by Maj Sjowall
'He hasn't been to either place. We've done a little investigating. He had written a letter from Sweden to the curator of the museum, a Dr. Sos, but did not look him up. We've also talked to Papp's mother. She had never heard of Matsson's name and Papp himself is not even in town."
'Is his luggage still in his hotel room?"
'His possessions are at the hotel. Not in his room. He had reserved a room for three nights only. The hotel management retained it at our request, then moved his luggage into the office. Out here. Behind the reception desk. In fact, it wasn't even unpacked. We paid the bill."
The man sat in silence for a while, as if he were thinking something over. Then he said solemnly, "Naturally we're going to demand the amount back from his employers."
'Or his estate," said Martin Beck.
'Yes, if things turn out to be as bad as that."
'Where's his passport?"
'I have it here," said the man from the Embassy.
He unzipped his flat briefcase, took out the passport and handed it over, simultaneously taking his fountain pen out of his inside pocket.
'Here you are. Would you sign for it, please?"
Martin Beck signed. The man put away his pen and the receipt.
'Well, then. Is there anything else? Yes, of course, the hotel bill. You needn't worry about that. We've had instructions to cover your expenses. Rather unorthodox, I feel. Naturally you should have had daily expenses in the usual fashion. Well, if you need any cash, you can collect it at the Embassy."
'Thank you."
'Then I don't think there's anything else, is there? You can go through his possessions whenever you like. I've let them know."
The man got up.
'In fact you're occupying the same room that Matsson had," he said in passing. "It's 105, isn't it? If we hadn't insisted on the room remaining in Matsson's name, you would probably have had to stay at some other hotel. It's the height of the season."
Before they parted, Martin Beck said, "What do you personally think about this? Where's he gone?"
The man from the Embassy looked at him expression-lessly.
'If I think anything at all, I prefer to keep it to myself."
A moment later he added, "This thing is very unpleasant."
Martin Beck went up to his room. It had already been cleaned. He looked around. So Alf Matsson had stayed here, had he? For an hour, at the most. To expect any clues from his activities during that brief period would be demanding too much.
What had Alf Matsson done during that hour? Had he stood by the window like this, looking out at the boats? Perhaps. Had he seen somebody or something that made him leave the hotel so quickly he'd forgotten to hand in his key? Possibly. What would it have been, then? Impossible to say. If he'd been run over in the street, it would have been reported at once. If he had planned to jump into the river, he would have had to wait until dark. If he had tried to nurse his hangover with apricot brandy and had plunged into another drinking bout as a result, then he'd had sixteen days in which to sober up. That was a bit much. Anyway, he had not been in the habit of drinking while on an assignment. He was the modern type of journalist, it had said someplace in the report from the Third Division: quick, efficient and direct. He was the type who did the job first and relaxed afterward.
Unpleasant. Very unpleasant. Singularly unpleasant. Damned unpleasant. Blasted unpleasant. Almost painfully so.
Martin Beck lay down on the bed. It creaked magnificently. Gone were thoughts of Baron Conrad von Hötzendorf. Had it scrunched beneath Alf Matsson? Presumably. Was there anybody who didn't test the bed as soon as he stepped into a hotel room? So Matsson had lain here and looked up at the ceiling over twelve feet above. Then, without unpacking and without handing in his key, he had gone out… and disappeared. Had the telephone rung? With some startling news?
Martin Beck unfolded his map of Budapest and studied it at length. Then he was seized with an urge to perform some kind of duty, so he rose, put the map and his passport into his hip pocket and went down to inspect the luggage.
The porter was a somewhat stout, elderly man, friendly, dignified and admirably intelligible.
