The Locked Room (28 page)
All the rest was just as incomprehensible as before. Svärd didn't seem to have committed suicide and no one else could have shot him.
Martin Beck went on with his work. He began with the banks, since experience had taught him this always took a lot of time. Though it's true bank secrecy in Sweden isn't what it should be, there were still hundreds of financial institutions to check. And with interest rates being so wretchedly low, many small savers preferred to place their funds in some other Scandinavian country, usually Denmark.
He went on phoning: It was the police. It was about a person called so-and-so and with one or another of these addresses and the following social security number. Had this person any kind of account or perhaps a safe-deposit box?
Simple though this question was, there were many people it had to be put to. Besides which it was Friday, and the hour was approaching for all banks to close. To count on getting any answer before the beginning of next week at the earliest seemed unrealistic.
He would also like to know what the hospital Svärd had been admitted to had to say. But that too would have to wait until Monday.
Now Friday was over as far as his duties were concerned. By this time Stockholm was in utter chaos. The police were hyster¬ical, and large parts of the public were panic-stricken. Martin Beck didn't even know. That segment of the landscape he could see from his window consisted of a stinking main road and an industrial park, and - as a view - it was no more confused or repulsive than usual.
By seven o'clock he still hadn't gone home, even though his working day had ended two hours ago and there was nothing more he could do to further his investigations. The day's efforts had yielded only scanty results. The most tangible consequence was a slight pain in his right forefinger, from all his dialling.
His last official action of the day was to look up Rhea Nielsen in the telephone directory. Sure enough, her name was there. But there was no indication of a profession. His hand was already hovering over the dial when he realized there was nothing he could ask her about, at least not concerning the Svärd case.
As an official act, this call was sheer self-deception. The simple truth was, he wanted to hear whether she was at home; and the only question he really wanted to ask her was equally simple: Can I come over for a while?
Martin Beck removed his hand from the phone and stacked up the telephone directories in their usual place. Then he tidied up his desk, threw away pieces of paper bearing superfluous jottings, and put his pencils where they belonged, namely in their tray.
All this he did slowly and carefully, and in fact managed to take an astoundingly long time at it. He devoted the best part of half an hour to a ball-point pen whose retracting mechanism was broken before deciding it was useless and flinging it into the wastepaper basket.
The South Police Station was by no means deserted. Somewhere not far away he could hear a couple of colleagues discussing some¬thing in shrill, indignant voices. He was not the least bit curious as to whatever it was they were talking about.
Leaving the building, he went to Midsommarkransen metro station, where he had to wait a rather long time for a train. It looked okay on the outside, but the interior had been grossly vandalized - its seats were slashed and anything that could be removed, unscrewed, or ripped off was gone. He got off in the Old City, and went home.
After he had put on his pyjamas he looked for some beer in the fridge and wine in the pantry, knowing full well that he would find neither.
Martin Beck opened a can of Russian crab, made himself a couple of sandwiches, and took out a botde of mineral water. There was nothing wrong with the food. But to sit there chewing it all alone was too damn dreary. Admittedly, it had been just as dreary late on Wednesday; but then it hadn't mattered, so to speak.
Seized with a desire for activity, he went to bed with one of his many unread books. It happened to be Ray Parkins' faction novel about the Battle of Lake Java. He read it through from start to finish and thought it poor. He couldn't understand why it had been translated into Swedish and looked to see which publisher was responsible. Norstedts. Odd.
In The Two-Ocean War Samuel Eliot Morison had treated the same subject more exhaustively and in an infinitely more exciting manner in nine pages than Parkins had succeeded in doing in two hundred and fifty-seven.
Before dropping off to sleep he thought of spaghetti bolognese. At the same time he felt something like expectation about the next day.
It must have been this unmotivated feeling that caused Saturday and Sunday to seem so insufferably empty of all content. For the first time in years he felt restless and painfully shut in. He went out. On Sunday he even took the steamer out to Mariefred, though that did not help. Even outdoors he still felt just as shut in. Something was fundamentally wrong with his existence, some¬thing he wasn't prepared to accept as equably as he had before. Observing people all around him, he gained the impression that many of them were in the same predicament he was, though they either didn't realize it or wouldn't admit it to themselves.
