Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 19

'Lundkvist got the Lenin Prize,' said Sten Sjogren. 'In an anthology called A Socialist Man, he writes like this - and I quote from memory: "Sometimes it goes so far that simple criminals are made to look as if they were consciously protesting against the miserable state of affairs as if they were almost revolutionaries... something that would least of all be tolerated in a socialist country."' 'Go on,' said Gunvald Larsson.

'End of quote,' said Sjogren. 'Lundkvist is a jerk. His whole line of reasoning is imbecilic. In the. first place, people can be driven to protest against their state of affairs without being ideologically awake. And secondly, that bit about the socialist countries... there's not an ounce of logic to it. Why the devil should people rob themselves?'

Gunvald Larsson said nothing for a long while. Finally he said: 'So - there was no beige Renault?'

'No.'

'Nor any unnaturally pale driver in a white T-shirt, nor any man in black who looked like Harpo Marx?' 'No.'

Gunvald Larsson nodded to himself. Then he said: 'The fact of the matter is that the man who broke into that bank seems to be done for. And for from being some kind of unconscious revolutionary, he was a b.l.o.o.d.y rat who was. .h.i.tchhiking on the capitalist bandwagon and lived by peddling dope and p.o.r.nography - without a thought to anything except his own profit. Self-interest, that is. Furthermore, he has gra.s.sed on his mates in an attempt to save his own skin.'

Sjogren shrugged his shoulders. 'There's plenty of that kind about, too,' he said. 'Put it whichever way you like, but the guy who robbed that bank was some kind of underdog - if you see what I mean.''

'I see exactly what you mean.'

'How could you work all this out?'

'Try it yourself,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Put yourself in my shoes.'

'Why the devil did you ever become a policeman?' asked Sjogren.

'Sheer chance. Actually I'm a seaman. Anyway, all that was so long ago, and many things looked quite different in those days. But that's neither here nor there. Now I have what I wanted.'

'And that was all?' 'Exactly. Goodbye.'

'Goodbye,' said Sjogren. He looked utterly astounded. But Gunvald Larsson didn't notice. He was already on his way to his car. Nor did he hear Sjogren's parting shot: 'Anyway, I'm dead certain it was a girl'

At that same early hour of the morning Mrs Svea Mauritzon was standing baking in her kitchen on Pilgatan, in Jonkoping. Her prodigal son had come home and was to be regaled with fresh cinnamon buns with his morning coffee. She was blissfully unaware of the terms in which her son was at that moment being described by a policeman a hundred and eighty miles away; if she had ever heard anyone call the apple of her eye a rat she would instantly have given that person a taste of her rolling pin.

A sharp ring on the front doorbell broke the morning silence. Setting aside her tray of freshly iced cinnamon whirls on the sink, she dried her hands on her ap.r.o.n and shuffled hurriedly out to the front door in her down-at-heel slippers. She noticed that the clock only showed 7.30 and threw an anxious glance towards the closed bedroom door.

In there her boy was sleeping. She had made up a bed for him on the sofa in the living room, but the clock had disturbed him and in the middle of the night he'd woken her up and asked her to switch beds with him. Poor child, he was working himself to death. What he needed was a really good sleep! For her part, being almost stone deaf, she did not hear the ticking of the clock.

Outside her front door stood two big men.

She didn't quite hear all they said, but they were extremely insistent. They must be allowed to speak to her son. In vain she tried to explain it was too early and that they could come back a little later when he'd finished sleeping.

They were implacable, maintaining that their errand was of the very greatest importance. Finally, very reluctantly, she went in to her son and gently awakened him. Raising himself on his elbow, he looked at the clock.

'Are you out of your mind? What do you want to wake me up like this for in the middle of the night? Didn't I say I wanted to have a good sleep?'

She gave him an unhappy look. 'There are two gentlemen who want to see you,' she said.

'What!' he yelled, jumping out of bed. 'You haven't let them in, have you?'

Mauritzon knew it must be Malmstrom and Mohren. They had realized he'd betrayed them, worked out where he was hiding, and were here seeking revenge.

His mother shook her head and stared at him in amazement as he flung on his clothes without even taking off his pyjamas. At the same time he rushed around the room, collecting his scattered belongings and flinging them into his bag.

'What's it all about?' she asked, anxiously.

He snapped shut the bag, grabbed her by the arm, and hissed: 'You must get rid of them! Tell 'em I'm not here. Say I've gone to Australia, anything!'

Not hearing what he'd said, she noticed her hearing aid was lying on the bedside table and put it on. Mauritzon tiptoed over to the door, pressed his ear against it, and listened. Not a sound. They were standing out there waiting for him, probably with a whole a.r.s.enal of guns ready to fire.

His mother came up to him and whispered: What is it, Filip? What kind of men are they?'