No, no one had phoned Mr. Matsson while Mr. Matsson was still in the hotel. Later, when Mr. Matsson had left, there had been several calls. They had been repeated the following days. Was it the same person who had phoned? No, several different people—the operator at the board was sure of that. Men? Both men and women, at least one woman. Had the people who phoned left any messages or telephone numbers? No, they had left no messages. They hadn't given their telephone numbers either. Later there had been calls from Stockholm and from the Swedish Embassy. Then, however, both messages and telephone numbers had been left. They were still here. Would Mr. Beck like to see them? No, Mr. Beck would not like to see them.
The luggage was indeed to be found in a room behind the reception desk. It was very easily inspected. A portable typewriter of the standard make Erika and a yellowish-brown pigskin suitcase with a strap around it. A calling card was fitted into the leather label dangling from the handle. Alf Matsson, Reporter, Fleminggatan 34, Stockholm K. The key was in the lock.
Martin Beck took the typewriter out of its case and studied it for a long time. Having come to the conclusion that it was a portable typewriter of the Erika make, he went over to the suitcase.
The bag appeared neatly and carefully packed, but all the same he had a feeling that someone with a practiced hand had been through it and put everything back into place. The contents consisted of a checked shirt, a brown sport shirt, a white poplin shirt with the laundry band still around it, a pair of freshly pressed light-blue trousers, a kind of blue cardigan, three handkerchiefs, four pairs of socks, two pairs of colored shorts, a fishnet undershirt and a pair of light-brown suede shoes. Everything was clean. In addition, a shaving kit, a sheaf of typing paper, a typewriter eraser, an electric razor, a novel and a dark-blue plastic wallet of the kind that travel agencies usually give away free and that aren't big enough for the tickets. In the shaving kit were shaving lotion, talcum powder, a cake of soap still in its wrapper, a tube of toothpaste that had been opened, a toothbrush, a bottle of mouthwash, a box of aspirin and a pack of contraceptives. In the dark-blue plastic wallet were $1500 in $20 bills and six Swedish 100-kronor notes. An astonishingly large sum for traveling money, but Alf Matsson seemed to be accustomed to doing things in a grand manner.
Martin Beck put everything back as nicely and neatly as possible and returned to the reception desk. It was noon and high time to go out. As he still didn't know what he should do, he might at least do it out in the fresh air—for instance, in the sun on the quay. He took his room key out of his pocket and looked at it. It looked just as old, as venerable and as solid as the hotel itself. He put it down on the desk. The porter at once reached out his hand for the key.
'That's a spare key, isn't it?"
'I don't understand," said the porter.
'I thought that the previous guest took the key with him."
'Yes, that's right. But we got the key back the next day."
'Got it back? Who from?"
'From the police, sir."
'From the police? Which police?"
The porter shrugged his shoulders in bewilderment.
'From the ordinary police, of course. Who else? A policeman handed in the key to the doorman. Mr. Matsson must have dropped it somewhere.'"
'Where?"
'I'm afraid I don't know, sir."
Martin Beck asked one more question.
'Has anyone else besides me gone through Mr. Matsson's luggage?"
The porter hesitated for a moment before answering.
'I don't think so, sir."
Martin Beck went through the revolving door. The man with the gray mustache and a visored cap was standing in the shade beneath the balcony, perfectly still with his hands behind his back, a living memorial to Emil Jannings.
'Do you remember receiving a room key from a policem
an two weeks ago?"
The old man looked at him questioningly.
'Of course."
'Was it a uniformed policeman?"
'Yes, yes… A patrol car stopped here and one of the policemen got out and turned in the key."
'What did he say?"
The man thought.
'He said: 'Lost property.' Nothing else, I believe."
Martin Beck turned around and walked away. After three steps, he remembered that he had forgotten to leave a tip. He went back and placed a number of the unfamiliar light-metal coins into the man's hand. The doorman touched the visor of his cap with the fingertips of his right hand and said, "Thank you, but it isn't necessary."
'You speak excellent German," said Martin Beck.
And he thought: Hell of a lot better than I do, anyway.
'I learned it at the Isonzo front in 1916."
