Read Online The Man Who Went Up In Smoke by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Journalists, Police Procedural, Missing Persons, Beck, Martin (Fictitious character)
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enough to write down the name of the street for me?"
As Martin Beck came out of the hotel, he looked at the slip of paper. Venetianer út.
He put the paper into his pocket, lit a Terv and began strolling down toward the river.
Chapter 10
It was Monday the eighth of August and Martin Beck was waked by the telephone. He propped himself sleepily up on his elbow, fumbled with the receiver a moment and heard the telephone operator say something he did not understand. Then a familiar voice said:
'Hullo."
Out of sheer astonishment, Martin Beck forgot to reply.
'Hulloo-o-o, is anyone there?"
Kollberg could be heard as clearly as if he had been in the room next door.
'Where are you?"
'At the office, of course. It's already quarter past nine. Don't tell me you're still lying snoring in bed."
'What's the weather like up your way?" said Martin Beck, then falling silent, paralyzed himself by the idiocy of the remark.
'It's raining," said Kollberg suspiciously, "but that wasn't why I called. Are you sick or something?"
Martin Beck managed to sit up on the edge of the bed and light one of those unfamiliar Hungarian cigarettes from the pack with the factory on it.
'No. What d'you want?"
'I've been digging around a bit up here. Alf Matsson doesn't seem to be a very nice guy."
'How so?"
'Well. Mostly just an impression I've got. He just seems to be one big all-round ass."
'Did you call to tell me that?"
'No, actually, I didn't. But there was one thing I thought you ought to know. I didn't have anything to do on Saturday so I went and sat around in that bar place. The Tankard."
'Listen, don't go poking your nose in too much. Officially you've never even heard about this case. And you don't know I'm here."
Kollberg sounded clearly offended.
'D'you think I'm a moron?"
'Only occasionally," said Martin Beck, amiably.
'I didn't speak to anyone. Just sat at the table next to that gang and listened to them shoot the breeze. For five hours. They sure put away the liquor."
The telephone operator broke in and said something incomprehensible.
'You're bankrupting the government," said Martin Beck. "What's up? Get it off your chest."
'Well, the guys were shooting the bull back and forth, one thing and another about Alfie, as they call him. They're just the type to let off a lot of hot air behind each other's backs. As soon as one of them goes to the head, then the others all get started on him."
'Don't be so long-winded."
'That Molin seems to be the worst. He was the one who started talking about the thing I'm calling about, too. Nasty, but it might not be
all
lies."
'Come on now, look sharp, Lennart."
'And
you
tell me that! Anyhow it turned out that Matsson makes off like a shot for Hungary because he's got a gal down there. Some sort of small-time athlete he met while he was a sports reporter here in Stockholm—at some international sports meet or other. While he was still living with his wife."
'Uh-huh."
'They also said it was very likely that he arranged his trips to other places—Prague and Berlin and so forth—so he could meet her when she was competing there."
'Doesn't sound likely to me. Girl athletes are usually kept under lock and key."
'Take it for what it's worth."
'Thanks," said Martin Beck, without a trace of enthusiasm. "So long."
'Wait a second, I haven't finished yet. They never mentioned her name—I don't think they even knew it. But they gave enough details for me to be able to… It rained yesterday too."
'Lennart," said Martin Beck desperately.
'I managed to force my way into the Royal Library and sat all day yesterday looking through back numbers. As far as I can make out, it can only be a gal named—I'll spell it."
Martin Beck switched on the bedside lamp and wrote the letters on the edge of the map of Budapest. A-R-J B-Ö-K-K.
'Got it?" said Kollberg.
'Of course."
'She's German actually, but a Hungarian citizen. Don't know where she lives, nor that the spelling's quite right.
As Martin Beck came out of the hotel, he looked at the slip of paper. Venetianer út.
He put the paper into his pocket, lit a Terv and began strolling down toward the river.
Chapter 10
It was Monday the eighth of August and Martin Beck was waked by the telephone. He propped himself sleepily up on his elbow, fumbled with the receiver a moment and heard the telephone operator say something he did not understand. Then a familiar voice said:
'Hullo."
Out of sheer astonishment, Martin Beck forgot to reply.
'Hulloo-o-o, is anyone there?"
Kollberg could be heard as clearly as if he had been in the room next door.
'Where are you?"
'At the office, of course. It's already quarter past nine. Don't tell me you're still lying snoring in bed."
'What's the weather like up your way?" said Martin Beck, then falling silent, paralyzed himself by the idiocy of the remark.
'It's raining," said Kollberg suspiciously, "but that wasn't why I called. Are you sick or something?"
Martin Beck managed to sit up on the edge of the bed and light one of those unfamiliar Hungarian cigarettes from the pack with the factory on it.
'No. What d'you want?"
'I've been digging around a bit up here. Alf Matsson doesn't seem to be a very nice guy."
'How so?"
'Well. Mostly just an impression I've got. He just seems to be one big all-round ass."
'Did you call to tell me that?"
'No, actually, I didn't. But there was one thing I thought you ought to know. I didn't have anything to do on Saturday so I went and sat around in that bar place. The Tankard."
'Listen, don't go poking your nose in too much. Officially you've never even heard about this case. And you don't know I'm here."
Kollberg sounded clearly offended.
'D'you think I'm a moron?"
'Only occasionally," said Martin Beck, amiably.
'I didn't speak to anyone. Just sat at the table next to that gang and listened to them shoot the breeze. For five hours. They sure put away the liquor."
The telephone operator broke in and said something incomprehensible.
'You're bankrupting the government," said Martin Beck. "What's up? Get it off your chest."
'Well, the guys were shooting the bull back and forth, one thing and another about Alfie, as they call him. They're just the type to let off a lot of hot air behind each other's backs. As soon as one of them goes to the head, then the others all get started on him."
'Don't be so long-winded."
'That Molin seems to be the worst. He was the one who started talking about the thing I'm calling about, too. Nasty, but it might not be
all
lies."
'Come on now, look sharp, Lennart."
'And
you
tell me that! Anyhow it turned out that Matsson makes off like a shot for Hungary because he's got a gal down there. Some sort of small-time athlete he met while he was a sports reporter here in Stockholm—at some international sports meet or other. While he was still living with his wife."
'Uh-huh."
'They also said it was very likely that he arranged his trips to other places—Prague and Berlin and so forth—so he could meet her when she was competing there."
'Doesn't sound likely to me. Girl athletes are usually kept under lock and key."
'Take it for what it's worth."
'Thanks," said Martin Beck, without a trace of enthusiasm. "So long."
'Wait a second, I haven't finished yet. They never mentioned her name—I don't think they even knew it. But they gave enough details for me to be able to… It rained yesterday too."
'Lennart," said Martin Beck desperately.
'I managed to force my way into the Royal Library and sat all day yesterday looking through back numbers. As far as I can make out, it can only be a gal named—I'll spell it."
Martin Beck switched on the bedside lamp and wrote the letters on the edge of the map of Budapest. A-R-J B-Ö-K-K.
'Got it?" said Kollberg.
'Of course."
'She's German actually, but a Hungarian citizen. Don't know where she lives, nor that the spelling's quite right.
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