The Abominable Man (24 page)

Now I’m lying here and maybe dying, thought Martin Beck, and what kind of guilt do I atone for by dying?

None at all.

He was frightened by his own thoughts and it suddenly seemed to him he’d been lying there motionless for an eternity. Had the man on the roof been killed or captured,
was it all over and he had been forgotten, left to die, alone, on a little balcony?

Martin Beck tried to shout, but all that came out was a gurgling sound and he tasted blood in his mouth.

He lay completely still and wondered where the powerful roaring noise came from. It was all around him and sounded like strong wind in the tops of trees or like breakers on an ocean beach, or was it maybe coming from some air-conditioning machinery somewhere nearby?

Martin Beck felt himself sinking in a soft, silent darkness where the roar died away, and he didn’t bother to fight it. He came back to the roar and shimmering phosphorescent flashes in the blood-red light behind his eyelids, and before he sank again he realized that the rushing sound was somewhere inside himself.

His consciousness left him and came back and left him and came back, as if he were being rocked on a heavy, listless swell, and through his brain passed visions and fragments of thought he no longer had the strength to grasp. He heard mumbling and distant sounds and voices from inside the growing roar, but nothing concerned him any more.

He was plunging down into a thundering shaft of darkness.

Kollberg rapped his shortwave radio nervously with his knuckles.

“What happened?”

The radio gave a short burst of static, but for the moment that was all.

“What happened?” he repeated.

Gunvald Larsson walked up to him with long strides.

“To the fire engine? They had a short circuit.”

“I don’t mean the fire engine,” said Kollberg. “What happened to Martin? Yes, hello? Hello? Come in.”

It crackled again, a little louder this time, and then Rönn’s voice came through, vague and uncertain.

“What happened?” it said.

“I don’t know,” Kollberg shouted. “What can you see?”

“Nothing right now.”

“What did you see before?”

“Hard to say. I think I saw Eriksson. He came out to the edge of the roof, and I gave Martin the signal. Then …”

“Yes?” Kollberg said impatiently. “Hurry up.”

“Well, then the siren stopped and right afterwards Eriksson stood up. I think so anyway. He stood straight up, with his back toward me.”

“Did you see Martin?”

“No, not once.”

“And now?”

“Nothing at all,” Rönn said. “There’s no one there.”

“Fuck!” said Kollberg and dropped the hand with the walkie-talkie.

Gunvald Larsson grunted unhappily.

They were standing on Observatoriegatan, quite close to the corner of Dalagatan and less than a hundred yards from the building. Malm was there too, and a lot of other people with him.

A fire department officer walked up to them.

“You want the hook-and-ladder to stay out there?”

Malm looked at Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson. He no longer seemed quite so eager to give orders.

“No,” said Kollberg. “Have them drive it back. There’s no point in their exposing themselves any longer than necessary.”

“Well,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It doesn’t look like Beck made it, does it?”

“No,” said Kollberg quietly. “It doesn’t.”

“Wait a minute,” someone said. “Listen to this.”

It was Norman Hansson. He said something into his radio, then he turned to Kollberg.

“I’ve got a man up in the church tower now. He thinks maybe he sees Beck.”

“Yes? Where?”

“He’s lying on the north balcony toward the yard.”

Hansson looked at Kollberg gravely. “He seems to be injured.”

“Injured? Is he moving?”

“Not now. But my man thinks he saw him move a couple minutes ago.”

This observation might be accurate. Rönn couldn’t see the back of the building from Bonnier’s. But the church was to the north, and two hundred yards closer, what’s more.

“We have to get him down from there,” Kollberg muttered.

“We have to put an end to this whole spectacle,” said Gunvald Larsson gloomily.

“For that matter,” he went on, a few seconds later, “it was a mistake to go up there alone. One hell of a mistake.”

“Keep your peace in front of men and slander them behind their backs,” Kollberg said. “Do you know what that is, Larsson?”

Gunvald Larsson looked at him for a long time.

“This isn’t Moscow or Peking,” he said then, with unusual severity. “The cabbies don’t read Gorky here, and the cops don’t quote Lenin. This is an insane city in a country that’s mentally deranged. And up there on the roof there’s some poor damned lunatic and now it’s time to bring him down.”

