Roseanna Page 6

  The embassy people and the County Police Superintendent could wait. He picked up the telephone and dialled the area code for Motala.

  ‘Yes,’ said Ahlberg.

  ‘She's been identified.’

  ‘For sure?’

  ‘It seems so.’

  Ahlberg said nothing.

  ‘She was an American. From a place called Lincoln in Nebraska. Are you writing it down?’

  ‘Hell, yes.’

  ‘Her name was Roseanna McGraw. I'll spell it: R for Rudolf, O for Olof, S for Sigurd, E for Erik, A for Adam, N for Niklas, again N for Niklas, A for Adam. New word: capital M for Martin, C for Cesar, capital G for Gustav, R for Rudolf, A for Adam, W for Wilhelm. Have you got that?’

  ‘Sure I've got it.’

  ‘She was twenty-seven years old and a librarian. That's all I know at the moment.’

  ‘How did you manage that?’

  ‘Only routine. They began to look for her after a while. Not through Interpol. Via the embassy.’

  ‘The boat?’ said Ahlberg.

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘The boat. Where would an American tourist be coming from if not from a boat? Maybe not from my boat but from some pleasure yacht. Quite a few go through here.’

  ‘We don't know if she was a tourist.’

  ‘That's right. I'll get going immediately. If she knew anyone here or lived in town, I'll know about it in twenty-four hours.’

  ‘Fine. I'll call you as soon as I know more.’

  Martin Beck ended the conversation by sneezing in Ahlberg's ear. By the time he tried to apologize, the other had already hung up.

  In spite of his headache and his clogged up ears he felt better than he had for a long time. He felt like a long-distance runner one second before the starting gun. There were only two things that worried him: the murderer had jumped the gun and was three months ahead of him, and he didn't know in which direction to run.

  Somewhere under this surface of disquieting perspective and speculations of unknown worth his policeman's brain had already begun to plan the routine searches of the next forty-eight hours, which, he knew in advance, would obtain certain results. This was as sure as the fact that sand will run down in an hour glass.

  For three months he hadn't really thought about anything but this. The moment when the investigation would really begin. It had been like trying to get out of a swamp in coal-black darkness and now he was feeling the first solid piece of ground under his feet. The next one would not be as far away.

  He wasn't expecting any quick results. If Ahlberg found out that the woman from Lincoln had worked in Motala, or had been visiting friends in that city, or had even been there, he would be more surprised than if the murderer walked through the door and placed the evidence of the murder on his desk.

  On the other hand he was waiting for the supplementary material from the USA without feeling particularly impatient. He thought about all the different statements that would gradually be sent on from the man in America and about Ahlberg's stubborn contention, which was actually totally groundless, that the woman had come by boat. It was more logical to think that the body had been brought down to the water by car.

  Immediately afterwards he began thinking about Detective Lieutenant Kafka, how he looked, and if the police station where he worked resembled the ones people saw on television.

  He wondered what time it was right now in Lincoln and where the woman had lived. He wondered if her apartment was empty, with white sheets covering the furniture, if the air in it was close and heavy, and filled with dust.

  It struck him that his knowledge of the geography of North America was rather poor. He didn't know where Lincoln was at all and the name Nebraska was just another name to him.

  After lunch he went to the library and took a look at a world atlas. He soon found Lincoln. The city certainly was inland, in fact as far in the middle of the United States as any city could be. It seemed to be a rather large city but he couldn't find any books containing information on North American cities. With the help of his pocket almanac he studied the time difference and figured it to be seven hours. It was now two-thirty in the afternoon in Stockholm and it was seven-thirty in the morning in Lincoln. Presumably Kafka was still in bed, reading his morning newspaper.

  He studied the map for several minutes, then placing his finger on the pin-sized point in the south-east corner of the state of Nebraska, which was nearly one hundred longitude degrees west of Greenwich, he said to himself: ‘Roseanna McGraw.’

