by Per Wahlöö
“What in God’s name did you shoot him with? An elephant gun.”
“Ordinary .45,” said Frankenheimer. “Five shots.”
“Must have all hit him in the same spot.”
“One’s a little high,” said Frankenheimer. “The one in the neck. The last one, I guess.”
He was standing by the desk, busy with his revolver; he had emptied the chamber and was reloading.
“The woman is alive,” said the doctor. “Get the stretcher quickly. Get a move on over there.”
“Will she make it?”
“Should think so. She’s lost a good deal of blood. Fracture of the skull, perhaps. Hard to say as yet.”
“It looks as if he clouted her with the gun butt,” said Frankenheimer.
“And you were standing out on the ledge?” said Behounek. “Do you always stand there?”
“Well, in spells, shall we say. It’s like this. There’s a pillar just to the left of the window. You get there through an opening in the linen closet on the second staircase. Good place, if I may say so myself, real good place. Yes. We put up two small mirrors there. One can’t exactly see them from the inside.”
Behounek no longer seemed to be listening.
“Brown,” he said, “turn that poor devil over.”
“I’m alive,” said Manuel Ortega, loudly and distinctly.
“Oh, Jesus Christ,” said the Chief of Police, making a sign of the cross.
“I still don’t understand how he got in,” said López.
“No,” said Behounek, “you don’t.”
“With López, it’s always the same—he has to reconstruct everything,” said Frankenheimer.
“Oh yes. This I can explain to you. This boy knows the building better than anyone else. Knew it, I mean. He had almost certainly crept up through every ventilation shaft and every fire escape in the place. And he also had access to all the keys.”
“Well, he must have come in some peculiar way,” said Frankenheimer.
“It’s possible. He’s played here since he was four years old.”
Manuel rose from the chair and went over to the Chief of Police. He walked steadily and calmly and his eyes were shining.
Behounek looked at him.
“Shock,” said the doctor. “I’ll give him an injection in a minute. Then we’ll put him to bed.”
Manuel took hold of Behounek’s arm and looked down at the youngster on the floor. Again he saw the pale narrow face and the hair which was still smooth and black and well brushed. But the face was no longer tense and exalted; the features seemed to have relaxed and now they were simply childish. One of Frankenheimer’s bullets had passed clean through the neck; the wound showed above the white collar, but there was not much blood around it. In the buttonhole of the elegant jacket sat a little yellow rosette with a cockade and the initials of the Citizens’ Guard.
“Who is he?” said Manuel Ortega, and he heard his own voice echo in the crystal-clear white air.
“His name is Pedro,” said Behounek. “Pedro Orbal, Colonel Orbal’s son. He’s sixteen years old and should be at school at this time of day.”
Frankenheimer had put away his revolver. He buttoned up his sagging linen jacket, walked over to the wall, and picked up the black gun that had been left lying on the floor. He looked at it and mumbled absent-mindedly: “Nine-millimeter Browning. Ordinary army issue. Not fired.”
“Oh yes,” said López.
“This is going to be nice,” said Behounek. “Very nice.”
The room was quite strange to him. So were the bed, the nightshirt, and the whirring noise. It was not a big room but it was clean and neat, with white walls and a light globe in the ceiling. There was no carpet on the floor and only a little furniture: a chest of drawers, a chair, and a small desk. The shutters were closed and in the grayish half light he saw that the noise came from a ventilation cylinder with a built-in fan. It was on the wall, level with the end of the bed, and despite the heat, the air seemed clean and fresh. He was not even sweating.
When he turned on his side he found his watch, cigarettes, and glasses lying on the bedside table. The Astra was there too and when he saw it he felt a jab in his chest and began to remember.
Half a minute later he was soaked with sweat and his hand shook as he reached out for his watch.
It was half past eight and it must have been morning. Everything seemed very still and he could not make out any noise from outside.
“Fernández!” he called.
Nothing happened and he called again twice, his voice hoarse and raucous.
Then he thought he ought to get up. He threw off the sheet and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. He sat with his feet on the warm floor and tried to think. It did not work very well.
His throat was dry and he drank a glass of lukewarm water which had been standing on the bedside table. He looked at the Astra and the cigarettes and the glasses and could grasp nothing at all.
Manuel Ortega sat there and was afraid of a white enamel iron bedstead in a strange room. He was unshaven and wore a cotton nightshirt which came down to his knees. His eyes flickered uncertainly.
The door opened and Captain Behounek came in. He looked as if he had just got up and smelled of shaving lotion and toothpaste. He put his cap down on the desk, flung open the shutters, and turned the fan down.
“Good morning,” he said cheerfully.
“Where’s Fernández?”
“I sent him home yesterday, him and Frankenheimer and the other two. You don’t need them any longer. And yesterday was convenient too, as there was a convoy going north.”
He sat down in the only chair in the room and looked cheerfully at the man in the nightshirt.
