Murder at the Savoy

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‘Fine,’ Månsson said. ‘He's an ambitious boy. Sits at home and studies every night. He does a good job, too, very careful and doesn't do anything rash. He really learned a lesson that time. He was very relieved, by the way, when he heard that you were coming, and not Kollberg.’

Less than a year before, Benny Skacke had been more or less the direct cause of Kollberg's being stabbed in the stomach by a man that both of them were going to arrest at Arlanda airport.

‘Good reinforcement for the football team too, I hear,’ Månsson said.

‘Is that so?’ said Martin Beck disinterestedly. ‘What's he doing right now?’

‘He's trying to get hold of that man who was sitting alone several tables away from Palmgren's party. His name is Edvardsson, and he's a proofreader for Arbetet. He was too drunk to be questioned last Wednesday, and yesterday we couldn't get hold of him. He was probably at home with a hangover and refused to answer the door.’

‘If he was drunk when Palmgren was shot, maybe he's not worth much as a witness,’ Martin Beck said. ‘And when can we question Palmgren's wife?’

Månsson took a swallow of beer and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.

‘This afternoon, I hope. Or tomorrow. Do you want to deal with her?’

‘Maybe it'd be better if you did it yourself. You must know more about Palmgren than I do.’

‘I doubt it,’ Månsson said. ‘But okay, you're the one to decide. You can talk to Edvardsson, if Skacke gets hold of him. I have a feeling that he's the most important witness so far, despite everything. Would you like a beer? It's warm, I'm afraid.’

Martin Beck shook his head. He was extremely thirsty, but warm beer didn't appeal to him.

‘Why don't we go up to the canteen and have some mineral water instead?’ he said.

They each drank a bottle of mineral water standing at the bar and then returned to Månsson's room. Benny Skacke was sitting in the extra chair reading something from his notepad. He stood up quickly when they came in, and he and Martin Beck shook hands.

‘Well, did you get hold of Edvardsson?’ Månsson asked.

‘Yes, eventually. He's at the newspaper right now, but should be home about three o'clock,’ Skacke said.

He looked at his notes.

‘Kamrergatan 2.’

‘Call and say that I'll come at three,’ Martin Beck said.

The building on Kamrergatan seemed to be the first finished in a series of new structures; on the other side of the street were squat, old houses that had been vacated and would soon fall prey to bulldozers to make room for newer and larger blocks of flats.

Edvardsson lived on the top floor and opened the door soon after Martin Beck had rung the bell. About fifty years old, he had an intelligent face with a prominent nose and deep furrows around his mouth. He squinted at Martin Beck before he threw open the door and said, ‘Superintendent Beck? Come in.’

Martin Beck preceded him into the room, which was frugally furnished. The walls were covered with book shelves, and on the desk by the window was a typewriter with a half-typed sheet of paper in the platen.

Edvardsson removed a stack of newspapers from the room's only armchair and said, ‘Please sit down and I'll get something to drink. I have cold beer in the fridge.’

‘Beer sounds good,’ Martin Beck said.

The man went out into the kitchenette and returned with glasses and two bottles of beer.

‘Beck's Beer,’ he said. ‘Appropriate, eh?’

When he had poured the beer into the glasses he sat down on the sofa with one arm over the back.

Martin Beck took a big swallow of beer, which was cold and good in the oppressive heat. Then he said, ‘Well, you know what my visit is about.’

Edvardsson nodded and lit a cigarette.

‘Yes, about Palmgren. I can't exactly say I regret his passing.’

‘Did you know him?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Personally? No, not at all. But you couldn't help but run into him in every possible connection. The impression I had was of a domineering, arrogant man – well, I've never gotten along with that type of person.’

‘What does that mean? “That type”?’

‘People for whom money means everything and who don't hesitate to use any means to get it.’

‘I'd like to hear more about Palmgren later, if you'd like to clarify what you think of him, but first I want to know something else. Did you see the gunman?’

Edvardsson ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit grizzled and lay in a wave over his forehead.

‘I'm afraid I can't be of too much help. I was sitting reading and didn't really react until the fellow was already halfway out of the window. At first I only noticed Palmgren, and then I saw the gunman – but just out of the corner of my eye. He took off very quickly, and when I got around to looking out of the window, he'd disappeared.’

Martin Beck took a crumpled pack of Floridas from his pocket and lit one.

‘Have you any idea what he looked like?’ he asked.

‘I seem to remember that he was dressed in rather dark clothes, probably in a suit or a sports coat and trousers that didn't match, and that he wasn't a young man. But it's only an impression I have – he could have been thirty, forty, or fifty, but hardly older or younger than that.’

