Martin Beck: The Locked Room Part 17

Gunvald Larsson pulled it down. She threw him a conspiratorial glance, caught sight of his bandaged hand, and exclaimed: 'How did that happen? Been in a fight, eh?'

Gunvald Larsson grunted.

'It's a dangerous profession, being a policeman,' she went on. 'But terribly exciting, of course. Before I started driving a cab I thought of joining the force. Best of all I'd have liked to be a detective, but my husband was against it.'

Gunvald Larsson said nothing.

'Though it can have its moments of excitement, driving a cab, too. Like now, for instance.' She beamed at Gunvald Larsson, and with an effort he smiled back a twisted smile.

All the time she was keeping a medium distance from the bus. Altogether, she drove exceptionally well, and this had to make up for her talkativeness. .

Gunvald Larsson uttered no more than an occasional monosyllable, while his driver had time for no end of chatter before Mauritzon finally got off the bus on Erik Dahlbergsgatan. He was the only pa.s.senger to do so, and while Gunvald Larsson was taking out his money the girl at the wheel gave Mauritzon a curious stare.

'He doesn't look at all like a crook to me,' she said, disappointed. She took her money and quickly scribbled a receipt 'Anyway, good luck,' she added, and slowly drove off.

Mauritzon crossed the street diagonally and turned off onto Armfeldtsgatan. When he'd disappeared around the corner, Gunvald Larsson made haste to reach it and peeped around just as Mauritzon was vanis.h.i.+ng into a doorway.

After a while Gunvald Larsson opened the door. Somewhere inside the building he heard another door slam. Then he went in and inspected the list of tenants.

At once his glance was caught by the name Mauritzon. Astonished, he raised his eyebrows. So - Filip Faithful Mauritzon lived here under his own name! Gunvald Larsson recalled that while he'd been questioned he'd given an address on Vickergatan, where he lived under the name of Lennart Holm. Most practical, Gunvald Larsson thought to himself. Hearing the lift start up, he hastily betook himself out into the street again.

Not daring to cross the street for fear Mauritzon might catch sight of him through a window, he hugged the wall of the building as he made his way back to the corner of Erik Dahlbergsgatan. There he took up his post, peeping cautiously out to keep an eye on Mauritzon's doorway.

After a while the cut under his knee began to ache. It was too early to ring Kollberg, and anyway he didn't dare leave his observation post in case Mauritzon should put in an appearance.

When Gunvald Larsson had been standing there waiting at the street corner for three-quarters of an hour, Mauritzon suddenly emerged from the doorway. Gunvald Larsson just had time to realize that the fellow was walking towards him before pulling abruptly back out of sight. Hoping Mauritzon hadn't seen him, he ran limping down the street and into the nearest doorway.

Mauritzon, looking straight ahead of him, walked briskly by. He had changed his suit and was carrying a little black suitcase. He crossed Valhallavagen, and Gunvald Larsson followed at as great a distance as possible without losing sight of him.

Mauritzon went quickly down towards Karlaplan. Twice he turned and looked nervously behind him; the first time Gunvald Larsson took cover behind a parked lorry, and the second time he dived into a doorway.

As Gunvald Larsson had already guessed, Mauritzon was on his way to the metro. Only a few people were waiting on the platform, and Gunvald Larsson found it hard to keep out of sight. But there was nothing to suggest Mauritzon had spotted him. He boarded a southbound train, and Gunvald Larsson got into the next carriage.

At Hotorget they both got off, and Mauritzon disappeared into the crowds.

Gunvald Larsson looked around, trying to find him on the platform. But it was as if the man had been swallowed up. He searched each exit without catching sight of Mauritzon, and in the end he took the escalator to the upper level. He went around to the five different exits. No Mauritzon. Finally he came to a standstill outside Strom's shop window, swore, and wondered whether Mauritzon hadn't seen him after all. In which case he could have given him the slip by running across the platform and jumping on a northbound train.