As Martin Beck turned the corner of the block, he took out the map and looked at it. Then he walked, map still in hand, down toward the quay. A big white paddle steamer with two funnels was forging its way upriver. He looked at it joylessly.
There was something fundamentally wrong with all this. Something was quite definitely not as it should be. What it was he did not know.
9
It was Sunday and very warm. A light haze of heat trembled over the mountain slopes. The quay was crowded with people walking back and forth or sitting sunning themselves on the steps down to the river. On the small steamers and motor launches shuttling up and down the river people clad in summer clothes crowded together on their way to bathing sites and holiday spots. Long lines were waiting at the ticket offices.
Martin Beck had forgotten that it was Sunday and was at first surprised by the crowds. He followed the stream of strollers and walked along the quay, watching the lively boat traffic. He had thought of starting the day with a walk across the next bridge to Margaret Island, out in the middle of the river, but changed his mind when he imagined the crowds of Budapest citizens spending their Sunday out there.
He was slightly irritated by the crush, and the sight of all these people, happy on their free Sunday, filled him with an urge for activity. He would visit the hotel at which Alf Matsson spent his first and perhaps only night in Budapest--a young people's hotel on the Buda side, the Embassy man had said.
Martin Beck broke out of the stream of people and went up to the street above the quay. He stood in the shade of the gable of a house and studied the map. He hunted for a long time, but could not find a hotel called Ifjuság, and finally he folded up the map and began to walk toward the bridge over to the island and onto the Buda side. He looked around for a police patrolman but did not succeed in finding one. At the end of the bridge there was a taxi stand and a taxi was waiting there. It looked free.
The driver could speak only Hungarian and did not understand a word until Martin Beck showed him the piece of paper with the hotel's name written on it.
They drove across the bridge, past the green island, where he caught sight of a high-flung surge of water between the trees, then on along a shopping street, up steep narrow streets and in onto an open square with lawns and a modernistic bronze group representing a man and a woman sitting staring at each other.
The taxi stopped there and Martin Beck paid—probably much too much, for the driver thanked him profusely in his incomprehensible language.
The hotel was low and spread out along the square, which was more like a widening of the street, with flower beds and parking places. The building appeared to be built just recently, in contrast to the other houses that surrounded the square. The architecture was modern and the entire façade was covered with balconies. The steps leading up to the entrance were wide and few.
Inside the glass doors was a long, light foyer, containing a souvenir stand (which was closed), elevator doors, a couple of groups of chairs and a reception desk. The reception desk was empty and there was not a soul in the foyer.
Adjoining the foyer was a big lounge with armchairs and low tables and large windows all along the far wall. This room was empty too.
Martin Beck went across to the wall with the windows and looked out.
A few young people were lying on the lawn outside, sunning themselves in bathing suits.
The hotel was situated on a hill with a view across to the Pest side. The houses on the slope between the hotel and the river appeared old and shabby. From the taxi Martin Beck had seen bullet holes in most of the façades, and on a number of houses the plastering had been almost entirely shot away.
He looked out into the foyer, which was still just as deserted, and sat down in one of the armchairs in the lounge. He did not expect much from his visit to the Ifjusåg. Alf Matsson had stayed here one night, there was a shortage of hotel rooms in Budapest in the summer, and the fact that this particular hotel had a room free was probably sheer chance. It was hardly plausible that anyone would remember a guest who had come late in the evening and left the next morning, at the height of the summer season.
He extinguished his last Florida cigarette and looked gloomily at the sunburned youngsters out on the lawn. It suddenly seemed to him quite ridiculous that he should be gadding about Budapest trying to find a person to whom he was completely indifferent. He could not remember ever being given such a hopeless, meaningless assignment.
Steps could be heard out in the foyer, and Martin Beck got up and went out after them. A young man was standing behind the reception desk with a telephone receiver in his hand, staring up at the ceiling and biting his thumbnail as he listened. Then he began to speak and at first Martin Beck thought the man was speaking Finnish, but then remembered that Finnish and Hungarian stemmed from the same linguistic stock.
