by Maj Sjowall
“What the hell’s going on?” said Gunvald Larsson.
“Well, Hammar’s trying to decide whether we should set up our headquarters here or in Västberga,” said Rönn gloomily.
“Who are we looking for?”
“Guy called Olofsson. Bertil Olofsson.”
“Olofsson?”
“You’d better read this,” said Melander, tapping the bowl of his pipe on a pile of typescript.
Gunvald Larsson read it.
He frowned heavily with his bushy eyebrows and his expression grew more and more puzzled. Finally he put down the document and said incredulously:
“What does all this mean? Some kind of joke?”
“Unfortunately not,” said Melander.
“Arson is one thing, but incendiary bombs in mattresses … do you mean to say someone’s taken all this seriously?”
Rönn nodded dismally.
“Are there such things, anyhow?
“Well, Hjelm says there are. They’re supposed to have been discovered in Algeria.”
“In Algeria?”
“They’re very popular in some places in South America,” said Melander.
“But what about this blasted guy Olofsson then? Where’s he?”
“Missing,” said Rönn laconically.
“Missing?”
“He’s said to be abroad, but no one knows. Interpol can’t find him either.”
Gunvald Larsson pondered deeply as he poked a paperknife between his large front teeth. Melander cleared his throat and went out. Martin Beck and Kollberg came in.
“Olofsson,” said Gunvald, more or less to himself. “The same guy who delivered drugs to Max Karlsson and smuggled liquor to Roth. And who was behind Malm’s car racket.”
“And whose name was on the name plate on Malm’s car when he was nabbed on Södertäljevägen,” said Martin Beck. “It was to get at him that the guys in the larceny department were so keen not to lose sight of Malm. They were waiting for Olofsson to appear and thought that Malm would testify against him to save his own skin.”
“So Olofsson’s the key man in the whole affair. His name keeps popping up time and time again.”
“D’you think we’ve not noticed that?” said Kollberg, with profound and intense distaste.
“Then all there is to do is to go out and get him and then that’s that,” said Gunvald Larsson triumphantly. “Naturally, it must have been he who set the house on fire.”
“The guy has vanished without trace,” said Kollberg. “Haven’t you grasped that?”
“Why don’t we put a public notice in the papers?”
“So as not to frighten him away,” said Martin Beck.
“You can’t very well frighten away someone who’s already missing, can you?”
Kollberg gave Gunvald Larsson an exhausted look and shrugged his shoulders.
“Just how dumb can a man get?” he said.
“So long as Olofsson thinks that we think that Malm killed himself and that the gas exploded accidentally, he feels safe,” said Martin Beck, patiently.
“Why is he keeping out of the way then?”
“Well, that’s a good question,” said Rönn.
“I’ve got another question,” said Kollberg, gazing up at the ceiling. “We talked to Jacobsson in the Narcotics Squad last Friday and he said that Max Karlsson looked as if someone had put him through a mincer when he was brought here on Tuesday. I wonder who that person might be?”
“Karlsson admitted that it was Olofsson who supplied him, Roth and Malm,” said Gunvald Larsson.
“He doesn’t say that now.”
“No, but that’s what he told me.”
“When? When you questioned him?”
“Exactly,” said Gunvald Larsson, unmoved.
Martin Beck took out a Florida, pinched the filtertip and said:
“I’ve told you before and I’m telling you again, Gunvald. Sooner or later they’ll get you.”
The telephone rang and Rönn answered it.
Gunvald Larsson yawned indifferently.
“Oh, yes. D’you think so?”
“Not just think so,” said Martin Beck seriously. “I’m convinced of it.”
“Under no circumstances,” said Rönn into the telephone receiver. “Disappeared? But that’s impossible. Nothing can disappear just like that. Well, of course I realize he’s upset … what … give him my love and tell him it doesn’t help to start crying, just because something’s disappeared. A man’s disappeared here, for instance. Supposing I just sat down and started crying. If something or someone’s disappeared, then one … what?”
The others looked inquiringly at him.
“Yes, exactly, one goes on looking for it until one finds it,” said Rönn, replacing the receiver emphatically. “What’s disappeared?” asked Kollberg. “Well, my wife—”
“What?” said Gunvald Larsson. “Has Unda disappeared?”
“No,” said Rönn. “I gave our boy a fire engine for his birthday the other day. It cost 32 kronor 50 öre. And now he’s lost it. At home in the apartment. And now he’s crying and wants to have another one. Disappearing, eh? It’s crazy. In my own apartment. It was this big.”
He held up two fingers.
“Well, that is remarkable,” said Kollberg.
Rönn was still sitting with his fingers poking upward.
“Remarkable. Yes, you might well say that. A whole fire engine, which has quite simply disappeared. That big. And 32 kronor 50 öre.”
There was silence in the room. Gunvald Larsson stared at Rönn, frowning. At long last he said to himself: “The fire engine that disappeared …” Rönn gaped uncomprehendingly at him.
“Has anyone spoken to Zachrisson,” asked Gunvald Larsson suddenly. “That fool in Maria?”
