Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 6

'Thank you, my dear,' she whispered.

Again he sat quiet, looking at her. Not knowing what to say, he just held her thin, cold hand in his.

There was a faint rattle in her throat as she breathed. Gradually her breathing became more calm, and she closed her eyes. He went on sitting there, holding her hand. A blackbird sang outside the window. Otherwise all was quiet When he had sat there quite still, a long while, he gently let go of her hand and got up. He stroked her cheek. It was hot and dry. Just as he took a step towards the door, still looking down at her face, she opened her eyes and looked at him.

'Put your woollen cap on,' she whispered, 'it's cold out' And again she closed her eyes.

After a while Martin Beck bent down, kissed her on the forehead, and left.

12.

Today Kenneth Kvastmo, one of the two policemen who had broken into Svard's flat, had to give evidence again in the district court. Martin Beck looked in on him where he sat waiting in a corridor of City Hall and had time to get answers to two of his most important questions before Kvastmo was called into court.

Then Martin Beck left City Hall and walked the two blocks to the house where Svard had lived. It was a short stretch, but as he walked down it, he pa.s.sed the two large building sites on either side of the police building. Outside the south wing the new metro line to Jarvafaltet was being excavated, and further up the hill blasting and drilling operations were going on into the bedrock for the foundation of the new police building, where soon he would have his office. Right now he was grateful that his office was in the South Police Headquarters and not here. The noise of traffic from Sodertaljevagen outside his window was no more than a quiet hum compared to this cacophony arising from excavations, pneumatic drills, and lorries.

The front door to the first-floor flat had been replaced and sealed. Martin Beck broke the seal and walked in.

The window over the street was closed, and he perceived a slight but penetrating smell of putrefaction that had bitten its way into the room's walls and spa.r.s.e furniture.

He went over to the window and examined it. It was an old-fashioned type, opening outwards and with a clasp whose ring-shaped swinging latch hung from a fixture in the window frame and fitted over a catch when the window was fastened. There were two latches, but the lower catch was missing. The paint had worn off, and the woodwork of the lower part of the window frame and sill had been damaged. Presumably both rain and wind entered through the crack.

Martin Beck pulled down the blind. Originally dark blue, it was old and faded. He went over to the door and looked into the room. This was how it had looked when the two officers had broken in, at least according to Kvastmo. He went back to the window, gave the cord a slight jerk, and with a tired creak the blind rolled up. Then he opened the window and looked out.

On his right was the noisy building site, and beyond it he could see among other things the windows of the CID in the Kungsholmsgatan building. To his left Bergsgatan went on a little further, then just above the fire station the street came to an end. A short stretch of road joined Bergsgatan and Hantverkargatan. Martin Beck reflected that that was the way he'd walk after finishing his inspection. He couldn't recall what the street was called or ever having walked along it.

Opposite the window was Kron.o.berg Park. Like most other Stockholm parks, it was laid out on a natural rise in the ground. In the days when he'd worked at Kristineberg, Martin Beck remembered often taking a short cut across it. It had been his habit to cross the park between the stone steps in the corner by Polhemsgatan and the old Jewish cemetery on the for side. Sometimes he'd stopped to smoke a cigarette on a bench beneath the linden trees at the top of the hill.

Feeling a craving for a cigarette, he felt in his pockets, knowing full well he had none on him. He gave a resigned sigh and reflected that he should start chewing gum or sucking cough drops instead. Or chewing toothpicks, like Mnsson down in Malmo.

He went out into the kitchen. Its window was in an even worse state than the one in the room; but here the window cracks had been plugged with strips of tape.

Everything in the place seemed worn, not only the paint and wallpaper but also the furniture. Looking around the flat, Martin Beck felt a dull feeling of infinite sadness. He opened all the drawers and cupboards. There wasn't much there, only the basic household utensils.

Going out into the narrow hall, he opened the door to the toilet. There was no wash basin or shower. Then he examined the front door and found it was fitted with the various locks mentioned in the report. It seemed probable that they had all been locked when the door had finally been lifted out of the way, or 'forced' as it was called in police jargon.

It was all really most perplexing. Door and both windows had been locked. Kvastmo had said there was no weapon to be seen anywhere in the flat when he and Kristiansson had gone in. Moreover, he had said that the flat had been under constant guard and that for anyone to have been there and removed anything was out of the question.

Once again Martin Beck stood in the doorway looking into the room. Along the inner wall was a bed, and beside it a shelf. Above the shelf was a lamp with a crinkled yellow cloth shade, a broken green gla.s.s ashtray, and a large box of matches. On the shelf lay a pair of much-thumbed magazines and three books. By the right-hand wall stood a chair upholstered in green and white striped material with spots on its seat, and against the far wall were a brown table and a straight wooden chair. On the floor stood an electric heater with a black cord coiling away to a wall socket. The plug had been pulled out There had been a carpet too, but it had been sent to the lab, where, among innumerable other stains and particles of dirt, they'd found three bloodstains of Svard's blood type.

