Читать книгу Murder at the Savoy - Arne Dahl - Страница 8

Per Månsson was sitting in his bachelor den on Regementsgatan, talking to his wife on the telephone. He was a Detective Inspector with the Malmö police force, and although he was married, he lived as a bachelor five days of the week. For more than ten years he'd spent every free weekend with his wife – an arrangement which had so far satisfied them both.

He cradled the receiver with his left shoulder while he mixed a Gripenberger with his right hand. It was his favourite drink, consisting simply of a jigger of gin, crushed ice and grape juice in a big tumbler.

His wife, who'd been to the movies, was telling him the plot of Gone With the Wind.

It took some time, but Månsson listened patiently, because as soon as she had finished the story he planned to ward off their usual weekend get-together with the excuse that he had to work. Which was a lie.

It was twenty minutes after nine in the evening.

Månsson was sweating in spite of his light clothing – a string vest and chequered shorts. He had closed the balcony door at the beginning of the conversation so that he wouldn't be disturbed by the rumble of traffic from the street. Although the sun had long ago sunk behind the roofs of the buildings across the street, it was very warm in the room.

He stirred his drink with a fork, which he was embarrassed to admit had been either stolen or taken by accident from a restaurant called Översten. Månsson wondered if a person could take a fork by accident and said, ‘Yes, I see. It was Leslie Howard then who … No, huh? Clark Gable? Uh-hmm …’

Five minutes later she'd got to the end. He delivered his white lie and hung up.

The telephone rang. Månsson didn't answer immediately. He was off work and wanted to keep it that way. He slowly drained his Gripenberger. Watching the evening sky darken, he lifted the receiver and answered, ‘Månsson.’

‘This is Nilsson. That was one hell of a long conversation. I've been trying to get you for half an hour.’

Nilsson was an assistant detective, on duty that night at the central police station on Davidshall Square. Månsson sighed.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘What's up?’

‘A man has been shot in the dining room at the Savoy. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to get over there.’

The glass was empty but still cold. Månsson picked it up and rolled it against his forehead with the palm of his hand.

‘Is he dead?’ he asked.

‘Don't know,’ said Nilsson.

‘Can't you send Skacke?’

‘He's off. Impossible to get hold of. I'll keep looking for him. Backlund is there now, but you probably ought to …’

Månsson gave a start and put down the glass.

‘Backlund? Okay, I'll leave right away,’ he said.

He promptly called a taxi, then put the receiver on the table. While dressing, he listened to the rasping voice from the receiver mechanically repeating the words ‘Taxi Central, one moment please’ until his call was finally put through to the operator.

Outside the Savoy Hotel several police cars were carefully parked, and two constables were blocking the entrance from a growing crowd of curious evening strollers jammed together at the bottom of the stairs.

Månsson took in the scene as he paid for the cab, put the receipt in his pocket, observed that one of the constables was being rather brusque and reflected that it wouldn't be long before Malmö's police force had as bad a reputation as their colleagues in Stockholm.

He said nothing, however, only nodded as he walked past the uniformed policemen into the lobby. It was noisy there now. The hotel's entire staff had gathered and were chatting with each other and with some customers streaming out of the grill. Several policemen completed the picture. They seemed at a loss, unfamiliar with the surroundings. Evidently no one had told them how to act or what to expect.

Månsson was a big man in his fifties. He was dressed casually in polyester trousers and sandals, with his shirt out. He took a toothpick from his breast pocket, pulled off the paper wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. As he chewed, he methodically took stock of the situation. The toothpick was American, menthol-flavoured; he'd picked it up on the train ferry Malmöhus, which provides such things for its passengers.

Standing by the door leading to the large dining room was a patrolman named Elofsson, whom Månsson thought was a little more intelligent than the rest.

He walked over to him and said, ‘What's the story?’

‘Looks like someone's been shot.’

‘Have you had any instructions?’

‘Not a word.’

‘What's Backlund doing?’

‘Questioning witnesses.’

‘Where's the man who was shot?’

‘At the hospital, I suppose.’

Elofsson turned slightly red. Then he said, ‘The ambulance got here before the police, obviously.’

