The Man on the Balcony

Martin Beck took the directory, looked at it and nodded. Melander dug a matchbox out of his trouser pocket and began elaborately lighting his pipe. Martin Beck took two steps into the room and put the directory down on the table. Then he went back to the filing cabinet.

‘What are you busy on, you two?’ Gunvald Larsson asked suspiciously.

‘Nothing much,’ Melander said. ‘Martin had forgotten the name of a fence we tried to nab twelve years ago.’

‘And did you?’

‘No,’ said Melander.

‘But you remembered it?’

‘Yes.’

Gunvald Larsson pulled the directory towards him, riffled through it and said:

‘How the devil can you remember the name of a man called Larsson for twelve years?’

‘It's quite easy,’ Melander said gravely.

The telephone rang.

‘First division, duty officer.

‘Sorry, madam, what did you say?

‘What?

‘Am I a detective? This is the duty officer of the first division, Detective Inspector Larsson.

‘And your name is …?’

Gunvald Larsson took a ball-point pen from his breast pocket and scribbled a word. Then sat with the pen in mid-air.

‘And what can I do for you?

‘Sorry, I didn't get that.

‘Eh? A what?

‘A cat?

‘A cat on the balcony?

‘Oh, a man.

‘Is there a man standing on your balcony?’

Gunvald Larsson pushed the telephone directory aside and drew a memo pad towards him. Put pen to paper. Wrote a few words.

‘Yes, I see. What does he look like, did you say?

‘Yes, I'm listening. Thin hair brushed straight back. Big nose. Aha. White shirt. Average height. Hm. Brown trousers. Unbuttoned. What? Oh, the shirt. Blue-grey eyes.

‘One moment, madam. Let's get this straight. You mean he's standing on his own balcony?’

Gunvald Larsson looked from Melander to Martin Beck and shrugged. He went on listening and poked his ear with the pen.

‘Sorry, madam. You say this man is standing on his own balcony? Has he molested you?

‘Oh, he hasn't. What? On the other side of the street? On his own balcony?

‘Then how can you see that he has blue-grey eyes? It must be a very narrow street.

‘What? You're doing what?

‘Now wait a minute, madam. All this man has done is to stand on his own balcony. What else is he doing?

‘Looking down into the street? What's happening in the street?

‘Nothing? What did you say? Cars? Children playing?

‘At night too? Do the children play at night too?

‘Oh, they don't. But he stands there at night? What do you want us to do? Send the dog van?

‘As a matter of fact there's no law forbidding people to stand on their balconies, madam.

‘Report an observation, you say? Heavens above, madam, if everyone reported their observations we'd need three policemen for every inhabitant.

‘Grateful? We ought to be grateful?

‘Impertinent? I've been impertinent? Now look here, madam…’

Gunvald Larsson broke off and sat with the receiver a foot from his ear.

‘She hung up,’ he said in amazement.

After three seconds he banged down the receiver and said:

‘Go to hell, you old bitch.’

He tore off the sheet of paper he had been writing on and carefully wiped the ear wax off the tip of the pen.

‘People are crazy,’ he said. ‘No wonder we get nothing done. Why doesn't the switchboard block calls like that? There ought to be a direct line to the nut house.’

‘You'll just have to get used to it,’ Melander said, calmly taking his telephone directory, closing it and going into the next room.

Gunvald Larsson, having finished cleaning his pen, crumpled up the paper and tossed it into the wastepaper basket. With a sour look at the suitcase by the door he said: