Murder at the Savoy

‘Where's the man who was shot?’

‘At the hospital, I suppose.’

Elofsson turned slightly red. Then he said, ‘The ambulance got here before the police, obviously.’

Månsson sighed and went into the dining room.

Backlund was standing by the table with the gleaming silver tureens questioning a waiter. He was an elderly man with glasses and ordinary features. Somehow he'd managed to become a first assistant detective. He was holding his notebook open in his hand, busily taking notes. Månsson stopped within hearing distance, but said nothing.

‘And at what time did this happen?’

‘Uh, about eight-thirty.’

‘About?’

‘Well, I don't know for sure.’

‘In other words, you don't know what time it was.’

‘No, I don't. ’

‘Rather odd,’ said Backlund.

‘What?’

‘I said, it seems rather odd. You have a wrist watch, don't you?’

‘Of course.’

‘And there is a clock on the wall over there, if I'm not mistaken.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’

‘Both of them are wrong. Anyway, I didn't think of looking at the clock.’

Backlund appeared overwhelmed by the response. He put down the pad and pencil and began to clean his glasses. He took a deep breath, grabbed the notebook and started writing again.

‘Even though you had two clocks at your disposal, you didn't know what time it was.’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘We've got no use for “sort of” answers.’

‘But the clocks aren't synchronized. Mine's fast, and the clock over there's slow.’

Backlund consulted his Ultratron. ‘Odd,’ he said, writing something down.

Månsson wondered what.

‘So you were standing here when the criminal walked by?’

‘Yes.’

‘Can you give me as full a description as possible?’

‘I didn't really get a good look at him.’

‘You didn't see the gunman?’ said Backlund, startled.

‘Well, yes, when he climbed out of the window.’

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don't know. It was pretty far away, and that table was hidden by the pillar.’

‘You mean you don't know what he looked like?’

‘Not really.’

‘How was he dressed then?’

‘In a brown sports coat, I think.’

‘Think?’

‘Yeah. I only saw him for a second.’

‘What else did he have on? Trousers, for example.’

‘Oh yes, he had trousers on.’

‘Are you certain?’

‘Well, it certainly would have seemed a little … like you said, odd, otherwise. If he hadn't had any trousers on, I mean.’

Backlund wrote furiously. Månsson started chewing on the other end of the toothpick and quietly said, ‘Oh, Backlund …?’

The other man turned around and glared.

‘I'm in the middle of questioning an important witness …’

He broke off and said sullenly, ‘Oh, so it's you.’

‘What's going on?’

‘A man was shot in here,’ said Backlund in great earnest. ‘And you know who?’