On Monday morning he rode again. Guiteau looked like Carradine and shot with a forty-five automatic, and when Martin Beck had carried out his ritual sacrifice Rhea Nielsen came up to him and asked: 'What the hell are you up to?'
Later he was sitting in the South Police Station belabouring the telephone. He began with the radium clinic. In the end he got his answer, but it was not a very satisfactory one. Svärd had been admitted on Monday, 6th March. But the following day he had been transferred to the communicable disease clinic of South Hospital. Why? 'Not easy to say, so long afterwards,' said the secre¬tary who had finally managed to find Svärd's name among her papers. 'He was obviously no case for us. We haven't got his records here, just a note that he'd been sent to us by a private doctor.'
'Which private doctor?'
'Dr Berglund, a general practitioner. Yes, here it is. Can't read what's written on the admittance slip, you know what doctors' handwriting is like. And it's a bad photocopy anyway.'
'But the address?'
'His office? Odengatan 30.'
'So that's legible, at least,' said Martin Beck.
'It's embossed,' said the secretary laconically.
Dr Berglund's answering machine informed him that the office was closed and would not be opening again until the fifteenth of August. The doctor, of course, was on holiday.
Martin Beck, however, was not disposed to wait for more than a month to find out what illness Svärd had suffered from. So he called up South Hospital, which is an enormous place with heavy telephone traffic. It took him more than two hours to get it confirmed that Karl Edvin Svärd had in fact been admitted to the communicable disease clinic in March - to be precise, from Tuesday the seventh to Saturday the eighteenth, when, as far as could be determined, he had gone home.
But had he been released as healthy or terminally ill? To get an answer to this question seemed impossible: the doctor in charge was on duty, but busy, and couldn't come to the phone. The time had obviously come for Martin Beck to resume his visits.
He took a taxi to South Hospital and after wandering around for a while found the right corridor. Only ten minutes later he was sitting in the office of the person who ought to know all about Svärd's state of health.
The doctor was a man of about forty, small of stature, dark-haired, and with neutral-coloured eyes - blue-grey with a touch of green and light brown. While Martin Beck searched his pockets for some non-existent cigarettes, the man put on a pair of horn¬rimmed spectacles and became absorbed in his records. After ten minutes of total silence he pushed his spectacles up on to his fore¬head, looked at his visitor, and said: 'Yes, yes. And what was it you wanted to know?'
'What was Svärd suffering from?'
- 'Nothing at all’
Martin Beck pondered this somewhat surprising statement Then he said: 'Then why was he in here for almost two weeks?'
'Eleven days, to be exact. We gave him a thorough check-up. For he had certain symptoms and had been sent to us by a private doctor.'
'Dr Berglund?'
'Right. The patient himself thought he was seriously ill. He had a couple of minor swellings on his neck and a lump on the left side of his midriff. It could be felt clearly, even by pressing it only lightly. Like so many other people, he'd got it into his head that he had cancer. He went to a private doctor, who found the symptoms alarming. The fact is, general practitioners rarely have access to the equipment necessary to diagnose cases of this kind. Nor is their judgement always the best. In this case an erroneous diag¬nosis was made, and the patient was immediately sent to the radium clinic. There they could only note that no valid diagnosis had been made, and so he was sent to us. Here he went through a whole series of examinations. We always examine patients very thoroughly.'
'And the result was that Svärd had nothing wrong with him?'
'By and large, yes. Those things on his neck we could dismiss at once. They Were just ordinary fat formations, quite harmless. The lump on his midriff needed more careful investigation. Among other things we had a complete aortography done and also X-rayed his whole digestive system. Further, we made a complete liver biopsy and -'
‘What's that?'
'Liver biopsy? To put it simply, we put a tube into the patient's side and extract a piece of his liver. As a matter of fact, I did it myself. Then the sample was sent to the laboratory, and they looked to see whether there were, for example, any cancer cells. Well, we found nothing of that kind. The lump turned out to be an isolated cyst on the colon -'
'I beg your pardon?'