“Yes,” said Martin Beck. “He doesn’t know anything. Malm was sitting alone at a beer place in Hornsgatan until it shut at eight o’clock. Then he went home. Zachrisson followed him and stood there freezing for three hours. He saw three people go into the house and of those three one is now dead and another under arrest. Then you came.”
“That wasn’t exactly what I was thinking about,” said Gunvald Larsson.
He got up and went out.
“What’s up with him?” Rönn asked.
“Nothing, I suppose,” said Kollberg absently.
He was standing wondering how it had come about that Gunvald Larsson had referred to Rönn’s wife by her Christian name. He himself had not even known that Rönn had a wife. Presumably owing to his general lack of observation.
Gunvald Larsson was wondering how anyone could ever find a missing murderer when one could not even get hold of a policeman.
It was five o’clock in the evening and he had been looking for Zachrisson for nearly six hours. This occupation had taken him back and forth across the city and had become more and more like some kind of wild goose chase. At Maria police station, they had said that Zachrisson had just left for the day. No one answered his telephone and at long last someone mentioned that he had probably gone swimming. Where? Probably at the Åkeshov Baths, which lie to the west, halfway to Vällingby. Zachrisson was not at the Åkeshov Baths, but on the other hand a couple of other policemen were and they helpfully pointed out that they had never heard of a colleague of that name, and that he was probably at the Eriksdal Baths, where the police force also had a training time. Again Gunvald Larsson crossed the city, which was gray and cold and windy and full of shivering human beings. The attendant in the men’s part of Eriksdal Baths was singularly unfriendly, refusing to let him into the pool if he did not undress. Some naked people coming out of the steambath maintained that they were policemen and actually knew Zachrisson and said they had not seen him for several days. And thus it had gone on.
Now he was standing on the first floor of an old but well-maintained apartment building in Torsgatan, glaring angrily at a snuff-colored door. Above the letterbox was a piece of white cardboard stating the name Zachrisson
, very neatly written with a ballpoint and embellished with some kind of peculiar vine, obviously drawn with great care and with a green ballpoint.
He had rung the bell and banged and also kicked the door a little, but with no more result than that a neighboring old woman had stuck her head around her door and glared reproachfully at him. Gunvald Larsson had glared back with such ferocity that the old woman had at once retreated. Then she had rattled safety-chains and bolts behind the locked door and she would probably soon be dragging furniture up to barricade it.
Gunvald Larsson scratched his chin and wondered what to do. Write a note and stick it through the letterbox? Or perhaps scribble a message directly on that abominable piece of cardboard?
The street door opened and a woman of about thirty-five came in. She was carrying two paperbags full of groceries and as she walked toward the elevator, she glanced anxiously at Gunvald Larsson.
“Hello there!”
“Yes?” she said in alarm.
“I’m looking for a policeman who lives here.”
“Oh. Oh, yes. Zachrisson?”
“That’s right.”
“The detective?”
“What?”
“Detective Zachrisson. The one who rescued all those people out of that burning house?”
Gunvald Larsson stared at her. Finally he said:
“Yes, that seems to be the person I’m looking for.”
“We’re very proud of him,” said the woman.
“Oh, yes.”
“He’s our janitor here,” she informed him. “Very good at it, he is, too.”
“Uhuh.”
“But strict. Keeps the kids in order. Sometimes he puts his cap on to frighten them.”
“Gap?”
“Yes, he’s got a police cap in the boiler room.”
“In the boiler room?”
“Yes, of course. Did you look down there for him, by the way? He’s usually working down there. If you knock on the door, perhaps he’ll open up.”
She took a step toward the elevator, but then stopped and giggled at Gunvald Larsson.
“Hope you’re not up to some mischief,” she said. “Zachrisson’s not a man to play around with.”
Gunvald Larsson stood transfixed to the spot until the creaking elevator had vanished out of sight. Then he strode quickly across to the basement door, down the spiral stone stairs and stopped at a closed fire door. He grasped the handle with both hands but could not budge it.
He banged with his fists. Nothing happened. He turned around and kicked five times with his heel. The thick iron plates thundered.
Suddenly something did happen.
From the other side of the protective door, an authoritative voice said: “Scram!”
Gunvald Larsson was far too shaken by the experience of the last few minutes to be able to reply immediately.
“You may not play here,” said the voice, muffled and threatening. “I’ve told you that, once and for all.”
“Open up!” roared Gunvald Larsson. “Get this door open before I knock the whole damned building down.”
Ten seconds’ silence. Then the huge iron hinges began to squeak and the door slid open, slowly and noisily. Zachrisson peeped out, a terrified and dumfounded expression on his face.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh, dear. Excuse me … I didn’t know …”
Gunvald Larsson pushed him to one side and stepped into the boiler room. Once there, he stopped and stared around in astonishment.
