The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (14 page)

Kollberg was staying at the St. Jörgen Hotel on Gustav Adolf's Square, so after they had picked up Martin Beck's suitcase at the police station, they went there. The hotel was full, but Kollberg used his powers of persuasion and it was not long before he had arranged for a room.

Martin Beck did not bother to unpack his suitcase. He considered phoning his wife out on the island, but realized that it was too late. She would hardly be pleased at having to row across the Sound in the dark in order to hear him tell her that he did not know when he could get there.

He undressed and went into the bathroom. As he stood under the shower, he heard Kollberg's characteristic thumping on the door to the corridor. As he had forgotten to take the key out from the outside, a second or two elapsed before Kollberg rushed into the room, calling out to him.

Martin Beck turned off the shower, swept a bath towel around himself and went out to Kollberg.

'A dreadful thought suddenly occurred to me," said Koll-berg. "It's five days since the opening of the crayfish season and you probably haven't had a single one. Or do they have crayfish in Hungary?"

'Not so far as I know," said Martin Beck. "I didn't see any."

'Get yourself dressed. I've ordered a table."

The dining room was crowded, but a corner table had been reserved for them and laid for a crayfish dinner. On each of their plates lay a paper hat and a bib, and each of the bibs had a verse printed in red across it. They sat down and Martin Beck looked dismally at his hat, made of blue crepe paper, with a shiny paper visor and POLICE in gold letters above the visor.

The crayfish were delicious, and the men did not talk much as they ate. When they had finished them, Kollberg was still hungry—an almost permanent state of affairs—so he ordered a steak fillet. While they waited for it, he said:

'There were four guys and a broad together with him that night before he left. I made a list for you. It's up in my room."

'Good," said Martin Beck. "Was it difficult?"

'Not especially. I got some help from Melander."

'Melander, yes. What's the time?"

'Half past nine."

Martin Beck got up and left Kollberg alone with his steak.

Of course, Melander had already gone to bed and Martin Beck waited patiently through several rings before the telephone was answered.

'Were you asleep in bed?"

'Yes, but it doesn't matter. Are you back?"

'In Malmö. How did things go with Alf Matsson?"

'I found out what you asked me to. Do you want to know now?"

'Yes, please."

'Wait a moment."

Melander went away, but returned very shortly.

'I wrote a report, but it's still at the office. Perhaps I can tell you from memory," he said.

'I'm sure you can," said Martin Beck.

'It deals with Thursday, the twenty-first of July. In the morning Alf Matsson first went up to the magazine, where he picked up his tickets from the office and four hundred kronor from the cash desk. Then he left almost at once and collected his passport and visa from the Hungarian Embassy. After that, he went back to Fleminggatan and, I imagine, packed his suitcase. Anyhow, he changed clothes. In the morning he had been wearing gray trousers, a gray jersey sweater, a blue machine-knit blazer with no lapels and beige suede shoes. In the afternoon and evening, he was wearing a lead-gray suit of thin flannel, a white shirt, black knit tie, black shoes and a gray-beige poplin coat."

It was warm in the phone booth. Martin Beck had got a piece of paper out of his pocket and was scribbling down some notes as Melander was talking.

'Yes, go on," he said.

'At quarter past twelve, he took a taxi from Fleminggatan to the Tankard, where he had lunch with Sven-Erik Molin, Per Kronkvist and Pia Bolt Her name's Ingrid, but she's called Pia. He drank several steins of beer during and after the meal. At three o'clock, Pia Bolt left and the three men stayed on. About an hour later that is, about four o'clock—Stig Lund and Åke Gunnarsson came in and sat down at their table. They went over to drinking whisky then. Alf Matsson drank whisky and water. The conversation at the table was shop talk, but the waitress remembers that Alf Matsson said he was going away. Where to, she didn't hear."

'Was he drunk?" said Martin Beck.

'Must have been a little, but not noticeably. Not then. Can you hang on a moment?"

Melander went away again and Martin Beck opened the door of the telephone booth wide to let in a little air while he waited. Then Melander came back.

'Just getting my dressing gown on. Where was I? Yes, of course, at the Tankard. At six o'clock, they left—that's Kronkvist, Lund, Gunnarsson, Molin and Matsson—and took a taxi to the Golden Peace and had dinner and drinks. The conversation was mostly about various mutual acquaintances and liquor and girls. Alf Matsson was beginning to get very high and made loud comments about female guests there. Among other things, he's said to have shouted to a middle-aged woman artist, who was sitting at the other side of the room, something like, 'Stunning pair of tits you've got there. Can I rest my head on them?' At half past nine they all moved on to the Opera House bar by taxi. There, they went on drinking whisky. Alf Matsson was drinking whisky and soda. Pia Bolt, who was already at the Opera House bar, joined Matsson and the other four men. At about midnight, Kronkvist and Lund left the restaurant, and shortly before one, Pia Bolt left with Molin. They were all drunk. Matsson and Gunnarsson stayed until the place closed and they were both very drunk. Matsson could not walk straight and accosted several women. I haven't managed to find out what happened after that, but presume he went home in a taxi."