'The gut. A cyst, as I say. Nothing to imperil his life. In itself, it could be removed by an operation, but we didn't think such intervention necessary. The patient suffered no discomfort from it. True, he said he had earlier had severe pains, but those were obviously of a psychosomatic nature.' The doctor paused, threw Martin Beck a glance of the kind one usually reserves for children and other hopelessly uneducated people, and explained: 'Imaginary pains, that is.'
'Did you have any personal contact with Svärd?'
'Naturally. I spoke to him every day, and before he was allowed to go home we had a long talk.'
'How did he react?'
'First he behaved as if he was suffering from the disease he imagined. He was convinced he had an incurable cancer and would die very soon. Didn't think he had much more than a month to live.'
'And in fact he didn't,' said Martin Beck.
'Really? Was he run over?'
'Shot. It's possible he committed suicide.'
The doctor took off his glasses and wiped them thoughtfully on a corner of his white coat. 'The latter suggestion strikes me as utterly improbable,' he said.
'Oh, and why?'
'Before we let Svärd go home I had, as I've already said, a long talk with him. He was enormously relieved when it dawned on him he was healthy. Earlier, he'd been in a terrible state. But now he changed altogether. He became happy, quite simply. We had already seen how his pains disappeared as soon as we'd given him some very weak pain killers. Pills that - just between ourselves -cannot alleviate any real physical pain whatsoever.'
'So you think he can't have committed suicide?'
'He wasn't the type.'
'What type was he, then?'
'I'm not a psychiatrist, but mostly I got the impression of him being a hard, shut-in man. I know the staff here had a certain amount of trouble with him and thought him demanding and querulous. But these traits didn't appear until the last few days, after he'd realized his complaint constituted no threat to his life.'
Martin Beck pondered. Then he said: 'Isuppose you don't know whether he had any visitors while he was here?'
'No. I can't say I do. He told me he had no friends.'
Martin Beck got up. 'Thanks,' he said. 'That's all I wanted to know. Good-bye.'
He got as far as the door when the doctor said: 'About visitors and friends, there's something I've just thought of.'
'What's that?'
‘Well, Svärd had a relative, whom he heard from. A nephew. He called up during my telephone hour and asked how his uncle was.'
'And what did you reply?'
'This nephew of his called just at the moment our examina¬tions were finished. So I could give him the happy news that Svärd was in good health and still had every prospect of living for many years.'
'How did the man react?'
'He seemed astonished. Obviously Svärd had convinced him, too, that he was gravely ill and would hardly survive his hospitalization.'
'Did this nephew tell you his name?'
'Presumably, but I don't remember it'
'One other thing strikes me,' Martin Beck said. 'Don't people usually give the name and address of their next of kin when they enter the hospital, or some friend, just in case they...' He left his sentence hanging in the air.
'Indeed. Quite right' said the doctor and put on his glasses again. 'Let's see. There ought to be a name here. Yes, here it is.'
'What is it?'
'Rhea Nielsen.'
Martin Beck walked through Tantolunden Park, deep in thought. No one robbed him, or clobbered him on the head. All he saw were flocks of drunks, who lay spread out there behind the bushes, presumably waiting to be taken care of.
Now he really had got something to think about. Karl Edvin Svärd had not had any brothers or sisters. So how could he have a nephew?
Finally Martin Beck had a reason to go to Tulegatan, this Monday evening, and he was in fact almost there.
But when he'd got as far as Central Station, where he was to change trains, he changed his mind and went back two stations to get off at Slussen. Then he walked along Skeppsbron Quay to see whether there were any interesting boats to look at. But few were in.
Suddenly he noticed he was hungry. Since he'd forgotten to do his shopping, he went to a restaurant called The Golden Peace and - under the gaze of a number of tourists who kept tormenting the staff with idiotic questions about which famous people were seated where - ate some ham. Last year he had himself contrived to become rather well-known, but people's memories are short, and by this time his celebrity had had time to fade.