Arne Dahl - Murder at the Savoy

Edvardsson removed a stack of newspapers from the room's only armchair and said, ‘Please sit down and I'll get something to drink. I have cold beer in the fridge.’

‘Beer sounds good,’ Martin Beck said.

The man went out into the kitchenette and returned with glasses and two bottles of beer.

‘Beck's Beer,’ he said. ‘Appropriate, eh?’

When he had poured the beer into the glasses he sat down on the sofa with one arm over the back.

Martin Beck took a big swallow of beer, which was cold and good in the oppressive heat. Then he said, ‘Well, you know what my visit is about.’

Edvardsson nodded and lit a cigarette.

‘Yes, about Palmgren. I can't exactly say I regret his passing.’

‘Did you know him?’ Martin Beck asked.

‘Personally? No, not at all. But you couldn't help but run into him in every possible connection. The impression I had was of a domineering, arrogant man – well, I've never gotten along with that type of person.’

‘What does that mean? “That type”?’

‘People for whom money means everything and who don't hesitate to use any means to get it.’

‘I'd like to hear more about Palmgren later, if you'd like to clarify what you think of him, but first I want to know something else. Did you see the gunman?’

Edvardsson ran a hand through his hair, which was a bit grizzled and lay in a wave over his forehead.

‘I'm afraid I can't be of too much help. I was sitting reading and didn't really react until the fellow was already halfway out of the window. At first I only noticed Palmgren, and then I saw the gunman – but just out of the corner of my eye. He took off very quickly, and when I got around to looking out of the window, he'd disappeared.’

Martin Beck took a crumpled pack of Floridas from his pocket and lit one.

‘Have you any idea what he looked like?’ he asked.

‘I seem to remember that he was dressed in rather dark clothes, probably in a suit or a sports coat and trousers that didn't match, and that he wasn't a young man. But it's only an impression I have – he could have been thirty, forty, or fifty, but hardly older or younger than that.’

‘Was Palmgren's party already seated when you got to the restaurant?’

‘No,’ said Edvardsson. ‘I'd eaten and had a whisky by the time they came. I live alone here, and sometimes it's nice to sit in a restaurant and read a book, and then I end up sitting there for quite a long time.’

He paused and added, ‘Even though it gets damned expensive, of course.’

‘Did you recognize anyone besides Palmgren in this gathering?’

‘His wife and that young man who's said to be – have been – Palmgren's right-hand man. I didn't recognize the others, but it looked as if they were employees, too. A couple of them spoke Danish.’

Edvardsson took a handkerchief out of his trouser pocket and wiped the perspiration off his forehead. He was dressed in a white shirt and tie, pale polyester trousers and black shoes. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Martin Beck felt his own shirt begin to grow damp and stick to his body.

‘Did you happen to hear what the conversation was about?’ he asked.

‘To tell you the truth, I did. I'm fairly curious and think it's fun to study people, so, in fact, I was eavesdropping a little. Palmgren and the Dane talked shop – I didn't catch what it was all about, but they mentioned Rhodesia several times. He had a lot of irons in the fire, Palmgren – I even heard him say that himself on at least one occasion – and there were a number of shady deals underway, I've heard tell. The ladies talked about the kind of things that that kind of lady usually talks about – clothes, trips, mutual acquaintances, parties … Mrs Palmgren and the younger of the other two talked about someone who'd had her sagging breasts operated on so that they looked like tennis balls right under her chin. Charlotte Palmgren talked about a party at 21 in New York, where Frank Sinatra had been, and someone called Mackan had bought champagne for all of them the whole night. And a million other things like that. A fantastic bra for 75 kronor at Twilfit. That it's too warm to wear a wig in the summer, so you have to put your hair up every day.’

Martin Beck reflected that Edvardsson couldn't have read much of his book that night.

‘And the other men? Did they talk shop, too?’

‘Not very much. It seems they'd had a meeting before dinner. The fourth man – not the Dane and not the young one, that is – said something about it. No, their conversation wasn't on a very high level either. For example, they talked a long time about Palmgren's tie, which unfortunately I couldn't see since he sat with his back to me. It must have been something special, for they all admired it, and Palmgren said that he'd bought it for 95 francs on the Champs-Elysées in Paris. And the fourth man told them that he had a problem that kept him awake at night. His daughter had actually moved in with a Negro. Palmgren suggested he send her to Switzerland, where there are hardly any blacks.’

Edvardsson got up, carried the empty bottles out into the kitchenette and returned with two more bottles of beer. They were misty and looked extremely tempting.

‘Yes,’ Edvardsson said, ‘that's most of what I remember from the table conversation. Not especially helpful, is it?’

‘No,’ Martin Beck said truthfully. ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not much. He lives in one of the largest of those old upper-class mansions out towards Limhamn. He made a pile of money and also spent plenty, among other things on his wife and that old house.’

Edvardsson was silent a moment. Then he asked a question in return: ‘What do you know about Palmgren?’

‘Not too much more than that.’

‘God save us if the police know as little as I do about characters like Viktor Palmgren,’ said Edvardsson and drank deeply from his glass of beer.

‘Right when Palmgren was shot, he was giving a speech, wasn't he?’

‘Yes, I remember, he stood up and started rambling on – the usual sort of nonsense. Welcomed them and thanked them for good work and lectured the ladies and had his fun. He seemed skilled at it; he sounded tremendously jolly. The hotel staff withdrew so they wouldn't disturb them, and even the music stopped. The waiters had vanished into thin air, and I had to sit there sucking on ice cubes. Do you really not know what Palmgren was doing, or is it a police secret?’

Martin Beck eyed the glass of beer. Took it. Took a sip cautiously.

‘I don't know very much, in fact,’ he said. ‘But there are others who probably know. A lot of foreign business and a property company in Stockholm.’

‘I see,’ Edvardsson said and then seemed lost in thought.

After a moment he said, ‘The little I saw of that murderer, I already told them about the day before yesterday. Two fellows from the police were on me. One fellow who kept asking what time it was, and also a younger one who seemed a little sharper.’

‘You weren't quite sober at the time, were you?’ Martin Beck said.

‘No. Lord knows, I wasn't. And then yesterday I tied on another one, so I'm still hungover. It must be this damned heat.’

Splendid, thought Martin Beck. Hungover detective questions hungover witness. Very constructive.

‘Maybe you know how it feels,’ Edvardsson said.

‘Yes, I do,’ said Martin Beck. Then he took the glass of beer and emptied it in one gulp. He stood up and said, ‘Thank you. Maybe you'll be hearing from us again.’

He stopped and asked another question:

‘By the way, did you happen to see the weapon the murderer used?’

Edvardsson hesitated.

‘Come to think of it now, it seems to me I caught a glimpse of it, at the moment he stuck it in his pocket. I don't know much about guns, of course, but it was a long, fairly narrow thing. With a kind of roller, or whatever you call it.’