The Abominable Man (21 page)

“Mmm,” said Gunvald Larsson.

He weighed the pistol in his hand.

“Did you see if the bastard was up on the roof or in one of the apartments?” he asked.

“No,” said Kollberg. “I really didn’t have time to look.”

Something happened out on the street. Rather prosaic, but remarkable all the same.

An ambulance rolled up from the south. It stopped, backed up toward the fountain and stopped again. Two men in white coats got out, opened the back doors and pulled out two stretchers. They moved calmly and didn’t seem to be the least bit nervous. One of them glanced up toward the nine-story building on the other side of the street. Nothing happened.

Kollberg grimaced.

“Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson immediately. “There’s our chance.”

“Dandy chance,” said Kollberg.

He didn’t feel particularly enthusiastic, but Gunvald Larsson had already taken off his kid jacket and suit coat and was searching energetically through the white smocks.

“I’m going to try it anyway,” he said. “This one looks pretty big.”

“They only make three sizes,” said Kollberg.

Gunvald Larsson nodded, clipped his pistol to his belt and wriggled into the smock. It was very tight across the shoulders.

Kollberg shook his head and reached out his arm for the largest smock in sight. It was too tight. Across the stomach.

He had a strong feeling that they looked like a pair of comics out of a silent film.

“I think maybe it’ll work,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“Maybe is the word,” said Kollberg.

“Okay?”

“Okay.”

They walked down the steps, across the stone pavement and past the ambulance crew, who had just lifted Kvant onto the first stretcher.

Kollberg glanced down at the dead man’s face. He recognized him. A patrolman he’d seen a few times at long intervals, and who had once done something notable. What? Captured a dangerous sex criminal? Something like that.

Gunvald Larsson was already halfway across the street. He looked very odd in his ill-fitting doctor’s coat and a white rag around his head. The two ambulance attendants stared after him in astonishment.

A shot rang out.

Kollberg ran across the street.

But this time it wasn’t aimed at him.

A black-and-white police car was moving east along Odengatan with its siren on. The first shot came just as it passed Sigtunagatan, and it was followed at once by a whole series. Gunvald Larsson took a couple of steps out onto the sidewalk to get a better look. At first the car sped up, then it started to wobble and skid. The firing had stopped by the time it passed the intersection of Odengatan and Dalagatan and disappeared. Immediately afterwards came an ominous crash of metal against metal.

“Idiots,” said Gunvald Larsson.

He joined Kollberg in the entranceway, ripped open his white coat and drew his pistol.

“He’s on the roof, that’s for sure. Now we’ll see.”

“Yes, he’s on the roof now,” Kollberg said.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t think he was on the roof before.”

“We’ll see,” repeated Gunvald Larsson.

The building had two entrances on the street side. This was the one on the north, and they took it first. The elevator wasn’t working and there were several nervous tenants on the stairs.

The sight of Gunvald Larsson in a torn coat, bloody bandage, pistol in hand didn’t ease their fears. Kollberg had his identification in the pocket of his coat, and his coat was back in the building across the street. If Gunvald Larsson was carrying any papers, he conscientiously avoided showing them.

“Out of the way,” he said gruffly.

“Stick together down on the ground floor here,” Kollberg suggested.

It wasn’t so easy to calm them down, these people—three women, a child and an old man. They’d probably seen what had happened from their windows.

“Just keep calm,” said Kollberg. “There’s no danger.”

He thought about this statement and laughed hollowly.

“No, now the police are here,” said Gunvald Larsson over his shoulder.

The elevator was stopped about six floors up. The door was open on the floor above and they could look down the shaft. The elevator looked to be highly unusable. Someone had intentionally put it out of action. This someone was in all probability the man on the roof. So now they knew something else about him. He was a good shot, he recognized them, and he knew something about elevators.

Always something, Kollberg thought.

Another flight up they were stopped by an iron door.

It was locked and closed and probably barred and blocked from the other side, just how was hard to say.

On the other hand they could immediately determine that it couldn’t be opened by ordinary means.

