The Man Who Went Up In Smoke by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Page A
Authors: Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö
Tags: Fiction, Mystery & Detective, Detective and Mystery Stories, Police, Journalists, Police Procedural, Missing Persons, Beck, Martin (Fictitious character)
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still with his hands behind his back, a living memorial to Emil Jannings.
'Do you remember receiving a room key from a policeman two weeks ago?"
The old man looked at him questioningly.
'Of course."
'Was it a uniformed policeman?"
'Yes, yes… A patrol car stopped here and one of the policemen got out and turned in the key."
'What did he say?"
The man thought.
'He said: 'Lost property.' Nothing else, I believe."
Martin Beck turned around and walked away. After three steps, he remembered that he had forgotten to leave a tip. He went back and placed a number of the unfamiliar light-metal coins into the man's hand. The doorman touched the visor of his cap with the fingertips of his right hand and said, "Thank you, but it isn't necessary."
'You speak excellent German," said Martin Beck.
And he thought: Hell of a lot better than I do, anyway.
'I learned it at the Isonzo front in 1916."
As Martin Beck turned the corner of the block, he took out the map and looked at it. Then he walked, map still in hand, down toward the quay. A big white paddle steamer with two funnels was forging its way upriver. He looked at it joylessly.
There was something fundamentally wrong with all this. Something was quite definitely not as it should be. What it was he did not know.
Chapter 9
It was Sunday and very warm. A light haze of heat trembled over the mountain slopes. The quay was crowded with people walking back and forth or sitting sunning themselves on the steps down to the river. On the small steamers and motor launches shuttling up and down the river people clad in summer clothes crowded together on their way to bathing sites and holiday spots. Long lines were waiting at the ticket offices.
Martin Beck had forgotten that it was Sunday and was at first surprised by the crowds. He followed the stream of strollers and walked along the quay, watching the lively boat traffic. He had thought of starting the day with a walk across the next bridge to Margaret Island, out in the middle of the river, but changed his mind when he imagined the crowds of Budapest citizens spending their Sunday out there.
He was slightly irritated by the crush, and the sight of all these people, happy on their free Sunday, filled him with an urge for activity. He would visit the hotel at which Alf Matsson spent his first and perhaps only night in Budapest--a young people's hotel on the Buda side, the Embassy man had said.
Martin Beck broke out of the stream of people and went up to the street above the quay. He stood in the shade of the gable of a house and studied the map. He hunted for a long time, but could not find a hotel called Ifjuság, and finally he folded up the map and began to walk toward the bridge over to the island and onto the Buda side. He looked around for a police patrolman but did not succeed in finding one. At the end of the bridge there was a taxi stand and a taxi was waiting there. It looked free.
The driver could speak only Hungarian and did not understand a word until Martin Beck showed him the piece of paper with the hotel's name written on it.
They drove across the bridge, past the green island, where he caught sight of a high-flung surge of water between the trees, then on along a shopping street, up steep narrow streets and in onto an open square with lawns and a modernistic bronze group representing a man and a woman sitting staring at each other.
The taxi stopped there and Martin Beck paid—probably much too much, for the driver thanked him profusely in his incomprehensible language.
The hotel was low and spread out along the square, which was more like a widening of the street, with flower beds and parking places. The building appeared to be built just recently, in contrast to the other houses that surrounded the square. The architecture was modern and the entire façade was covered with balconies. The steps leading up to the entrance were wide and few.
Inside the glass doors was a long, light foyer, containing a
'Do you remember receiving a room key from a policeman two weeks ago?"
The old man looked at him questioningly.
'Of course."
'Was it a uniformed policeman?"
'Yes, yes… A patrol car stopped here and one of the policemen got out and turned in the key."
'What did he say?"
The man thought.
'He said: 'Lost property.' Nothing else, I believe."
Martin Beck turned around and walked away. After three steps, he remembered that he had forgotten to leave a tip. He went back and placed a number of the unfamiliar light-metal coins into the man's hand. The doorman touched the visor of his cap with the fingertips of his right hand and said, "Thank you, but it isn't necessary."
'You speak excellent German," said Martin Beck.
And he thought: Hell of a lot better than I do, anyway.
'I learned it at the Isonzo front in 1916."
As Martin Beck turned the corner of the block, he took out the map and looked at it. Then he walked, map still in hand, down toward the quay. A big white paddle steamer with two funnels was forging its way upriver. He looked at it joylessly.
There was something fundamentally wrong with all this. Something was quite definitely not as it should be. What it was he did not know.
Chapter 9
It was Sunday and very warm. A light haze of heat trembled over the mountain slopes. The quay was crowded with people walking back and forth or sitting sunning themselves on the steps down to the river. On the small steamers and motor launches shuttling up and down the river people clad in summer clothes crowded together on their way to bathing sites and holiday spots. Long lines were waiting at the ticket offices.
Martin Beck had forgotten that it was Sunday and was at first surprised by the crowds. He followed the stream of strollers and walked along the quay, watching the lively boat traffic. He had thought of starting the day with a walk across the next bridge to Margaret Island, out in the middle of the river, but changed his mind when he imagined the crowds of Budapest citizens spending their Sunday out there.
He was slightly irritated by the crush, and the sight of all these people, happy on their free Sunday, filled him with an urge for activity. He would visit the hotel at which Alf Matsson spent his first and perhaps only night in Budapest--a young people's hotel on the Buda side, the Embassy man had said.
Martin Beck broke out of the stream of people and went up to the street above the quay. He stood in the shade of the gable of a house and studied the map. He hunted for a long time, but could not find a hotel called Ifjuság, and finally he folded up the map and began to walk toward the bridge over to the island and onto the Buda side. He looked around for a police patrolman but did not succeed in finding one. At the end of the bridge there was a taxi stand and a taxi was waiting there. It looked free.
The driver could speak only Hungarian and did not understand a word until Martin Beck showed him the piece of paper with the hotel's name written on it.
They drove across the bridge, past the green island, where he caught sight of a high-flung surge of water between the trees, then on along a shopping street, up steep narrow streets and in onto an open square with lawns and a modernistic bronze group representing a man and a woman sitting staring at each other.
The taxi stopped there and Martin Beck paid—probably much too much, for the driver thanked him profusely in his incomprehensible language.
The hotel was low and spread out along the square, which was more like a widening of the street, with flower beds and parking places. The building appeared to be built just recently, in contrast to the other houses that surrounded the square. The architecture was modern and the entire façade was covered with balconies. The steps leading up to the entrance were wide and few.
Inside the glass doors was a long, light foyer, containing a
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