'Just you get rid of them,' he whispered back. 'Tell 'em I've gone abroad.'

'But I've already told them you're here. How could I know you didn't want to see them?'

Mauritzon b.u.t.toned up his jacket and grabbed his bag.

'Are you going already?' his mother asked, disappointed. 'But I've baked you some buns. Cinnamon snails, which you're so fond of...'

He turned to her and said indignantly: 'How can you stand here babbling about cinnamon buns when...' He broke off, c.o.c.king his ear towards the hallway. He heard a vague mumble of voices. Now they were coming in to get him - or liquidate him on the spot He broke into a cold sweat, looking desperately around the room. His mother lived on the seventh floor, so there was no question of jumping out of the window; and the only door gave out onto the hall where Malmstrom and Mohren were waiting for him.

Going over to his mother, who was standing by the bed looking bewildered, he said: 'Go on out. Tell 'em I'm coming, that I'll only be a minute. Try to get 'em into the kitchen. Offer them some buns. Hurry up. Get going!'

He shoved her towards the door and stood with his back to the wall. After she'd gone out, closing the door behind her, he again pressed his ear against it. He could hear voices, and after a while footsteps coming closer. When they stopped outside the door instead of going on out towards his mother's buns in the kitchen as he'd hoped, he suddenly knew the full meaning of the expression my hair stood on end'.

Silence. A metallic sound, perhaps a magazine being inserted into a pistol. Someone cleared his throat. Then a hard knock and a voice that said: 'Come on out now, Mauritzon. This is the CID.'

Mauritzon opened the door and with a groan of relief practically fell into the arms of Detective Inspector Hogflykt of the Jonkoping CID, who was standing, there with the handcuffs ready for him.

Half an hour later Mauritzon was sitting on the plane to Stockholm with a large bag of cinnamon buns on his knee. He had convinced Hogflykt that he was only too glad to cooperate, and the handcuffs had been removed. Staring down over the sunny plains of osterG.o.dand he munched his buns. All things considered, he felt at peace with the world.

Every once in a while he offered his bag to his companion, who shook his head more grimly each time: Detective Inspector Hogflykt, always panic-stricken in airplanes, wasn't feeling at all well.

The plane landed on the dot at 10.25 at Bromma Airport, and twenty minutes later Mauritzon was once again inside the police headquarters on Kungsholmen. While the police car was driving into town he had anxiously begun to speculate over what Bulldozer might have in store for him; by now the feeling of liberation and relief that had followed the shock of his awakening that morning had completely gone - giving place to grim apprehensions.

Bulldozer Olsson - in the company of select elements from the special squad, to wit Einar Ronn and Gunvald Larsson - was impatiendy awaiting Mauritzon's arrival. Under the direction of Kollberg, the squad's other members were busy preparing their afternoon operation against the Mohren gang. A complicated manoeuvre, it called for careful organizing.

Bulldozer, informed of the find in the air-raid shelter, had been almost beside himself with joy. He'd hardly slept a wink all night, so excited and expectant was he as the great day approached. Already he had Mauritzon where he wanted him - and Malmstrfim and Mohren as well, from the moment when they tried to stage their big grab. If it didn't happen this Friday, then it certainly would the next, in which case today's operations could be regarded as a useful general rehearsal. Once he had the whole Mohren gang under lock and key it certainly wouldn't be long before he also had Werner Roos on the hook.

Bulldozer's rosy dreams were interrupted by the telephone. He grabbed the receiver, listened for three seconds, and yelled: 'Bring him in this moment!' He banged down the receiver, clapped the palms of his hands together, and said energetically: 'Gentlemen, he is on his way. Are we ready?'

Gunvald Larsson grunted, and Ronn said without much enthusiasm: 'Sure.'

Ronn knew very well that he and Gunvald Larsson were there mainly to act as an audience. Bulldozer loved to perform in front of an audience, and today the performance was unquestionably his. He was not only playing the leading role, he was also the producer. Among other things he had adjusted the position of his fellow actors' chairs at least fifteen times until they were completely to his satisfaction.

Bulldozer was now sitting in the judgement seat behind his desk. Gunvald Larsson sat in the corner over by the window, and Ronn was at the end of the table to his right. Mauritzon's chair was placed directly in front of Bulldozer, but so far back from the table that it stood right in the middle of the open floor.

Gunvald Larsson was picking his teeth with a fragment of matchstick, meanwhile casting surrept.i.tious glances at Bulldozer's gaudy summer getup: a mustard-yellow suit, blue-and-white-striped shirt, and a tie with a pattern of green Michaelmas daisies on an orange background.

There was a knock at the door, and Mauritzon was brought in. By this time he had begun to feel rather ill at ease, and the sight of the now familiar faces in Bulldozer's room did nothing to calm him. They all looked grim.