‘Was Palmgren's party already seated when you got to the restaurant?’

‘No,’ said Edvardsson. ‘I'd eaten and had a whisky by the time they came. I live alone here, and sometimes it's nice to sit in a restaurant and read a book, and then I end up sitting there for quite a long time.’

He paused and added, ‘Even though it gets damned expensive, of course.’

‘Did you recognize anyone besides Palmgren in this gathering?’

‘His wife and that young man who's said to be – have been – Palmgren's right-hand man. I didn't recognize the others, but it looked as if they were employees, too. A couple of them spoke Danish.’

Edvardsson took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. He was dressed in a white shirt and tie, pale polyester trousers and black shoes. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Martin Beck felt his own shirt begin to grow damp and stick to his body.

‘Did you happen to hear what the conversation was about?’ he asked.

‘To tell you the truth, I did. I'm fairly curious and think it's fun to study people, so, in fact, I was eavesdropping a little. Palmgren and the Dane talked shop – I didn't catch what it was all about, but they mentioned Rhodesia several times. He had a lot of irons in the fire, Palmgren – I even heard him say that himself on at least one occasion – and there were a number of shady deals underway, I've heard tell. The ladies talked about the kind of things that that kind of lady usually talks about – clothes, trips, mutual acquaintances, parties … Mrs Palmgren and the younger of the other two talked about someone who'd had her sagging breasts operated on so that they looked like tennis balls right under her chin. Charlotte Palmgren talked about a party at 21 in New York, where Frank Sinatra had been, and someone called Mackan had bought champagne for all of them the whole night. And a million other things like that. A fantastic bra for 75 kronor at Twilfit. That it's too warm to wear a wig in the summer, so you have to put your hair up every day.’

Martin Beck reflected that Edvardsson couldn't have read much of his book that night.

‘And the other men? Did they talk shop, too?’

‘Not very much. It seems they'd had a meeting before dinner. The fourth man – not the Dane and not the young one, that is – said something about it. No, their conversation wasn't on a very high level either. For example, they talked a long time about Palmgren's tie, which unfortunately I couldn't see since he sat with his back to me. It must have been something special, for they all admired it, and Palmgren said that he'd bought it for 95 francs on the Champs-Elysées in Paris. And the fourth man told them that he had a problem that kept him awake at night. His daughter had actually moved in with a Negro. Palmgren suggested he send her to Switzerland, where there are hardly any blacks.’

Edvardsson got up, carried the empty bottles out into the kitchenette and returned with two more bottles of beer. They were misty and looked extremely tempting.

‘Yes,’ Edvardsson said, ‘that's most of what I remember from the table conversation. Not especially helpful, is it?’

‘No,’ Martin Beck said truthfully. ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not much. He lives in one of the largest of those old upper-class mansions out towards Limhamn. He made a pile of money and also spent plenty, among other things on his wife and that old house.’

Edvardsson was silent a moment. Then he asked a question in return: ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not too much more than that.’

‘God save us if the police know as little as I do about characters like Viktor Palmgren,’ said Edvardsson and drank deeply from his glass of beer.

‘Right when Palmgren was shot, he was giving a speech, wasn't he?’

‘Yes, I remember, he stood up and started rambling on – the usual sort of nonsense. Welcomed them and thanked them for good work and lectured the ladies and had his fun. He seemed skilled at it; he sounded tremendously jolly. The hotel staff withdrew so they wouldn't disturb them, and even the music stopped. The waiters had vanished into thin air, and I had to sit there sucking on ice cubes. Do you really not know what Palmgren was doing, or is it a police secret?’

Martin Beck eyed the glass of beer. Took it. Took a sip cautiously.

‘I don't know very much, in fact,’ he said. ‘But there are others who probably know. A lot of foreign business and a property company in Stockholm.’

‘I see,’ Edvardsson said and then seemed lost in thought.

After a moment he said, ‘The little I saw of that murderer, I already told them about the day before yesterday. Two fellows from the police were on me. One fellow who kept asking what time it was, and also a younger one who seemed a little sharper.’

‘You weren't quite sober at the time, were you?’ Martin Beck said.

‘No. Lord knows, I wasn't. And then yesterday I tied on another one, so I'm still hungover. It must be this damned heat.’

Splendid, thought Martin Beck. Hungover detective questions hungover witness. Very constructive.

‘Maybe you know how it feels,’ Edvardsson said.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin Beck. Then he took the glass of beer and emptied it in one gulp. He stood up and said, ‘Thank you. Maybe you'll be hearing from us again.’

He stopped and asked another question:

‘By the way, did you happen to see the weapon the murderer used?’

Edvardsson hesitated.

