The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (15 page)

The wind had dropped and in Vasa Park the light rain was falling peacefully down onto the double row of tombola stalls, a carousel and two policemen in black rain capes The carousel was running and on one of the painted horses sat a lone child: a little girl in a red-plastic coat with a hood. She was riding round and round in the rain with a solemn expression on her face and her eyes focused straight ahead. Her parents were standing under an umbrella a little way away, regarding the amusement park with melancholy eyes. A fresh smell of greenery and wet leaves came from the park. It was Saturday afternoon and, despite everything, still summer.

The restaurant diagonally opposite the park was almost empty. The only audible sound in the place was a faint comforting rustle from the evening papers of two elderly regular customers and the muted sound of darts thudding into the board in the dart room. Martin Beck and Kollberg took a seat in the bar, six feet or so from the table that was the favorite refuge of Alf Matsson and his fellow journalists. There was no one there now, but in the middle of the table stood a glass containing a red reservation card. Presumably this was a fixture.

'The lunch hour is over now," said Kollberg. "In an hour or so people begin dropping in again, and in the evening it's so chock-full of people spilling beer all over each other that you can hardly get your foot inside."

The atmosphere did not make for extensive discussion. They ate a late lunch in silence. Outside the Swedish summer was pouring away. Kollberg drained a stein of beer, folded up his table napkin, wiped his mouth and said, "Is it difficult to get across the border down there? Without a passport?"

'Fairly. They say the borders are guarded well. A foreigner who didn't know his way around would hardly make it."

'And if you leave by the ordinary routes, then you have to have a visa in your passport?"

'Yes, and an exit permit besides. That's a loose piece of paper that you get on entry and keep in your passport until you leave the country. Then the passport control people take it. The police also stamp the date of departure beside the visa in your passport. Look."

Martin Beck took his passport out of his inside pocket and put it on the table. Kollberg studied the stamps. Then he said:

'And assuming that you've got both a visa and an exit permit, then you can cross any border you like?"

'Yes. You have five countries to choose from—Czechoslovakia, the Soviet Union, Rumania, Yugoslavia and Austria. And you can go any way you like—by 
air
, train, car or boat."

'Boat? From Hungary?"

'Yes, on the Danube. From Budapest you can get to Vienna or Bratislava in a few hours by hydrofoil."

'And you can ride a bicycle, walk, swim, ride horseback or crawl?!' said Kollberg.

'Yes, as long as you make your way to a border station."

'And you can go to Austria and Yugoslavia without a visa?"

'That depends on what kind of passport you've got. If it's Swedish for instance, or German or Italian, then you don't need one. On a Hungarian passport you can go to Czechoslovakia or Yugoslavia without a visa."

'But it's hardly likely that he did that?"

'No."

They went on to coffee. Kollberg was still looking at the stamps in the passport.

'The Danes didn't stamp it when you got to Kastrup," he said.

'No."

'Then in other words there's no evidence that you've returned to Sweden."

'No," said Martin Beck.

A moment later he added, "But on the other hand, I'm sitting here—right?"

A number of customers had dropped in during the last half hour, and there was already a shortage of tables. A man of about thirty-five came in and sat down at the table with the red reservation card on it, was given a stein of beer and sat leafing through the evening paper, seemingly bored. Now and again he looked anxiously toward the door, as if he were waiting for someone. He had a beard and was wearing thick-rimmed glasses, a brown checked tweed jacket, a white shirt, brown trousers and black shoes.

'Who's that?" said Martin Beck.

'Don't know. They all look alike. Besides, there are a number of marginal creatures who only show up now and then."

'It's not Molin, anyhow, because I'd recognize him."

Kollberg glanced at the man.

'Gunnarsson maybe."

Martin Beck thought. "No, I've seen him too."

A woman came in. She had red hair and was quite young, dressed in a brick-red sweater, tweed skirt and green stockings. She moved easily, letting her eyes wander over the room as she fingered her nose. She sat down at the table with the red card and said, "Ciao, Per."

'Ciao, sweetheart."

'Per," said Kollberg. "That's Kronkvist. And that's Pia Bolt."

'Why have they all got beards?"

Martin Beck said it thoughtfully, as if he had pondered the problem for a long time.

'Perhaps they're false," said Kollberg solemnly.

He looked at his watch.

'Just to give us trouble," he said.

'We'd better get back," said Martin Beck. "Did you tell Stenström to come on up?"

Kollberg nodded. As they were leaving, they heard the man named Per Kronkvist call out to the waitress:

'More beer! Over here!"

It was very quiet at the police station. Stenström was sitting in the downstairs office playing patience.

Kollberg looked critically at him, and said, "Have you already started with that? What are you going to do when you get old?"

'Sit thinking the same thing I'm thinking now: why am I sitting here?"

'Your're going to check some alibis," said Martin Beck. "Give him the list, Lennart."

Stenström was given the list. He glanced at it.

'Now?"

'Yes, this evening."

'Molin, Lund, Kronkvist, Gunnarsson, Bengtsfors, Pia Bolt. Who is Bengtsfors?"

'That's a mistake," said Kollberg gloomily. "Supposed to be Bengt Fors. The 
t
 on my typewriter sticks to the 
s
."

'Shall I question the girl too?"

'Yes, if it amuses you," said Martin Beck. "She's at the Tankard."

'Can I talk to them direct?"

'Why not? Routine investigation in the Alf Matsson case. Everyone knows what it's all about now. How's things with the Narcotics boys, by the way?"

