared," said Bengt Jönsson. "He was in on some kind of narcotics ring, it said. I didn't know he used drugs."

'Perhaps he didn't, either. He sold them."

'Oh, Christ," said Bengt Jönsson. "What sort of information do you want? I don't know anything about that drug business."

'You can help us get a general picture of him," said Martin Beck.

'What do you want to know?" asked the fair-haired man.

'Everything you know about Alf Matsson," said Kollberg.

'That's not much," said Jönsson. "I hardly knew him, although we'd been acquainted for three years. I'd only met him a few times before that time last winter. I'm a journalist too, and we met when we were on a job together."

'Would you tell us what really happened last winter?" said Martin Beck.

'We might as well sit down," said Jönsson, going up onto the veranda. Martin Beck and Kollberg followed him. There were a table and four basket chairs, and Martin Beck sat down and offered Jönsson a cigarette. Kollberg looked at his chair suspiciously before cautiously sitting down in it. The chair creaked precariously beneath his weight.

'You'll understand that what you tell us is of no interest to us except as a testimony on Alf Matsson's character. Neither we nor the Malmö police have any reason to take up the case again," said Martin Beck. "What happened?"

'I met Alf Matsson by chance in the street. He was staying at a hotel in Malmö and I invited him home to dinner. I didn't really like him much, but he was on his own in town and wanted me to go out drinking with him, so I thought it'd be better if he came out to our place. He came in a taxi and I think he was sober then. Almost, anyhow. Then we ate and I offered him schnapps with the food and both of us drank quite a bit. After the meal we listened to records and drank whisky and sat talking. He got drunk pretty quickly and then he was unpleasant. My wife had a friend in at the same time and suddenly Alfie said to her, "Say, d'you mind if I fuck you?"

Bengt Jönsson fell silent, and Martin Beck nodded and said, "Go on."

'Well, that's what he said. My wife's friend was very upset, because she's not at all used to being spoken to like that. And my wife got angry and told Alfie he was a boor, and then he called my wife a whore and was damned rude. Then I got angry and told him to watch his mouth and the girls went into another room."

He fell silent again and Kollberg asked, "Was he usually unpleasant like that when he was drunk?"

'I don't know. I'd never seen him drunk before."

'What happened then?" said Martin Beck.

'Well, then we went on drinking. I didn't drink all that much myself, in fact, and didn't feel high at all. But Alfie got drunker and drunker, sitting there, hiccuping and belching and singing, and then suddenly he vomited all over the floor. I got him out to the bathroom and after a while he was all right again and appeared a bit more sober. When I said we should try to wipe up the mess, he said, That whore you're married to can do that.' That made me really mad and I told him he'd have to go, that I didn't want him in the house. But he just laughed and sat belching in the chair. When I said I was going to phone for a taxi for him, he said he was going to stay and sleep with my wife. Then I hit him and when he got up and said something dirty about my wife again, I hit him one more time so that he fell over the table and broke two glasses. Then I went on trying to get him out of the house, but he refused to go. Finally my wife called the police—it seemed the only way to get rid of him."

'He injured his hand, I understand," said Kollberg. "How did that happen?"

'I saw he was bleeding, but I didn't think it was serious. I was so angry, anyway, I didn't care. He cut himself on a glass when he fell. Then he claimed I'd stabbed him, which was a lie. I didn't have a knife. Then I was questioned at the police station for the rest of the night. A hellish business all around.'"

'Have you met Alf Matsson since that night?" said Kollberg.

'Oh, good God, no. Not since that morning at the police station. He was sitting in the corridor when I came out from seeing that cop—sorry, policeman—who was questioning me. And then that bastard had the nerve to say, 'Hey, you've got a bit left. Let's go back to your place and finish it off later.' I didn't even answer and thank God, I haven't seen him since."

Bengt Jönsson rose and went down to the boy, who was standing hitting the tricycle with the wrench. He crouched down and went on working on the chain.

'I've nothing else to tell you about it all. That was exactly what happened," he said over his shoulder.

Martin Beck and Kollberg got up and he nodded to them as they went out through the gate.

On the way into Malmö, Kollberg said, "Nice guy, our friend Matsson. I don't think humanity has suffered any great loss if something really has happened to him. If so, then it's only your holiday that suffered."