Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 8

'But there are limits Mauritzon said. 'Haven't I got you everything, for G.o.d's sake? Apartments, cars, pa.s.sports, tickets. But crayfish! Not even the king could fix himself some crayfish in July.'

'I suppose not Mohren said. 'But what do you think they're doing out at Harpsund? The whole b.l.o.o.d.y government's probably sitting there gulping down crayfish. Palme, and Geijer, and Calle P. - the whole bunch of them. No, we're not accepting such excuses.'

'As for that shaving lotion, it just doesn't exist,' Mauritzon said hastily. 'I've been rushing around town like a poisoned rat, but no one's heard of it for several years now.'

Malmstrom's countenance darkened noticeably.

'But I've fixed everything else,' Mauritzon went on. 'And here's today's post'

He brought out a brown unaddressed envelope and handed it to Mohren, who stuffed it indifferently into his hip pocket This Mauritzon was a completely different sort to the others. A man in his forties, shorter than average, slim and well built, he was clean-shaven and had short blond hair. Most people, especially women, thought he seemed nice. His way of dressing and behaving suggested moderation in all things, and he was not remarkable in any way. As a type, he could have been called ordinary and was therefore difficult to remember or notice. All this had stood him in good stead. He hadn't been inside for several years, and at the moment he was neither wanted nor even under surveillance.

He had three different lines of business, all profitable: drugs, p.o.r.nography, and procurement. As a businessman he was efficient, energetic, and markedly systematic. Thanks to an apparently well-meaning law, p.o.r.nography of every conceivable form could now be produced perfectly legally and imported in unlimited quant.i.ties for re-export - mainly to Spain and Italy, where it sold at a good profit His other line was smuggling, mainly amphetamines and other drugs, but he also accepted orders for weapons.

In inside circles Mauritzon was regarded as a man who could fix anything. A rumour was even doing the rounds that he'd managed to smuggle in a couple of elephants he'd received from an Arabian sheik in part payment for two fourteen-year-old Finnish virgins and a drawerful of trick condoms. Moreover, the virgins were said to have been bogus - their maidenheads being a mixture of plastic and Karlsson's glue - and the elephants white. Unfortunately, there was no truth to this story.

'New shoulder holsters too?' Malmstrom asked.

'They're lying at the bottom of the food bag. May I ask what was wrong with the old ones?'

'Useless,' Malmstrom said.

'Utterly worthless,' Mohren said. Where did you get them?' 'Police Supply Division. These new ones are Italian.' 'Sounds better,' said Malmstrom. 'Will there be anything else?' 'Yeah, here's the list.'

Glancing at it fleetingly, Mauritzon reeled off: 'One dozen pairs of briefs, fifteen pairs of nylon socks, six fishnet vests, a pound of black caviar, four Donald Duck rubber masks, two packets of nine-millimetre automatic ammunition, six pairs of rubber gloves, preserved Appenzeller cheese, one jar of c.o.c.ktail onions, cotton wool, one astrolabe... what in Christ's name is that?'

'An instrument for measuring the alt.i.tude of stars,' Mohren said. 'I expect you'll have to look around in the antique shops.'

'I see. I'll do my best'

'Exacdy,' said Malmstrom.

'Nothing else you want?'

Mohren shook his head, but Malmstrom frowned thoughtfully and said: 'Yes, foot spray.' 'Any particular kind?' 'The most expensive.' 'I see. No ladies?'

No, one answered, a silence which Mauritzon interpreted as hesitation.

'I can fix you up with any sort you want. It's not good for you guys sitting here every evening like a pair of owls. A couple of lively ladies would speed up your metabolism.'

'My metabolism's just fine,' Mohren said. 'And the only ladies I could think of are distinct security risks. No plastic hymens for me, thank you.'

'Come off it, there's loads of crazy chicks who'd be more than pleased to...'

'I take that as a direct insult,' Mohren said. 'No, and again no.' Malmstrom, however, still appeared to waver. 'Though...' 'Yes?'

'This so-called a.s.sistant of yours, I'll bet she knows what she's doing.' He made a deprecatory gesture.

Mauritzon said: 'Monita? She's not your type, I'm sure. Not pretty or particularly good at it. General standard calibre. My tastes are simple when it comes to women. In a word, she's just average.'

'If you say so,' said Malmstrom, disappointed. 'Besides which she's gone away. She has a sister she visits now and then.'

'So that's that,' Mohren said. 'There's a time for everything, and the days are close at hand when...'

'What days?' said Malmstrom, mystified.

'The days when we shall once more be able to satisfy our l.u.s.ts in a dignified manner and choose our own company. I hereby declare this meeting closed. Adjourned until the same time tomorrow.'

'Okay,' Mauritzon said. 'Let me out, then.'