Gunvald Larsson looked sombrely at a pair of Italian shoes that were lying in the window and whose owner he would gladly have been had they existed in his size. Several days earlier he had been in and enquired.

Now he turned to go up and take the bus to Kungsholmen. Suddenly he caught sight of Mauritzon at the other end of the station. He was on his way towards the Sveavagen exit Besides his black suitcase he was now carrying a package tied with a large and elaborate ribbon with bows. After he had disappeared up the stairs, Gunvald Larsson followed.

Mauritzon went on southwards down Sveavagen and entered the city-centre air terminal. Gunvald Larsson took up his observation post behind a lorry on Lastmakargatan. Through the huge windows he could see Mauritzon go up to the counter and talk to a tall blonde in uniform. Gunvald Larsson wondered where Mauritzon was thinking of going. South, of course, perhaps to some spot on the Mediterranean. Or still further - Africa was popular nowadays. For obvious reasons Mauritzon was scared of staying in Stockholm; yet the moment Malmstrom and Mohren realized he'd split they certainly wouldn't be feeling kindly towards him either.

He saw Mauritzon open his suitcase and put the box of chocolates, or whatever it was, inside. Then he got his tickets, stuffed them inside his jacket, and emerged on to the pavement Gunvald Larsson watched him stroll slowly away in the direction of Sergelstorg; then he went inside. The girl who had helped Mauritzon was standing leafing through a card index. She threw Gunvald Larsson a quick glance, went on leafing, and said: 'Yes, sir, what can I do for you?'

'I should like to know whether that gentleman who was here just now bought a ticket,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And if so, where to.'

'I don't know whether I should tell you that,' the blonde said. 'Why do you ask?'

Gunvald Larsson laid his ident.i.ty card on the counter. The girl looked at it, then at Gunvald Larsson, and said: 'I a.s.sume you mean Count von Brandenburg? He bought a ticket to Jonkoping and reserved a seat on the 14.50 flight. He was planning to take the airport bus, because he asked what time it went. It leaves from Sergelstorg at five minutes to two. What has Count von ... ?'

'Thank you, that was all I wanted to know,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Good day.'

He went towards the door, wondering what business Mauritzon might have in Jonkoping. Then he recalled seeing in Mauritzon's file that he was born there and that his mother was still living in that town. So - Mauritzon was going home to hide away with his mum!

Gunvald Larsson emerged on to Sveavagen. At a distance he could see faithful Mauritzon Holm von Brandenburg slowly sauntering along the street in the suns.h.i.+ne. Gunvald Larsson went off in the opposite direction to find a phone and call Kollberg.

23.

When he came to meet Gunvald Larsson at the appointed time and place, Lennart Kollberg had brought with him every conceivable jemmy and other tool for opening the door of the Armfeldtsgatan flat. What he should have been supplied with, however, but wasn't, was a search warrant issued by District Attorney Olsson. But neither he nor Gunvald Larsson were unduly troubled by the notion that they were about to commit an offence in the course of their duties. They were quietly counting on Bulldozer being so delighted if they found anything that could be of use that he'd forget all about the breach of regulations. And if they didn't find anything, there'd be no reason to tell him about it Anyway, the concept of a breach of regulations was without relevance nowadays. It was the regulations which were all wrong.

By this time Mauritzon would be on his way south; not to Africa, admittedly, but far enough to let them work in peace.

The front entrance to the flats was fitted with standard locks. So was Mauritzon's door; and it didn't take Kollberg long to open it On the inside, the door was equipped with two safety chains and a fox-lock, designed to lock only from within. These devices suggested that Mauritzon counted on receiving - or not receiving - guests a good deal more obstinate than the salesmen and pedlars whose visits he declined by means of a little enamel notice on the door.

