The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (10 page)

The car was a blue-and-white 1962 model Warsvawa. It had a flashing blue light on the roof and the siren sounded in a subdued, melancholy wail along the empty night streets. The word RENDÖRSÉG was painted in block capitals in the white band across the front door. It meant police.

Martin Beck was sitting in the back seat. At his side sat a uniformed officer. Szluka was sitting in the front seat, to the right of the driver.

'You did well," said Szluka. "Rather dangerous young men, those two."

'Who put Radeberger out of action?"

'He's sitting beside you," saad Szluka. Martin Beck turned his head. The policeman had a narrow black mustache and brown eyes with a sympathetic look in them.

'He speaks only Hungarian," said Szluka.

'What's his name?"

'Foti."

Martin Beck put out his hand.

'Thanks, Foti," he said.

'He had to give it to them pretty hard," said Szluka. "Hadn't much time."

'Lucky he was around," said Martin Beck.

'We're usually around," said Szluka. "Except in the cartoons."

'They have their hangout in Újpest," said Martin Beck. "A boarding house on Venetianer út."

'We know that."

Szluka sat quietly a moment. Then he asked, "How did you come into contact with them?"

'Through a woman named Boeck. Matsson had asked for her address. And she had been in Stockholm. Competing as a swimmer. There could be a connection. That's why I looked her up."

'And what did she say?"

'That she was studying at the university and working at a museum. And that she had never heard of Matsson."

They had reached the police station at Deák Ferenc Tér. The car swung into a concrete yard and stopped. Martin Beck followed Szluka up to his office. It was very spacious and the wall was covered with a large map of Budapest, but to all intents and purposes it reminded him of his own office back in Stockholm. Szluka hung up his hunting hat and pointed to a chair. He opened his mouth, but before he had time to say anything, the telephone rang. He went over to his desk and answered. Martin Beck thought he could make out a torrent of words. It went on for a long time. I Now and again Szluka replied in monosyllables. After a while he looked at his watch, exploded in a rapid, irritated ha rangue and put down the receiver. "My wife," he said. He went over to the map and studied the northern part of I the city, with his back to his visitor.

'Being a policeman," said Szluka, "is not a profession. And it's certainly not a vocation either. It's a curse."

A little later he turned around and said:

'Of course, I don't mean that. Only think it sometimes. Are you married?"

'Yes."

'Then you know."

A policeman in uniform came in and put down a tray with two cups of coffee on it. They drank. Szluka looked at his watch.

'We're searching the place up there at the moment. The report should soon be here."

'How did you manage to be around?" said Martin Beck.

Szluka replied with exactly the same sentence as in the car.

'We're usually around."

Then he smiled and said, "It was what you said about being shadowed. Naturally it wasn't us watching you. Why should we do that?"

Martin Beck poked his nose, a little conscience-stricken.

'People imagine so many things," said Szluka. "But of course you're a policeman, and policemen seldom do. So we began to watch the man who was tailing you. Backtailing as the Americans call it, if I remember rightly. This afternoon our man saw that there were two men watching you. He thought it looked peculiar and sounded the alarm. It's as simple as that."

Martin Beck nodded. Szluka looked at him thoughtfully. "And yet it was all so quick we just barely got there in time."

He finished his coffee and carefully put his cup down.

'Backtailing," he said, as if savoring the word. "Have you ever been to America?"

'No."

'Neither have I."

'I worked with them on a case, two years ago. With someone called Kafka."

'Sounds Czech."

'It was an American tourist who got murdered in Sweden. Ugly story. Complicated investigation."

Szluka sat silent for a moment. Then he said abruptly, "How did it go?"

'O.K.," said Martin Beck.

'I've only read about the American police. They have a peculiar organization. Difficult to understand."

Martin Beck nodded.

'And a lot to do," said Szluka. "They have as many murders in New York in a week as we have in the whole country in a year."

A uniformed police officer with two stars on his shoulder straps came into the room. He discussed something with Szluka, saluted Martin Beck and left. While the door was standing open, Ari Boeck walked along the corridor outside, with a woman guard. She was wearing the same white dress and the same sandals as the day before, but had a shawl over her shoulders. She threw a flat, vacant look at Martin Beck.

'Nothing of importance in Újpest," said Szluka. "We're taking the car apart now. When Radeberger comes around and the other one has been patched up, we'll tackle them. There's quite a bit I still don't understand."

He fell silent, hesitantly.

'But things will clear up soon."

The telephone rang and he was occupied for a while. Martin Beck understood nothing of the conversation except now and again the word "
Svéd"
 and "
Svédország"
 which he knew meant Swede or Swedish and Sweden. Szluka put down the receiver and said, "This must have something to do with your compatriot, Matsson."

'Yes, of course."