'Just one more thing.'

'What's that?'

What d'you call yourself nowadays?' 'The usual. Lennart Holm.'

'Just in case anything should happen, and we need to get hold of you quick.'

'You know where I hang out.'

'And I'm still waiting for those crayfish.'

Mauritzon shrugged and left.

'd.a.m.n sonofab.i.t.c.h,' Malmstrom said.

'What was that? Don't you appreciate our trusty chum?'

'He smells of armpits,' Malmstrom said condemningly.

'Mauritzon's a skunk,' Mohren said. 'I don't care for his activities. Oh no, I don't mean him running errands for us, naturally. But this giving dope to kids and selling p.o.r.nography to illiterate Catholics. It's dishonourable.'

'I don't trust him,' Malmstrom said.

Mohren had taken the brown envelope out of his pocket and was scrutinizing it closely. 'What's more, my friend,' he said, 'you're right The guy's useful but not wholly reliable. Look, today he's opened this letter again. Wonder how he manages to get it unstuck? Some refined way of steaming it, I expect. If Roos didn't use this hair trick no one'd notice someone'd been messing about with the envelope. Considering what we're paying him it's really unjustifiable. Why's he so inquisitive?'

'He's a louse,' Malmstrom said. 'It's as simple as that'

'I suppose so.'

'How many grand has he had off us since we started working?'

'About a hundred and fifty. Though of course he's had considerable expenses: weapons, cars, travel, and so forth. And then there's a certain amount of risk involved.'

'The h.e.l.l there is,' Malmstrom said. 'No one except Roos even knows we know him.'

'And there's that woman with a name like a steamboat'

'Imagine him trying to palm off that ghost on me,' Malmstrom said indignantly. 'It's obvious she's hardly up to it at all, and she probably hasn't washed since yesterday.'

'Though to be objective, you're not being quite fair,' Mohren objected. 'Factum est, he gave you ah honest declaration of the nature of the goods.'

'Est?'

'And as far as the hygienic details go you could easily have disinfected her first.'

'The h.e.l.l I could'

Mohren extracted three sheets of paper from the envelope and laid them down on the table before him. 'Eureka!' he cried. 'Eh? What?'

'Here's what we've been waiting for, my lad. Come and take a look.'

'I'll just wash up first,' Malmstrom said, disappearing into the bathroom.

After ten minutes he was back. Mohren rubbed his hands gleefully.

Well?'said Malmstrom.

'Everything seems to be in order. Here's the plan. Perfect. And here are all the timings. Exact down to the last detail' What about Hauser and Hoff, then?' 'Coming tomorrow. Read this.' Malmstrom read. Mohren burst: out laughing. 'Whatre you laughing at?'

'The codes. "Jean's got a long moustache," for example. Do you know where he got it from and what it meant originally?' 'Search me.'

'Oh well, it doesn't matter.'

'Does it say two and a half million?'

'Without a doubt!'

'Net?'

'Right All the expenses have already been calculated.' 'Minus twenty-five per cent for Roos?' 'Precisely. We'll get exactly one million each.' 'How much does this Mauritzon fathead know, then?' 'Not much - except the timings, of course.' 'When's it to be?'

'Friday, 14.45. But it doesn't say which Friday.' 'But the street names are here too,' Malmstrom said. 'Forget Mauritzon,' Mohren said calmly. 'Do you see what's written down here at the bottom?'

"Yeah: You don't happen to remember what it means, do you?'

'Of course,' said Malmstrom. 'Of course I do. And that puts a different complexion on things, naturally.'

'That's what I think, too,' said Mohren. 'Jesus, how I long for those crayfish.'

15.

Hoff and Hauser were two German gangsters whom Malmstrom and Mohren had employed in the course of their business trip to Frankfurt. Both came highly recommended, and indeed the whole matter could perfectly well have been negotiated by post. Malmstrom and Mohren, however, were as scrupulous as their plans were careful, and their German trip had been partially motivated by a desire to see what their prospective a.s.sistants looked like.

The meeting had taken place in early June. They contacted Hauser in the Magnolia Bar. Afterwards he introduced them to Hoff.

The Magnolia Bar, in downtown Frankfurt, was small and dark. The orange-coloured lighting seeped out from concealed fixtures; the walls were violet, so was the wall-to-wall carpeting. The low armchairs, grouped around a few small circular plexigla.s.s tables, were pinkish. There was a semicircular bar of polished bra.s.s, the music was soft, the barmaids blonde, pert-bosomed, and decollete, and the drinks expensive.

Malmstrom and Mohren settled down in a pink armchair by the only free table in the place, which, though it contained no more than a score of customers, seemed full to bursting point.

The fair s.e.x was represented by the two blondes behind the counter. All the clients were male.