His flat consisted of three rooms plus a kitchen, a hall, and a bathroom. In itself it was rather elegant. But though its furniture was quite expensive, the overall impression was of tasteless ba.n.a.lity. They went into the living room. In front of them was a teak wall unit consisting of bookcases, cupboards, and a built-in writing desk. One shelf was full of paperbacks, while the others were heaped with all kinds of bric-a-brac: souvenirs, pieces of china, little vases and bowls, and other ornaments. On the walls hung a few imitation oil paintings and reproductions of the sort commonly sold on market stalls. The furniture, curtains, and carpets, though they seemed by no means cheap, appeared to have been selected at random, and their patterns, materials, and colours did not go together.

In one corner was a little c.o.c.ktail bar. The mere sight of it would have been enough to make anyone feel sick, let alone the smell of the contents of the bottles behind the mirrored doors of the cabinet. The front of the bar was covered in oilcloth of a very peculiar pattern: yellow, green, and pink figures reminiscent of amoebas, or possibly highly magnified spermatozoa, were floating about on a black background. The same pattern, albeit on a considerably smaller scale, was repeated on the plastic surface of the bar.

Kollberg went over and opened the c.o.c.ktail cabinet. It contained a half-empty botde of Parfait d'Amour, a virtually empty bottle of Swedish dessert wine, an unopened half-bottle of Carlshamns Punch, and a completely empty bottle of Beefeater gin. Shuddering, he shut the doors of the cabinet and went into the next room.

There was no door between the living room and the next room, only an arch supported by two pillars. Presumably the s.p.a.ce beyond was intended to serve as a dining room. It was fairly small and had a bay window overlooking the street. In here was a piano and, in one corner, a radio and record player.

'Aha, so here we have the music room,' said Kollberg, with a grand gesture.

'Somehow I find it hard to imagine that rat of a fellow sitting here playing the "Moonlight Sonata"' said Gunvald Larsson. He went over and lifted the piano lid, inspecting the instrument's interior. 'At least there are no corpses here,' he said Having made the preliminary tour of inspection, Kollberg took off his jacket and they began going through the flat in detail. They started in the bedroom where Gunvald Larsson immediately began ransacking the wardrobe while Kollberg attacked the chest of drawers. For a while they worked in silence. It was Kollberg who broke it 'Gunvald,' he said.

A m.u.f.fled reply came from the depths of the wardrobe.

Kollberg went on: 'They didn't have much success shadowing Roos. He flew out from Arlanda a couple of hours ago, and Bulldozer got in the final report just before I left. He was deeply disappointed'

Gunvald Larsson grunted. Then he stuck his head out and said: 'Bulldozer's optimism and wild expectations expose him to constant disappointments. But he soon gets over them, as no doubt you've noticed. Well, what was Roos up to on his days off?' He disappeared into the closet again.

Kollberg shoved in the lower drawer and straightened his back. 'Well, he didn't meet up with Malmstrom and Mohren, as Bulldozer hoped,' he said. 'The first evening, day before yesterday that is, he went to a restaurant with some woman and went skinny-dipping with her afterwards.'

'Yes, I heard about that,' Gunvald Larsson said. 'And then?'

'He stayed with this woman until the afternoon and then drove into town and wandered about, apparently aimlessly and all by himself. Yesterday evening he went to another restaurant with another girl but didn't go for a swim, at least not outdoors. He took her home with him to Marsta. Yesterday he took her in a taxi to Odenplan, where they parted. Then he drifted about on his own, went into a few shops, drove home to Marsta again, changed his clothes, and drove out to Arlanda Airport. Not very exciting! And above all not particularly criminal.'

'If the skinny-dipping isn't to be regarded as an offence against public decency,' Gunvald Larsson said, 'and Ek, who was sitting there in the bushes watching, doesn't report him for committing a nuisance.' He came out of the wardrobe and shut the door. 'Nothing in there except for a lot of incredibly ugly clothes,' he said, going out to the bathroom.