  He repeated the name several more times almost as if to nail it down in his consciousness.

  When he got back to the police station Kollberg was sitting at the typewriter.

  The telephone rang before either of them had time to say anything. It was the switchboard.

  ‘The Central Telephone Office has advised us that there is a phone call coming from the United States. It is coming in about thirty minutes. Can you take it?’

  Detective Lieutenant Kafka was not lying in bed reading the newspaper! Once again he had drawn too hasty a conclusion.

  ‘From America. Well, I'll be damned,’ said Kollberg.

  The call came after three-quarters of an hour. At first there were only confused noises and then a lot of telephone operators all talking at once, and then a voice came through, amazingly clear and distinct.

  ‘Yeah, Kafka speaking. That you Mr Beck?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You got my wire?’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  ‘It's all clear, isn't it?’

  ‘Is there not any doubt that it is the right woman?’ asked Martin Beck.

  ‘You sound like a native,’ said Kollberg.

  ‘Nope, sir, that's Roseanna all right. I got her identified in less than one hour — thanks to your excellent description. I even double-checked it. Gave it to her girlfriend and that ex-boyfriend of hers down in Omaha. Both were quite sure. All the same, I've mailed photographs and some other stuff for you.’

  ‘When did she leave home?’

  ‘Beginning of May. Her idea was to spend about two months in Europe. It was her first trip abroad. As far as I know she was travelling alone.’

  ‘Do you know anything about her plans?’

  ‘Not very much. In fact no one here does. I can give you one clue. She wrote a postcard from Norway to her girlfriend, saying that she was to stay one week in Sweden, then proceed to Copenhagen.’

  ‘Did she not write anything more?’

  ‘Well, she said something about boarding a Swedish ship. For some sort of lake cruise through the country or something like that. That point was not very clear.’

  Martin Beck held his breath.

  ‘Mr Beck, are you still there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The connection was getting worse rather quickly.

  ‘I understand she was murdered,’ shouted Kafka. ‘Did you get the guy?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘I can't hear you.’

  ‘In a short time, I hope, not yet,’ said Martin Beck.

  ‘You shot him?’

  ‘I did what? No, no, not shot…’

  ‘Yeah, I hear, you shot the bastard,’ screamed the man on the other side of the Atlantic. ‘That's great. I'll give that to the papers here.’

  ‘You are misunderstanding,’ Martin Beck roared.

  He heard Kafka's final reply like a weak whisper through ethereal noise.

  ‘Yeah, I understand perfectly well. I've got your name all right. So long. You'll be hearing from me. Well done, Martin.’

  Martin Beck put down the receiver. He had been standing up during the entire conversation. He was panting and perspiration had broken out all over his face.

  ‘What are you doing?’ asked Kollberg. ‘Do you think that they have speaking-tubes to Nebraska?’

  ‘We couldn't hear very well towards the end. He thought that I had shot the murderer. He said he was going to tell that to the newspapers.’

&nb
sp; ‘Great. Tomorrow you'll be the hero of the day over there. The day after, they'll make you an honorary citizen and at Christmas time they'll send you the key to the city. A gilded one. “Shoot-emup Martin, the avenger from south Stockholm.” The boys are going to have a good time with this one.’

  Martin Beck blew his nose and wiped the perspiration from his face.

  ‘Well, what did he actually say? Or did he only go on about how clever you are?’

  ‘It was mostly you that was praised. For your description. “Excellent description,” he said.’

  ‘Was he positive of the identification?’

  ‘Yes, definitely. He had checked with her friend and with some sort of former beau.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘She left home in the middle of May. She was to spend two months in Europe. It was her first trip out of the country. She sent a postcard from Norway to her girlfriend and wrote that she would be here for a week and then continue on to Copenhagen. He said that he had mailed some pictures of her and some other things.’

  ‘Was that all?’

  Martin Beck went over to the window and gazed out. He bit on his thumbnail.

  ‘She wrote on the postcard that she was going to take a boat trip. Some sort of cruise through Sweden on the lakes and inland waterways …’

  He turned around and looked at his colleague. Kollberg was no longer smiling and the teasing look had left his eyes. After a while he said, very slowly:

  ‘So she did come with the canal boat. Our friend in Motala was right.’

  ‘It seems so,’ said Martin Beck.

  9

  Martin Beck took a deep breath when he came out of the subway station. The trip, with its crowded subway cars, had made him feel slightly ill as usual.

  The air was clear and light and a fresh breeze swept in over the city from the Baltic. He crossed the street and bought a pack of cigarettes in a tobacco store. He walked on toward Skepps Bridge and stopped, lit a cigarette and stood with his elbows on the bridge railing. A cruise ship bearing an English flag was anchored at a pier in the distance. He couldn't make out the name but guessed that it was the Devonia. A group of seagulls screeched as they fought over some garbage which had been thrown overboard. He stood for a while looking at the ship and then continued on towards the pier.

  Two dismal-looking men sat on a pile of wood. The first one tried to light a cigarette butt in a wooden holder and when he didn't succeed the other one, whose hands shook less, tried to help him. Martin Beck looked at his wristwatch. Five minutes to nine. ‘They must be broke,’ he thought, ‘otherwise they would be waiting by the door of the liquor store at this time of day.’

  He passed the Bore II which was tied up at the pier loading freight and stood on the kerb directly across from the Hotel Reisen. It took a few minutes before he managed to break through the unending line of automobiles and get across the street.

  The passenger list for the Diana's trip on 3 July was not in the canal boat's shipping office. It was in the Gothenburg office but they had promised to send it as soon as possible. However, a list of the crew and other personnel was given to him immediately. When he left, he took a few brochures with him which he read on the way back to the office.

  Melander was already sitting in his visitor's chair when he arrived.

  ‘Hi there,’ Martin Beck said.

  ‘Good morning,’ said Melander.

  ‘That pipe smells dreadful. But by all means sit here and poison the air. You are most welcome. Or was there something special you wanted?’

  ‘You don't get cancer as quickly if you smoke a pipe. Your brand of cigarettes is said to be the most dangerous, by the way. At least that's what I've heard. Otherwise, I'm on duty.’

  ‘Check with American Express, the Post Office, banks, the telephone company, other contacts. You understand, don't you?’

  ‘I believe so. What was the woman's name again?’

  Martin Beck wrote the name on a piece of paper, ROSEANNA MCGRAW, and gave it to Melander.

  ‘How do you pronounce it?’

  He left and Martin Beck opened the window. It was chilly and the wind blew through the tree tops and swept up the leaves on the ground. After a while he shut the window again, hung his jacket over the back of his chair and sat down.

  He picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the National Office for Aliens. If she had registered at a hotel she ought to be on file there. Some record of her ought to be there in any event. He had to wait a long time before anyone answered and then it took ten minutes before the girl came back to the phone. She had found the card. Roseanna McGraw had stayed at the Hotel Gillet in Stockholm from 30 June until 2 July.

  ‘Please send me a photocopy,’ said Martin Beck.

  He pressed down the buttons on the telephone and waited for the disconnected signal with the receiver still in his hand. Then he telephoned for a taxi and put on his jacket. Ten minutes later he got out of the taxi, paid the driver, and entered the hotel through its glass doors.

  In front of the reception desk stood a group of six men. They had name tags on their lapels and were all talking at the same time. The desk clerk looked unhappy and threw up his arms in a complaining gesture. It looked as if the discussion would take some time, so Martin Beck sat down in one of the armchairs in the lobby.

  He waited until the discussion was over and let the group disappear into the elevator before he went up to the desk.