Gunvald Larsson wrinkled his bushy blond eyebrows.

“No point trying to beat it down,” said Kollberg. “It won’t help.”

“We can kick in the door to one of the apartments down here,” said Gunvald Larsson. “Then we can go out a window and try to get up that way.”

“Without lines or ladders?”

“Right,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It won’t work.”

He thought for a few seconds and went on.

“And what would you do on the roof? Without a pistol?”

Kollberg didn’t answer.

“Of course it’ll be the same story in the other entry,” said Gunvald Larsson sourly.

It was the same story in the other entry, with the exception of an officious older man who claimed to be a retired army captain and who was holding the few people there under strict supervision.

“I was thinking of letting all the civilians take shelter in the basement,” he said.

“Splendid,” said Gunvald Larsson. “That’s just what we’ll do, Captain.”

Otherwise it was a dismal repetition. Closed iron door, open elevator door and ruined elevator machinery. Chances of getting anywhere: zero.

Gunvald Larsson scratched himself thoughtfully on the chin with the barrel of his pistol.

Kollberg looked at the weapon nervously. A fine pistol, polished and well-cared-for, with a fluted walnut grip. The safety was on. He had never noticed a penchant
for unnecessary gunfire among Gunvald Larsson’s many reprehensible qualities.

“Have you ever shot anyone?” he asked suddenly.

“No. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do we do now?”

“I have a feeling we ought to get over to Odenplan,” said Kollberg.

“Maybe so.”

“We’re the only ones with any real knowledge of the situation. At least we know what’s happened.”

It was evident that this suggestion didn’t appeal to Gunvald Larsson. He jerked a hair from his left nostril and examined it absentmindedly.

“I’d like to get this character down off the roof,” he said.

“But we can’t get up there.”

“No, we can’t.”

They went back down to the bottom floor. Just as they were about to leave the building they heard four shots.

“What’s he shooting at now?” said Kollberg.

“The patrol car,” said Gunvald Larsson. “He’s practicing.”

Kollberg looked at the empty patrol car and saw that both blue blinkers and the searchlight on the roof had been shot to pieces.

They left the building, keeping tightly to the wall and turned immediately to the left on Observatoriegatan. There wasn’t a person in sight.

As soon as they’d rounded the corner they dropped their white coats on the sidewalk.

They heard a helicopter overhead, but they couldn’t see it.

The wind had risen a bit and it was biting cold, despite the deceptive sunshine.

“Did you get the names of whoever lived up there?” asked Gunvald Larsson.

Kollberg nodded.

“Apparently there are two penthouse apartments, but one of them seems to be vacant.”

“And the other one?”

“Somebody named Eriksson. A man and his daughter, as I understood it.”

“Check.”

In summary: someone who was a good shot, had access to an automatic weapon, recognized Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson, didn’t like policemen, knew something about elevators, and might be named Eriksson.

They walked swiftly.

Sirens were wailing in the distance and nearby.

“We’ll probably have to take him from outside,” Kollberg said.

Gunvald Larrson didn’t seem convinced.

“Maybe,” he said.

If there were no people to be seen on Dalagatan or in its immediate vicinity, there were all the more in Odenplan. The triangular square was literally swarming with black-and-white cars and uniformed policemen and, not surprisingly, this massive deployment had drawn a large audience. The roadblocks so hastily thrown up had produced chaos in the traffic. The effects were in fact visible all through central Stockholm, but right here they were most spectacular. Odengatan was jammed with standing vehicles all the way to Valhallavägen, a score of busses were stuck fast in the muddle on the square itself, and all the empty taxicabs already in the square when
the confusion began didn’t make matters any better. To a man, the drivers had abandoned their taxis and were mingling with the police and the crowd.

Everyone wondering what it was all about.

More and more people arrived steadily from every direction, but especially up out of the subway. A mass of motorcycle policemen, two fire trucks and a traffic surveillance helicopter completed the picture. Here and there were groups of uniformed police, trying to obtain elbow room under baffling circumstances.