“I must say you don’t look so good, but things’ll soon be better. No, don’t say anything. I’ll explain first, otherwise it’ll all be so long-winded. It’s Sunday today and it’s a quarter to nine in the morning. Yesterday was Saturday and you slept all day. You were awake for a while but I’m sure you don’t remember it. We gave you an injection and you went to sleep again. You’re in the officers’ quarters at the police station, in other words with me. I have the room next door and Lieutenant Brown had this room until the day before yesterday. I’ve arranged for you to have an office in our administrative block and I’ve had all your papers and belongings moved here. I won’t take the responsibility of having you over there any longer. And we’ve also got quite a bit to talk about. You had a severe shock at the shooting on Friday and you seem to have been overtaxing yourself before that too. Our doctor says that you should feel a lot better today. He also says I shouldn’t mention the shooting when I talk to you, but I won’t bother about that. We must be able to talk to each other. Your secretary …”
“Danica?”
“Yes, her. I don’t know whether you remember that she was knocked unconscious at the time?”
Manuel Ortega nodded. He remembered. He remembered every detail he had seen in the clear white light and he also remembered that he had seen her lying on the floor and that all the time he had thought she was dead or dying and that he had not even minded.
“Well, she’s not in much danger. Concussion and a hole in her head. She’s in the military hospital and I gather she can leave the day after tomorrow or thereabouts. She sent a letter to you, by the way. And there’s another letter for you too which came on the mail helicopter from the capital yesterday morning. And an official cable. They’re all here on the desk.”
Manuel frowned.
“And the conference?”
“Going according to plan. I’ve been in contact with both Ellerman and Dalgren and the person in charge at Mercadal.”
He looked at his watch.
“May I suggest that you get up and get ready now? The shower and lavatory are on the other side of the corridor. I’ll come and get you in half an hour. Then we’ll have a talk which unfortunately may well be less pleasant.”
“Is there anyone on guard outsid
e?”
“No. No need. You’re quite safe here. And your position isn’t so tricky any longer either. People think differently about you now. And the shooting has made the right-wing activists halt in their tracks. In fact it’s quite calm everywhere. The truce is being honored.”
When Behounek had gone. Manuel Ortega opened the door a little and peered out. The corridor was empty but nevertheless he wound a towel around the Astra and took it with him when he went to shower and shave.
Manuel had time to go through his letters before the Chief of Police came back.
The cable was from the capital and ran: CONGRATULATIONS STOP A VERY CLEVER AND DARING MOVE STOP BE CAUTIOUS NEXT FEW DAYS STOP IF NECESSARY SEEK PROTECTION FROM BEHOUNEK. ZAFORTEZA.
He read through the cable several times and shook his head in bewilderment. Then he looked at the time of dispatch. Friday, twelve o’clock, before the shooting. He put the cable in his pocket.
Then an airmail letter with Swedish stamps on it. His wife had typed four pages about absolutely nothing. It had been raining and the children were well. He skipped most of it. The letter came from a distant and incomprehensible world to which he could scarcely believe he had ever belonged. He shrugged his shoulders and threw the letter into the waste basket under the desk.
The other letter was in a white envelope marked with the official stamp of the military hospital. Along one of the sides was a gray label which read: CENSURA MILITAR.
Danica wrote:
“My friend. Thank heavens you are all right. I don’t remember a thing myself. Have a slight headache and a huge bandage and they tell me I may write a little. I like you. Can’t you come here and ask me how I am? Love. Danica.”
After “they tell me” there was the beginning of a sentence which had been crossed out. “Manuel, I think I’m beginning to be …”
He was still sitting with the letter in his hand when the Chief of Police came to get him. Manuel showed him Danica’s letter and took the cable out of his pocket.
“Of course you can go and see the girl,” said Behounek. “I’ll send a patrol with you.”
“Do you understand this then?”
Behounek looked briefly at the cable.
“Yes, indeed I do,” he said, and he laughed.
Then he said indifferently: “Just a compliment. They evidently appreciate your work. Come on down to my room now.”
Manuel felt as if everything were happening on the other side of a glass wall. A veil seemed to hang between himself and reality. Everything he saw and heard was in some way smothered, and not even here in the corridor at police headquarters and a few feet from the Chief of Police could he rid himself of his timidity and fear.
In the vestibule Lieutenant Brown came forward with some papers. Behounek stopped and said: “Go on in and sit down for the time being, Ortega. I’ll be with you in a moment.”
Manuel opened the door and started back as if he had been struck. There was someone already in there. Not until he saw that the person seemed not to have even noticed him could he bring himself to step inside, his heart thumping.
The man was perhaps fifty-five, and was wearing polished black shoes and a dark, well-pressed suit. He was rather small, had gray hair and a gray mustache, and his thin face was sunburned and furrowed. He was leaning forward with his hands on the window sill and seemed troubled by the sun streaming through the windowpane. Outside there was a concrete yard and a couple of policemen loading ammunition boxes onto a jeep with a canvas top.
The man by the window was not looking out, however. Probably he could see nothing at all. He was weeping, silently but unrestrainedly. His shoulders were shaking and the tears poured down his cheeks.
Manuel took an uncertain step toward the window but then stopped. The man took no notice of him and seemed unaware of the fact that there was anyone else in the room. Manuel went over to the map and looked at the colored pins for a while. He searched for Mercadal; there were eight white pins there.