'I spoke to Jacobsson," said Stenström. "They'll soon have it all tied up. As soon as the heads here knew that Matsson had had it, they began to talk. I was thinking of something, by the way. Matsson sold the stuff directly to a few people who were really desperate and he made them pay through the nose."

'What were you thinking?"

'Couldn't it be one of the poor devils he skinned—that one of his customers got tired of him, so to speak?"

'Could be," said Martin Beck solemnly.

'Especially at the movies," said Kollberg. "In America."

Stenström put the piece of paper into his pocket and got up. At the door he stopped and said huffily, "Sometimes something different actually might happen here too."

'Possibly," said Kollberg. "But you've forgotten that Matsson disappeared in Hungary, on his way to pick up some more stuff for his poor customers. Now scram."

Stenström left.

'That was nasty of you," said Martin Beck.

'He might do a little thinking for himself too," said Kollberg.

'That's what he was doing."

'Huh!"

Martin Beck went out into the corridor. Stenström was just j putting on his coat.

'Look at their passports."

Stenström nodded.

'Don't go alone."

'Are they dangerous?" said Stenström sarcastically.

'Routine," said Martin Beck.

He went back in to Kollberg. They sat in silence until the telephone rang. Martin picked up the receiver.

'Your call to Budapest will be coming through at seven o'clock instead of five," said the telephone operator.

They digested the message for a moment. Then Kollberg said, "God. This is no fun."

'No," said Martin Beck. "It's not much fun."

'Two hours," said Kollberg. "Shall we drive around a little and have a look-see?"

'Yes, why not?"

They drove over West Bridge. The Saturday traffic had thinned out and the bridge was practically deserted. On the crest they passed a German tourist coach that had slowed down. Martin Beck saw the passengers inside standing up and staring out across the silvery bay and at the misty silhouette of the city.

'Molin is the only one who lives outside the city," said Kollberg. "Let's take him first."

They went on over Liljeholm Bridge, and Kollberg swung in off the main road among the houses, twisting along the narrow roads for a while, before finding the right house. He let the car run slowly past the row of hedges and fences as he read the names on the gateposts.

'Here it is," he said. "Molin lives on the left. That's his porch you can see. The house must have been occupied once by a single family, but now it's divided. The other entrance is around the back."

'Who lives in the other part of the house?" said Martin Beck.

'A retired customs official and his wife."

The garden in front of the house was wild, with gnarled apple trees and overgrown berrybushes. But the hedges around it were well trimmed, and the white fencing looked recently painted.

'Big garden," said Kollberg. "And well sheltered. Do you want to see any more?"

'No. Drive on."

'Then we'll take Svartensgatan," said Kollberg. "Gunnarsson."

They drove back into the south side of the city, parking the car in Mosebacke Square.

Svartensgatan 6 was right by the square. It was an old building with a large paved courtyard. Gunnarsson lived three floors up, facing the street.

'He hasn't lived here all that long," said Martin Beck when they had got back to the car.

'Since the first of July."

'And before that he lived in Hagalund. Do you know where?"

Kollberg stopped at a red traffic light.

He nodded toward the large corner window of the Opera House bar.

'Perhaps they're all sitting together in there now," he said. "All of them except Matsson. In Hagalund? Yes, I've got the address."

'Then we'll go there later," said Martin Beck. "Go along Strandvägen. I'd like to look at the boats."

They drove along Strandvägen and Martin Beck looked at the boats. At one quay lay a large white ocean-going vessel with the American flag aft, and farther on, flanked by two Åland sailing-smacks, lay a Polish motor launch.

Outside the entrance of the building where Pia Bolt lived on Strindbergsgatan, a small boy in a checked sou'wester and poncho was pushing a plastic double-decker bus back and forth across the step as he imitated the sound of its motor with his lips. The sound grew muted and uneven as he braked the bus to allow Kollberg and Martin Beck to pass.

Inside the entrance, Stenström was standing gloomily looking at Kollberg's list.

'What are you hanging around here for?" said Kollberg.

'She's not home. And she wasn't at the Tankard. I was just wondering where to go next. But if you're thinking of taking over, then I can go home."

'Try the Opera House bar," said Kollberg.

'Why are you on your own, by the way," said Martin Beck.

'I've had Rönn with me. He'll be back in a minute. He's just gone home to his old lady with some flowers. It's her birthday and she lives right here on the corner."

'How's it going?" said Martin Beck.

'We've checked Lund and Kronkvist. They left the Opera House bar about midnight and went straight to the Hamburger Exchange. There they met two gals they knew, and at about three they went back home with one of them."

He looked at the list.

'Her name is Svensson and she lives in Lidingö. They stayed there until eight o'clock on Friday morning and then took a taxi together to work. At one o'clock, they went to the Tankard and sat there until five, when they went to Karlstad on a reporting job. I haven't got around to the others yet."

'I realize that," said Martin Beck. "Just carry on. We'll be at the station after seven. Phone if you've finished before too late."

The rain grew heavier as they drove toward Hagalund. When Kollberg stopped the car outside the low block of flats in which Gunnarsson had lived until two months ago, the water was pouring down the windowpanes and the drumming on the car roof was deafening.

They put up their coatcollars and ran across the pavement into the entrance. The building was three-storied and on one of the doors on the second floor there was a calling card fastened on with a thumbtack. The name on the calling card was also on the list of tenants in the entrance hall, and the white plastic letters looked newer and whiter than the others.