A closet adjoined the room. On its floor were a dirty flannel shirt of uncertain colour, three dirty socks, and an empty worn brown canvas bag. On a hanger hung a fairly new poplin coat, and on hooks on the wall were a pair of flannel trousers with empty pockets, a knitted green jumper, and a grey vest with full-length sleeves. That was all.

That Svard could have been shot somewhere else, then come into his flat, locked and bolted the door behind him, and then lain down to die, was - according to the pathologist - something that could not wholly be ruled out. Martin Beck, admittedly, was only a layman; but he'd had enough experience to see she was right But how had it all happened, then? How could Svard have been shot if no one had been in the flat and he hadn't done it himself?

When Martin Beck had first discovered how carelessly the whole matter had been handled he'd been convinced that even this mystery could be explained in terms of someone's carelessness; but now he was beginning to feel sure there'd never been a weapon in the room, that Svard had locked the door behind him, and that consequently his death appeared utterly inexplicable.

Once again Martin Beck went through the flat with meticulous care; but there was nothing there to explain what had happened. Finally he left, intending to find out whether the other tenants had anything to tell him.

Three-quarters of an hour later, none the wiser, he came out into the street. Obviously the sixty-two-year-old ex-warehouseman, Karl Edvin Svard, had been a very solitary person. He had lived in the flat for three months, and only a few of the other tenants had even been aware of his existence. Those who had seen him come and go had never seen him with anyone else. None of them had ever exchanged a word with him. He had never been seen drunk, nor had they heard any disturbing sounds or noises coming from his flat.

Martin Beck remained standing outside the main entrance. He looked at the park, which rose up green and leafy, on the other side of the street. He had a mind to go over there and sit a while beneath the linden trees; but then he recalled his decision to examine the little street on the hillside.

'Olof Gjodingsgatan.' He read the name on the street sign and recalled that many years ago he had found out that Olof Gjoding had been a teacher in the Kungsholmen School back in the eighteenth century. He wondered whether the school had stood on the same site as the high school down on Hantverkargatan.

On the slope down to Polhemsgatan was a tobacconist. He went in and bought a pack of filter cigarettes. On his way to Kungsholmsgatan he lit one and thought it tasted bad. He thought about Karl Edvin Svard. He felt none too well and rather confused.

13.

When the midday flight from Amsterdam landed at Arlanda that Tuesday there were two plainclothes policemen stationed in the arrival lounge to meet the plane's purser. They had orders to behave discreetly and take no unnecessary measures; and when, finally, the purser came walking across the tarmac in the company of a stewardess they decided to bide their time and stand aside.

Werner Roos, however, spotted them at once. Either he recognized them from some earlier occasion, or simply sensed them to be police, instantly comprehending that their presence there had something to do with him. He stopped, said a few words to the stewardess, and then walked into the arrival lounge through the gla.s.s doors.

With firm steps Werner Roos went up to the two policemen. Tall, broad-shouldered, suntanned, he was wearing his dark blue uniform. In one hand he held his cap, in the other a black leather bag with broad straps. He had blond hair with long sideburns and a tousled fringe, and his bushy eyebrows frowned threateningly. Thrusting forward his chin he gave them a cold, blue look. 'Well, and what kind of reception committee is this?' he asked.

'District Attorney Olsson would like to have a little talk with you, if you'd be so kind as to accompany us to Kungsholmsgatan...' one of the policemen said.

Roos said: 'Is he mad? I was there only two weeks ago, and I've nothing more to add today to what I said then.'

'Okay, okay,' said the older of the two. 'You'll have to talk to him about that, we're only following instructions.'

Roos shrugged his shoulders in annoyance and started walking towards the exit. When they got to the car he said: 'And you'll d.a.m.n well have to drive me home to Marsta first, so I can change my clothes. You know the address.' Then he sat down in the back seat with a grim look on his face and his arms crossed over his chest The younger policeman, who was driving, protested at being ordered about like a cab driver; but his colleague calmed him down and gave him the Marsta address.

Following Roos up to his flat, they waited in the hall while he changed into light grey trousers, a turtleneck sweater, and a suede jacket. Then they drove back to Stockholm and the police station on Kungsholmsgatan, where they escorted him to the room in which Bulldozer Olsson was waiting.

As the door opened Bulldozer sprang up from his chair, dismissed the two plaindothesmen with a wave of his hand, and drew up a chair for Werner Roos. Then, settling down behind the desk, he said cheerfully: 'Well, Mr Roos, and who would have thought we'd meet again so soon!'

