After they'd chatted awhile, and each had opened another can of beer, the younger man came back, stared at them in amazement, and said: 'Are you really a cop?'

Martin Beck didn't reply.

'You ought to be b.l.o.o.d.y well reported,' he said and went back to his place in the sun.

Martin Beck didn't leave until the lorry had arrived, more than an hour later. Their talk had been rewarding. It was often interesting, listening to old workers, and Martin Beck couldn't understand why almost no one took time to do so. This man had seen a lot of things, both ash.o.r.e and at sea. Why didn't such people ever get a word in on the ma.s.s media? Didn't politicians and technocrats ever listen to what they had to say? Certainly not; for if they did, many fateful errors in matters to do with employment and the environment could have been avoided.

As for the Svard case, here was another loose end for him to look into. But at this particular moment Martin Beck didn't feel up to it. He wasn't used to drinking three cans of beer before lunch, and already they had begun to take effect in a faint dizziness and an aching head.

At Slussen he took a taxi to the Central Baths, where he sat in the sauna for fifteen minutes, then for ten more, and took two snorting headers into the cooling bath - concluding these exercises by sleeping for an hour on the pallet in his cubicle.

The cure had the desired effect When, shortly after lunch, he arrived at the forwarding agent's office on Skeppsbron, he was once again perfectly lucid. He had a request to make, a request he didn't expect anyone to understand. And in fact they reacted as he'd expected.

'Damages in transit?'

'Precisely.'

'Well, of course things get damaged in transit Naturally! Do you know how many tons of goods we handle every year?'

A rhetorical question. All they wanted was to get rid of him as quickly as possible. But he wasn't letting go.

'Nowadays of course, with the new systems, much less gets damaged, though when it does happen it's more costly. Container traffic...'

Martin Beck wasn't interested in container traffic. What he was curious about was the goings-on in Svard's day. 'Six years ago?'

'Yes, or earlier. Let's say during nineteen sixty-five and sixty-six.'

'It's very unreasonable of you to expect us to answer questions like that. As I've said, goods were much more often damaged in the old warehouses. Sometimes whole cases got smashed, though of course the insurance always took care of the losses. It was rare for any individual warehouseman to be called to account. Now and again, I suppose, someone was fired, though usually it was the temporary hands. Anyway, accidents simply couldn't be avoided.'

Nor did he want to know whether anyone had been fired. Instead, he asked whether any record had been kept of the damages that had occurred, and if so by whom.

'Sure. By the foreman, of course. He made a note of it in the warehouse daybook.'

'Do you still have these daybooks?'

'Possibly.'

'In that case, where?'

'In some old box up in the attic. It would be impossible to find them, at least not straight off the cuff like this.'

The firm was antediluvian. Its head offices had always been in this building in the Old City. They must have tons of old papers stowed away. But Martin Beck went on insisting. He quickly became highly unpopular. It was a price he didn't mind paying. After another brief altercation concerning the exact meaning of the word 'impossible', the people in the office realized that probably the simplest way to get rid of him was to do as he asked. A young man was sent up to the attic. Almost immediately he returned empty-handed and with a look of resignation on his face. Martin Beck noticed that the young man's jacket wasn't even dusty. He offered to accompany him personally on his next foray.

It was extremely hot up in the attic, and the dust swirled around them like fog. Otherwise it all went easily enough. After half an hour they'd found the right box. The daybooks and ledgers were of the old-fashioned cloth-bound type, with cracked cardboard covers. Their labels bore the numbers of the various warehouses as well as the years. All in all they found five volumes with the right numbers and dates - from the second half of 1965 and the first six months of 1966.

The young clerk did not look so tidy now. His jacket was ripe for the cleaners, and his face was streaked with dust and sweat.

Down in the office everyone looked at the daybooks with amazement and distaste. No, they didn't want a receipt for them; indeed they couldn't care less whether they ever saw them again.

'I do hope I've been no trouble,' Martin Beck said blithely.

They stared speechlessly after him as he departed, his booty under his arm.

He made no pretence of having increased the popularity of the country's 'largest public service organization', as the National Police Commissioner, in a statement that - even within the force - had aroused an amazement bordering on dismay, had recently called the police.

At Vastberga Martin Beck took the volumes to the men's room and wiped them off. Then he washed himself, went to his office, and sat down to read them. It was three o'clock when he began, and five when he felt he'd finished.