Behounek came in and carefully shut the door behind him. The man by the window did not move. The Chief of Police cleared his throat and said: “Well, I don’t believe you two gentlemen have met before, have you?”
The man turned around. He was still weeping and his friendly brown eyes were glistening and inflamed.
“May I introduce Don Manuel Ortega, the Provincial Resident, and Colonel Joaquín Orbal, Deputy Military Governor and Chief of Staff of the Fifth Military Command.”
Manuel had already taken two steps forward and stretched out his hand. Now he stopped hesitantly. Colonel Orbal took a black silk handkerchief out of his breast pocket and wiped his eyes and cheeks. Then he shook hands with Manuel, briefly and firmly.
“Let’s not make this meeting any more painful than it already is,” he said. “The fact that I cannot hide my feelings and grief must not influence you. But Pedro was my only child …”
He took out his handkerchief again and discreetly blew his nose.
“To you, Señor Resident, I must apologize on my son’s behalf. A terrible mistake has been made and the consequences are no less fearful. However, my son was not alone in his misjudgment of your intentions. Many were guilty of the same failure and the overwhelming majority have not yet grasped the motives behind your action.”
“Just as well,” put in Behounek mildly.
“Well, anyhow, I must beg forgiveness and Pedro has already forfeited his life …”
Manuel Ortega had at last succeeded in formulating something to say.
“I hope that you don’t for one moment doubt that I am wholly without conscious blame for what happened.”
“Gentlemen,” said Behounek. “There’s been a catastrophe. No one can be blamed for what has happened. No one could have prevented or influenced the actual course of events. I think that any further discussion of the matter will only cause unnecessary pain.”
He clasped his hands behind his back and swayed backward and forward on his heels and toes. Then he said: “We can look on this meeting as a pure formality and as an official contact in connection with the coming negotiations. The conference is to be led by you, sir, as Resident, while you, Colonel Orbal, will be the chairman of the Citizens’ Guard delegation. To introduce more detailed considerations at this time would be inopportune.”
Colonel Orbal nodded absent-mindedly and returned to his place by the window. Without turning around he said: “How many people have been killed here in the last two years?”
“About five thousand.”
“And all this comes from the same evil seed, from the same little clique of incorrigible fanatics. We must smash them. We must smash the rats.”
“Yes,” said Behounek. “We’re going to smash them.”
Colonel Orbal turned with a jerk and stared at Manuel Ortega.
“I was just standing there and thinking about a strange little detail,” he said. “If you were dead, then my son would be alive. I was standing there wishing you were dead. So far as I know, I have never before wished for the death of anyone, apart from enemies of my country in my capacity as a soldier.”
He shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” he said, “truth is strange. Life for a life. Now I’ll go back home. My wife is suffering terribly from the grief which has overtaken us. You can contact me there then. Good morning, sirs.”
Manuel Ortega thought: Colonel Orbal. Leader of the extreme right wing. Organizer of terror. The protector of the blasting details. A gray old man who wept.
“Oh well,” said Behounek, “that went off more painlessly than I had dared hope.”
Manuel looked at him. The veil was still there, making everything incomprehensible and unattainable. Behounek took out a cigar, bit off the end, and said: “I’m going on a trip around town now. D’you want to come too?”
Manuel shook his head.
“No. I’d rather stay here.”
“You can feel quite safe with me. At least, as safe as I feel myself. I’m going to see Dalgr
en.”
“Dalgren has as little interest in meeting me as I have in meeting him.”
“You’re wrong. His attitude had changed radically. When he saw the stand that the Ministry of the Interior has taken, he, like the rest of the inner circle, realized that publishing Larrinaga’s idiotic proclamation was a trick to win the confidence of the Communists and to persuade them to agree to the conference.”
“But it’s not like that,” said Manuel. “I’ve never thought of it in that way at all.”
“I know that,” said Behounek drily. “But so far I’m about the only one who does.”
He went to the door and put on his cap.
“You won’t come?”
“No.”
“You daren’t?”
“No.”
“I understand.”
He stopped, as if he had just thought of something else, and said: “But I know what you can do instead. Go up to the hospital and see your little friend with the beautiful feet.”
Manuel shook his head.
“Silly,” said Behounek: “You’ll have three policemen and a covered jeep with you. It’s four minutes away and the town is virtually empty. I’ll go and order a car. It’ll be outside in five minutes.”
He left.
As the white jeep passed the sentries, Manuel Ortega was seized with panic. He broke out in a cold sweat and hunched down, trying to press himself as far into the corner as possible. The policeman looked at him in astonishment. He could feel the Astra against his ribs, but it made no difference. It had already failed him once and could no longer give him an illusion of safety.
Danica Rodríguez was lying in the officers’ department, in a small air-conditioned room with white walls. Two of the policemen went with him to the door, but stayed outside, as did the nun who had shown them the way and unlocked the door.
The woman in the bed looked pale and thin and her lips were dry and split. She no longer had a bandage around her head, but they had shaved off some of the hair from her scalp and put on a dressing. Her eyes were large and dark gray and serious.
Manuel sat down on the edge of the bed. After a moment’s hesitation, he kissed her on the forehead and said: “Hello. How are you?”