'Didn't anyone notice when he left?"

'No, no one I talked to. Most of the guests leaving at that time were raore or less drank, and the staff were in a hurry to get home."

'Thanks a lot," said Martin Beck. "Will you do me another favor? Go up to Matsson's flat early tomorrow morning and see if you can find that lead-gray suit he was wearing that evening."

'Didn't you go there?" said Melander. "Before you went to Hungary?"

'Yes," said Martin Beck, "but I haven't got the memory of an elephant, like you. Go to bed and sleep now. I'll phone you tomorrow morning."

He returned to Kollberg, who had already polished off the steak and a dessert which had left sticky pink traces behind it on the plate in front of him.

'Had he found anything?"

'I don't know," said Martin Beck. "Perhaps."

They had coffee and Martin Beck told Kollberg about Budapest and Szluka and about Ari Boeck and her German friends. Then they took the elevator up and Martin Beck fetched Kollberg's typed report before going to bed.

He undressed, switched on the bed lamp and turned out the overhead light. Then he got into bed and began to read.

Ingrid (Pia) Bolt
, born 1939 in Norrköping, unmarried, secretary, own flat at Strindbergsgatan 51.

Is included in the same gang as Matsson, but doesn't like M. much and has probably never had relations with him. Has gone around with Stig Lund for a year until quite recently. Nowadays seems to go around with Molin. Secretary at a fashion firm, Studio 45.

Per Kronkvist
, born 1936 in Luleå, divorced, reporter on evening paper. Shares a flat with Lund, Sveavägen 88.

One of the gang, but no great friend of Matsson's. Divorced in Luleå, since then a resident in Stockholm. Drinks quite a bit, nervous and restless. Appears stupid, but a nice guy. Found guilty of drunken driving in May 1965.

Stig Lund
, born 1932 in Gothenburg, unmarried, photog rapher on the same magazine as Kronkvist. Flat on Sveavägen owned by the magazine.

Came to Stockholm in 1960 and has known Matsson since that time. They spent a lot of time together earlier, but during the last two years they have only met because they go to the same pubs. Quiet and gentle, drinks a lot and usually falls asleep at the table when he's drunk. Ex-athlete, took part in competitions with cross-country running his specialty, 1945-51.

Åke Gunnarsson
, bom 1932 in Jakobstad, Finland. Unmarried, journalist, writes about cars. Own flat, Svartensgatan 6.

Came to Sweden 1950. Journalist on various auto magazines and in the daily press since 1959. Earlier various jobs such as auto mechanic. Speaks Swedish almost without accent. Moved to flat on Svartensgatan July 1 of this year; before that he lived in Hagalund. Plans to marry at beginning of September, to a girl from Uppsala who is not one of the gang. No more friendly with Matsson than the aforementioned. Drinks quite a bit, but is known for not appearing drunk when he is. Seems quite a bright boy.

Sven-Erik Molin
, born 1933 in Stockholm, divorced, journalist, house in Enskede.

Alf Matsson's "best friend," i.e. he maintains he is, but speaks ill of M. behind his back. Divorced in Stockholm four years ago, keeps up support payments and sees his children now and again. Conceited, overbearing and tough attitude, especially when drunk, which happens often. Charged with intoxication in Stockholm twice, 1963 and 1965. Relationship with Pia Bolt not very serious on his side.

There are some more in the group: Krister Sjöberg, commercial artist; Bror Forsgren, advertising representative; Lena Rosén, journalist; Bengtsfors, journalist; Jack Meredith, film cameraman, as well as a few more, more or less peripheral. None of these was actually present on the day or evening in question.

Martin Beck got up and fetched the piece of paper he had made notes on while talking to Melander.

He took the paper back to bed with him.

Before putting out the light, he read the whole lot through again—Kollberg's report and his own carelessly scribbled notes.

Saturday, the thirteenth of August, was gray and windy, and the plane to Stockholm took its time against the headwind.

The lingering taste of crayfish was anything but delicious at this time of day and the paper mug of bad coffee that the airline had to offer hardly improved matters. Martin Beck leaned his head against the vibrating window and watched the clouds.

After a while he tried smoking, but it tasted disgusting. Kollberg was reading a daily from southern Sweden, glancing critically at the cigarette. He probably did not feel too good either.

As far as Alf Matsson was concerned, it could now be said that he was probably seen for the last time exactly three weeks ago—in the foyer of the Hotel Duna in Budapest.

The pilot informed them that the weather was cloudy and that the temperature was fifteen degrees centigrade in Stockholm, and it was drizzling.

Martin Beck extinguished his cigarette in the ashtray and said, "That murder you were on ten days ago, is it cleared up?"

'Oh, yes."

'No difficulties?"

'No. Psychologically, it was utterly uninteresting, if that's what you mean. Drunk as pigs, both of them. The guy who lived in the flat sat there giving the other guy trouble until he got angry and hit him with a bottle. Then he got scared and hit him twenty times more. But you know all that."