The young man put down the receiver and looked inquiringly at Martin Beck, who hesitated while trying to decide which language he should begin with.
'What can I do for you?" said the youth in perfect English, to Martin Beck's relief.
'It's about a guest who stayed at this hotel the night of July twenty-second. Have you any idea who was on duty here that night?"
The young man looked at a wall calendar.
'I really don't remember," he said. "It's more than two weeks ago. One moment, and I'll have a look."
He hunted around for a while on a shelf under the desk, retrieved a little black book and leafed through it. Then he said, "It was me, in fact. Friday night, yes… What kind of person? Did he stay just one night?"
'Yes, as far as I know," said Martin Beck. "He might have stayed here later, of course. A Swedish journalist named Alf Matsson."
The youth stared at the ceiling and chewed his nail. Then he shook his head.
'I can't remember any Swede. We get very few Swedes here. What did he look like?"
Martin Beck showed him Alf Matsson's passport photograph. The youth looked at it for a moment and said hesitantly, "I don't know. Perhaps I've seen him before. I can't really remember."
'Do you have a ledger? A guest register?"
The young man pulled out a card-file drawer and began to search. Martin Beck waited. He felt an urge to smoke and hunted through his pockets, but his cigarettes were irrevocably at an end.
'Here it is," said the youth, taking a card out of the drawer. "Alf Matsson. Swedish, yes. He stayed here the night of July twenty-second, just as you say."
'And he didn't stay here after that night?"
'No, not afterward. But he did stay here for a few days at the end of May. But that was before I came here. I was taking my exams then."
Martin Beck took the card and looked at it. Alf Matsson had stayed at the hotel from the twenty-fifth to the twenty-eighth of May.
'Who was on duty here then?"
The youth thought about it. Then he said, "It must have been Stefi. Or else the man who was here before me. I really can't remember what his name is."
'Stefi," said Martin Beck. "Does he still work here?"
'She," said the young man. "It's a girl—Stefania. Yes, sh
e and I work in shifts."
'When is she coming in?"
'She's bound to be here already. I mean in her room. She lives here at the hotel, you see. But she has the night shift this week, so she's probably asleep."
'Could you find out?" asked Martin Beck. "If she's awake, I'd like to speak to her."
The youth lifted the receiver and dialed a number. After a while he replaced the receiver.
'No answer."
He lifted the flap door in the desk and came out.
'I'll see if she's in," he said. "Just a moment."
He got into one of the elevators and Martin Beck saw from the signal light that he had stopped at the second floor. After a while he came down again.
'Her roommate says she's out sunbathing. Wait a moment and I'll go get her."
He disappeared into the lounge and returned a moment later with a girl. She was small and chubby, wearing sandals on her feet and a checkered cotton robe over her bikini. She was buttoning up the robe as she came toward Martin Beck.
'I'm sorry to bother you," he said.
'It doesn't matter," said the girl called Stefi. "Can I help you with anything?"
Martin Beck asked her if she had been on duty during the particular days in May. She went behind the desk, looked in the black book and nodded.
'Yes," she said. "But only in the daytime."
Martin Beck showed her Alf Matsson's passport.
'Swedish?" she asked without looking up.
'Yes," said Martin Beck. "A journalist."
He looked at her and waited. She looked at the passport photograph and cocked her head.
'Ye-es," she said hesitantly. "Yes, I think I remember him. He was alone at first in a room with three beds, and then we had a Russian party, so I needed the room and had to move him. He was awfully angry that he didn't get a telephone in the new room. We haven't got telephones in all the rooms. He made such a fuss about not having one, I was forced to let him exchange rooms with someone who didn't need a telephone."
She closed the passport and put it down on the desk.
'If it was him," she said, "that photo's not very good."