“Quite right,” said Kollberg. “For that matter, it wasn’t Lenin.”

“I know.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” said Malm nervously.

Neither of them even looked at him.

“Okay,” said Gunvald Larsson. “You go get your buddy Beck, and I’ll take care of the other one.”

Kollberg nodded.

He turned to walk over to the firemen but then stopped himself.

“Do you know what I figure your chances are of getting off that roof alive? By your method?”

“Roughly,” said Gunvald Larsson.

Then he looked at the people standing around him.

“I’m going to blow the door and storm the roof from the inside,” he said in a loud voice. “I’ll need one man to help me. Two at the most.”

Four or five young policemen and a fireman raised their hands, and right behind him a voice said, “Take me.”

“Don’t misunderstand me now,” said Gunvald Larsson. “I don’t want anyone who thinks it’s his duty, and no one who thinks he’s great stuff and wants to impress everybody. The chances of getting killed are better than any of you dream.”

“What do you mean?” said Malm bewilderedly. “Who do you want then?”

“The only ones I’m interested in are the ones who really want to take a chance at getting shot. Who think it’s fun.”

“Take me.”

Gunvald Larsson turned around and looked at the man who’d spoken.

“Yes, you,” he said. “Hult. Yes, that’s fine. I guess you’d like to go all right.”

“Hey, here,” said one of the men on the sidewalk. “I’d like to go.”

A slim blond man in his thirties, wearing jeans and a leather jacket.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Bohlin.”

“Are you even a policeman?”

“No, I’m a construction worker.”

“How did you get here?”

“I live here.”

Gunvald Larsson examined him thoughtfully.

“Okay,” he said. “Give him a pistol.”

Norman Hansson immediately took out his service automatic, which he was carrying quite simply in the breast pocket of his coat, but Bohlin didn’t want it.

“Can I use my own?” he said. “It’ll only take a minute to get it.”

Gunvald Larsson nodded. The man left.

“That’s actually illegal,” said Malm. “It’s … wrong.”

“Yes,” said Gunvald Larsson. “It’s wrong as all hell. Most of all that there’s anyone with a gun to volunteer.”

Bohlin was back in less than a minute with the gun in his hand. A .22 Colt Huntsman, with a long barrel and ten rounds in the magazine.

“Well, let’s get going then,” said Gunvald Larsson.

He paused and looked at Kollberg, who was already
on his way around the corner with two long coils of rope on his arm.

“We’ll let Kollberg go up first and bring down Beck,” he went on. “Hansson, get some men to drill and set the charges in the doors.”

Hansson nodded and walked away.

A little while later they were ready.

“Okay,” said Gunvald Larsson.

He walked around the corner, followed by the other two.

“You take the south entrance,” he said when they got to the building. “I’ll take the north. When you’ve lit the fuse, run down at least one flight. Preferably two. Can you make it, Hult?”

“Yes.”

“Good. And one more thing. If either of you kills him up there, then whoever does it will have to answer for it later.”

“Even if it’s in self-defense?” Hult asked.

“Right. Even if it’s in self-defense. Now let’s synchronize our watches.”

Lennart Kollberg turned the handle to the apartment. The door was locked, but he already had a passkey in his hand and quickly opened it. He noticed Martin Beck’s coat on a hanger and the shortwave radio on a table as he entered the front hall, and as soon as he went on into the apartment he saw the open window and the lower part of the metal ladder outside. It looked frail and fragile, and he’d gained a good many pounds since the last time he’d climbed such a ladder, but he knew it was built to support heavier bodies than his and he climbed up into the window without hesitating.

He made sure the two coils of rope, which were over
his shoulders and crossed on his chest, wouldn’t get in his way or catch on the ladder, and then he climbed slowly and carefully up to the balcony.

Ever since Rönn reported what he’d seen through his field glasses, Kollberg had been telling himself that the worst could have happened, and he thought he was prepared. But when he heaved himself up to climb over the railing and saw Martin Beck lying bloody and lifeless only three feet away, he gasped for breath.

He launched himself over the railing and leaned down over Martin Beck’s pale yellow upturned face.