Månsson sighed and went into the dining room.

Backlund was standing by the table with the gleaming silver tureens questioning a waiter. He was an elderly man with glasses and ordinary features. Somehow he'd managed to become a first assistant detective. He was holding his notebook open in his hand, busily taking notes. Månsson stopped within hearing distance, but said nothing.

‘And at what time did this happen?’

‘Uh, about eight-thirty.’

‘About?’

‘Well, I don't know for sure.’

‘In other words, you don't know what time it was.’

‘No, I don't. ’

‘Rather odd,’ said Backlund.

‘What?’

‘I said, it seems rather odd. You have a wrist watch, don't you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there is a clock on the wall over there, if I'm not mistaken.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Both of them are wrong. Anyway, I didn't think of looking at the clock.’

Backlund appeared overwhelmed by the response. He put down the pad and pencil and began to clean his glasses. He took a deep breath, grabbed the notebook and started writing again.

‘Even though you had two clocks at your disposal, you didn't know what time it was.’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘We've got no use for “sort of” answers.’

‘But the clocks aren't synchronized. Mine's fast, and the clock over there's slow.’

Backlund consulted his Ultratron. ‘Odd,’ he said, writing something down.

Månsson wondered what.

‘So you were standing here when the criminal walked by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you give me as full a description as possible?’

‘I didn't really get a good look at him.’

‘You didn't see the gunman?’ said Backlund, startled.

‘Well, yes, when he climbed out of the window.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don't know. It was pretty far away, and that table was hidden by the pillar.’

‘You mean you don't know what he looked like?’

‘Not really.’

‘How was he dressed then?’

‘In a brown sports coat, I think.’

‘Think?’

‘Yeah. I only saw him for a second.’

‘What else did he have on? Trousers, for example.’

‘Oh yes, he had trousers on.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Well, it certainly would have seemed a little … like you said, odd, otherwise. If he hadn't had any trousers on, I mean.’

Backlund wrote furiously. Månsson started chewing on the other end of the toothpick and quietly said, ‘Oh, Backlund …?’

The other man turned around and glared.

‘I'm in the middle of questioning an important witness …’

He broke off and said sullenly, ‘Oh, so it's you.’

‘What's going on?’

‘A man was shot in here,’ said Backlund in great earnest. ‘And you know who?’

‘No.’

‘Viktor Palmgren. The corporation president.’ Backlund laid heavy stress on the title.

‘Oh, him,’ said Månsson. And thought, this one'll be a nightmare. Aloud he said, ‘It happened over an hour ago and the gunman climbed out of the window and got away.’

‘It may look that way.’

Backlund never took anything for granted.

‘Why are there six police cars outside?’

‘I had them close off the area.’

‘The whole block?’

‘The scene of the crime,’ said Backlund.

‘Get rid of everybody in uniform,’ Månsson said wearily. ‘It can't be very pleasant for the hotel to have police swarming around in the foyer and out on the street. Besides, they must be needed more somewhere else. Then try to get up a description. There has to be a better witness than this guy.’

‘Naturally, we'll question everybody,’ said Backlund.

‘All in due course,’ said Månsson. ‘But don't detain anyone who doesn't have something crucial to say. Just take names and addresses.’

Backlund looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What are you planning to do?’

‘Make some telephone calls,’ said Månsson.

‘Who to?’

‘The newspapers, to find out what's happened.’

‘Was that supposed to be a joke?’ said Backlund coldly.

‘Right,’ said Månsson absentmindedly and looked around.

Journalists and photographers were roaming around in the dining room. Some of them must have been there long before the police, and one or more had been on the spot in the grill or the bar when the famous shot was fired. Probably. If Månsson's suspicions proved correct.

‘But the manual requires …’ Backlund began.

Just then Benny Skacke hurried into the dining room. He was thirty years old, and already an assistant detective. Previously he had been with the National Murder Squad in Stockholm, but had asked to be transferred after taking a rather foolish risk that had almost cost the life of one of his superiors. He was dedicated, conscientious, somewhat naïve. Månsson liked him.

‘Skacke can help you,’ he said.

‘A Stockholmer,’ said Backlund sceptically.

‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘And don't forget that description. That's all that matters now.’

He threw his shredded toothpick into an ashtray, went out into the lobby and headed for the telephone across from the reception desk.

Månsson made five calls in rapid succession. Then he shook his head and went into the bar.

‘Well, look who's here!’ said the barman.

‘How's it going?’ Månsson said and sat down.

‘What can we get you today? The usual?’

‘No. Just a grape juice. I've got to think.’

Sometimes everything gets messed up, Månsson thought. This case had really got off to a bad start. In the first place, Viktor Palmgren was important and well known. True, it was hard to tell exactly why, but one thing was certain – he had plenty of money, at least a million. The fact that he had been shot down in one of the most famous restaurants in Europe didn't help matters. This case would attract a lot of attention and could have far-reaching consequences. Immediately after the shooting, the hotel personnel had carried the wounded man out to a TV lounge and fixed a makeshift stretcher. They'd alerted the police and an ambulance at the same time. The ambulance had come very quickly, picked up the wounded man and taken him to General Hospital. For a while there had been no sign of the police. In spite of the fact that a patrol car had been parked at the railway station – in other words, less than two hundred yards from the scene of the crime. How had that happened? He had received the explanation now, but it wasn't especially flattering to the police. The call had been misinterpreted at first, the case judged to be less urgent than others. The two policemen at the train station had therefore spent their time picking up a completely harmless drunk. Only after the police had been alerted a second time had cars and uniformed men been dispatched to the hotel, with Backlund fearlessly in the lead. What had then been undertaken in the way of investigation seemed totally slipshod. Månsson himself had sat rehashing Gone With the Wind with his wife for more than forty minutes. Besides that, he'd had two drinks and been forced to wait for a taxi. When the first policeman arrived, half an hour had passed since the shot was fired. As to Viktor Palmgren's condition, the situation was equally unclear. He had been examined at the emergency ward in Malmö, then referred to a neurosurgeon in Lund, about fifteen miles away. At this very second the ambulance was still on its way. One of the most important witnesses, Palmgren's wife, was also in the ambulance. She'd probably sat across from him at the table and had been the person most likely to get a close look at the gunman.

An hour had already gone by. An hour wasted, and every second of it was precious.

Månsson shook his head again and glanced at the clock above the bar. Nine-thirty.

Backlund marched into the bar, followed closely by Skacke.

‘And you just sit here?’ Backlund said, quite surprised.

He strained his eyes to stare at Månsson.

‘How's the description coming?’ said Månsson. ‘We've got to get a move on.’

Backlund fumbled with his notebook, put it on the bar, took off his glasses and began cleaning them.

‘Listen,’ Skacke said quickly, ‘this is the best we can come up with right now. Medium tall, thin face, thin dark brown hair, combed back. Brown sports coat, pastel shirt, dark grey trousers, black or brown shoes. Age about forty.’

‘Fine,’ said Månsson. ‘Send it out. Right away. Block all main roads, check out trains, planes and boats.’

‘Right,’ said Skacke.

‘I want him to stay in town,’ said Månsson.

Skacke left.

Backlund put on his glasses, stared at Månsson and repeated his pertinent question, ‘And you just sit here?’

Then he looked at the glass, saying with even greater astonishment, ‘Drinking?’

Månsson didn't reply.

Backlund turned his attention to the clock over the bar, compared it with his watch and said, ‘That clock's wrong.’

‘Of course,’ the barman said. ‘It's fast. A little service for guests who're in a hurry to catch a train or boat.’

‘Hmm,’ Backlund said. ‘We'll never get this figured out. How can we determine the correct time when we can't rely on the clock?’

‘It won't be too easy,’ Månsson said absentmindedly.

Skacke came back.

‘Well, that's done,’ he said.

‘Probably too late,’ Månsson said.

‘What in the world are you talking about?’ Backlund said, seizing his notepad. ‘About this waiter …’

Dismissing him with a gesture, Månsson said, ‘Wait. We'll take that later. Benny, go call the police in Lund and ask them to send a man to the neurosurgeon at the hospital. The man they send should have a tape recorder with him so he can catch anything Palmgren says. If and when he regains consciousness. He'll have to question Mrs Palmgren, too.’

