Månsson gave a start and put down the glass.
‘Backlund? Okay, I'll leave right away,’ he said.
He promptly called a taxi, then put the receiver on the table. While dressing, he listened to the rasping voice from the receiver mechanically repeating the words ‘Taxi Central, one moment please’ until his call was finally put through to the operator.
Outside the Savoy Hotel several police cars were carefully parked, and two constables were blocking the entrance from a growing crowd of curious evening strollers jammed together at the bottom of the stairs.
Månsson took in the scene as he paid for the cab, put the receipt in his pocket, observed that one of the constables was being rather brusque and reflected that it wouldn't be long before Malmö's police force had as bad a reputation as their colleagues in Stockholm.
He said nothing, however, only nodded as he walked past the uniformed policemen into the lobby. It was noisy there now. The hotel's entire staff had gathered and were chatting with each other and with some customers streaming out of the grill. Several policemen completed the picture. They seemed at a loss, unfamiliar with the surroundings. Evidently no one had told them how to act or what to expect.
Månsson was a big man in his fifties. He was dressed casually in polyester trousers and sandals, with his shirt out. He took a toothpick from his breast pocket, pulled off the paper wrapper and stuck it in his mouth. As he chewed, he methodically took stock of the situation. The toothpick was American, menthol-flavoured; he'd picked it up on the train ferry Malmöhus, which provides such things for its passengers.
Standing by the door leading to the large dining room was a patrolman named Elofsson, whom Månsson thought was a little more intelligent than the rest.
He walked over to him and said, ‘What's the story?’
‘Looks like someone's been shot.’
‘Have you had any instructions?’
‘Not a word.’
‘What's Backlund doing?’
‘Questioning witnesses.’
‘Where's the man who was shot?’
‘At the hospital, I suppose.’
Elofsson turned slightly red. Then he said, ‘The ambulance got here before the police, obviously.’
Månsson sighed and went into the dining room.
Backlund was standing by the table with the gleaming silver tureens questioning a waiter. He was an elderly man with glasses and ordinary features. Somehow he'd managed to become a first assistant detective. He was holding his notebook open in his hand, busily taking notes. Månsson stopped within hearing distance, but said nothing.
‘And at what time did this happen?’
‘Uh, about eight-thirty.’
‘About?’
‘Well, I don't know for sure.’
‘In other words, you don't know what time it was.’
‘No, I don't. ’
‘Rather odd,’ said Backlund.
‘What?’
‘I said, it seems rather odd. You have a wrist watch, don't you?’
‘Of course.’
‘And there is a clock on the wall over there, if I'm not mistaken.’
‘Yes, but …’
‘But what?’
‘Both of them are wrong. Anyway, I didn't think of looking at the clock.’
Backlund appeared overwhelmed by the response. He put down the pad and pencil and began to clean his glasses. He took a deep breath, grabbed the notebook and started writing again.
‘Even though you had two clocks at your disposal, you didn't know what time it was.’
‘Well, sort of.’
‘We've got no use for “sort of” answers.’
‘But the clocks aren't synchronized. Mine's fast, and the clock over there's slow.’
Backlund consulted his Ultratron. ‘Odd,’ he said, writing something down.
Månsson wondered what.
‘So you were standing here when the criminal walked by?’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you give me as full a description as possible?’
‘I didn't really get a good look at him.’
‘You didn't see the gunman?’ said Backlund, startled.
‘Well, yes, when he climbed out of the window.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I don't know. It was pretty far away, and that table was hidden by the pillar.’
‘You mean you don't know what he looked like?’
‘Not really.’
‘How was he dressed then?’
‘In a brown sports coat, I think.’
‘Think?’
‘Yeah. I only saw him for a second.’
‘What else did he have on? Trousers, for example.’
‘Oh yes, he had trousers on.’
‘Are you certain?’
‘Well, it certainly would have seemed a little … like you said, odd, otherwise. If he hadn't had any trousers on, I mean.’
Backlund wrote furiously. Månsson started chewing on the other end of the toothpick and quietly said, ‘Oh, Backlund …?’
The other man turned around and glared.
‘I'm in the middle of questioning an important witness …’
He broke off and said sullenly, ‘Oh, so it's you.’
‘What's going on?’
‘A man was shot in here,’ said Backlund in great earnest. ‘And you know who?’
‘No.’
‘Viktor Palmgren. The corporation president.’ Backlund laid heavy stress on the title.
‘Oh, him,’ said Månsson. And thought, this one'll be a nightmare. Aloud he said, ‘It happened over an hour ago and the gunman climbed out of the window and got away.’
‘It may look that way.’
Backlund never took anything for granted.
‘Why are there six police cars outside?’
‘I had them close off the area.’
‘The whole block?’
‘The scene of the crime,’ said Backlund.
‘Get rid of everybody in uniform,’ Månsson said wearily. ‘It can't be very pleasant for the hotel to have police swarming around in the foyer and out on the street. Besides, they must be needed more somewhere else. Then try to get up a description. There has to be a better witness than this guy.’
‘Naturally, we'll question everybody,’ said Backlund.
‘All in due course,’ said Månsson. ‘But don't detain anyone who doesn't have something crucial to say. Just take names and addresses.’
Backlund looked at him suspiciously and said, ‘What are you planning to do?’
‘Make some telephone