The Locked Room (15 page)

Gunvald Larsson flung himself forward, and the door, as though it hadn't even existed, flew open with inconceivable celerity.

This unexpected lack of any resistance caused Gunvald Larsson to rush straight through the entrance without any chance what¬ever of braking. Utterly off balance and leaning forward at an alarming angle, he flew straight across the room like a bolting crane and struck his head hard against the window frame oppo¬site. The remainder of his enormous mass of mortal clay, however, went on following the laws of gravity. It swung around, unfortu¬nately in the wrong direction, in such a manner that his backside, forcing out the windowpane, fell backwards out of the window in a cloud of splintering glass.

At the very last second he let go of his pistol and grabbed hold of the window ledge with his huge fist He was thus left dangling five storeys up from the ground with the larger part of his body outside the window - to which he clung desperately with his right hand and the hollow of his knee. Blood was already gushing from deep cuts in his hand, and his trouser leg, too, was beginning to turn red.

Rönn didn't move quite so fast but was still quick enough on his feet to get across the threshold the very second the door slammed shut again on its screeching hinges. It struck him with full force in the forehead. He dropped his pistol and fell back¬wards out on to the landing.

When the door flew open for the second time - after its colli¬sion with Rönn - Kollberg, too, succeeded in hurling himself into the apartment A hasty survey showed that the only traces of human life in the room were one of Gunvald Larsson's hands and his right shank. Kollberg darted forward and grabbed hold of the leg with both hands.

There was imminent risk of Gunvald Larsson falling to his death. Kollberg leaned the considerable weight of his body against the leg and with his right hand succeeded in clasping his colleague's wildly gesticulating left arm. For a few seconds it seemed as though the weight ratio was wrong, and that they would both be cata¬pulted out of the window. But Gunvald Larsson's lacerated right hand did not let go its grip, and, exerting all his strength, Kollberg finally succeeded in heaving up his distressed colleague to a point where he was at least halfway in again, torn to shreds and bleeding, but almost in safety.

By now Rönn, who had not lost consciousness, was crawling over the threshold on all fours, fumbling as he did so for his pistol which he'd dropped as he fell.

The next man to appear on the scene was Zachrisson, imme¬diately followed by the dog, which bounded forward. Zachrisson saw Rönn crawling around on all fours, blood dripping down from his head on to the pistol, which was lying on the floor. He also saw Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson bloodily intertwined by the smashed window and obviously out of action.

Zachrisson yelled: 'Stop! Police!' Then he cocked his pistol and fired off a shot which hit the ceiling light. A white glass globe, it exploded with an ear-shattering report. Then, turning on his heel, he shot the dog. The beast sank down on to its hind legs and gave a howl of agony, which pierced through bone and marrow. Zachrisson's third shot went through the open door of the bath¬room, perforating the hot water pipe. A long jet of hot water spouted into the room. He fired another shot; but the pistol misfired and the mechanism jammed.

Wild-eyed, the dog handler rushed in. 'The bastards have shot Boy,' he yelled piercingly, drawing his regulation pistol. Flourishing it, he looked furiously around for someone on whom he could wreak vengeance. The dog howled worse than ever. A policeman in a blue-green bullet-proof vest ran in through the open doorway with a loaded sub-machine gun but stumbled over Rönn and flopped to the floor. His weapon flew across the parquet flooring. The dog, obviously mortally wounded, sank its fangs into one of his thighs. The policeman began yelling for help.

By now Kollberg and Gunvald Larsson were indoors again, lacerated and exhausted but with two conclusions lucidly in their heads. Primo: there hadn't been anybody in the apartment, neither Malmström nor Mohrén nor anyone else. Secundo: the door had not been locked nor presumably even properly closed.

By now the jet of hot water from the bathroom was scalding and steaming. It struck Zachrisson full in the face.

The policeman who was wearing the bullet-proof vest crawled over to his sub-machine gun. The dog, refusing to let go, snuffled after him, teeth sunk deeply into its victim's meaty leg.

Raising his bleeding hand, Gunvald Larsson roared: 'Stop!'

And at that very instant the tear-gas specialist hurled two grenades in quick succession through the door. They landed on the floor, between Rönn and the dog handler, and instantly exploded.

Somebody fired one last shot - who, it isn't known for sure.