It couldn’t have looked worse if the late Nyman had been directing it all himself, thought Kollberg, as he and Gunvald Larsson pushed their way toward the subway entrance, which seemed to mark the focus of activity.

And where they also found a man it might be useful to talk to, namely, Hansson of the Fifth Precinct. Or rather Lieutenant Norman Hansson, an Adolf Fredrik veteran who really knew his precinct inside out.

“Are you running this show?” Kollberg asked him.

“Good God, no.”

Hansson looked around in alarm.

“Who is then?”

“There seem to be quite a few candidates, but Superintendent Malm just got here. He’s in the van over there.”

They pushed their way over to the van.

Malm was a trim, elegant man in his fifties, with a pleasant smile and curly hair. Rumor had it he stayed in condition by horseback riding on Djurgården. His political reliability was above all suspicion and on paper his credentials were superb. But his qualifications as a policeman were more open to question—indeed there were those who questioned their very existence.

“Good heavens, Larsson, you look terrible,” he said.

“Where’s Beck?” Kollberg asked.

“I haven’t been in touch with him. And anyway, this is a case for specialists.”

“What specialists?”

“From the regular police, of course,” said Malm irritably. “Now it turns out the Commissioner is out of town and the Chief of the Metropolitan Police is on leave. But I’ve been in touch with the National Chief. He’s out in Stocksund, and …”

“Splendid,” said Gunvald Larsson.

“What do you mean by that?” said Malm suspiciously.

“That he’s out of range,” said Gunvald Larsson innocently.

“What? Well, in any case I’ve been given this command. I understand you’ve just come from the scene. How do you assess the situation?”

“There’s some crazy son of a bitch sitting on a roof with an automatic rifle shooting policemen,” said Gunvald Larsson.

Malm looked at him expectantly, but nothing else was forthcoming.

Gunvald Larsson beat his arms against his sides to keep warm.

“He’s well entrenched from the inside,” Kollberg said. “And the surrounding roofs are lower. Part of the time he’s in an apartment up there, what’s more. So far we haven’t had a glimpse of him. In other words, it may be hard to get at him.”

“Oh yes, there are lots of ways,” said Malm loftily. “We’re the ones with the resources.”

Kollberg turned to Hansson.

“What happened to that car that got shot up on Odengatan?”

“Too much,” said Hansson sullenly. “Two men
wounded, one in the arm and one in the leg. May I make a suggestion?”

“What?” said Gunvald Larsson.

“That we move away from here. To someplace inside the cordon, for example the gas works lot on Torsgatan.”

“Where the old gasholder was,” said Kollberg.

“Right. They tore it down. They’re going to build a cloverleaf.”

Kollberg sighed. The old brick gasholder had been a unique piece of architecture, and a few people with foresight had mounted a campaign to save it. Unsuccessfully, of course. Could anything be more important than a cloverleaf?

Kollberg shook himself. Why was he always thinking things that were irrelevant? He was definitely getting a little dotty.

“Can the helicopters land there?” Malm asked.

“Yes.”

Malm threw a look at Gunvald Larsson.

“Is it … out of range?”

“Yes. Unless the bastard’s got a mortar.”

Malm paused for quite a while. Then he looked at his colleagues and made his announcement in a loud, clear voice.

“Gentlemen. I have an idea. We will move individually to the gas works area on Torsgatan. Regrouping there …”

He looked at his watch.

“In ten minutes.”

By the time Martin Beck and Rönn got to Torsgatan it was one thirty
P.M
. and everything seemed to be pretty well organized.

Malm had established himself in the old gatehouse at the west entrance to the hospital, and he was surrounded not only by considerable material resources but also by most of the policemen who had so far played significant roles in the drama. Even Hult was there, and Martin Beck walked straight over to him.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

“Oh? What for?”

“It doesn’t matter any more. It was just that Åke Eriksson used your name when he called the Nymans’ last night.”

“Åke Eriksson?”

“Yes.”

“Åke Reinhold Eriksson?”

“Yes.”

“Is he the one who murdered Stig Nyman?”

“So it seems.”

“And who’s sitting up there right now?”

“Yes. Probably.”