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The Man on the Balcony

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2019
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‘Where are you off to?’

‘Just going down to Motala for a couple of days,’ Martin Beck replied. ‘Something there I must look at.’

‘Oh.’

‘Be back inside a week. But Kollberg will be home today. He's on duty here as from tomorrow. So you needn't worry.’

‘I'm not worrying.’

‘By the way, those robberies…’

‘Yes?’

‘No, it doesn't matter.’

‘If he does it twice more we'll get him,’ Melander said from the next room.

‘Exactly,’ said Martin Beck. ‘So long.’

‘So long,’ Gunvald Larsson replied.

3 (#ucc30fb76-e312-5a7c-93b7-b7b393c14276)

Martin Beck got to Central Station nineteen minutes before the train was due to leave and thought he would fill in the time by making two telephone calls.

First home.

‘Haven't you left yet?’ his wife said.

He ignored this rhetorical question and merely said:

‘I'll be staying at a hotel called the Palace. Thought you'd better know.’

‘How long will you be away?’

‘A week’

‘How do you know for certain?’

This was a good question. She wasn't dumb at any rate, Martin Beck thought.

‘Love to the children,’ he said, adding after a moment, ‘take care of yourself.’

‘Thanks,’ she said coldly.

He hung up and fished another coin out of his trouser pocket. There was a line in front of the telephone boxes and the people standing nearest glared at him as he put the coin in the slot and dialled the number of southern police headquarters. It took about a minute before he got Kollberg on the line.

‘Beck here. Just wanted to make sure you were back.’

‘Very thoughtful of you,’ Kollberg said. ‘Are you still here?’

‘How's Gun?’

‘Fine. Big as a house of course.’

Gun was Kollberg's wife; she was expecting a baby at the end of August.

‘I'll be back in a week.’

‘So I gather. And by that time I shall no longer be on duty here.’

There was a pause, then Kollberg said:

‘What takes you to Motala?’

‘That fellow…’

‘Which fellow?’

‘That second-hand dealer who was burned to death the night before last. Haven't you…’

‘I read about it in the papers. So what?’

‘I'm going down to have a look.’

‘Are they so dumb they can't clear up an ordinary fire on their own?’

‘Anyway they've asked…’

‘Look here,’ Kollberg said. ‘You might get your wife to swallow that, but you can't kid me. Anyway, I know quite well what they've asked and who has asked it. Who's head of the investigation department at Motala now?’

‘Ahlberg, but…’

‘Exactly. I also know that you've taken five vacation days that were due to you. In other words you're going to Motala in order to sit and tipple at the City Hotel with Ahlberg. Am I right?’

‘Well…’

‘Good luck,’ Kollberg said genially. ‘Behave yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

Martin Beck hung up and the man standing behind him elbowed his way roughly past him. Beck shrugged and went out into the main hall of the station.

Kollberg was right up to a point. This in itself didn't matter in the least, but it was vexing all the same to be seen through so easily. Both he and Kollberg had met Ahlberg in connection with a murder case three summers earlier. The investigation had been long and difficult and in the course of it they had become good friends. Otherwise Ahlberg would hardly have asked the national police board for help and he himself would not have wasted half a day's work on the case.

The station clock showed that the two telephone calls had taken exactly four minutes; there was still a quarter of an hour before the train left. As usual the big hall was swarming with people of all kinds.

Suitcase in hand, he stood there glumly, a man of medium height with a lean face, a broad forehead and a strong jaw. Most of those who saw him probably took him for a bewildered provincial who suddenly found himself in the rush and bustle of the big city.
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