  The desk clerk looked stoically through the register until he found the name. He turned the book towards Martin Beck so that he could read it. She had printed with attractive, even letters. Place of Birth: Denver, Col. USA. Home Address: Lincoln, Nebr. Last Place Visited: Nebr. USA.

  Martin Beck checked the guests who had registered on 30 June and the days immediately preceding and following. Above Roseanna McGraw's name were the names of no less than eight Americans. All except the two names on top of the list had given some place in the USA as their last place visited. The first one had written Phyllis with the rest of the name illegible. She had written North Cape, Sweden, as the last place visited. The person who had registered just beneath her had written North Cape, Norway, in the same column.

  ‘Was it a group tour?’ asked Martin Beck.

  ‘Let's see,’ said the desk clerk and turned his head to look. ‘No, I don't really remember, but it is very likely. We sometimes have American groups here. They arrive with the “dollar train” from Narvik.’

  Martin Beck showed the man a photograph but he shook his head in reply.

  ‘No, I'm sorry, we have so many guests here …’

  No one had recognized her but the trip to the hotel had some results. Now he knew where she had stayed, he had seen her name in the register and had even looked at the room she had stayed in. She had left the hotel on 2 July.

  ‘And then? Where did you go?’ he said quietly to himself.

  His temples were throbbing and his throat hurt. He wondered how much fever he had, and went back to the office.

  She could have travelled with the canal boat and gone on board the night before it left Stockholm. He had read in the brochure from the shipping office that passengers could go on board the night before the boat left. He was more and more convinced that she had been on the Diana in spite of the fact that there was still no evidence of it.

  He wondered where Melander was and reached for the telephone. Just as he was about to dial the number he heard a distinct pecking at the door.

  Melander stood in the doorway.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Neither American Express nor any other such place knows anything about her. I'll go and get something to eat now if you don't mind.’

  He had no objection and Melander disappeared.

  He telephoned Motala but Ahlberg wasn't in.

  His headache was getting worse. After looking for some headache pills for a while he went up to Kollberg's office to borrow a few. Just inside the door he started coughing so badly that he couldn't say anything f
or a long time.

  Kollberg cocked his head and looked at him worriedly.

  ‘You sound worse than eighteen Ladies of the Camelias. Come here and let the doctor look at you.’

  He looked at Martin Beck through his magnifying glass.

  ‘If you don't listen to the doctor you won't have much time left. Go home and creep into bed and drink a real large glass of toddy. Preferably three of them. Rum toddies. That's the only thing that will help. Then go to sleep and you'll wake up like new.’

  ‘What do you think it is? And, by the way, I don't like rum,’ said Martin Beck.

  ‘Take cognac then. Don't worry about Kafka. If he calls, I'll take care of him. My English is excellent.’

  ‘He won't call. Do you have any headache pills?’

  ‘No, but you can have a chocolate praline.’

  Martin Beck returned to his office. The air in the room was thick and smoky but he didn't want to open the window and let the cold air in.

  Ahlberg still wasn't there when he telephoned half an hour later. He took out the list of the Diana's crew. It contained eighteen names and addresses from different parts of the country. Six of them were in Stockholm and there were two names without an address. Two of them lived in Motala.

  At four-thirty he decided to take Kollberg's advice. He cleaned off his desk and put his hat and coat on.

  On the way home he stopped at a pharmacy and bought a box of pills.

  He found a drop of cognac in the pantry, poured it into a cup of bouillon, and took the cup with him into the bedroom. By the time his wife had come in with a heat lamp he was already asleep.

  He awoke early the next morning but stayed in bed until a quarter to eight. Then he got up and got dressed. He felt a great deal better and his headache had disappeared.

  On the dot of nine he opened the door to his office. An envelope with a red special delivery sticker lay on his desk. He opened it up with his index finger without taking the time to take off his overcoat.

  The envelope contained a passenger list.

  His eyes caught her name immediately.

  McGraw, R., Miss, USA: Single cabin A 7.

  10