Murder at the Savoy

At twenty to one the last train left the station.

At quarter to two the police in Lund sent the message that Palmgren was alive.

At three o'clock another message came from the same source. Mrs Palmgren was in shock, and it was difficult to question her thoroughly. However, she had seen the gunman clearly and was sure she didn't recognize him.

‘Seems on the ball, that guy in Lund,’ said Månsson with a yawn.

Just after four the Lund police got in touch again. The team of doctors treating Palmgren had decided for the present not to operate. The bullet had penetrated behind his left ear; it was impossible to tell what damage had been caused. The condition of the patient was reported to be as good as could be expected.

Månsson's condition wasn't good. Tired, his throat very dry, he went out to the bathroom time after time to fill up on water.

‘Is it possible for someone to live with a bullet in his head?’ asked Skacke.

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘it's been done before. Sometimes it's enclosed by the tissue, and the person recovers. If the doctors had tried to remove it, however, he probably would've died.’

Backlund had evidently stuck to the Savoy for a long time, for at four-thirty he called to say that he had blockaded and sealed off an area in anticipation of the technical squad's investigation of the scene of the crime, which might take place in several hours, at the earliest.

‘He wants to know if he's needed here,’ said Skacke, holding his hand over the receiver.

‘The only place he could possibly be needed is at home in bed with his wife,’ said Månsson.

Skacke conveyed the message but modified the wording somewhat. Soon after this Skacke said, ‘I think we can rule out Bulltofta. The last plane left at five after eleven. Nobody on board answered the description. The next one takes off at six-thirty. It's been booked up since the day before yesterday, and there's nobody on the waiting list.’

Månsson mulled over that for a while. ‘Hmm,’ he said finally. ‘I think I'll call somebody who isn't going to like being dragged out of bed.’

‘Who? The police chief?’

‘No, he probably hasn't slept any more than we have. By the way, where were you hiding out last night?’

‘At the cinema,’ said Skacke. ‘You can't sit at home and study every night.’

‘I've never sat at home and studied,’ said Månsson. ‘One of those hydrofoils left Malmö for Copenhagen at nine o'clock. Try to find out which one it was.’

That proved an unexpectedly difficult task, and half an hour went by before Skacke could report, ‘It's called Springeren, and right now it's in Copenhagen. It's unbelievable how grumpy some people can be when you call and get them out of bed.’

‘You can comfort yourself with the fact that I've got a much worse job now,’ said Månsson.

He went into his room, picked up the telephone, dialled Denmark, 00945, and then the home number of Police Captain Mogensen, Danish Bureau of Investigation. He counted seventeen rings before a thick voice said, ‘Mogensen.’

‘This is Per Månsson in Malmö.’

‘What the hell do you want?’ said Mogensen. ‘Do you know what time it is?’

‘Yes,’ said Månsson, ‘but this could be very important.’

‘It'd better be damned important,’ the Dane said threateningly.

‘We had an attempted murder here in Malmö last night,’ said Månsson. ‘There's a chance that the gunman flew to Copenhagen. We have a description.’

Then he related the whole story, and Mogensen said bitterly, ‘For Christ's sake, do you think I can work miracles?’

‘Why not?’ said Månsson. ‘Let us know if you find out anything.’

‘Go to hell,’ said Mogensen in a surprisingly clear voice and slammed down the receiver.

Månsson shook himself, yawning.

Nothing happened.

Backlund called later to say that they'd begun investigating the scene of the crime. It was then eight o'clock.

‘Hell, he's really on the ball,’ Månsson said.

‘Where do we go from here?’ asked Skacke.

‘Nowhere. Wait.’

At twenty to nine Månsson's private line rang. He lifted the receiver, listened for a minute or two, broke off the conversation without saying so much as thanks or goodbye and yelled to Skacke, ‘Call Stockholm. Right away.’

‘What should I say?’

Månsson looked at the clock.

‘That was Mogensen. He said a Swede who gave his name as Bengt Stensson bought a ticket from Kastrup to Stockholm last night and then waited stand-by for several hours. He finally got on an SAS flight that took off at eight twenty-five. The plane should have landed at Arlanda ten minutes ago at most. The guy might fit the description. I want the bus from the airport into the city stopped at the air terminal, and this man taken into custody.’

Skacke rushed to the telephone.

‘Okay,’ he said breathlessly half a minute later. ‘Stockholm will take care of it.’

‘Who did you talk to?’

‘Gunvald Larsson.’

‘Oh, him.’

They waited.

After half an hour Skacke's telephone rang. He yanked the receiver to his ear, listened and was left sitting with it in his hand. ‘They blew it,’ he said.

‘Oh,’ Månsson said laconically.

But they'd had twenty minutes, he thought.

3 (#ulink_33679dbb-3f9c-54d2-a392-080fce1aa787)

A similar expression was used in the main police station on Kungsholmsgatan in Stockholm.

‘Well, they blew it,’ said Einar Rönn, sticking his sweaty red face through a crack in the door to Gunvald Larsson's room.