Kollberg went on to study a green cabinet that did duty as a bedside table. The two uppermost drawers contained a welter of objects, all more or less used: crumpled Kleenex, cufflinks, a few empty matchboxes, half a bar of chocolate, safety pins, a thermometer, two packages of cough drops, restaurant bills and till receipts, an unopened pack of black condoms, ballpoint pens, a postcard from Stettin with the message: 'Here's vodka, women, and song, what more can one want? Nils,' a cigarette lighter that didn't function, and a blunt peasant knife without a sheath.

On top of the bedside table lay a paperback, the cover of which showed a bandy-legged cowboy holding a smoking revolver in his hands.

Kollberg leafed through the book, which was ent.i.tled The Gunfight at Black Ravine, and a photo fell out on to the floor. A colour snapshot, it showed a young woman sitting on a jetty wearing shorts and a short-sleeved white jumper. She was dark, and her appearance was nondescript. Kollberg turned the photo over. Along the top edge was written in lead pencil: 'Moja, 1969,' and under it in blue ink and another handwriting, 'Monita'. Kollberg stuck the photo back among the pages and pulled out the lower drawer.

It was deeper than either of the others, and when he'd pulled it out he called for Gunvald Larsson. They looked down into the drawer.

'Odd place to keep a grinding machine,' said Kollberg. 'Or maybe it's some advanced kind of a ma.s.sage apparatus?'

'Wonder what he used it for?' said Gunvald Larsson thoughtfully. 'He doesn't quite seem the type to have hobbies, does he? Though of course he could have stolen it or been given it in payment for drugs.' He went back to the bathroom.

Little more than an hour later their search of the flat and its contents was finished. They had found little of special interest: no money stowed away, no incriminating correspondence, no weapons, and no medicines stronger than aspirin and Alka-Seltzer.

Now they were standing in the kitchen, where they had rummaged through all the drawers and cupboards. The refrigerator, they noticed, had not been turned off and was full of food, which meant that Mauritzon wasn't intending to stay away for long. Among other things, a smoked eel lay staring up challengingly at Kollberg, who ever since the day he'd decided to get his weight down had suffered continuously from hunger. However, he got control of himself and with a grumbling stomach turned away from the refrigerator and its temptations. He caught sight of a key ring with two keys, which was hanging from a hook behind the kitchen door. 'Keys to the roof,' he said, pointing.

Gunvald Larsson went up to the key ring and unhooked it. He said: 'Or to the bas.e.m.e.nt Come on, let's take a look.'

Neither of the keys fitted the door to the roof, so they took the lift down to the ground floor and went downstairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt. The largest of the keys opened the lock of the fire door.

First they entered a short hallway with doors on either side. Opening the door on the right they looked into the refuse room. The building had a refuse chute, at the mouth of which stood a metal skip on wheels, lined with a large yellow plastic bag. Three more skips with bags - one filled to the brim with rubbish and two empty - stood by the wall. In one corner stood a brush and pan.

The door opposite was locked, and a notice said it led to the bathroom.

The corridor led into a long pa.s.sageway stretching in both directions. Along its walls were rows of numbered lockers, all fitted with various types of padlocks.

Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson tried out the smaller key in several of them and finally found the right one. There were only two things in Mauritzon's locker: an ancient vacuum cleaner without a nozzle, and a large chest, which was locked. While Kollberg picked the lock Gunvald Larsson opened the vacuum cleaner and looked inside.

'Empty,' he said.

Kollberg opened the lid of the chest and said: 'But not this one. Take a look.'

Inside the chest were fourteen unopened bottles of 130 proof Polish vodka, four ca.s.sette tape recorders, an electric hair drier, and six electric shavers, all brand new and still sealed in their original packages.

'Smuggled,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Or else stolen goods.'

'They're certainly stuff he's been given in exchange,' Kollberg said. 'I wouldn't mind seizing the vodka, but I suppose we'd better leave it all where it is.'

He shut the chest and locked it, and they went out again into the pa.s.sage.