'The girl lied to you, by the way. She's not studied at the university and doesn't work at a museum. She doesn't really seem to do anything. Got suspended from competitive swimming because she didn't behave herself."

'There must be some connection."

'Yes, but where? Oh well, we'll see."

Szluka shrugged his shoulders. Martin Beck turned and twisted his mangled body. It ached in his shoulders and arms, and his head was far from what it ought to be. He felt very tired and found it difficult to think, and yet did not want to go home to bed at the hotel, all the same.

The telephone rang again. Szluka listened with a frown, and then his eyes cleared.

'Things are beginning to move," he said. "We've found something. And one of them is all right now, the tall one. His name's Fröbe, by the way. Now we'll see. Are you coming along?"

Martin Beck began to get up.

'Or perhaps you'd rather rest for a while."

'No, thank you," said Martin Beck.

Szluka sat down behind the desk with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, a passport with a green cover at his right elbow.

The tall man in the chair opposite Szluka had dark shadows under his eyes. Martin Beck knew that he had not had much sleep during the last twenty-four hours. The man was sitting up straight in the chair, looking down at his hands.

Szluka nodded at the stenographer and began.

The man raised his eyes and looked at Szluka.

'Your name?"

'Theodor Fröbe."

SZLUKA: When were you born?

FROBE: Twenty-first of April, 1936, in Hanover.

SZ: And you are a West German citizen. Living where?

F: In Hamburg. Hermannstrasse 12.

SZ: What is your occupation?

F: Travel guide. Or to be more correct, travel-agency official.

SZ: Where are you employed?

F: At a travel agency called Winkler's.

SZ: Where do you live in Budapest?

F: At a boarding house in Újpest. Venetianer út 6.

SZ: And why are you in Budapest?

F: I represent the travel agency and look after parties traveling to and from Budapest.

SZ: Earlier tonight you and a man called Tetz Radeberger were caught in the act of attacking a man on Groza Peter Rakpart. You were both armed and your intention to injure or kill the man was obvious. Do you know this man?

F: No.

SZ: Have you see him before?

F:…

SZ: Answer me!

F: No.

SZ: Do you know who he is?

F: No.

SZ: You don't know him, you've never seen him before and don't know who he is. Why did you attack him?

F:…

SZ: Explain why you attacked him!

F: We… needed money and…

SZ: And?

F: And then we saw him down there on the quay and—SZ: You're lying. Please don't lie to me. It's no good. The attack was planned and you were armed. In addition, it is a lie that you've not seen him before. You have been following him for two days. Why? Answer me!

F: We thought he was someone else.

SZ: That he was who?

F: Someone who… who…

SZ: Who?

F: Who owed us money.

SZ: And so you followed him and attacked him?

F: Yes.

SZ: I've already warned you once. It is extremely unwise of you to lie. I know exactly when you are lying. Do you know a Swede called Alf Matsson?

F: No.

SZ: Your friends Radeberger and Boeck have already said that you know him.

F: I know him only slightly. I didn't remember that that was his name.

SZ: When did you last see Alf Matsson?

F: In May, I think it was.

SZ: Where did you meet him?

F: Here in Budapest.

SZ: And you haven't seen him since then?

F: No.

SZ: Three days ago this man was at your boarding house asking for Alf Matsson. Since then you have followed him and tonight you tried to kill him. Why?

F: Not kill him!

SZ: Why?

F: We didn't try to kill him!

SZ: But you attacked him, didn't you? And you were armed with a knife.

F: Yes, but it was a mistake. Nothing happened to him, did it? He wasn't injured, was he? You've no right to question me like this.

SZ: How long have you known Alf Matsson?

F: About a year. I don't remember exactly.

SZ: How did you meet?

F: At a mutual friend's place here in Budapest SZ: What's your friend's name?

F: Ari Boeck.

SZ: Have you met him several times since then?

F: A few times. Not very many.

SZ: Did you always meet here in Budapest?

F: We've met in Prague too. And in Warsaw.

SZ: And in Bratislava.

F: Yes.

SZ: And in Constanta?

F:…

SZ: Didn't you?

F: Yes.

SZ: How did it happen? That you met in all those cities where none of you lived?

F: I travel a lot. It's my job. And he traveled a lot too. It turned out that we met there.

SZ: Why did you meet?

F: We just met. We were good friends.

SZ: Now you are saying that you've been meeting him over a year in at least five different cities because you are good friends. A moment ago you were saying that you knew him only slightly. Why didn't you want to admit that you knew him?

F: I was nervous from sitting here being questioned. And I'm awfully tired. And my leg hurts, too.

SZ: Oh yes. So you're very tired. Was Tetz Radeberger also with you when you met Alf Matsson at all these different places?

F: Yes, we work for the same agency and travel together.