'You, I suppose,' said Roos. 'Really it's not my fault I'd like to know what reason you may have for arresting me this time.'

'Oh, don't let's take it all so seriously, Mr Roos. We could say I want a little information from you. At least to start with.'

'I also regard it as unnecessary to send out your henchmen to bring me from my place of work. Besides which I might very well at this moment have had a flight, and I've really no desire to lose my job just because it suddenly amuses you to sit there talking nonsense to me.'

'Don't take it so hard I know you're off duty for forty-eight hours, Mr Roos. Isn't that so? So we've plenty of time, and there's no harm done,' Bulldozer said amiably.

'You can't keep me here for more than six hours,' said Werner Roos, glancing at his watch.

'Twelve, Mr Roos. Even longer, if circ.u.mstances demand it'

'In that case would you be so kind, Mr District Attorney, as to tell me what I'm suspected of,' Werner Roos said arrogantly.

Bulldozer extended a pack of Prince cigarettes to Roos, who scornfully shook his head and took a pack of Benson & Hedges out of his pocket He lit his cigarette with a gold-plated Dunhill lighter and waited while Bulldozer Olsson struck a match and lit his own filter cigarette.

'As yet I haven't said I suspect you of anything, Mr Roos,' he said, pushing forward the ashtray. 'It was merely my intention we should have a little talk about this job of last Friday.'

'Job? What job?' said Werner Roos, pretending to look mystified.

'At that bank on Hornsgatan. A successful job, in so far as ninety thousand is a tidy sum, but less successful at least for the bank customer who unfortunately got shot,' said Bulldozer Olsson dryly.

Werner Roos stared at him in amazement. Slowly he shook his head. 'Now you're really out on a limb,' he said. 'Last Friday, did you say?'

'Exactly,' said Bulldozer. 'At which time you, Mr Roos, were of course on your travels. Flying, I should say. Where were we last Friday, then?' Bulldozer Olsson leaned back in his chair and looked at Werner Roos in amus.e.m.e.nt 'Where you were last Friday, Mr Olsson, I do not know. For my part I was in Lisbon. You're welcome to check with the airline. We landed in Lisbon at 14.45 hours, after being delayed ten minutes. At 9.10 on Sat.u.r.day morning we took off and arrived at Arlanda at 15.30. Last Friday I had dinner and slept at the Hotel Tivoli, another fact you're welcome to check up on.' Werner Roos, too, sat back in his chair and looked triumphantly at Bulldozer, who was beaming with delight.

'Pretty!' he said. 'A very pretty alibi indeed, Mr Roos.' Leaning forward, he stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray and went on maliciously: 'But surely Messrs. Malmstrom and Mohren weren't in Lisbon, were they?'

'What the h.e.l.l should they be in Lisbon for? Anyway, it isn't my business to keep track of what Malmstrom and Mohren may be up to.'

'Isn't it, Mr Roos?'

'No, as I've told you many times before. And as far as this job of last Friday is concerned, I haven't even had time to read the Swedish newspapers these last few days, so I know nothing whatever about any bank robbery.'

'Then I can inform you, Mr Roos, that the job was carried out at closing time by someone who, disguised as a woman, first appropriated ninety thousand kronor in cash, then shot down a man who was a client of the bank, and then fled from the scene in a Renault. This shooting business of course places the crime in quite another category, as you, Mr Roos, will appreciate.'

'What I don't understand is how I am supposed to have had anything to do with all this,' Roos said irritably.

'Mr Roos, when did you last meet our friends Malmstrom and Mohren?' Bulldozer enquired.

'I told you that last time, didn't I? I haven't seen them since.'

'And you've no idea of their whereabouts?'

'None. All I know about them is what you've just been telling me. I've not seen them since before they were put away in k.u.mla.'

Bulldozer gave Werner Roos a straight look, then wrote something down on a pad in front of him, closed it, and got up.

'Oh well,' he said nonchalantly. 'That shouldn't be so hard to find out' He went over to the window and lowered the blinds against the afternoon sun, which had begun to shine into the room.

Werner Roos waited until he had sat down again. Then he said: 'This much I can say, anyway. If there was any shooting involved, then Malmstrom and Mohren weren't mixed up in it. They're not that stupid.'

'It's possible Malmstrom and Mohren wouldn't start shooting; but that doesn't rule out their being mixed up in it - like sitting outside in the getaway car, for example. Eh?'

Roos shrugged his shoulders and glared at the floor, his chin buried firmly in the collar of his sweater.