Coming up to them, the barmaid leaned over their table and gave them a glimpse of her large pink nipples and a whiff of her none-too-pleasant odour of sweat and perfume. After Malmstrom had got his gimlet and Mohren his Chivas without ice, they looked around for Hauser. They'd no idea what he looked like, though they knew he had a reputation as a tough customer.

Malmstrom caught sight of him first. He was standing at the far end of the bar, a long thin cigarillo in one corner of his mouth and a gla.s.s of whisky in his hand. Tall, slim, broad-shouldered, he was wearing a sandy-coloured suede suit. He had thick sideburns and his dark hair, thinning slightly at the crown, curled in at the nape of his neck. Leaning nonchalantly over the counter, he said something to the barmaid who, in a brief pause, came over and talked to him. He was strikingly like Sean Connery. The blonde gazed admiringly at him and giggled affectedly. Cupping her hand under the cigarillo that was glued between his lips, she tapped it lightly with her finger, and the long column of ash dropped into her hand. A gesture he pretended not to notice. After a while he swigged down his whisky and was instantly given another. His face was impa.s.sive, and the steely blue gaze was aimed at some point above and beyond the girl's bleached tresses. He did not so much as deign to graze her with his eyes. He just stood there looking as stony and tough as they'd heard he was. Even Mohren was slightly impressed. They waited until he should look their way.

A small square man in an ill-fitting grey suit, a white nylon shirt, and wine-red tie came and sat down in the third armchair at their table. His face was round and rosy, behind thick rimless lenses his eyes were large and china blue, and his wavy hair was cut short and parted neatly on one side.

Malmstrom and Mohren glanced at him indifferently and went on observing the James Bond character at the bar.

After a while the newcomer said something in a low voice, and it was some time before they realized he'd addressed them - still longer before it occurred to them that it was this cherubic person, not the tough over at the bar, who was Gustav Hauser.

A while later they left the Magnolia Bar.

Dumbfounded, Malmstrom and Mohren followed Hauser who, dressed in a full-length dark green leather coat and a Tyrolean hat, marched on ahead of them, leading the way to Hoff's flat.

Hoff was a cheerful man in his thirties. He received them into his family circle, which consisted of his wife, two children, and a dachshund. Later that evening the four men went out and had supper together and talked about their common interests. Both Hoff and Hauser turned out to be particularly experienced in this line of business, and each possessed specialised knowledge in several useful fields. Moreover, having just been released after serving a four-year sentence, they were in a hurry to get back to work.

After three days together with their new companions, Malmstrom and Mohren went home again to continue their preparations for the big coup. The Germans promised to hold themselves ready and to be on the spot when the time came.

On Thursday, 6th July, they were to be on location. They arrived in Sweden that Wednesday.

Hauser took the morning ferry over to Limhamn from Dragr in his car; It had been agreed he should collect Hoff from Skeppsbron when the latter arrived by one of the oresund Company's boats at noon.

Hoff had never been in Sweden before and was not even familiar with the appearance of a Swedish policeman. This, perhaps, explained his slightly confused and ill-mannered way of entering the country. As he walked down the gangway from the Absalom a uniformed customs officer approached him. Hoff immediately jumped to the conclusion that this man in uniform was a policeman, that something had gone wrong, and that they'd come to arrest him.

At the same moment he saw Hauser sitting in his car on the other side of the street, waiting for him with the engine running. In a panic Hoff pulled out his pistol and pointed it at the astonished customs official, who had been on his way to meet his fiancee, a young lady who, conveniently enough, worked in the Absalom's cafeteria. Before he or anyone else had time to do anything, Hoff had leapt over the barrier between the dock area and the pavement, dashed between a couple of cabs, jumped over yet another barrier, slipped in between two long-distance lorries, and, pistol drawn, flung himself into Hauser's car.

Seeing Hoff rushing over towards him, Hauser had wrenched the door open, and the car was already moving before he got there. Then Hoff jammed his foot down on the accelerator and vanished around the corner before it occurred to anyone to note the car's licence number. He went on driving until he was sure no one was going to stop or follow him.

16.

Good and bad luck, it is said, tend to balance each other out, so that one person's ill luck turns out to be another's good luck, and vice versa.

Mauritzon was a man who did not regard himself as able to afford either and who therefore rarely left anything to chance. All his operations were characterized by a double security system, devised by himself, which guaranteed that only the most improbable combinations of various items of bad luck could precipitate a disaster.

Professional setbacks, of course, did occur at regular intervals, but they were only financial. Thus, some weeks earlier, an unusually incorruptible Italian lieutenant of Carabinieri had placed an embargo on a long-distance lorry load of p.o.r.nography; but for any detective to trace it back to Mauritzon, in person, was impossible.