Though largely incomprehensible to any uninitiated person, the warehouse ledgers had been fairly well kept. The jottings went on from day to day, noting in abbreviated terminology the quant.i.ties of goods handled.

But what Martin Beck was looking for was there too. At irregular intervals there were notes of goods damaged. For example: Gds dmgd in transit, 1 case cans of soup, fr recptn Svanberg Wholesalers, Huvudstagat. 16, Solna.

Such a note always indicated the type of merchandise and who it was for. On the other hand, there was never any note of the extent of the damage, its nature, or who had caused it.

Admittedly, such accidents had not happened very often. But alcohol, foodstuffs, and other consumer items const.i.tuted the overwhelming majority.

Martin Beck transferred all the damage reports into his own notebook. And their dates. Altogether they added up to some fifty entries. When he'd done with the ledgers, he carried the whole pile out to the office and wrote on a slip of paper that they were to be posted back to the forwarding agents. On top of it all he put one of the white police correspondence cards with the message: 'Thanks for your help! Beck.'

On his way to the metro station he reflected that this would give the forwarding agency another shipment to handle, a s.a.d.i.s.tic thought that he was surprised to note aroused in him a certain childish glee.

While waiting for a vandalized metro train he reflected on modern container traffic. To lose a steel container full of bottles of cognac and then smash it in order to lovingly gather up the fragments that remained in buckets and jerry cans was now out of the question. In containers, on the other hand, today's gangster syndicates could smuggle in literally anything, and were daily doing so. The Customs Office had lost all control over these events and therefore occupied itself with senselessly persecuting individual travellers who might have a few packs of cigarettes or an undeclared botde of whisky in their baggage.

He changed trains at Central Station and got off at the College of Commerce.

In the state alcohol shop on Surbrunnsgatan the woman behind the counter stared suspiciously at his jacket, dusty and crumpled from his foray into the attic.

'I'd just like a couple of bottles of red wine, please,' he said.

Instantly her hand went under the counter to press the b.u.t.ton that lit up the red control light 'Your ident.i.ty card, please,' she said grimly.

He showed his card, and she blushed slightly, as if victimized by an unusually stupid and indecent practical joke. Then he went home to Rhea.

After pulling the bell rope once, Martin Beck felt if the door was open. It was locked. But inside the lobby the light was on, and after half a minute or so he tried again.

She came and opened the door. Today she was wearing brown corduroy trousers and a funny sort of pale-mauve shift that reached halfway down her thighs. 'Oh, it's you, is it?' she said grumpily.

'Yes. May I come in?'

She looked at him. 'Okay.' She turned her back. He followed her into the lobby. After two steps she halted and stood there, her head bowed. She went back to the door and unlocked it - then changed her mind and locked it again. Finally she went ahead into the kitchen.

'I've bought a couple of bottles of wine.'

'Put them in the cupboard,' she said, sitting down at the kitchen table. On it lay two open books, some papers, a pen, and a pink eraser. He took his bottles out of the bag and put them away.

"With a sideways glance she said, annoyed: 'What d'you want to go and buy such expensive wine for?'

He sat down opposite her. Looking him straight in the eyes, she said: 'Svard, eh?'

'No,' he said at once. "Though I'm using him as a pretext.'

'Do you have to have a pretext?'

'Yes, I do.'

'Okay,' she said. 'Then we'll make some tea.' She pushed aside her books and began banging about with her pots and pans. 'Actually I'd intended to study this evening,' she said. 'But it doesn't matter. It's so d.a.m.n miserable being on one's own. Had dinner?'

'No.'

'Good. Then I'll make us something.' She stood with her legs apart, one hand on her hip, with the other scratching her neck. 'Rice,' she said. 'That'll do fine. I'll make some rice, and then we can mix it up with something to make it taste better.' 'Sure, that sounds fine.'

'It'll take a little while, though. Twenty minutes maybe. We'll have tea first.' She set out some cups, poured the tea, and sat down. Holding the cup in her broad hands she blew on her tea, meanwhile peering at him over the rim - still a trifle glum.

'By the way, you were right about Svard. He had money in the bank. Quite a lot'

'Mmm,' she said.

'Someone was paying him seven hundred and fifty kronor a month. Have you any idea who that could have been?' 'No. He didn't know anyone, did he?' Why did he move out?'

She shrugged her shoulders. 'The only explanation I can think of is that he didn't like it here. He was an odd bloke. Several times he complained of my not locking the street door earlier in the evenings. I reckon he thought the whole house existed only for him.'

