The Abominable Man by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Read Free Book Online Page A

mother. He looked more like an adult now than he had when they first saw him down in the doorway.
    “He’s coming,” the boy said. “You don’t need to wait. It won’t take him long.”
    They stood up and Rönn went over and put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. She didn’t move, and when they said good-bye she didn’t respond.
    The boy went with them to the door.
    “We may have to come back,” said Martin Beck. “We’ll call you first to find out how your mother’s doing.”
    When they were out on the street he turned to Rönn.
    “I suppose you knew Nyman?” he said.
    “Not especially well,” said Rönn evasively.

    9    
    The blue-white light of a flashbulb lit the dirty yellow façade of the hospital pavilion for an instant as Martin Beck and Rönn returned to the scene of the crime. An additional couple of cars had arrived and stood parked in the turnaround with their headlights on.
    “Apparently our photographer is here,” Rönn said.
    The photographer came toward them as they got out of the car. He carried no camera bag but held his camera and flash in one hand, while his pockets bulged with rolls of film and flashbulbs and lenses. Martin Beck recognized him from the scenes of previous crimes.
    “Wrong,” he said to Rönn. “It looks like the papers got here first.”
    The photographer, who worked for one of the tabloids, greeted them and took a picture as they walked toward the door. A reporter from the same paper was standing at the foot of the stairs trying to talk to a patrolman.
    “Good morning, Inspector,” he said when he caught sight of Martin Beck. “I don’t suppose I could follow you in?”
    Martin Beck shook his head and walked up the steps with Rönn in his wake.
    “But you’ll give me a little interview at least?” the reporter said.
    “Later,” said Martin Beck and held the door open for Rönn before closing it right on the nose of the reporter, who made a face.
    The police photographer had also arrived and was standing outside the dead man’s room with his camera bag. Farther down the corridor was the doctor with the curious name and a plainclothes detective from the Fifth. Rönn went into the sickroom with the photographer and put him to work. Martin Beck walked over to the two men in the hall.
    “How’s it going?” he said.
    The same old question.
    The plainclothesman, whose name was Hansson, scratched the back of his neck.
    “We’ve talked to most of the patients in this corridor, and none of them saw or heard anything. I was just trying to ask Doctor … uh … this doctor here, when we can talk to the other ones.”
    “Have you questioned the people in the adjoining rooms?” Martin Beck asked.
    “Yes,” Hansson said. “And we’ve been in all the wards. No one heard anything, but then the walls are thick in a building this old.”
    “We can wait with the others till breakfast,” said Martin Beck.
    The doctor said nothing. He obviously didn’t understand Swedish, and after a while he pointed toward the office and said, “Have to go,” in English.
    Hansson nodded, and the black curls hurried off in clattering wooden shoes.
    “Did you know Nyman?” asked Martin Beck.
    “Well, no, not really. I’ve never worked in his precinct, but of course we’ve met often enough. He’s been around a long time. He was already an inspector when I started, twelve years ago.”
    “Do you know anyone who knew him well?”
    “You can always ask down at Klara,” Hansson said. “That’s where he was before he got sick.”
    Martin Beck nodded and looked at the electric wall clock over the door to the washroom. It said a quarter to five.
    “I guess I’ll go on over there for a while,” he said. “There’s not much I can do here for the moment.”
    “Go on,” said Hansson. “I’ll tell Rönn where you went.”
    Martin Beck took a deep breath when he got outside. The chilly night air felt fresh and clean. The reporter and the photographer were