Probably the man with the dog. The bullet struck the radiator half an inch from one of Kollberg's knees, ricocheted whining out into the stairwell, and hit the tear-gas man in the shoulder.

Kollberg tried to yell: ‘We give in! We give in!' But he only produced a hoarse croak.

Spreading swiftly, the gas mingled with steam and the smoke of the grenades until it filled the room and no one could any longer see anyone else. Inside, six men and a dog were groaning, crying, and coughing.

Outside, on the stairs, the gas expert sat whimpering, the palm of his right hand pressed against his left shoulder.

Rushing down from the floor above, Bulldozer Olsson asked indignantly: 'What's happened? What's going on? What's up?'

Horrible sounds were coming out of the gas-filled room: stran¬gled howls, cries for help, and crude, .incomprehensible curses.

'Stop the whole operation,' Bulldozer ordered in a feint voice, himself beginning to cough hoarsely and shrilly. He retreated upwards out of the gas cloud, which followed him. Straightening his back, he turned to the now hardly discernible doorway. 'Malmström and Mohrén,' he said in a voice of authority, but with the tears streaming down his face, 'throw away your guns and come out with your hands up. You're under arrest'

On the morning of Thursday, 6th July 1972, the members of the special squad were pale but composed. In their headquarters a glum silence reigned. No one felt particularly merry after yesterday's events. Least of all Gunvald Larsson. In a film, maybe, there's something comic about tumbling out of a window and dangling five storeys above the ground. In reality there certainly isn't. Torn hands and clothes aren't particularly funny either. Indeed, Gunvald was more annoyed about his clothes than about anything else. He was always scrupulous in the selection of his wardrobe, which also swallowed up a good portion of his salary. And now, for the umpteenth time, some of his most highly valued garments had fallen victim to his duties.

Nor was Einar Rönn happy. And even Kollberg was finding it hard to appreciate the comic elements in the situation, glaring though they were. He still recollected very clearly those butterflies in his stomach at the moment when he'd truly believed that both he and Gunvald Larsson only had five more seconds to live before being dashed to pieces on the ground. Nor was he religious. Kollberg did not believe in some huge police headquarters up in the sky, inhabited by winged detectives.

Though the battle of Danvik Cliffs had been analysed in great

detail, their written report was oddly vague and evasive. It was Kollberg who had written it

But their losses could not be argued away. Three men had been taken off to the hospital, admittedly in no danger for their lives or with any risk of permanent harm. The tear-gas expert had a flesh wound in his shoulder, and Zachrisson had burns on his face. The doctors also alleged that he was suffering from shock, seemed 'peculiar', and found ft hard to give straightforward answers to simple questions. This, however, might be because they didn't know him and overestimated his intelligence - to underestimate it seemed virtually impossible. The policeman who'd been bitten by the dog could look forward to several weeks' sick leave. Torn muscles and ripped tendons don't heal in a hurry.

Worst off was the dog. The Veterinary College surgical clinic reported that, although they had managed to remove the bullet, if infection were to set in they might still have to put him down. But Boy was a young and strong beast, they added, and his general condition was satisfactory. To anyone familiar with Veterinary College jargon this inspired little hope.

Rönn had an enormous bandage on his forehead and two magnificent bruises, which only lent added effect to the red nose with which nature had endowed him.

Gunvald Larsson should really have stayed at home. No one with a tightly bandaged right hand and knee can really be declared fit for duty. He also had a big lump on his head.

As for Kollberg, though troubled by a heavy, aching head (due, in his view, to the unhealthy air of the battlefield), he was in some¬what better condition. A special cure chiefly consisting of cognac, aspirin, and his wife's loving and erotically tinged care, ably provided, had had a positive - if transient - effect

The enemy's losses, too, were insignificant. They had not even been present at the battle. Several objects in the flat had been seized, but not even Bulldozer Olsson could claim the loss of a roll of toilet paper, a cardboard box containing string, two jars of whortleberry jam, and an improbable quantity of used underwear was likely to upset Malmström and Mohrén to any serious degree. Nor would it place any grave obstacles in the way of their future operations.

At 8.52 Bulldozer Olsson stormed in through the door. Already he had attended two early-morning meetings, one at the National Police Board and another with the people from Fraud, and by now he was well and truly on the warpath. 'Good morning, good morning, good morning,' he exclaimed merrily. 'Well, boys, and how are you all?'