'Well, that was something, at least,' Kollberg said. 'But not much to bring home to Bulldozer. I suppose we'd better put the keys back where we found them and beat it. Nothing more to be done here.'

'Cautious b.a.s.t.a.r.d, that Mauritzon,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Maybe he's even got a third flat.' He stopped, nodding towards a door at the far end of the pa.s.sage. Across the door the words air raid shelter were stencilled in red paint. 'Let's see if it's open,' he said. While we're at it.'

The door was open. The air raid shelter seemed to be used as a bicycle storage room and general rubbish heap. Besides the bikes and a dismantled motor scooter there were a couple of prams, a sled, and an old-fas.h.i.+oned toboggan with a steering wheel. Against one wall was a carpenter's workbench, and on the floor beneath it lay a couple of window frames without any gla.s.s in them. In one corner stood an iron spike, a couple of brooms, a snow shovel, and two pitchforks.

'I always get claustrophobic in places like this,' Kollberg said. 'During the war, when we had air-raid practice, I always sat trying to imagine what Id feel like to sit there underneath a bombed building and never be able to get out. d.a.m.ned awful.'

He looked around. In the corner behind the bench stood an old wooden box with the hardly visible word sand painted on its front On the lid was a galvanized bucket 'Look,' he said 'There's one of those old sand boxes from the war.'

He went over, lifted off the bucket, and opened the lid of the sand box. 'There's still some sand in it,' he said.

We never needed it,' said Gunvald Larsson, 'anyway not to put out incendiary bombs with. What's that?'

Kollberg had bent down over the box. Shoving his hand into ' it he picked something out and placed it on the bench. It was a green American army-type shoulder bag.

Kollberg opened the satchel and laid out its contents on the workbench: A crumpled pale-blue s.h.i.+rt.

A blonde wig.

A blue denim hat, wide-brimmed. A pair of sungla.s.ses.

And a pistol: a forty-five-calibre Llama Auto.

24.

The girl who called herself Monita had not met Filip Faithful Mauritzon on that summer day three years ago when she was photographed on a jetty on Moja - an island in the Stockholm Archipelago.

That summer had been the last in her six years of marriage to Peter; in the autumn he met another woman, and just after Christmas had left Monita and their five-year-old daughter Mona. She did what he asked and applied for a quick divorce on grounds of his infidelity: he was in a hurry to marry his new woman, who was already in the fifth month of pregnancy when the divorce went through. Monita kept the two-room flat in Hokarangen, out in the suburbs, and there had never been any question that the child remain in her care. Peter relinquished his rights to have regular contacts with his daughter; later it was to turn out that he also defaulted on his duty to contribute to the child's support.

The divorce not only led to a sharp deterioration in Monita's finances, it also forced her to break off her studies, which she had only recently begun. And this depressed her more than anything else in the whole wretched story.

As time pa.s.sed she had begun to feel handicapped by her lack of education. For she had never really had a chance to go on studying or to learn a profession. When she had finished her nine-year compulsory schooling she had wanted to take a year off before entering college. And when that year was at an end she had met Peter. They had got married, and her plans for higher education had been put on the shelf. The following year their daughter had been born. Peter had started night school. Not until he had completed his education - the year before their divorce was it to have been her turn again. When Peter had left her, her educational prospects had been destroyed: it was impossible to get hold of a regular baby-sitter, and even if one had been available the expense would have been too much for her.

The first two years after her daughter had come into the world Monita had stayed at home, but as soon as she had been able to place the child in a day-care centre she had begun working again. Earlier, that is to say from the month after she had left school up to a few weeks before the child's delivery, she had held a number of different jobs. During those years she had been a secretary, a cas.h.i.+er at a supermarket, a stock clerk, a factory worker, and a waitress. She was a restless soul. As soon as she didn't feel happy or felt she needed a change, she'd pack in her job and look for a new one.