'Moreover, it's not beyond the bounds of possibility that they used a companion, a female companion maybe,' Bulldozer went on enthusiastically. 'It's a possibility we must take into account, yes. Wasn't it Malmstrom's fiancee who was in on that job they were put away for last time?' He snapped his fingers in the air. 'Gunilla Bergstrom, yes! She got one and a half years, so we know where we have her,' he said.

Roos glanced at him without raising his head.

'She hasn't escaped yet,' Bulldozer explained parenthetically. 'But there are plenty of other girls, and obviously these gentlemen have nothing against female accomplices. Or what do you say, Mr Roos?'

Again Werner Roos shrugged his shoulders, straightening his back. 'Hmm, what should I say?' he said indifferently. 'After all, it's no concern of mine.'

'No, of course not,' said Bulldozer, nodding thoughtfully, his eyes on Roos. Then he leaned forward and laid the palms of his hands before him on the desk top. 'So you maintain you haven't met Malmstrom and Mohren or even heard from them in the last six months?'

'Yes, I do,' said Werner Roos. 'As I've said before, I'm not responsible for anything they may be up to. We've known each other since secondary school, we never denied that. Since then we've gone around together from time to time, that's something else I've never tried to conceal. But that doesn't mean we b.u.mp into each other every quarter of an hour or that they tell me where they're going or what they're up to. I'm the first to be sorry if they've gone off the rails, but as to any criminal activities, I've nothing to do with them. And as I've said before, I'd be glad to help them back on to the straight and narrow path. But anyway, it's a long time since I ran into them.'

'You do realize, Mr Roos, that what you're saying could become extremely incriminating and that you may also find yourself in a highly suspect position if it turns out that you've been in touch with these two?'

'I can't see why.'

Bulldozer smiled at him amiably. 'Oh yes, I'm sure you can!' He banged his palms down on the desk and got up. 'Now I've some other matters to see to,' he said.'We'll have to interrupt our talk and resume it a little later. If you'll excuse me, Mr Roos?' Bulldozer walked briskly out of the room, throwing a glance at Werner Roos before closing the door behind him.

Roos had struck him as being very troubled and disconcerted. Bulldozer rubbed his hands together in delight as he hurried off down the corridor.

After the door had closed behind Bulldozer Olsson, Werner Roos got up, drifted over to the window, and peered out through the Venetian blinds, whistling slowly and melodiously to himself. Then he glanced at his Rolex, frowned, quickly went over to Bulldozer's chair, and sat down. Drawing the telephone towards him, he lifted the receiver and dialled a number. While he was waiting he opened the drawers of the desk and looked through them one by one.

Someone answered and Roos said: 'Hi, kid, it's me. Look, can we meet a little later this evening, instead? I've got to have a talk with a guy, and it may take a couple of hours'

Roos took a pen marked 'state property' out of a drawer and picked his other ear with it as he listened. 'Fine,' he said, 'and then we'll go out and eat. I'm hungry as h.e.l.l.' He scrutinized the pen, tossed it back, and shut the drawer. 'No, I'm in the bar now. It's a kind of hotel; but the grub's lousy here, so I'll wait and eat when we meet Seven, okay? Good, then I'll pick you up at seven. So long for now.'

Roos put down the receiver, got up, thrust his hands in his trouser pockets, and started to saunter around the room - whistling.

Bulldozer went in to Gunvald Larsson. 'I've got Roos here now,' he said.

Well, where was he last Friday, then? Was he in Kuala Lumpur or Singapore?'

'In Lisbon,' Bulldozer said delightedly. 'He's certainly got himself the perfect cover job for a gangster. Who else could come up with such fantastic alibis?'

'What else did he have to say?'

'Nothing. He knows nothing at all. Anyway nothing about the bank robbery, and he hasn't met Malmstrom and Mohren for ages. He's slippery as an eel, crafty as a crayfish, and flies as fast as a horse can trot'

'In other words he's a travelling menagerie,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Well, what are you going to do with him?'

Bulldozer sat down in the chair in front of Gunvald Larsson. 'I intend to let him go,' he said. 'And I intend to have him shadowed. Can you get someone to shadow Roos, someone he won't recognize?'

'Where's he got to be shadowed to? Honolulu? In that case I'll volunteer myself.'

'I'm serious,' said Bulldozer.

Gunvald Larsson sighed. 'I guess I'll have to arrange it,' he said. 'When's he to begin?'

'Now,' said Bulldozer. 'I'll let Roos go at once. He's off duty until Thursday afternoon, and before then he'll have shown us where Malmstrom and Mohren are hiding out, just so long as we don't let him out of our sight'

'Thursday afternoon,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Then we'll need at least two men who can relieve each other.'

'And they'll have to be d.a.m.ned good at shadowing,' said Bulldozer. 'He mustn't notice anything, or all will be lost'

'Give me fifteen minutes,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'I'll call you when it's all fixed.'