Skacke departed again.

‘About the waiter. I'd say he wouldn't have noticed a thing if Dracula himself had fluttered through the dining room,’ the barman said.

Irritated, Backlund kept quiet. Månsson waited to say anything else until Skacke came back. Since Backlund was officially Skacke's superior, he carefully addressed his question to both of them.

‘Who do you two think is the best witness?’

‘A guy named Edvardsson,’ said Skacke. ‘He was sitting only three tables away. But …’

‘But what?’

‘He isn't sober.’

‘Alcohol is a curse,’ Backlund said.

‘Okay, we wait with him until tomorrow,’ said Månsson. ‘Who can drop me off at headquarters?’

‘I can,’ said Skacke.

‘I'll stay here,’ Backlund said stubbornly. ‘This is officially my case.’

‘Right,’ said Månsson. ‘We'll be seeing you.’

In the car he mumbled, ‘Trains and boats …’

‘Do you think he's got away?’ asked Skacke hesitantly.

‘He could have. Any way you look at it, we've got a whole lot of people to call. And we can't worry about waking anybody up.’

Skacke looked sideways at Månsson, who was taking out another toothpick. The car swung into the courtyard of the main police station.

‘Planes,’ Månsson said to himself. ‘It could be a rough night.’

The station seemed large, grim and very empty at this time of day. It was an impressive building. Their steps echoed desolately on the broad stone staircase.

By nature, Månsson was as slow-moving as he was tall. He detested rough nights, and besides, most of his career was behind him.

The opposite was true of Skacke. He was twenty years younger, thought about his career a lot and was eager and ambitious. But his previous experience as a policeman had made him careful, anxious to do what was expected.

So, in fact, they complemented each other quite well.

Inside his room Månsson immediately opened the window, which overlooked the station's tarmac yard. Then he sank down in his desk chair and sat silently for several minutes, reflectively spinning the platen on his old Underwood.

Finally he said, ‘Get all the radio messages and calls sent up here. Take them on your telephone.’

Skacke had a room on the other side of the corridor, across from Månsson.

‘You can leave the doors open,’ Månsson said.

And after several seconds he added with mild irony, ‘That way we'll have a real operations centre.’

Skacke went into his room and began using the telephone. After a little while Månsson followed him. He stood with a toothpick in the corner of his mouth, one shoulder propped against the doorframe.

‘Have you given this any thought, Benny?’ he said.

‘Not very much,’ said Skacke carefully. ‘It seems incredible, somehow.’

‘Incredible is the word for it,’ Månsson said.

‘What I don't get is the motive.’

‘I don't think we should give a damn about the motive until we get the details straight.’

The telephone rang. Skacke made a note.

‘The person who shot Palmgren had only one chance in a thousand of making it out of the hotel dining room afterwards. Up to the second the shot was fired, he acted like a fanatic.’

‘Something like an assassination?’

‘Right. And afterwards? What happens? Miraculously enough he escapes, and then he doesn't act like a fanatic any more, but panics.’

‘Is that why you think he's trying to leave town?’

‘Partly. He walks in and shoots and doesn't care what happens afterwards. But then, like most criminals, he panics. He simply gets frightened and only wants to get away from there, as far and as fast as possible.’

That's one theory, Skacke thought. Seems rather loosely founded, though.

But he said nothing.

‘Of course it's only a theory,’ Månsson said. ‘A good detective can't rely on theories alone. But for the time being I don't see any other line we can work on.’

The telephone rang.

Work, Månsson thought. What a way to work.

And he was supposed to have a day off!

It was a rough night in the sense that nothing really happened. Some people who more or less fitted the description were stopped on the motorways leading out of the city and at the train station. None of them seemed to have anything to do with the case, but their names were taken.

At twenty to one the last train left the station.

At quarter to two the police in Lund sent the message that Palmgren was alive.

At three o'clock another message came from the same source. Mrs Palmgren was in shock, and it was difficult to question her thoroughly. However, she had seen the gunman clearly and was sure she didn't recognize him.

‘Seems on the ball, that guy in Lund,’ said Månsson with a yawn.