The boys felt more middle-aged than ever. Not one of them replied.

'Roos made some shrewd countermoves yesterday,' Olsson said. 'But that's nothing for us to cry over. Let's say we've lost a couple of bishops and a pawn.'

'Looked more like stalemate to me,' said Kollberg, who was a chess player.

'But now it's our move,' cried Bulldozer. 'Fetch in Mauritzon. Let's feel his pulse! He has something up his sleeve! And he's scared, gentlemen, scared! He knows Malmström and Mohrén'll be out for his blood now, and at this moment the greatest disservice we could do him would be to let him go. As he knows full well.'

Red-eyed, Rönn, Kollberg, and Gunvald Larsson stared at their leader. The notion of again going into action on Mauritzon's instructions had little appeal.

Bulldozer studied them rather more carefully. His eyes, too, were swollen and red around the rims. 'I thought of something last night, boys,' he said. 'What do you say? Shouldn't we employ rather younger and fresher forces for such operations from now on? I mean, like yesterday's?' After a brief pause he added: 'It hardly seems right that middle-aged men who have long ago settled down and reached moderately high rank should be rushing about the place like this, firing off guns and so forth.'

Gunvald Larsson gave a deep sigh and slumped down even more. He looked as if someone had just stuck a knife in his back.

Sure, thought Kollberg, that's dead right But a second later he felt furious. Middle-aged? Settled down? What the hell? Rönn mumbled something.

'What's that you said, Einar?' Bulldozer asked amiably. 'It wasn't us who fired.'

'Be that as it may,' said Bulldozer. 'Be that as it may. Well, now we must all pull ourselves together. Bring in Mauritzon!'

Mauritzon had spent the night in the cells - admittedly in greater comfort than usual. He had, for instance, been given a chamber pot to himself and even blankets, and the guard had enquired whether he'd like a glass of water.

Mauritzon had had no complaint with these arrangements, and was said to have slept soundly. Not like the evening before, when he'd first been arrested. When they'd told him Malmström and Mohrén hadn't been there, he'd seemed troubled, not to say astounded.

CID investigations, however, had revealed that they had been there only a little while earlier. There was an abundance of both men's fingerprints and traces of Mauritzon's right thumb and forefinger had even been found on one of the jam jars.

'You realize what that means?' Bulldozer Olsson said inquisitorially.

'Yes,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'That he's circumstantially linked to a jar of whortleberry jam.'

'Right!' said Bulldozer, cheerfully surprised. 'In fact, we've proof against him. Proof that'll even hold up in court. But that wasn't what I was thinking.'

'What were you thinking?'

'That it shows Mauritzon's been telling the truth and will there¬fore probably go on telling us whatever he knows.'

'Sure - about Malmström and Mohrén.'

'And that's all we're really interested in just now, right?'

Once again Mauritzon was seated in their midst, the same insignificant mild little man, decent to the core.

'Well, my dear Mr Mauritzon,' said Bulldozer amicably. 'Things failed to turn out quite as we'd expected.'

Mauritzon shook his head. 'Strange,' he said. 'I don't get it They must have had some sort of sixth sense.'

'Sixth sense,' said Bulldozer dreamily. 'Yes, at times one can almost believe it Now if Roos...'

'Who's that?'

'Nothing, Mr Mauritzon. Nothing. Just talking to myself. But there's something else worrying me. Our private accounts don't quite balance. I've done you a big service, Mr Mauritzon, and I'm still waiting, as it were, for a quid pro quo'

Mauritzon thought long and deeply. Finally he said: 'You mean that I'm still not at liberty?'

'Well,' said Bulldozer, 'yes and no. When all's said and done, drug pushing is a serious crime. I estimate, Mr Mauritzon, you'd get at least...' He broke off, counting on his fingers.

'Well, I guess I can promise you eight months. Or at least six.'

Mauritzon regarded him calmly.

'But, on the other hand,' Bulldozer went on, his tone becoming livelier, 'I've promised you absolution for this time, haven't I? Provided I get something in exchange.' Bulldozer straightened his back, smacked his palms together in front of his face, and said brutally: 'In other words, if you don't immediately cough up everything you know about Malmström and Mohrén, we'll have you inside as an accomplice. Your fingerprints were found in the flat. And then we'll send you back to Jacobsson. And what's more, we'll see you get a damned good beating into the bargain.'