The Man on the Balcony. Maj Sjowall

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СКАЧАТЬ Detective Inspector Larsson.

      ‘And your name is …?’

      Gunvald Larsson took a ball-point pen from his breast pocket and scribbled a word. Then sat with the pen in mid-air.

      ‘And what can I do for you?

      ‘Sorry, I didn't get that.

      ‘Eh? A what?

      ‘A cat?

      ‘A cat on the balcony?

      ‘Oh, a man.

      ‘Is there a man standing on your balcony?’

      Gunvald Larsson pushed the telephone directory aside and drew a memo pad towards him. Put pen to paper. Wrote a few words.

      ‘Yes, I see. What does he look like, did you say?

      ‘Yes, I'm listening. Thin hair brushed straight back. Big nose. Aha. White shirt. Average height. Hm. Brown trousers. Unbuttoned. What? Oh, the shirt. Blue-grey eyes.

      ‘One moment, madam. Let's get this straight. You mean he's standing on his own balcony?’

      Gunvald Larsson looked from Melander to Martin Beck and shrugged. He went on listening and poked his ear with the pen.

      ‘Sorry, madam. You say this man is standing on his own balcony? Has he molested you?

      ‘Oh, he hasn't. What? On the other side of the street? On his own balcony?

      ‘Then how can you see that he has blue-grey eyes? It must be a very narrow street.

      ‘What? You're doing what?

      ‘Now wait a minute, madam. All this man has done is to stand on his own balcony. What else is he doing?

      ‘Looking down into the street? What's happening in the street?

      ‘Nothing? What did you say? Cars? Children playing?

      ‘At night too? Do the children play at night too?

      ‘Oh, they don't. But he stands there at night? What do you want us to do? Send the dog van?

      ‘As a matter of fact there's no law forbidding people to stand on their balconies, madam.

      ‘Report an observation, you say? Heavens above, madam, if everyone reported their observations we'd need three policemen for every inhabitant.

      ‘Grateful? We ought to be grateful?

      ‘Impertinent? I've been impertinent? Now look here, madam…’

      Gunvald Larsson broke off and sat with the receiver a foot from his ear.

      ‘She hung up,’ he said in amazement.

      After three seconds he banged down the receiver and said:

      ‘Go to hell, you old bitch.’

      He tore off the sheet of paper he had been writing on and carefully wiped the ear wax off the tip of the pen.

      ‘People are crazy,’ he said. ‘No wonder we get nothing done. Why doesn't the switchboard block calls like that? There ought to be a direct line to the nut house.’

      ‘You'll just have to get used to it,’ Melander said, calmly taking his telephone directory, closing it and going into the next room.

      Gunvald Larsson, having finished cleaning his pen, crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. With a sour look at the suitcase by the door he said:

      ‘Where are you off to?’

      ‘Just going down to Motala for a couple of days,’ Martin Beck replied. ‘Something there I must look at.’

      ‘Oh.’

      ‘Be back inside a week. But Kollberg will be home today. He's on duty here as from tomorrow. So you needn't worry.’

      ‘I'm not worrying.’

      ‘By the way, those robberies…’

      ‘Yes?’

      ‘No, it doesn't matter.’

      ‘If he does it twice more we'll get him,’ Melander said from the next room.

      ‘Exactly,’ said Martin Beck. ‘So long.’

      ‘So long,’ Gunvald Larsson replied.

       3

      Martin Beck got to Central Station nineteen minutes before the train was due to leave and thought he would fill in the time by making two telephone calls.

      First home.

      ‘Haven't you left yet?’ his wife said.

      He ignored this rhetorical question and merely said:

      ‘I'll be staying at a hotel called the Palace. Thought you'd better know.’

      ‘How long will you be away?’

      ‘A week’

      ‘How do you know for certain?’

      This was a good question. She wasn't dumb at any rate, Martin Beck thought.

      ‘Love to the children,’ he said, adding after a moment, ‘take care of yourself.’

      ‘Thanks,’ she said coldly.

      He hung up and fished another coin out of his trouser pocket. There was a line in front of the telephone boxes and the people standing nearest glared at him as he put the coin in the slot and dialled the number of southern police headquarters. It took about a minute before he got Kollberg on the line.

      ‘Beck here. Just wanted to make sure you were back.’

      ‘Very thoughtful of you,’ Kollberg said. ‘Are you still here?’

      ‘How's Gun?’

      ‘Fine. Big as a house of course.’

      Gun was Kollberg's wife; she was expecting a baby at the end of August.

      ‘I'll be back in a week.’

      ‘So I gather. And by that time I shall no longer be on duty here.’

      There was a pause, then Kollberg said:

      ‘What takes you to Motala?’

      ‘That fellow…’

      ‘Which fellow?’

      ‘That СКАЧАТЬ