“Martin,” he whispered hoarsely. “Martin, for God’s sake …”

And as he said it he saw an artery working in Martin Beck’s taut throat. Kollberg put his fingers carefully on the pulse. It was beating, but very sluggishly.

He checked over his friend’s body. As far as he could tell, Martin Beck had been hit by only one shot, in the middle of his chest.

The bullet had made an amazingly small hole between the buttons. Kollberg ripped open the shirt, which was drenched with blood. To judge by the oval shape of the wound, the bullet had struck slightly from one side and continued on into the right half of the thorax. He couldn’t determine if it had come out the other side or was still inside the chest.

He looked at the floor underneath the rack. A pool of blood had gathered, not particularly large, and the flow of blood from the wound had almost stopped.

Kollberg slipped the coils of rope over his head, hung one of them on the carpet rack’s upper crossbar, then paused with the other in his hand and listened. There wasn’t a sound from the roof. He unrolled the line and slipped one end carefully under Martin Beck’s back. He handled the rope quickly and silently, and when he was
done he checked to see that it lay around Martin Beck the way it should, and that the knots were properly tied. Finally he felt in Martin Beck’s pockets, found a clean handkerchief, and took his own somewhat less clean one from his trousers pocket.

He took off his cashmere scarf, tied it around Martin Beck’s chest and put the two folded handkerchiefs between the knot and the wound.

He still didn’t hear a sound.

Now came the hard part.

Kollberg leaned over the balcony railing and looked down, then moved the ladder so it hung right beside the open window. Then he carefully slid the rack up to the railing, took the loose end of the rope he’d tied around Beck, wound it a couple of turns around the railing where the ladder had been, and knotted it around his own waist.

He lifted Martin Beck carefully over the edge while exerting a counter force with his own body so that the rope stayed taut. When Martin Beck was hanging free on the other side of the glass balustrade, Kollberg started loosening the knot at his waist with his right hand while he held the entire weight of the other man’s body with his left. When he’d undone the knot he slowly started lowering Martin Beck. He held tightly with both hands and without looking over the rail tried to estimate how much line he needed to play out.

When, according to his calculations, Martin Beck ought to be hanging outside the open window, Kollberg leaned over to look. He let out a few more inches and tied the line firmly around the iron railing above the glass.

Then he picked up the other coil of rope from the carpet rack, put it over his shoulder, climbed quickly down the ladder and in through the window.

Apparently lifeless, Martin Beck hung a foot and a
half below the window ledge. His head had fallen forward and his body was suspended slightly at an angle.

Kollberg made sure his footing was secure and leaned out over the windowsill. He grasped the line with both hands and started to haul. He shifted his grip to one hand, caught hold of the rope under Martin Beck’s arms, lifted him up, grabbed him under the shoulders and dragged him through the window.

When he’d removed the rope and laid him on the floor, he climbed the ladder again, untied the rope from the railing and let it fall. When he was back in the window, he unhooked the ladder and brought it down.

Then he lifted Martin Beck onto his back and started down the stairs.

Gunvald Larsson had six seconds left when he discovered he’d committed what was probably the worst oversight of his career. He was standing in front of the iron door, looking at the fuse he was supposed to light, and he had no matches. Since he didn’t smoke, a lighter wasn’t part of his equipment. When, very rarely, he went out to the Riche or the Park he generally stuffed a couple books of their monogrammed matches in his pocket. But he’d changed coats countless times since the last time he’d been out to eat.

His jaw dropped, as the saying goes, and with his mouth still open in perplexity, he drew his pistol, took off the safety, held the muzzle against the end of the fuse—with the barrel aimed at an angle against the door so he wouldn’t get a ricochet in some inconvenient place, his stomach for example—and pulled the trigger. The bullet whined around in the stone stairwell like a hornet, but in any case the fuse was lit, fizzing away with a merry blue flame, and he ran down the stairs. One and a half flights
down, the house vibrated from the detonation in B-entry and then his own charge went off, four seconds late.

But he was faster than Hult, and probably faster than Bohlin too, and he made up one or two of those seconds in his rush up the stairs. The iron door had disappeared, or, that is, it was lying flat on the landing where it belonged, and half a flight farther up was a steel-reinforced glass door.