That big blond guy, Larsson or whatever his name was, did not entertain very warm feelings towards him; so much he had already realized. As for that northerner with the drinker's nose, he seemed to be a glum fellow at best. What boded no good, however, was that even Bulldozer, who at their last meeting had been as benign as Father Christmas, was now contemplating him with harsh disapproval.

Mauritzon sat down on the chair indicated, looked around the room, and said: 'Good morning.'

No one returned his greeting. He went on: "There was nothing in those papers you gave me, Mr District Attorney, which said I couldn't leave town, and as far as I know there was nothing of that sort in our agreement, either.'

Bulldozer raised his eyebrows, and Mauritzon added hastily: 'But naturally I'll help you in any way I can.'

Bulldozer leaned forward, clasped his hands on the desk top, looked at him awhile, and said in a mild voice: 'Really, Mr Mauritzon? So you will help us in any way you can. That is really most kind of you, Mr Mauritzon. But now we have no more services to ask of you, Mr Mauritzon. No! Now it's our turn to do you a service. You have not been quite honest with us, Mr Mauritzon, have you? We realize how heavily this must weigh on you, and that is why we have gone to the trouble of arranging this little meeting - so that you can unburden yourself to us in peace and quiet'

Mauritzon threw an uncertain look at Bulldozer and said: 'I don't understand...'

'No? If I say that it's about last Friday, then perhaps, Mr Mauritzon, you will understand.'

'Last Friday?' Mauritzon's gaze wavered. He wriggled in his chair. He looked from Bulldozer to Ronn and back to Bulldozer, met Gunvald Larsson's cold china-blue gaze, and finally looked down at the floor. It was dead silent in the room.

Bulldozer went on: 'Last Friday, a week ago, yes! Surely it's impossible, Mr Mauritzon, that you don't recall what you were up to then? If nothing else, Mr Mauritzon, you can't have forgotten the day's take. Ninety thousand isn't peanuts, whichever way you look at it Or what do you say?'

'Ninety thousand... ninety thousand what? I don't know about any ninety thousand.'

Mauritzon sounded bolder now, and Bulldozer's voice was not quite so silky-smooth as he said: 'Naturally, Mr Mauritzon, you haven't any idea what I'm talking about?'

Mauritzon shook his head. 'No,' he said. I haven't'

'Perhaps, Mr Mauritzon, you would like me to express myself more clearly? Would you?'

'Yes, please,' said Mauritzon humbly.

Gunvald Larsson straightened his back and said irritably: 'Don't sit there playing dumb! You know very well what it's all about'

'Of course he does Bulldozer said good-naturedly. 'Mr Mauritzon is only trying to show us how clever he can be. It's all part of the game, as it were. But it'll soon pa.s.s over. Of course he may be experiencing some difficulty in expressing himself.'

'He didn't have any when it was a question of ratting on his pals Gunvald Larsson said acidly.

'Well, we'll see Bulldozer said. He leaned forward and looked Mauritzon in the eyes. 'You want me to express myself more clearly? Okay, then I shall. We know very well that it was you who robbed that bank on Hornsgatan last Friday, and you'll get nowhere by denying it, since we've got proof. Regrettably, however, you didn't stop at robbery, something which in itself is a pretty serious matter, and I hardly need to point out what a very nasty situation you're in. Now, of course you can maintain that you were taken by surprise, didn't shoot to kill. The fact nevertheless remains: the man is unquestionably dead.'

Mauritzon had turned pale. Little beads of sweat began to break out around his hairline. He opened his mouth to say something, but Bulldozer went on: 'I hope you appreciate that your situation is so serious that nothing is to be gained by playing tricks, and that the best you can do not to make things worse is to show a willingness to cooperate. Do I make myself clear?'

Mauritzon, gaping, shook his head. Finally he said, stammering: 'I... I don't know what... what you're talking about.'

Bulldozer got up and began walking to and fro in front of Mauritzon. 'My dear Mauritzon. I have endless patience when patience is necessary. But sheer stupidity is something I find hard to tolerate he said in a tone of voice that implied that even the most infinite patience has its limits.

As Bulldozer went on speaking, pacing gravely to and fro between Mauritzon and the desk, Mauritzon again shook his head.

'I fancy I've expressed myself with all possible clarity, but I repeat: We know that you, alone, went into that bank on Hornsgatan, that you shot and killed a male customer, and that you managed to get away with ninety thousand in cash. We know this, and you will gain nothing by denying it On the other hand, you can to some extent - not very much, admittedly, but to some extent - improve your situation by confessing without more ado and by also showing a little good will. You will do best by giving us a full account of the events of that day - by telling us what you've done with the money, how you got away from the scene of the crime, and who your accomplices were. Well, have I expressed myself clearly enough?'