The boiler room was spotlessly clean. On the floor was a brightly colored rug made of plastic strips and opposite the oil-fired boilers stood a white-painted coffee table with wrought iron legs and a circular top. There were two cane chairs as well, with checkered cushions in blue and orange, a large flowery cloth and a hand-painted red vase containing four red and two yellow plastic tulips. There was also a green porcelain ashtray, a bottle of lemonade, a glass and an open magazine. On the wall hung two objects, a police cap and a framed colored print of His Majesty the King. The magazine was some kind of crime paper of the type that contained half striptease girls and half unrecognizably altered and dramatized versions of classic crimes. It was lying open and it was obvious that Zachrisson had either been reading an article entitled “Mad Doctor Dismembered Two Naked Women into 60 Pieces” or had been interrupted in his study of a full-page colored picture of a bright pink lady with huge breasts and well-used shaven genitals, which she was invitingly opening with two fingers toward the viewer.
Zachrisson himself was wearing an undershirt, felt slippers and dark blue uniform trousers.
It was very warm in the room.
Gunvald Larsson said nothing. He contented himself with thoroughly inspecting the various decorative details. Zachrisson followed his gaze and nervously shifted his feet. Finally he seemed to decide it would be best if he adopted a lighter tone, and said with forced cheerfulness:
“Well, when you have to work in a place, then you might as well make it look nice, mightn’t you?”
“Is that the thing you use for frightening the kids?” said Gunvald Larsson, pointing at the uniform cap.
Zachrisson turned scarlet in the face.
“I don’t see—” he began, but Gunvald Larsson interrupted him immediately.
“I have not, however, come here to discuss the bringing up of children or interior decorating.”
“Oh,” said Zachrisson, humbly.
“I just want to know one thing. When you got to the fire in Sköldgatan, before you began rescuing all those people, you dithered on about something about the fire department ought to have been there already. What the hell did you mean by that?”
“Well, I … I mean … when I said … it wasn’t me who …”
“Don’t stand there mumbling all that shit. Answer me instead.”
“Well, I saw the fire when I got to Rosenlundsgatan, so I ran back to the nearest telephone booth. And Central Alarm said they’d already been called and that the fire truck was already there.”
“Well, was it there then?”
“No, but …”
Zachrisson fell silent.
“But what?”
“The man who replied at Central Alarm did in fact say that. We’ve sent a hook-and-ladder truck, he said. It’s already there.”
“How could that be? Had the darned truck disappeared on the way?”
“No, I don’t know,” said Zachrisson in confusion.
“You ran back again, didn’t you?”
“Yes, when you … when you …”
“What did the guys at Central Alarm say then?”
“I don’t know. That time I ran to an alarm box.”
“But the first time you called from a phone booth?”
“Yes, I was nearer to it then. I ran there and called and then Central Alarm said—”
“—that a hook-and-ladder truck was already there. Yes, yes, I’ve heard that already. But what did Central Alarm say the second time?”
“I … I don’t remember.”
“You don’t remember?”
“I was probably rather excited,” said Zachrisson lamely.
“The police are called to fires too, aren’t they?”
“Of course … I think so, anyway … I mean …”
“Where was the police car that should have come, then? Had that disappeared too?”
The man in the undershirt and uniform trousers shook his head resignedly.
“Don’t know,” he said dismally.
Gunvald Larsson looked straight at him and raised his voice.
“How can you be so unimaginably stupid that you’ve not told anyone about this?”
“What? What should I have told them?”
“That the fire department had already been alerted when you called them! And that the fire engine had disappeared! Who, for instance, was it that sounded the alarm the first time? You’ve been questioned about this, haven’t you? And you knew I was off sick, didn’t you? Am I wrong?”
&nbs
p; “No, but I don’t understand—”
“Christ Almighty, I can see that. You don’t remember what they said at Central Alarm the second time. Do you remember what you said yourself then?”
“There’s a fire, there’s a fire … or something like that. I … I was a bit shaken up. And then I’d been running.”
“ ‘There’s a fire, there’s a fire’? You didn’t by any chance mention where the fire was?”
“Yes, of course I did. I think I shouted, at least almost shouted: There’s a fire in Sköldgatan. Yes, and then the fire department came.”
“And didn’t they say that the fire engine was already there? When you called, I mean.”
“No.”
Zachrisson thought for a moment.
“It wasn’t there then, either, was it?” he said sheepishly.
“But the first time, then? When you called from the phone booth? Did you shout the same thing then? There’s a fire in Sköldgatan?”
“No, when I called from the phone booth I wasn’t so upset. Then I left the right address.”
“The right address?”
“Yes, 37 Ringvägen.”
“But the house was in Sköldgatan.”
“Yes, but the correct address is 37 Ringvägen. Presumably so that it’s easier for the postman.”
“Easier?”
Gunvald Larsson frowned.
“Are you certain about all this?”
“Yes. When we started in Maria, we had to learn all the streets and addresses in the Second District.”
“So you said 37 Ringvägen when you called from the booth, but Sköldgatan when you sounded the alarm the second time?”
“Yes, I think so. Everyone knows that 37 Ringvägen is in Sköldgatan.”
“I didn’t know.”
“I mean everyone who knows the Second District.”
Gunvald Larsson was stumped by this for a moment. Then he said:
“There’s something fishy here.”
“Fishy?”
