The Man Who Went Up In Smoke (8 page)

'Fish soup and carp," said Szluka.

'And apple strudel?"

'No, wild strawberries and whipped cream and powdered sugar," said Szluka. "Delicious."

Martin Beck looked around. The man in the undershorts had gone.

'When was the key found?" he said.

'The day before it was handed in to the hotel. On the afternoon of the twenty-third of July."

'On the same day that Alf Matsson disappeared, in fact."

Szluka straightened up and looked at Martin Beck. Then he turned around, opened his briefcase, took out a towel and dried his hands. Then he pulled out a file and leafed through it.

'We have made some inquiries, actually," he said, "despite the fact that we have had no official request for an investigation."

He took a paper out of the file and went on, "You seem to be taking this matter more seriously than appears to be necessary. Is he an important person, this Alf Matsson?"

'Insofar as he has disappeared in a way that can't be explained, yes. We consider that sufficiently important grounds to find out what's happened to him."

'What is there to indicate that something has happened to him?"

'Nothing. But the fact is, he's gone."

Szluka looked at his paper.

'According to the passport and customs authorities, no Swedish citizen by the name Alf Matsson has left Hungary since the twenty-second of July. Anyway, he left his passport at the hotel, and he can hardly have left the country without it. No person—known or unknown—who might have been this Alf Matsson has been taken to a hospital or morgue here in this country during the period in question. Without his ssport, Matsson cannot have been accepted at any other hotel in the country either. Consequently, everything indicates that for some reason or another your compatriot has made up his mind to stay in Hungary for an additional period."

Szluka put the paper back into the file and closed his briefcase.

'The man's been here before. Perhaps he's acquired some friends and is staying with them," he went on, settling himself down again.

'And yet there's no reasonable explanation for his leaving the hotel and not letting anyone know where he is," said Martin Beck a little later.

Szluka rose and picked up his briefcase.

'So long as he has a valid visa, I cannot—as I said—do anything more in the matter," he said.

Martin Beck also rose.

'Stay where you are," said Szluka. "Unfortunately I have to go. But perhaps we'll meet again. Good-bye."

They shook hands and Martin Beck watched him wading away with his briefcase. From his appearance, one would not think he ate four slices of fat bacon for breakfast.

When Szluka had disappeared, Martin Beck went over to the large pool. The warm water and the sulfur fumes had made him drowsy, and he swam around for a while in the clear cooling water before sitting in the sun on the edge of the pool to dry. For a while he watched two deadly serious middle-aged men standing in the shallow end of the pool, tossing a red ball to each other.

Then he went in to change. He felt lost and confused. He was none the wiser for his meeting with Szluka.

After his bathe, the heat did not seem quite so oppressive any longer. Martin Beck found no reason to overtax his strength. He strolled slowly along the paths in the spacious park, often stopping to look around. He saw no sign of his shadow. Perhaps they had at last realized how harmless he was and had given up. On the other hand, the whole island was swarming with people and it was difficult to pick out anyone special in the crowd, especially when one had no idea what the person concerned looked like. He made his way down to the water on the eastern side of the island and followed the shoreline out to a landing stage where all the boats he had previously ridden on came in. He thought he could even remember the name of the station: Casino.

Along the edge of the shore above the landing stage stood a row of benches where a few people were waiting for the boats. On one of them sat one of the few people in Budapest familiar to him: the easily frightened girl from the house in Újpest. Ari Boeck was wearing sunglasses, sandals and a white dress with shoulder straps. She was reading a German paperback and beside her on the bench lay a nylon string bag. His first thought was to walk past, but then he regretted it, halted and said, "Good afternoon."

She raised her eyes and looked at him blankly. Then she appeared to recognize him and smiled.

'Oh, it's you, is it? Have you found your friend?"

'No, not yet."

'I thought about it after you'd gone yesterday. I can't understand how he came to give you my address."

'I don't understand it either."

'I thought about it last night too," she said frowning. "I could hardly sleep.'"

'Yes, it's peculiar."

(Not at all, my dear girl, there's an extremely simple explanation. For one thing, he didn't give me any address. For another, this is probably what happened: he saw you in Stockholm when you were swimming and thought there's a sweet piece, I'd like to—yes, exactly. And then when he came here six months later, he found out your address and the location of your street, but didn't have time to go there.)

