The Locked Room

‘Of course. I inspected everything before I gave them the go-ahead.’

‘For what?’

‘What? How do you mean?’

‘Before you gave the go-ahead for what?’

‘To take away the remains, of course. The old man had to have a post-mortem, didn't he? Even if he was a suicide, he still had to be dissected. It's regulations.’

‘Can you summarize your observations?’

‘Sure. Simple. The body was lying about three yards from the window.’

‘About?’

‘Yeah, the fact was I didn't have a yardstick on me. It looked about two months old; putrid, in other words. In the room were two chairs, a table, and a bed.’

‘Two chairs?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Just now you said one.’

‘Oh? Yeah, well it was two anyway, I guess; and then there was a little shelf with some old newspapers and books, and in the kitchenette a couple of saucepans and a coffee pot, and then the usual.’

‘The usual?’

‘Yeah, a can opener, knives and forks, a rubbish bin, and so forth.’

‘I see. Was anything lying on the floor?’

‘Not a thing, apart from the body, I mean. I asked the constables and they said they hadn't found anything either.’

‘Was anyone else in the flat?’

‘Nope. I asked the boys, and they said not. No one else went in there, apart from me and these two. Then the guys with the van came and took the body away with them in a plastic bag.’

‘Since then we have come to know the cause of Svärd's death.’

‘Indeed. That's right. He shot himself. Incomprehensible, I say. And what did he do with the gun?’

‘You've no plausible explanation?’

‘None. The whole thing's as idiotic as can be. An insoluble case, like I said. Doesn't happen so often, eh?’

‘Did the constables have any opinion?’

‘No, all they saw was he was dead and that the place was all shut up. If there'd been a pistol, either they or I'd have found it. Anyway, it could only have been lying on the floor beside that dead old guy.’

‘Did you find out who the deceased was?’

‘Of course. His name was Svärd, wasn't it? It was even written up on the door. You could see at a glance the type of man he'd been.’

‘What type?’

‘Well, a social case. Old drunk, probably. That type often kill themselves; that is, if they don't drink themselves to death or get a heart attack or something.’

‘You've nothing else of interest to add?’

‘No, it's beyond comprehension, like I said. Pure mystery. I bet even you can't fix this one. Anyway there's other things more important.’

‘Maybe.’

‘Yes, I reckon so. Can I go now?’

‘Not quite yet,’ said Martin Beck.

‘I've no more to say,’ said Aldor Gustavsson, stubbing out his cigar in the ash tray.

Martin Beck got up and walked over to the window, where he stood with his back to his visitor. ‘I've a few things to say,’ he said.

‘Oh? What?’

‘Quite a lot. Among other things the forensic team inspected the place last week. Though almost all traces had been destroyed, one large and two smaller bloodstains were immediately discovered on the carpet. Did you see any patches of blood?’

‘No. Not that I looked for any.’

‘Obviously not. What did you look for?’

‘Nothing special. The case seemed quite clear.’

‘If you failed to see those bloodstains, it's conceivable you missed other things.’

‘At any rate there was no firearm there.’

‘Did you notice how the dead man was dressed?’

‘No, not exactly. After all, he was completely putrid. Some kind of rags, I suppose. Besides, I didn't see it made any difference.’

‘What you did immediately notice was that the deceased had been a poor and lonely person. Not what you would call an eminent member of society.’

‘Of course. When you've seen as many alcoholics and welfare cases as I have …’

‘Then?’

‘Yes, well, then you know who's who and what's what.’

Martin Beck wondered whether Gustavsson did. Aloud he said: ‘Supposing the deceased had been better adapted socially, perhaps you might have been more conscientious?’