The Abominable Man (14 page)

And yet he was certainly no stickler for formality.

How had a man like Nyman reacted in such situations?

There was a clattering in the receiver.

“Yes, about Hult …”

“Yes?”

“As a matter of fact he was here for a while. About an hour and a half ago. But apparently he left again almost right away.”

“Where to?”

“Nobody knows.”

Martin Beck let this generalization pass without objection.

“Thanks,” he said.

Just to be sure, he dialed Hult’s home phone, but as he’d expected there was no answer, and he hung up after the fifth ring.

“Who are you looking for?” Rönn asked.

“Hult.”

“Oh.”

You couldn’t say Rönn was especially observant, thought Martin Beck irritably.

“Einar?” he said.

“Yeah?”

“Hult called Nyman’s wife last night and got the address of the hospital.”

“Oh?”

“We might ask ourselves why.”

“He probably wanted to send flowers or something,” said Rönn disinterestedly. “Hult and Nyman were buddies, after all.”

“Apparently there weren’t very many people who knew Nyman was at Mount Sabbath.”

“So that’s why Hult had to call up and ask,” Rönn said.

“Curious coincidence.”

This was not a question, and Rönn quite correctly neglected to answer it. Instead he changed the subject.

“Oh yes, I told you I couldn’t get hold of this man Eriksson.”

“Which man Eriksson?”

“Åke Eriksson. That patrolman who was always writing complaints.”

Martin Beck nodded. He remembered the name, although it must have been a long time since it was mentioned much. But it wasn’t a name he wanted to remember, and on top of that he was busy thinking about Hult.

He had talked to Hult less than two hours ago. How had he behaved? News of Nyman’s murder hadn’t produced any reaction at all at first. And then Hult had gone to work, as he’d put it.

Martin Beck hadn’t found anything odd in all of that. Hult was a thick-skinned old policeman and fairly slowwitted, anything but impulsive. That he voluntarily lent a hand when a colleague had been killed seemed perfectly natural. In certain situations, Martin Beck would have behaved exactly the same way.

What did seem odd was the telephone call. Why hadn’t he said he’d been in touch with Nyman’s wife as recently as the evening before? And if his only reason was to send a greeting, why had he called at night?

If, on the other hand, he’d wanted to know Nyman’s exact whereabouts for some reason other than sending flowers.

Martin Beck forced himself to interrupt that line of thought.

Had Hult really called at night?

In that case, what time?

He needed more information.

Martin Beck sighed heavily, lifted the receiver and, for the third time, dialed Anna Nyman’s number.

This time it was she herself who answered.

“Oh yes,” she said resignedly. “Inspector Beck.”

“I’m sorry, but I have to ask you a few more questions about that telephone call.”

“Yes?”

“You said that Captain Hult called you last night?”

“Yes?”

“What time?”

“Fairly late, but I can’t say exactly when.”

“Well about what time?”

“Well …”

“Had you already gone to bed?”

“Oh no … no, wait a moment.”

She put down the phone and Martin Beck drummed his fingers impatiently on the table. He could hear her talking to someone, probably her son, but he couldn’t distinguish the words.

“Yes, hello?”

“Yes.”

“I was talking to Stefan. We were sitting watching television. First a movie with Humphrey Bogart, but it was so unpleasant we switched to Channel Two. There was a variety show with Benny Hill and it had just started when the phone rang.”

“Splendid. How long had the program been going?”

“Only a few minutes. Five at the most.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nyman. There’s just one more thing.”

“Yes, what?”

“Can you remember exactly what Hult said?”

“No, not word for word. He just asked to speak to Stig and so I said——”

“Forgive me for interrupting. Did he say, ‘Can I talk to Stig?’ ”

“No, of course not. He was quite correct.”

“How so?”

“He apologized and asked if he might speak to Inspector Nyman.”

“Why did he apologize?”

“For calling so late, of course.”

“And what did you say?”

“I asked who was calling. Or to be exact, I said, ‘May I say who’s calling?’ ”

“And what did Mr. Hult say then?”

“ ‘I’m a colleague of Inspector Nyman’s.’ Something like that. And then he said his name.”