Yes, thats about right'

She sat silent a long while. Then she said: 'What's right? Is there anything interesting about Svard?'

'Whether you'll think it's interesting or not I can't tell,' said Martin Beck. 'Someone must have shot him.'

'Strange,' she said. 'Tell me.' Again she began busying herself with her saucepans, but at the same time she listened carefully to what he had to tell her. From time to time, though she didn't interrupt, she frowned. When he'd finished, she burst into uproarious laughter. 'Marvellous!' she said. 'Don't you ever read detective stories?'

'No.'

'I read tons of them. Anything. And forget most of it as soon as I've finished. But that's a cla.s.sic. A room locked on the inside - there are some major studies of just that kind of thing. I read one not long ago. Wait a moment - and get out some bowls. Take the soya from the shelf. Lay the table nicely.'

He did his best. She was out of the room for a few minutes. When she came back she had some kind of a magazine in her hand. Laying it open beside her bowl, she began spooning out food. 'Eat,' she commanded. 'While it's hot'

'Tasty,' he said.

'Mmmm,' she said. 'Success again.' She gulped down a sizeable portion, then looked into the magazine and said: 'Listen to this. "The Locked Room: A Study". It lists three possibilities, A, B, and C.

A: The crime has been committed in a locked room, which is really and truly locked and from which the murderer has disappeared, since there's no murderer inside it.

B: The crime has been committed inside a room, which only seems to be hermetically closed and from which there is some more-or-less ingenious way of getting out C: The crime has been committed by a murderer who stays inside, hidden.'

She spooned up some more food. 'Category C seems to be out of the question,' she said. 'No one can remain hidden for two months with only half a can of cat food to live on. But there are lots of subsections. For example, A5: Murder with the help of animals. Or B2: Someone has gained access through the hinge side of the door, leaving lock and bolt intact, after which the hinge is again screwed back into place.'

'Who wrote it?'

She looked. 'Goran Sundholm, his name is. He quotes others too. A7 isn't so bad either: Murder by illusion, by erroneous sequence in time. A good variant is A9: The victim is dealt the deathblow somewhere else, whereupon he goes to the room in question and locks himself in before dying. Read it for yourself.'

She handed him the magazine. Martin Beck glanced through it then laid it aside.

'Who's doing the dishes?' she asked.

He got up and began clearing the table.

She lifted up her legs and sat with her heels on the seat of her chair and her arms around her knees. 'After all, you're the detective,' she said. 'It ought to amuse you when something out of the ordinary happens. Do you think it was the murderer who called the hospital?'

'Don't know.'

'Seems likely to me.' She shrugged. 'Of course the whole thing's as simple as can be,' she said.

'Probably.' He heard someone at the front door: but the bell didn't ring, nor did she react. There was a system here that worked. If she wanted to be in peace, she locked herself in. If anyone had an important errand, he rang. All this, however, called for confidence in one's neighbours. Martin Beck sat down.

'Perhaps we can have a taste of that expensive wine,' she said.

And it tasted good. Neither of them said anything for a long while.

'How can you stand it, being a policeman?' 'Oh, I manage...'

'We can talk about it some other time.'

'They're thinking of promoting me to commissioner.'

'And you don't want it,' she declared.

Somewhat later she asked: 'What kind of music d'you like? I've every sort you can think of.'

They went into the room with the record player and the a.s.sortment of armchairs. She played something.

'Take off your jacket, dammit,' she said. 'And your shoes.' She had opened the second botde, but this time they drank slowly.

'You seemed annoyed when I turned up,' he said.

'Yes and no.'

Not a word more. The way she had behaved then had meant something. That she wasn't an easy lay. She saw he'd understood; and he knew she saw it Martin Beck took a sip of his wine. Just now he was feeling unashamedly happy. He peeked at her where she sat with a downcast expression on her face and her elbows on the low table.

'Like to do a jigsaw puzzle?' she said.

'I've got a good one at home,' he said. 'The old Queen Elizabeth.

That was true. He'd bought it a couple of years ago but had never given it a thought since.

'Bring it next time you come,' she said. Quickly and suddenly she changed her posture. Sitting with her legs crossed and her chin on her hands, she said: 'Perhaps I should inform you that for the time being I'm no sort of a lay.'

He threw her a quick glance, and she went on: 'You know how it is with women - infections and such.'

Martin Beck nodded.

'My s.e.x life is without interest,' she said. 'And yours?'