‘Come to think of it now, it seems to me I caught a glimpse of it, at the moment he stuck it in his pocket. I don't know much about guns, of course, but it was a long, fairly narrow thing. With a kind of roller, or whatever you call it.’

‘Revolving chamber,’ said Martin Beck. ‘Goodbye and thanks for the beer.’

‘Come again sometime,’ Edvardsson said. ‘Now I'm going to have a pick-me-up, so I can put things into a little better shape here.’

Månsson was still sitting in about the same position behind his desk.

‘What shall I say?’ he said when Martin Beck slipped in through the door. ‘How did it go? Well, how did it go?’

‘That's a good question. Rather badly, I think. How's it going there?’

‘Not at all.’

‘How about the widow?’

‘I'll get her tomorrow. Best to be careful. She is in mourning.’

7 (#ulink_6561278c-0a78-559d-ad6d-0a04f111ccfb)

Per Månsson was born and grew up in the working-class section around Möllevång Square in Malmö. He'd been a police officer for more than twenty-five years. Having lived with Malmö his whole life, he knew his city better than most – and liked it, too.

However, there was one part of the city he'd never really got to know, and this section had always made him feel uneasy. That was Västra Förstaden, with areas like Fridhem, Västervång and Bellevue, where many rich families had always lived. He could remember the famine years of the twenties and thirties, when many times as a little lad he had trudged in his clogs through the blocks of mansions on the way to Limhamn, where somehow it might be possible to find herring for dinner. He recalled the expensive cars and the uniformed chauffeurs, maids in black dresses with aprons and starched white caps, and upper-class children in tulle dresses and sailor suits. He'd felt so utterly outside of all that; the whole environment had appeared incomprehensible, like a fairy tale to him. Somehow it still felt the same way, by and large, despite the fact that the chauffeurs and most of the servant girls were gone and that nowadays upper-class children didn't differ very much on the surface from any other children.

After all, herring and potatoes was not a bad diet. Although fatherless and poor, he'd grown up to be a big strong man, taken the ‘hard road’ and eventually done quite well. At least he thought so himself.

Viktor Palmgren had lived in this same area; and consequently his widow probably still lived there.

So far he'd only seen pictures of the people around the fateful dinner table and didn't know very much about them. About Charlotte Palmgren, however, he knew that she was considered an exceptional beauty and had once been crowned Miss Something – was it only of Sweden or of the whole universe? Then she'd made herself famous as a model and after that become Mrs Palmgren, twenty-seven years old and at the height of her career. Now she was thirty-two and outwardly fairly unchanged, as only women can be who haven't had children, and who can afford to spend a lot of time and an unlimited amount of money on their appearance. Viktor Palmgren had been twenty-four years older than she, a fact which might give an indication of the mutual motives for the marriage. He'd probably wanted something good-looking to display to his business acquaintances and she, enough money so that she never again would need to do anything that might possibly be characterized as work. And that is the way it seemed to have worked out.

Nevertheless, Charlotte Palmgren was a widow, and Månsson couldn't avoid a certain measure of propriety. Therefore, much to his distaste, he put on his dark suit, white shirt and tie before he went down and got into the car to drive the relatively short stretch from Regementsgatan to Bellevue.

The Palmgren residence seemed to correspond with all of Månsson's childhood memories, which had perhaps become covered with a patina of slight exaggeration over the years. One could catch only a glimpse of the house from the street, a bit of the roof and a weather vane, for the hedges were not only well clipped and richly verdant, but also very high and thick. If he wasn't mistaken, there was likely to be a wrought-iron fence behind it. The plot seemed immense, and the lawn rather resembled formal gardens. The gate to the drive was just as impenetrable as the hedge; it was of copper, green with age, high, broad, and embellished with spiralling pinnacles. On one half of the door was a row of oversized brass letters, which formed the by now familiar name – Palmgren. On the other half was a letter box, the button for an electric doorbell and directly over it a square opening through which potential visitors could be scrutinized before being granted admission. Clearly it wasn't a matter of just walking in any old way. As he cautiously pressed down the handle, Månsson almost expected an alarm to start ringing somewhere inside. The door was locked, of course, and the opening hermetically sealed. Nothing could be seen through the letter slot – obviously it opened into a closed metal box.

Månsson raised his hand to the doorbell, but changed his mind, let his arm sink back and looked around.

Besides his own old Wartburg, two cars were parked by the kerb – a red Jaguar and a yellow MG. Did it seem plausible that Charlotte Palmgren would have two sports cars parked on the street? He stood still, listening, and thought for an instant that he discerned voices from within the park. Then the sounds died away, perhaps stifled by the heat and the stagnant, quivering air.