“And what did you say?”

“As I told you before, I recognized the name immediately and I knew he’d called before and that he was one of the few people Stig really thought well of.”

“Called before, you say. How often?”

“A few times over the years. When my husband was well and at home, he was almost always the one who answered the phone, so this Mr. Hult may have called any number of times.”

“And what did you say then?”

“I told you all this before.”

“I’m sorry if I seem persistent,” said Martin Beck. “But this could be important.”

“I said Stig was ill. And he seemed surprised and sorry and asked me if it was serious and …”

“And?”

“And I said I was afraid it was quite serious and that Stig was in the hospital. And then he asked if he might go
visit him, and I said my husband would probably rather he didn’t.”

“Did that seem to satisfy him?”

“Yes of course. Harald Hult knew Stig very well. From work.”

“But he said he was going to send flowers?”

Leading question, he thought to himself. Damn.

“Yes. And he wanted to write a note. So I said Stig was at Mount Sabbath and I gave him the room number and the ward. I remember Stig’s saying a couple of times that Hult was dependable and correct.”

“And then?”

“He begged my pardon again. Thanked me and said good night.”

Martin Beck thanked her too, and in his haste very nearly said good night himself. Then he turned to Rönn.

“Did you watch TV last night?”

Rönn responded with an injured look.

“No, of course not. You were on duty. But can you find out what time the program with Benny Hill started on Channel Two?”

“I guess I can,” Rönn said, and slouched out to the day room.

He came back with a newspaper in his hand, studied it for a long time.

“Nine twenty-five.”

“So Hult called at nine thirty in the evening. That’s pretty late unless he had some fairly pressing business.”

“Didn’t he then?”

“He doesn’t seem to have mentioned it, in any case. On the other hand he was careful to find out where Nyman was.”

“Sure. Because he was going to send flowers.”

Martin Beck looked at Rönn for a long time. He needed a chance to talk this thing through.

“Einar, can you listen for a while?”

“Yes, I guess I can.”

Martin Beck summarized everything he knew about Hult’s actions during the preceding twenty-four hours, from the telephone call to the conversation on Reimersholme and the fact that, at the moment, the man couldn’t be located.

“Do you think it was Hult who knifed Nyman?”

The question was unusually direct to have come from Rönn.

“Well, no, I guess I wouldn’t say that exactly.”

“I think it sounds pretty farfetched,” Rönn said. “And pretty peculiar.”

“Hult’s behavior is pretty peculiar too, to put it mildly.”

Rönn didn’t respond.

“In any case, I want to get hold of Hult and ask him some questions about this telephone call,” said Martin Beck energetically.

The firmness in his tone made no great impression on Rönn, who yawned widely.

“Send out a call on the radio then,” he said. “He can’t be far away.”

Martin Beck looked at him in surprise.

“Yes, that’s really a pretty constructive suggestion.”

“What do you mean ‘constructive’?” Rönn said, as if he’d been accused of something unsavory.

Martin Beck picked up the phone again and started giving instructions to the effect that Captain Harald Hult should be requested to contact the Violence Squad on Kungsholmsgatan as soon as he could be located.

Finished with that, he sat at his desk with his head in his hands.

There was something that didn’t fit. And still that
feeling of danger. From whom? Hult? Or was there something else he’d overlooked?

“Though there is one thing,” Rönn said.

“What?”

“Well, if I called your wife and asked for you——”

He interrupted himself.

“No, that wouldn’t happen,” he muttered. “You’re divorced.”

“What were you going to say?”

“Nothing,” said Rönn unhappily. “I wasn’t thinking. I don’t want to mess in your private life.”

“But what were you going to say?”

Rönn thought out a better way of putting it.

“Well, if you were married and I called and got your wife and asked to speak to you and she asked me who I was, well …”

“Well what?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say, ‘This is Einar Valentino Rönn.’ ”

“Who in the world is that?”

“Me. That’s my name. After some movie star. My mother was a little weird sometimes.”

Martin Beck perked up immediately.

“So you mean …?”

“I mean it seems sort of odd and unlikely that Hult calls up Nyman’s wife and says this is Palmon Harald Hult.”

