The Locked Room (25 page)

By half past six he had taken a shower, eaten his breakfast, and dressed, and half an hour later he was already on the front steps of the little house on Sångarvagen, in Sollentuna, already visited by Einar Rönn four days before.

This was the Friday when everything was going to happen. Once again Mauritzon was to be confronted by Bulldozer Olsson, it was to be hoped under less cordial circumstances than last time. Perhaps, too, the moment had arrived for them to lay their hands on Malmström and Mohrén and intervene in their big coup.

But before the special squad went into action Gunvald Larsson had it in mind to solve a little problem that had been irritating him all week. Seen in a broader context, perhaps, it was a mere trifle, yet an annoying one. Now he wanted to dispose of it once and for all and also to prove to himself that his own thinking had been correct, and that he'd drawn the right conclusion.

Sten Sjögren had not gotten up with the sun. Five minutes passed before, yawning and fumbling with the belt of his dressing gown, he came down and opened the door.

Gunvald Larsson was not unfriendly, but he came straight to the point. 'You've been lying to the police,' he said.

'Have I?'

'A week ago you twice described a bank robber, who at first glance appeared to be a woman. Further, you gave a detailed description of the car that person used in the getaway, and of two men who were also in the car, a Renault 16.'

'Quite right.'

'And on Monday you repeated the same story, word for word, to a detective inspector who came here and talked to you.' 'That's true, too.'

'What is also true is that the whole thing was nothing but a pack of lies.'

'But I described that blonde as best I could.'

‘Yes, because you knew several other people had seen the robber. You were also smart enough to figure out that a film had prob¬ably been taken inside the bank.'

'But I'm certain it was a woman!'

'Oh? Why?'

'I'm not sure, but I've got a kind of instinct where ladies are concerned.'

'This time, as it happens, your instinct has failed you. But that's not what I've come here about I want you to admit that your tale about the car and those two men was made up.'

'Why do you want me to do that?'

'My reasons have no bearing on the matter. Anyway, they're of a purely private nature.'

Sjögren was no longer half-asleep. With a curious look at Gunvald Larsson he said slowly: 'As far as I know it's not a crime to give incomplete or inaccurate information, as long as one isn't under oath.'

'Quite right'

'In which case this conversation is meaningless.'

'Not to me. I very much want to check upon this matter. Let us say I've reached a certain conclusion, and I want to be sure it's the right one.'

'And what conclusion is that?'

'That you conned the police with a bunch of lies for your own advantage.'

'Plenty of people in this society think only of their own advan¬tage.'

'But not you?'

'At least I try not to. Not many people understand. My wife, for instance. Which is why I haven't got her any longer.'

'So you think it's right to break into banks? And regard the police as the natural enemy of the people?'

'Something of that sort, yes. Though not quite so simple.'

'To rob a bank and shoot the director of a gymnastics institute isn't a political act.'

'No, not here and now, it isn't. But one can take an ideological view of the matter. Look at it in its historical perspective. Sometimes bank robberies have been politically motivated - during the Irish troubles, for instance. But the protest can also be unconscious.'

'So - it's your view that common criminals can be regarded as revolutionaries?'

'That's a thought,' Sjögren said, 'though it's one that most promi¬nent so-called socialists reject. Ever read Artur Lundkvist?'

'No.' Gunvald Larsson mostly read Jules Régis and similar authors. At the moment he was ploughing through S. A. Duse's output However, this had nothing to do with the matter. His literary habits were dictated by a need for amusement he had no longing for a literary education.

'Lundkvist got the Lenin Prize,' said Sten Sjögren. 'In an anthology called A Socialist Man, he writes like this - and I quote from memory: "Sometimes it goes so far that simple criminals are made to look as if they were consciously protesting against the miserable state of affairs as if they were almost revolutionaries... something that would least of all be tolerated in a socialist country."' 'Go on,' said Gunvald Larsson.

'End of quote,' said Sjögren. 'Lundkvist is a jerk. His whole line of reasoning is imbecilic. In the. first place, people can be driven to protest against their state of affairs without being ideologically awake. And secondly, that bit about the socialist countries... there's not an ounce of logic to it. Why the devil should people rob themselves?'