'Won't you sit down? It's almost too hot to be standing upright today."

He sat down as she moved the nylon net. It held two things he recognized, namely the dark-blue bathing suit and the green rubber mask, as well as a rolled-up bath towel and a bottle of suntan oil.

(Martin Beck, the born detective and famous observer, constantly occupied making useless observations and storing them away for future use. Doesn't even have bats in his belfry—they couldn't get in for all the crap in the way.)

'Are you waiting for the boat too?"

'Yes," he said. "But we're probably going in different directions."

'I don't have anything special to do. I was thinking of going home, of course."

'Have you been swimming?"

(The art of deduction.)

'Yes, of course. Why do you ask that?"

(Well, that's a very good question.)

'What have you done with your boyfriend today?"

(What the hell has that got to do with me? Oh, it's just an interrogation technique.)

'Tetz? He's gone. Anyway, he's not my boyfriend."

'Oh, isn't he?"

(Extremely spiritual.)

'Just a boy I know. He stays at the boarding house now and again. He's a nice guy."

She shrugged her shoulders. He looked at her feet. They were still short and broad with straight toes.

(Martin Beck, the incorruptible, more interested in a woman's shoe size than the color of her nipples.)

'Uh-huh. And now you're going home, are you?"

(The wearing-them-down treatment.)

'Well, I thought I would. I don't have anything special to do around this time of the summer. What are you going to do yourself?"

'I don't know."

(At last a word of truth.)

'Have you been up to Gellért Hill to look at the view? From the Liberation Memorial?"

'No."

'You can see the whole city from there, as if it were on a tray."

'Mm-m."

'Shall we go there? Perhaps there'll even be a little breeze up there."

'Why not?" said Martin Beck.

(You can always keep your eyes open.)

'Then we'll take the boat that's coming in now. You would have taken that one anyway."

The boat was called Ifjugárda and had probably been built on the same design as the steamer he had been on the day before. The ventilators, however, were constructed differently and the funnel was slightly aft-braced.

They stood by the railing. The boat slid swiftly midstream toward Margaret Bridge. Just under the arch, she said, "What's your name, by the way?"

'Martin."

'Mine's An. But you knew that before, didn't you—however that happened."

He gave no reply to that, but after a while said, "What does this name mean—Ifjugárda?"

'A member of the Youth Guard."

The view from the Liberation Memorial lived up to her promise and more so. There was even a little breeze up there, too. They had gone all the way on the boat to the last stop in front of the famous Gellért Hotel, then walked a bit along a street named after Béla Bártok and finally got on a bus which slowly and laboriously had taken them to the top of the hill.

Now they were standing on the parapet of the citadel above the monument. Beneath them lay the city, with hundreds of thousands of windows glowing in the late afternoon sun. They were standing so close to each other that he felt a light, brushing touch when she swung her body. For the first time in five days, he allowed himself to be caught thinking about something other than Alf Matsson.

'There's the museum I work in, over there," she said. "It's closed during the summer."

'Oh."

'Otherwise I go to the university."

'Uh-huh."

They went down on foot, along twisting paths traversing the bank down to the river. Then they walked across the new bridge and found themselves close to his hotel. The sun had rolled down below the hills in the northwest and a soft, warm dusk had fallen over the river.

'Well, what shall we do now?" said Ari Boeck.

She held him lightly by his arm and swung her body playfully as they walked along the quay.

'We could talk about Alf Matsson," said Martin Beck.

The woman gave him a swift look of reproach, but the next moment was smiling as she said, "Yes, why not? How is he? Are you great friends?"

'No, not at all. I only… know him."

At this stage he was almost convinced that she was telling the truth and that his vague idea that had taken him to the house in Újpest had been a false trail. But it's an ill wind that brings no one any good, he thought.

She was clinging to his arm a little now and zigzagging with her feet so that her body swung back and forth on a vertical axle.

'What kind of boat is that?" he said.

'It goes on moonlight cruises up the river, then around Margaret Island and back. It takes about an hour. Costs next to nothing. Shall we go along on it?"

They went on board and soon afterward the boat set out, peacefully splashing in the dark current. Of all the types of engine-driven vessels yet constructed, there is none that moves so pleasantly as the paddle steamer.

They stood above the wheelhouse and watched the shores gliding by. She leaned against him, quite lightly, and he now felt very clearly something he had noticed earlier: that she had no bra on under her dress.