Breaking off his promenade, Bulldozer sat down again behind his desk. He leaned back in his chair and threw a glance first at Ronn and then at Gunvald Larsson - inviting their silent applause. Ronn merely looked dubious, and Gunvald Larsson absent-mindedly picked his nose. Bulldozer, who had been expecting their faces to light up with admiration at this model of a concise and psychological harangue, thought resignedly: 'Pearls before swine.' Again he turned to Mauritzon.

The latter stared at him with mingled suspicion and terror.

'But I've nothing to do with all that,' he said excitedly. 'I haven't the faintest idea about any bank robbery.'

'Don't beat around the bush, now. You heard very well what I said. We have proof.'

'What sort of proof? I haven't robbed any bank or shot anyone. The whole thing's grotesque.'

With a sigh Gunvald Larsson got up and stood in front of the window with his back to the room. 'It's senseless, trying to talk in a friendly way to a guy like that,' he said over his shoulder. 'A smack in the face is the only thing he'll understand.'

Bulldozer waved a calming hand at him, and said: 'Wait a little, Gunvald.' Placing his elbows on the desk he put his chin in his hands and gazed in a troubled way at Mauritzon.

'Well, Mauritzon? It's up to you.'

Mauritzon threw out his hands. 'But I haven't done it. I promise you! I swear!'

Bulldozer went on looking at him in a troubled manner. Then, bending down, he pulled out the bottom drawer of his desk as he said: 'Really? But I reserve at least the right to doubt it.' Straightening his back, he flung the green American army shoulder bag on the table and looked triumphantly at Mauritzon, who looked at the bag, astounded. 'As you see, Mauritzon, we've got it all here.'

One at a time he took the things out of the bag and set them out on the table in a row. 'The wig, the shirt, the gla.s.ses, the hat, and last but not least, the pistol. Well, what do you say now?'

At first Mauritzon stared uncomprehendingly at the various objects. Then his expression changed and he stared at the table, turning slowly whiter in the face. 'What... what's all that?' he said. His voice did not quite convince. He cleared his throat, repeated his question.

Bulldozer threw him a weary look and turned to Ronn. 'Einar,' he said. 'Would you go and check that our witnesses are here?'

'Sure,' said Ronn. He got up and went.

After a few minutes he came back, stopped in the doorway, and said: 'Ready.'

Bulldozer flew up out of his chair. 'Good,' he said. 'Then we're on our way.'

Ronn disappeared again, and Bulldozer put the things back into the bag. He said: 'Come along then, Mauritzon. We're going across to another room. We're going to have a little fashion show. Coming, Gunvald?' He rushed to the door, clutching the bag. Gunvald Larsson followed him, pushing Mauritzon roughly ahead of him. They went into a room further down the corridor.

The room differed little from the other offices. There was a desk, chairs, a filing cabinet, and a typewriter stand. A mirror was mounted on the wall. On the other side of the wall this mirror acted as a window, so that it was possible to watch from the next room.

Einar Ronn was standing in that room, watching un.o.bserved as Bulldozer helped Mauritzon put on the blue shirt, stuck the wig of long blonde hair onto his head, and gave him the hat and sungla.s.ses. Mauritzon went up to the mirror and stared bewildered at his own image; while Ronn on the other side of the wall had an unpleasant feeling of invisibility as he looked straight into the other man's eyes through the back of the mirror. Then Mauritzon donned the sungla.s.ses and hat. Everything seemed to fit perfectly.

Ronn went out and fetched the first witness - the woman who was chief cashier at the Hornsgatan bank.

Mauritzon stood in the middle of the floor with the bag hanging over his shoulder, and when Bulldozer said something to him he began walking to and fro in the room.

The witness looked at him through the gla.s.s pane, then looked at Ronn and nodded.

'Take a good look,' Ronn said.

'It's certainly her,' the cashier said. 'There's no question of it I think she had narrower pants on then. That's the only difference.' 'Are you quite sure?' 'Oh yes. One hundred per cent.'

The next witness was the bank manager. He threw a glance at Mauritzon. 'It's her,' he said, without a trace of doubt in his voice.

'You must take a careful look,' Ronn said. 'We don't want any mistakes.'

The bank manager looked at Mauritzon for a while as he walked about in the other room. 'Sure, sure. I recognize her. The walk, the att.i.tude, the hair... sure, I'm certain.' He shook his head. 'Pity,' he said. 'Such a pretty girl.'

Bulldozer devoted the rest of the morning to Mauritzon, but as one o'clock approached he broke off the examination without having got a confession out of him. But Bulldozer was counting on Mauritzon's defences collapsing soon, and anyway the evidence against him was certainly adequate. Mauritzon was allowed to call a lawyer, whereafter he was put into custody until such time as he could be formally placed under arrest.