Gunvald Larsson said nothing for a long while. Finally he said: 'So - there was no beige Renault?'

'No.'

'Nor any unnaturally pale driver in a white T-shirt, nor any man in black who looked like Harpo Marx?' 'No.'

Gunvald Larsson nodded to himself. Then he said: 'The fact of the matter is that the man who broke into that bank seems to be done for. And for from being some kind of unconscious revolu¬tionary, he was a bloody rat who was hitchhiking on the capitalist bandwagon and lived by peddling dope and pornography - without a thought to anything except his own profit. Self-interest, that is. Furthermore, he has grassed on his mates in an attempt to save his own skin.'

Sjögren shrugged his shoulders. 'There's plenty of that kind about, too,' he said. 'Put it whichever way you like, but the guy who robbed that bank was some kind of underdog - if you see what I mean.''

'I see exactly what you mean.'

'How could you work all this out?'

'Try it yourself,' said Gunvald Larsson. 'Put yourself in my shoes.'

'Why the devil did you ever become a policeman?' asked Sjögren.

'Sheer chance. Actually I'm a seaman. Anyway, all that was so long ago, and many things looked quite different in those days. But that's neither here nor there. Now I have what I wanted.'

'And that was all?' 'Exactly. Goodbye.'

'Good-bye,' said Sjögren. He looked utterly astounded. But Gunvald Larsson didn't notice. He was already on his way to his car. Nor did he hear Sjögren's parting shot:

'Anyway, I'm dead certain it was a girl'

At that same early hour of the morning Mrs Svea Mauritzon was standing baking in her kitchen on Pilgatan, in Jönköping. Her prodigal son had come home and was to be regaled with fresh cinnamon buns with his morning coffee. She was blissfully unaware of the terms in which her son was at that moment being described by a policeman a hundred and eighty miles away; if she had ever heard anyone call the apple of her eye a rat she would instantly have given that person a taste of her rolling pin.

A sharp ring on the front doorbell broke the morning silence. Setting aside her tray of freshly iced cinnamon whirls on the sink, she dried her hands on her apron and shuffled hurriedly out to the front door in her down-at-heel slippers. She noticed that the clock only showed 7.30 and threw an anxious glance towards the closed bedroom door.

In there her boy was sleeping. She had made up a bed for him on the sofa in the living room, but the clock had disturbed him and in the middle of the night he'd woken her up and asked her to switch beds with him. Poor child, he was working himself to death. What he needed was a really good sleep! For her part, being almost stone deaf, she did not hear the ticking of the clock.

Outside her front door stood two big men.

She didn't quite hear all they said, but they were extremely insistent. They must be allowed to speak to her son. In vain she tried to explain it was too early and that they could come back a little later when he'd finished sleeping.

They were implacable, maintaining that their errand was of the very greatest importance. Finally, very reluctantly, she went in to her son and gently awakened him. Raising himself on his elbow, he looked at the clock.

'Are you out of your mind? What do you want to wake me up like this for in the middle of the night? Didn't I say I wanted to have a good sleep?'

She gave him an unhappy look. 'There are two gentlemen who want to see you,' she said.

'What!' he yelled, jumping out of bed. 'You haven't let them in, have you?'

Mauritzon knew it must be Malmström and Mohrén. They had realized he'd betrayed them, worked out where he was hiding, and were here seeking revenge.

His mother shook her head and stared at him in amazement as he flung on his clothes without even taking off his pyjamas. At the same time he rushed around the room, collecting his scattered belongings and flinging them into his bag.

'What's it all about?' she asked, anxiously.

He snapped shut the bag, grabbed her by the arm, and hissed: 'You must get rid of them! Tell 'em I'm not here. Say I've gone to Australia, anything!'

Not hearing what he'd said, she noticed her hearing aid was lying on the bedside table and put it on. Mauritzon tiptoed over to the door, pressed his ear against it, and listened. Not a sound. They were standing out there waiting for him, probably with a whole arsenal of guns ready to fire.

His mother came up to him and whispered: ‘What is it, Filip? What kind of men are they?'

'Just you get rid of them,' he whispered back. 'Tell 'em I've gone abroad.'

'But I've already told them you're here. How could I know you didn't want to see them?'

