The Man Who Went Up In Smoke by Maj Sjöwall, Per Wahlöö Read Free Book Online Page A

people went ashore from the steamer and an equally preposterous number then boarded it.
    The air was dry and warm. The sun was high. Martin Beck leaned out of the window, letting his eyes sweep from north to south as he considered a few facts he had gleaned from the brochures he had read on the plane.
    'Budapest is the capital of the Hungarian People's Republic. It is considered to have been founded in 1873, when the three towns Buda, Pest and Óbuda were united into one, but excavations have revealed settlements several thousand years old, and Aquincum, the capital of the Roman province of Lower Pannonia, was situated on this spot. Today the city has nearly two million inhabitants and is divided into twenty-three districts."
    It was certainly a very large city. He remembered the legendary Gustaf Lidberg's almost classic reflection on landing in New York in 1899, on his search for the counterfeiter Skog: "In this ant-heap is Mr. Who, address: Where?"
    Well, New York was certainly larger than this, even at that time, but on the other hand, Chief Detective Lidberg had had unlimited tune at his disposal. He himself had only a week.
    Martin Beck left history and the river traffic to their respective fates and went and took a shower. He put on his sandals and his light-gray Dacron slacks and wore his shirt outside. As he critically observed his unconventional attire in the mirror in the huge wardrobe, the mahogany doors suddenly opened by themselves, slowly and fatefully, with an unnerving creak, as in early thriller films. He still hadn't got his pulse under control when the telephone began to ring with short, urgent little signals.
    'There's a gentleman to see you. He's waiting in the foyer. A Swedish gentleman."
    'Is it Mr. Matsson?"
    'Yes, I'm sure it is," said the receptionist happily.
    Of course it is, thought Martin Beck as he went down the stairs. In that case there would be a thoroughly honorable end to this odd assignment.
    It was not Alf Matsson, but a young man from the Embassy, extremely correctly dressed in a dark suit, black shoes, white shirt and a pale-gray silk tie. The man's eyes ran over Martin Beck, a glint of wonder in them, but only a glint.
    'As you will understand, we are aware of the nature of your assignment. Perhaps we should discuss the matter."
    They sat down in the lobby and discussed the matter.
    'There are better hotels than this one," said the man from the Embassy.
    'Really?"
    'Yes. More modern. Tip-top. Swimming pool."
    'Oh yes."
    'The night club here isn't much good either."
    'Oh yes."
    'With regard to this Alf Matsson."
    The man lowered his voice and looked around the lobby, which was empty except for an African sleeping in the farthest corner.
    'Yes. Have you heard from him?"
    'No. Nothing at all. The only thing we know for certain is that he checked in at Ferihegyi, that's the airport here, on the evening of the twenty-second. He spent the night at some kind of youth hotel called Ifjuság up on the Buda side. The next morning he moved in here. About half an hour later, he went out and took his room key with him. Since then, no one has seen him."
    'What do the police say?"
    'Nothing."
    'Nothing?"
    'The ones I've spoken with don't seem interested. Officially speaking, that attitude is defensible. Matsson had a valid visa and he has registered as a resident at this hotel. The police have no reason to concern themselves with him until he leaves the country, so long as he doesn't overstay the period of his residence permit."
    'Couldn't he have left the country?"
    'Quite unthinkable. And even if he had succeeded in getting over the border illegally, where would he go then? Without a passport. Anyhow, we've made some inquiries at the embassies in Prague, Belgrade, Bucharest and Vienna. Even in Moscow, for safety's sake. No one knows anything."
    'His employer seemed to think that he had two things to do here. An interview with Laszlo Papp, the boxer, and an article on the Jewish museum."
    'He hasn't