When, after the two-year involuntary interruption, she again began looking for a job, she discovered that the labour market had grown tighter and that there wasn't much for her to choose from. Lacking any professional education or useful contacts, only the worst-paid and least stimulating occupations were open to her. Now it was not so easy to change jobs as soon as the boredom became excessive, but when she had begun to study again the future looked brighter and the soul-killing monotony of work on an a.s.sembly line became easier to put up with.

For three years she had stayed at her job in a chemical factory in the southern suburbs of Stockholm. But when the divorce had gone through and she'd been left alone with her daughter, she was forced to take a shorter and worse-paid s.h.i.+ft. She felt caught in a trap. Suddenly, in despair, she quit her job - without knowing what she was going to do next.

Meanwhile unemployment had become steadily worse, and the lack of jobs was so severe that even academically educated and highly qualified professional people were fighting over ill-paid jobs that were far beneath their qualifications.

For a while Monita had been out of work. She received a meagre income from unemployment insurance but became steadily more depressed. All her thoughts went to the problem of how to make ends meet; rent, food, and clothes for Mona swallowed up everything she could sc.r.a.pe together. She couldn't afford to buy any clothes for herself and had to give up smoking. The pile of unpaid bills just grew and grew. In the end she had swallowed her pride and asked Peter to help her; after all, the law obliged him to contribute to Mona's support. Though he complained that he now had his own family to think of, he gave her five hundred kronor. She had used it immediately to pay off some of her debts!

Except for three weeks when she worked as an office temporary and a couple of weeks picking out loaves in a big bakery, Monita had no steady job during the autumn of 1970. She hadn't found this lack of work disagreeable in itself. It was nice to be able to sleep late in the mornings and be with Mona in the daytime, and if she'd not been weighed down with all these money worries, lack of work wouldn't have bothered her. As time went by, her desire to continue her education had waned. What was the sense of wasting time and energy acc.u.mulating debts, when all one got for one's pains were worthless exams and the dubious satisfaction of having slightly enriched one's store of knowledge? Furthermore, she'd begun to suspect that something more than higher wages and pleasanter working conditions would be needed before there would be much sense in partic.i.p.ating in the industrial-capitalist system.

Just before Christmas she went with Mona to visit her sister in Oslo. Their parents had died in a car crash five years ago, and this sister was the only close relative she had. After their parents' death it had become a tradition with them to celebrate Christmas at her sister's place. To get the money for her ticket she went to a p.a.w.nshop with her parents' wedding rings and a few other pieces of jewellery she'd inherited from them. She stayed in Oslo for two weeks, and when she got back to Stockholm again after New Year's she'd gained six pounds and felt more cheerful than she had for a long time.

In February, 1971, Monita celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday. A year had now pa.s.sed since Peter had left her, and Monita thought she'd changed more during that single year than during her entire marriage. She had matured, discovered new aspects of herself, and that was to the good. But she had also grown harder, more resigned, and a trifle bitter. And that was not so good. Above all, she had become very lonely.

As the solitary mother of a six-year-old who demanded all her time, and with her home in a big housing estate out in the suburbs where everyone seemed to be erecting barriers around his own privacy, she had no chance to break out of this isolation.

Little by little her former friends and acquaintances had drawn away and ceased to show up. Not wis.h.i.+ng to leave her daughter alone, she could only rarely go out, and for lack of money couldn't afford entertainment. During the first period after her divorce some friend or other would come out and look her up; but it was a long way out to Hokarangen, and they soon got tired of the trip. She was often down in the dumps and very depressed, and presumably the impression she'd made on her friends had been so dismal that she'd scared them away.

She took long walks with her daughter and brought home bundles of books from the library, reading them during the silent solitary hours after Mona had gone to sleep. It was rare for her phone to ring. She herself had no one she could call; and when the phone was finally cut off because she hadn't paid her bill, she didn't even notice the difference. She felt like a prisoner in her own home. But gradually her imprisonment began to feel like security, and existence outside the walls of her dreary suburban flat seemed steadily more unreal and remote.