SZ: How did it happen, do you think, that Radeberger didn't want to admit at once to knowing Alf Matsson either?

Was he awfully tired, too, perhaps?

F: I don't know anything about that.

SZ: Do you know where Alf Matsson is right now?

F: No, I have no idea.

SZ: Do you want me to tell you?

F: Yes.

SZ: I'm not going to do it, however. How long have you been employed at this Winkler's travel agency?

F: For six years.

SZ: I see in your passport here that you often travel to Turkey. You've been there seven times this year alone.

F: Winkler's arrange tours to Turkey. As a group guide I have to travel there quite often.

SZ: Yes, and it suits you very well, doesn't it? In Turkey hashish is fairly cheap and quite easy to get hold of. Isn't it, Mr. Fröbe?

F:…

SZ: If you prefer to say nothing it will be the worse for you. We already have enough evidence, and in addition to that a witness.

F: The dirty skunk squealed after all!

SZ: Exactly.

F: That god-damned bastard Swede!

SZ: Perhaps you realize that it is serving no useful purpose to keep this up any longer. Start talking now, Fröbe! I want to hear the whole thing, with all the facts you can remember, names, dates and figures. You can begin by telling me when you began smuggling narcotics.

Fröbe closed his eyes and fell to one side off the chair. Martin Beck saw him put his hand out before he actually fell prostrate onto the floor.

Szluka rose and nodded to the stenographer, who closed the notebook and vanished out the door.

Szluka looked down at the man lying on the floor.

'He's bluffing," said Martin Beck. "He didn't faint."

'I know," said Szluka. "But I'll let him rest for a while before I go on."

He went up to Fröbe and poked him with the tip of his shoe.

'Get up, Fröbe."

Fröbe did not move, but his eyelids quivered. Szluka went over to the door, opened it and called out something into the corridor. A policeman came in and Szluka said something to him. The policeman took Fröbe by the arm and Szluka said, "Don't lie there cluttering up the place, Fröbe. We'll get a bunk for you to lie on. It's much more comfortable."

Fröbe got up and looked offendedly at Szluka. Then he limped out behind the policeman. Martin Beck watched him go.

'How is his leg?"

'No danger," said Szluka. "Only a flesh wound. We don't often need to shoot, but when it's necessary, we shoot accurately."

SZ: Is it a well-paid job?

F: Not especially. But I get everything free when I'm traveling. Food, keep and fares.

SZ: But the salary isn't high?

F: No. But I manage.

SZ: It seems so. You have enough so that you manage.

F: What do you mean by that?

SZ: You have in fact fifteen hundred dollars, eight hundred and thirty pounds and ten thousand marks. That's a lot of money. Where did you get it from?

F: That's nothing to do with you.

SZ: Answer my question and don't use that tone of voice.

F: It's not your business where I get my money from.

SZ: It's possible and also very likely that you haven't half the sense I thought you had, but even with the very slightest intelligence, you ought to be able to see that you would be wiser to answer my questions. Well, where did you get the money from?

F: I did extra jobs and earned it all over a long period.

SZ: What sort of jobs?

F: Different things.

Szluka looked at Fröbe and opened a drawer in his desk. Out of the drawer he took a package wrapped up in plastic. The package was about eight inches long and four inches wide and fastened with adhesive tape. Szluka put the package down on the desk between himself and Fröbe. All the while he was looking at Fröbe, whose eyes wavered, trying to avoid looking at the package. Szluka looked straight at him and Fröbe wiped away the sweat that had appeared in little beads around his nose. Then Szluka added, "Uh-huh. Different things. As for example, smuggling and selling hashish. A profitable occupation, but not in the long run, Herr Fröbe."

F: I don't understand what you're talking about

SZ: No? And you don't recognize this little package either?

F: No, I don't Why should I?

SZ: And not the fifteen similar packages that were found hidden in the doors and upholstery of Radeberger's car, either?

F:…

SZ: There's quite a lot of hashish in just one little package like this. We're not accustomed to such things here, so I in fact don't know what price it would bring in today. By how much would you have increased your capital when you'd sold your little supply? F: I still don't understand what you're talking about

'So that's what he was up to. Hashish smuggling," said Martin Beck. "I wonder what they've done with him."

'Alf Matsson? I expect we'll get it out of them. But it's best to wait until they've had a bit of rest. You must be tired yourself," said Szluka, sitting down behind his desk.

Martin Beck felt very tired indeed. It was already morning. He felt bruised and battered.

'Go back to the hotel and sleep for a few hours," said Szluka. "I'll phone you later. Go down to the entrance and I'll get a car sent around for you."

Martin Beck had no objections. He shook hands with Szluka and left him. As he closed the door behind him, he heard Szluka speaking into the telephone.

The car was already waiting for him when he got down to the street.