Just after four the Lund police got in touch again. The team of doctors treating Palmgren had decided for the present not to operate. The bullet had penetrated behind his left ear; it was impossible to tell what damage had been caused. The condition of the patient was reported to be as good as could be expected.

Månsson's condition wasn't good. Tired, his throat very dry, he went out to the bathroom time after time to fill up on water.

‘Is it possible for someone to live with a bullet in his head?’ asked Skacke.

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘it's been done before. Sometimes it's enclosed by the tissue, and the person recovers. If the doctors had tried to remove it, however, he probably would've died.’

Backlund had evidently stuck to the Savoy for a long time, for at four-thirty he called to say that he had blockaded and sealed off an area in anticipation of the technical squad's investigation of the scene of the crime, which might take place in several hours, at the earliest.

‘He wants to know if he's needed here,’ said Skacke, holding his hand over the receiver.

‘The only place he could possibly be needed is at home in bed with his wife,’ said Månsson.

Skacke conveyed the message but modified the wording somewhat. Soon after this Skacke said, ‘I think we can rule out Bulltofta. The last plane left at five after eleven. Nobody on board answered the description. The next one takes off at six-thirty. It's been booked up since the day before yesterday, and there's nobody on the waiting list.’

Månsson mulled over that for a while. ‘Hmm,’ he said finally. ‘I think I'll call somebody who isn't going to like being dragged out of bed.’

‘Who? The police chief?’

‘No, he probably hasn't slept any more than we have. By the way, where were you hiding out last night?’

‘At the cinema,’ said Skacke. ‘You can't sit at home and study every night.’

‘I've never sat at home and studied,’ said Månsson. ‘One of those hydrofoils left Malmö for Copenhagen at nine o'clock. Try to find out which one it was.’

That proved an unexpectedly difficult task, and half an hour went by before Skacke could report, ‘It's called Springeren, and right now it's in Copenhagen. It's unbelievable how grumpy some people can be when you call and get them out of bed.’

‘You can comfort yourself with the fact that I've got a much worse job now,’ said Månsson.

He went into his room, picked up the telephone, dialled Denmark, 00945, and then the home number of Police Captain Mogensen, Danish Bureau of Investigation. He counted seventeen rings before a thick voice said, ‘Mogensen.’

‘This is Per Månsson in Malmö.’

‘What the hell do you want?’ said Mogensen. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘but this could be very important.’

‘It'd better be damned important,’ the Dane said threateningly.

‘We had an attempted murder here in Malmö last night,’ said Månsson. ‘There's a chance that the gunman flew to Copenhagen. We have a description.’

Then he related the whole story, and Mogensen said bitterly, ‘For Christ's sake, do you think I can work miracles?’

‘Why not?’ said Månsson. ‘Let us know if you find out anything.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Mogensen in a surprisingly clear voice and slammed down the receiver.

Månsson shook himself, yawning.

Nothing happened.

Backlund called later to say that they'd begun investigating the scene of the crime. It was then eight o'clock.

‘Hell, he's really on the ball,’ Månsson said.

‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Skacke.

‘Nowhere. Wait.’

At twenty to nine Månsson's private line rang. He lifted the receiver, listened for a minute or two, broke off the conversation without saying so much as thanks or goodbye and yelled to Skacke, ‘Call Stockholm. Right away.’

‘What should I say?’

Månsson looked at the clock.

‘That was Mogensen. He said a Swede who gave his name as Bengt Stensson bought a ticket from Kastrup to Stockholm last night and then waited stand-by for several hours. He finally got on an SAS flight that took off at eight twenty-five. The plane should have landed at Arlanda ten minutes ago at most. The guy might fit the description. I want the bus from the airport into the city stopped at the air terminal, and this man taken into custody.’

Skacke rushed to the telephone.

‘Okay,’ he said breathlessly half a minute later. ‘Stockholm will take care of it.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Gunvald Larsson.’

‘Oh, him.’

They waited.

After half an hour Skacke's telephone rang. He yanked the receiver to his ear, listened and was left sitting with it in his hand. ‘They blew it,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Månsson said laconically.

But they'd had twenty minutes, he thought.