“How did you know what his name was?”

“You’ve got it printed on Melander’s tablet there. And what’s more …”

“What’s more what?”

“What’s more, I’ve got it in my own papers. On Åke Eriksson’s J.O. petition.”

Martin Beck’s gaze slowly cleared.

“Good, Einar,” he said. “Very good.”

Rönn yawned.

“Who’s on duty here?” Martin Beck asked suddenly.

“Gunvald. But he’s not here. He’s hopeless about things like that.”

“There must be somebody else.”

“Yes. Strömgren.”

“And where’s Melander?”

“Home, I suppose. He’s got Saturdays off these days.”

“I think maybe we’ll take a closer look at friend Eriksson,” said Martin Beck. “The trouble is, I don’t remember any details.”

“Me neither,” Rönn said. “But Melander remembers. He remembers everything.”

“Tell Strömgren to pull out everything he can find on Åke Eriksson. And call Melander and ask him to come down here. Right away.”

“That may not be so easy. He’s an assistant chief inspector now. He doesn’t like to give up his free time.”

“Use my name,” said Martin Beck.

“Yes, I guess I will,” Rönn said, and left the room with dragging steps.

Two minutes later he was back.

“Strömgren’s looking,” he said.

“And Melander?”

“He’s on his way, but …”

“But what?”

“He didn’t sound happy about it.”

Well, that would be asking the impossible.

Martin Beck waited. First of all for Hult to turn up.

And then for the chance to talk to Fredrik Melander.

Fredrik Melander was one of the Violence Squad’s few priceless resources. He was the man with the legendary memory. An awful bore, but a detective with unusual qualities. The whole of modern technology seemed paltry
by comparison, for in the course of a few minutes Melander could sort out everything of importance he’d ever heard, seen or read about some particular person or some particular subject and then present it clearly and lucidly in narrative form.

There wasn’t a computer in the world that could do the same.

On the other hand, he wasn’t much with a pen. Martin Beck studied some notes on Melander’s pad. They were written in a cramped, distinctive hand that was guaranteed to be illegible.

Rönn leaned against the doorjamb and giggled. Martin Beck looked at him wonderingly.

“What are you laughing at?”

“Well, it just struck me that you’re looking for a policeman and I’m looking for a policeman and it may be the same man.”

“The same man?”

“No, I guess that couldn’t be,” Rönn said. “Åke Eriksson is Åke Eriksson and Palmon Harald Hult is Palmon Harald Hult.”

Martin Beck wondered if maybe he shouldn’t send Rönn home. There was some question as to whether Rönn’s presence was even legal, since according to a new law that had gone into effect at the beginning of the year, no policeman was allowed to serve more than a hundred and fifty hours of overtime per year, nor more than fifty in any given quarter. Theoretically, this could mean that a policeman drew his salary but was at the same time forbidden
to work. There was one exception—situations of extreme urgency.

Was this one of those? Conceivably.

Or maybe he ought to put Rönn under arrest. The quarter was only four days old, and Rönn had already used up his overtime quota. It would undeniably be a first in the history of detection.

Otherwise the work was going along normally.

To the extent that Strömgren had searched out a mass of old papers and periodically came in with more.

Martin Beck regarded them with growing distaste.

He kept thinking of more questions he ought to ask Anna Nyman.

But with his hand on the phone, he hesitated. Wasn’t it a little much to call her again so soon? Couldn’t he get Rönn to do it? In that case he’d have to call her anyway and apologize not only for himself but also for Rönn.

In the face of that dismal prospect he recovered his courage, lifted the receiver and dialed the number to the bereaved household for the fourth time.

“Nymans’. Hello?”

The widow’s voice sounded more spirited every time he heard it. Everything was on its way back to normal. One more demonstration of that resilience for which the human race was so well known. He pulled himself together.

“Hello, this is Beck again.”

“But it’s only ten minutes since I talked to you …”

“I know. I’m sorry. I suppose it’s painful for you to talk about this … incident.”

Couldn’t he really have found a better word?

“I’m beginning to get used to it,” she said with a certain chill. “What would you like now, Chief Inspector?”