'And afterward. Did he try to get away?"

'Oh, yes, of course. He went home and wrapped up his bloodstained clothes. Then he got a bottle of wood alcohol and went and sat under Skanstull Bridge. All we had to do was to go and pick him up. Then he flatly denied everything for a while and then began to bawl."

After a brief pause, he said, still without looking up, "He's got a screw or two missing. Skanstull Bridge! But he did his best."

Kollberg lowered his paper and looked at Martin Beck.

'Exactly," he said. "He did his best."

He returned to his paper.

Martin Beck frowned, picked up the list he had received the night before and read it through again. Time and time again, until they arrived. He put the paper in his pocket and fastened his safety belt. Then came the usual few minutes of unpleasantness as the plane waddled in the wind and slid down its invisible chute. Gardens and rooftops and two bounces on the concrete, and then he could let out his breath again.

They exchanged a few remarks in the domestic flight lounge while they were waiting for their luggage.

'Are you going out to the island tonight?"

'No, I'll wait a bit."

'There's something rotten about this Matsson story."

'Yes."

'Aggravating."

In the middle of Traneberg Bridge, Kollberg said, "And it's even more aggravating that we can't stop thinking about the miserable business. Matsson was a boor. If he's really disappeared, then that's a good deed done. If he's on the run, then someone'll get him one of these days. That's not our business. And if by any chance he's somehow died down there, then that's nothing to do with us either. Is it?"

'That's right."

'But supposing the man just goes on having disappeared. Then we'll be thinking about it for ten years. Christ!"

'You're not being particularly logical."

'No. Exactly," said Kollberg.

The police station seemed unusually quiet, but of course it was Saturday and, despite everything, still summer. On Martin Beck's desk lay a number of uninteresting letters and a note from Melander:

'A pair of black shoes in the flat. Old. Not used for a long time. No dark-gray suit."

Outside the window, the wind tore at the treetops and the rain was driving against the windowpane. He thought of the Danube and the steamers and the breeze from the sunny hills. Viennese waltzes. The soft, warm night air. The bridge. The quay. Martin Beck gingerly felt the bump on the back of his head with his fingers, then went back to his desk and sat down.

Kollberg came in, looked at Melander's message, scratched his stomach and said, "It's probably our concern in any case."

'Yes, I think so."

Martin Beck thought for a moment.

'When you were in Rumania, did you turn in your passport?"

'Yes, the police collected your passports at the airport. Then you got it back at the hotel a week later. I saw mine standing in my pigeonhole for several days before they gave it to me. It was a big hotel. The police handed in whole bundles of passports every evening."

Martin Beck pulled the telephone toward him.

'Budapest 298-317, a person-to-person call to Major Vil-mos Szluka. Yes, Major S-Z-L-U-K-A. No, it's in Hungary."

He returned to the window and stared out into the rain without saying anything. Kollberg sat in the visitor's chair and studied his nails. Neither of them moved or spoke until the telephone rang.

Someone said in very bad German, "Yes, Major Szluka will come in a minute."

Steps echoed through police headquarters in Deåk Ferenc Tér. Then Szluka's voice came over: "Good morning. How are things in Stockholm?"

'It's raining and windy. Cold."

'Oh, it's over 85° Fahrenheit here. Almost too hot. I was just thinking of going to Palatino. Anything new?"

'Not yet."

'Same here. We haven't found him yet. Can I help you with anything?"

'Doesn't it sometimes happen that people lose their passports now during the tourist season?"

'Yes, unfortunately. It's always troublesome. Fortunately that's not one of my concerns."

'Could you find out whether any foreigner has reported the loss of his passport at the Ifjuság or the Duna since the twenty-first of July?"

'Of course. But it's not my department, as I said. Will it be all right if I get the answer back by five?"

'You can telephone whenever you like. And one more thing."

'Yes?"

'If someone has reported this, do you think you could find out what the person looked like? Just a brief description."

'I'll call you at five o'clock. Good-bye."

'Good-bye. Hope you don't miss going to the baths."

He put down the receiver. Kollberg looked at him suspiciously.

'What the hell is the business about baths?"

'A sulfur bath, where you sit in marble armchairs under water."

'Oh."

There was a brief silence. Kollberg scratched his head and said, "So in Budapest he was wearing a blue blazer and gray trousers and brown shoes."

'Yes, and the raincoat."

'And in his suitcase there was a blue blazer."

'Yes."

'And a pair of gray trousers."

'Yes."

'And a pair of brown shoes."

'Yes."

'And the night before he left he was wearing a dark suit and black shoes."

'Yes, and the raincoat."

'And neither the shoes nor the suit are in his flat."

'No."

'Christ!" said Kollberg simply.

'Yes."

The atmosphere in the room changed and seemed to become less tense. Martin Beck rummaged in his drawer, found a dry old Florida and lit it. Like the man in Malmö, he was trying to give up smoking, but much more halfheartedly.

Kollberg yawned and looked at his watch.

'Shall we go and eat somewhere?"

'Yes, why not?"

'The Tankard?"

'Sure."