A small ensemble was playing on the afterdeck and a number of people were dancing.

'Do you want to dance?" she said.

'No," said Martin Beck.

'Good. I don't think it's much fun either."

A moment later she said, "But I can, if necessary."

'So can I," said Martin Beck.

The boat passed Margaret Island and Újpest, before turning and soundlessly gliding back southward with the current. They stood behind the funnel for a moment and looked through the open hatches. The engine was beating with calm pulse beats, the copper pipes were shining and the warm oily current of air was flung upward in their direction.

'Have you been on this boat before?" he said.

'Yes, many a time. It's the best thing to do in this city on a really hot evening."

He did not really know who she was and what he thought of her, and this, above all else, irritated him.

The boat passed the colossal Parliament building—where nowadays a small red star shone discreetly above the central cupola—and then it slipped its lowered funnel under the bridge with large stone lions on it and hove to at the same place as where they started.

As they walked along the gangplank, Martin Beck let his eyes sweep over the quay. Under the lamp by the ticket office stood the tall man with dark hair brushed back on his head. He was again wearing his blue suit and was staring straight at them. A moment later the man turned around and vanished with swift steps behind the shelter. The woman followed Martin Beck's glance and put her left hand in his right one, suddenly but carefully.

'Did you see that man?" he said.

'Yes," she said.

'Do you know who he is?"

She shook her head.

'No. Do you?"

'No, not yet."

Martin Beck felt hungry for once. He had had no lunch and the dinner hour would soon be over.

'Would you like to come and have a meal with me?"

'Where?"

'At the hotel."

'Can I go there in these clothes?"

'Sure."

He almost added, "We're not in Sweden now."

Quite a number of people were still in the dining room and along the balustrade outside the open windows. Swarms of insects were dancing around the lamps.

'Little gnats," she said. "They don't sting. When they disappear, the summer's over. Did you know that?"

The food was excellent, as usual, and so was the wine. She was evidently hungry and ate with a healthy, youthful greed. Then she sat still and listened to the music. They smoked with their coffee and drank a kind of cherry-brandy liqueur which also tasted of chocolate. When she put out her cigarette in the ash tray, she brushed his right hand with her fingertips, as if by accident. A little later she repeated the maneuver and soon after that he felt her foot against his ankle under the table. Evidently she had kicked off her sandal.

After a while she moved her foot and her hand away and went off to the powder room.

Martin Beck thoughtfully massaged his hairline with the fingers of his right hand. Then he leaned over the table and picked up the nylon string bag that was lying on the chair beside him. He thrust his hand into it, unfolded the bathing suit and felt it. The material was completely dry, even in the seams and along the elastic. So dry that it could hardly have been in contact with water during the past twenty-four hours. He rolled up the bathing suit, put the net carefully back on the chair and bit his knuckle thoughtfully. Naturally it did not necessarily mean anything. In any case, he was still behaving like an idiot.

She came back and sat down, smiling at him. She crossed her legs, lit another cigarette and listened to the Viennese melody.

'How lovely it is," she said.

He nodded.

The dining room began to empty, the waiters gathering together in groups, talking. The musicians ended the evening's concert with "The Blue Danube." She looked at the clock.

'I must be going home."

He thought about this intensely. One floor up there was a small night-club-type bar with jazz music, but he loathed that kind of place so profoundly that only the most pressing assignment could make him go into them. Perhaps this was just what this was?

'How will you get home?" he said. "By boat?"

'No, the last one's gone. I'll go by trolley. It's quicker, in fact."

He went on thinking. In all its simplicity, the situation was somewhat complicated. Why, he did not know.

He chose to do nothing and say nothing. The musicians went away, bowing in exhaustion. She looked at the clock again.

'I'd better go now," she said.

The night porter bowed in the vestibule. The doorman whirled them respectfully out through the revolving doors.

They stood on the pavement, alone in the warm night air. She took a short step so that she was standing facing him, with her right leg between his. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him. Very clearly, he felt her breasts and stomach and loins and thighs through the material of her dress. She could hardly reach up to him.

'Oh my, how tall you are," she said.

She made a small supple movement and again stood firmly on the ground, an inch or so from him.

'Thank you for everything," she said. "See you again soon. Bye."

She walked away, turned her head and waved her right hand. The net with her bathing things in it swung against her left leg.