Mauritzon buttoned up his jacket and grabbed his bag.

'Are you going already?' his mother asked, disappointed. 'But I've baked you some buns. Cinnamon snails, which you're so fond of...'

He turned to her and said indignantly: 'How can you stand here babbling about cinnamon buns when...' He broke off, cocking his ear towards the hallway. He heard a vague mumble of voices. Now they were coming in to get him - or liquidate him on the spot He broke into a cold sweat, looking desperately around the room. His mother lived on the seventh floor, so there was no question of jumping out of the window; and the only door gave out onto the hall where Malmström and Mohrén were waiting for him.

Going over to his mother, who was standing by the bed looking bewildered, he said: 'Go on out. Tell 'em I'm coming, that I'll only be a minute. Try to get 'em into the kitchen. Offer them some buns. Hurry up. Get going!'

He shoved her towards the door and stood with his back to the wall. After she'd gone out, closing the door behind her, he again pressed his ear against it. He could hear voices, and after a while footsteps coming closer. When they stopped outside the door instead of going on out towards his mother's buns in the kitchen as he'd hoped, he suddenly knew the full meaning of the expression my hair stood on end'.

Silence. A metallic sound, perhaps a magazine being inserted into a pistol. Someone cleared his throat. Then a hard knock and a voice that said: 'Come on out now, Mauritzon. This is the CID.'

Mauritzon opened the door and with a groan of relief practi¬cally fell into the arms of Detective Inspector Högflykt of the Jönköping CID, who was standing, there with the handcuffs ready for him.

Half an hour later Mauritzon was sitting on the plane to Stockholm with a large bag of cinnamon buns on his knee. He had convinced Högflykt that he was only too glad to cooperate, and the handcuffs had been removed. Staring down over the sunny plains of östergodand he munched his buns. All things consid¬ered, he felt at peace with the world.

Every once in a while he offered his bag to his companion, who shook his head more grimly each time: Detective Inspector Högflykt, always panic-stricken in airplanes, wasn't feeling at all well.

The plane landed on the dot at 10.25 at Bromma Airport, and twenty minutes later Mauritzon was once again inside the police headquarters on Kungsholmen. While the police car was driving into town he had anxiously begun to speculate over what Bulldozer might have in store for him; by now the feeling of liberation and relief that had followed the shock of his awakening that morning had completely gone - giving place to grim apprehensions.

Bulldozer Olsson - in the company of select elements from the special squad, to wit Einar Rönn and Gunvald Larsson - was impatiendy awaiting Mauritzon's arrival. Under the direction of Kollberg, the squad's other members were busy preparing their afternoon operation against the Mohrén gang. A complicated manoeuvre, it called for careful organizing.

Bulldozer, informed of the find in the air-raid shelter, had been almost beside himself with joy. He'd hardly slept a wink all night, so excited and expectant was he as the great day approached. Already he had Mauritzon where he wanted him - and Malmstrfim and Mohrén as well, from the moment when they tried to stage their big grab. If it didn't happen this Friday, then it certainly would the next, in which case today's operations could be regarded as a useful general rehearsal. Once he had the whole Mohrén gang under lock and key it certainly wouldn't be long before he also had Werner Roos on the hook.

Bulldozer's rosy dreams were interrupted by the telephone. He grabbed the receiver, listened for three seconds, and yelled: 'Bring him in this moment!' He banged down the receiver, clapped the palms of his hands together, and said energetically: 'Gentlemen, he is on his way. Are we ready?'

Gunvald Larsson grunted, and Rönn said without much enthu¬siasm: 'Sure.'

Rönn knew very well that he and Gunvald Larsson were there mainly to act as an audience. Bulldozer loved to perform in front of an audience, and today the performance was unquestionably his. He was not only playing the leading role, he was also the producer. Among other things he had adjusted the position of his fellow actors' chairs at least fifteen times until they were completely to his satisfaction.

Bulldozer was now sitting in the judgement seat behind his desk. Gunvald Larsson sat in the corner over by the window, and Rönn was at the end of the table to his right. Mauritzon's chair was placed directly in front of Bulldozer, but so far back from the table that it stood right in the middle of the open floor.