Read Online The Man Who Went Up In Smoke by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö - Free Book Online Page B
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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Not very famous. I couldn't think of any name that reminded me of hers in any connection since May of last year. Apparently she was some kind of substitute. On the second team."
'Have you finished now?"
'One more thing. His car is where it ought to be. In the airport parking place here at Arlanda. An Opel Rekord. Nothing special about it."
'Really. Have you finished now?"
'Yes."
'G'bye, then."
'Bye."
Martin Beck stared listlessly at the letters he had written down. Ari Bökk. It did not even look like the name of a human being. Probably the particulars were wrong and the information completely useless.
He got up, opened the shutters and let in the summer. The view over the river and the Buda side was just as fascinating as it had been twenty-four hours ago. The Czech paddle steamer had left, making way for a propeller-driven motor vessel with two low funnels. It was Czechoslovakian too and was called
Druzba
. People dressed for summer were sitting eating breakfast at the tables in front of the hotel. It was already half past nine. He felt useless and negligent of his duties, so he swiftly washed and dressed, put the map in his pocket and hurried downstairs to the vestibule. Having hurried all the way down, he then remained standing absolutely motionless. To hurry seemed pointless when you didn't know what to do when you got there anyway. He meditated on this for a moment, then went into the dining room, sat down by one of the open windows and had breakfast served to him. Boats of every size were passing by. A large Soviet tugboat towing three oil barges worked its way upstream. Presumably it came from Batum. That was a long way away. The captain was wearing a white cap. The waiters swarmed around Martin Beck's table as if he were Rockefeller. Small boys were kicking a ball on the street. A big dog wanted to join in and almost knocked over the well-dressed lady holding its leash. She had to grab hold of one of the stone pillars of the balustrade to keep from falling. After a while she let go of the pillar but retained her hold on the leash, running, at a sharp backward tilt behind the dog, in among the ballplayers. It was already very warm. The river sparkled.
His lack of constructive ideas was conspicuous. Martin Beck turned his head and saw a person staring at him: a sunburned man of his own age, with graying hair, straight nose, brown eyes, gray suit, black shoes, white shirt and gray tie. He had a large signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and beside him on the table lay a speckled green hat with a narrow brim and a fluffy little feather in the band. The man returned to his double espresso.
Martin Beck moved his eyes and saw a woman staring at him. She was African and young and very beautiful, with clean features, large brilliant eyes, white teeth, long slim legs and high insteps. Silver sandals and a tight-fitting light-blue dress of some shiny material.
Presumably they were both staring at Martin Beck—the man with envy, the woman with ill-concealed desire—because he was so handsome.
Martin Beck sneezed and three waiters blessed him. He thanked them, went out into the vestibule, took the map out of his pocket and showed the letters he had written on it to the porter.
'Do you know of anybody by this name?"
'No sir."
"It's supposed to be some kind of sports star."
'Really?"
The porter looked politely sympathetic. Naturally, a guest was always right.
'Perhaps not so well known, sir."
'Is it a man's or a woman's name?"
'Ari is a woman's name—almost a nickname. A different version of Aranka, for children."
The porter cocked his head and looked at the words.
'But the last name, sir. Is it really a name?"
'May I borrow a telephone directory?"
Naturally there was no one called Bökk, anyhow no human being. But he didn't give up that easily. (A cheap virtue when a person still doesn't know what to do.) He tried several other possibilities. The result was as follows: BOECK ESZTER penzió
'Have you finished now?"
'One more thing. His car is where it ought to be. In the airport parking place here at Arlanda. An Opel Rekord. Nothing special about it."
'Really. Have you finished now?"
'Yes."
'G'bye, then."
'Bye."
Martin Beck stared listlessly at the letters he had written down. Ari Bökk. It did not even look like the name of a human being. Probably the particulars were wrong and the information completely useless.
He got up, opened the shutters and let in the summer. The view over the river and the Buda side was just as fascinating as it had been twenty-four hours ago. The Czech paddle steamer had left, making way for a propeller-driven motor vessel with two low funnels. It was Czechoslovakian too and was called
Druzba
. People dressed for summer were sitting eating breakfast at the tables in front of the hotel. It was already half past nine. He felt useless and negligent of his duties, so he swiftly washed and dressed, put the map in his pocket and hurried downstairs to the vestibule. Having hurried all the way down, he then remained standing absolutely motionless. To hurry seemed pointless when you didn't know what to do when you got there anyway. He meditated on this for a moment, then went into the dining room, sat down by one of the open windows and had breakfast served to him. Boats of every size were passing by. A large Soviet tugboat towing three oil barges worked its way upstream. Presumably it came from Batum. That was a long way away. The captain was wearing a white cap. The waiters swarmed around Martin Beck's table as if he were Rockefeller. Small boys were kicking a ball on the street. A big dog wanted to join in and almost knocked over the well-dressed lady holding its leash. She had to grab hold of one of the stone pillars of the balustrade to keep from falling. After a while she let go of the pillar but retained her hold on the leash, running, at a sharp backward tilt behind the dog, in among the ballplayers. It was already very warm. The river sparkled.
His lack of constructive ideas was conspicuous. Martin Beck turned his head and saw a person staring at him: a sunburned man of his own age, with graying hair, straight nose, brown eyes, gray suit, black shoes, white shirt and gray tie. He had a large signet ring on the little finger of his right hand and beside him on the table lay a speckled green hat with a narrow brim and a fluffy little feather in the band. The man returned to his double espresso.
Martin Beck moved his eyes and saw a woman staring at him. She was African and young and very beautiful, with clean features, large brilliant eyes, white teeth, long slim legs and high insteps. Silver sandals and a tight-fitting light-blue dress of some shiny material.
Presumably they were both staring at Martin Beck—the man with envy, the woman with ill-concealed desire—because he was so handsome.
Martin Beck sneezed and three waiters blessed him. He thanked them, went out into the vestibule, took the map out of his pocket and showed the letters he had written on it to the porter.
'Do you know of anybody by this name?"
'No sir."
"It's supposed to be some kind of sports star."
'Really?"
The porter looked politely sympathetic. Naturally, a guest was always right.
'Perhaps not so well known, sir."
'Is it a man's or a woman's name?"
'Ari is a woman's name—almost a nickname. A different version of Aranka, for children."
The porter cocked his head and looked at the words.
'But the last name, sir. Is it really a name?"
'May I borrow a telephone directory?"
Naturally there was no one called Bökk, anyhow no human being. But he didn't give up that easily. (A cheap virtue when a person still doesn't know what to do.) He tried several other possibilities. The result was as follows: BOECK ESZTER penzió
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