instant. The hands showed three minutes and thirty-seven seconds past eleven.’
Gunvald Larsson glowered at him.
‘We knew Inspector Stenström, and he was meticulous about time,’ Martin Beck said sadly. ‘He was what watchmakers sometimes call a second hunter. That is, his watch always showed the exact time. Go on, Gunvald.’
‘This man with the dog came walking along Norrbackagatan from the direction of Karlbergsvägen. He was in fact overtaken by the bus just where the street begins. It took him about five minutes to trudge down Norrbackagatan. The bus did the same stretch in about forty-five seconds. He met nobody on the way. When he got to the corner he saw the bus standing on the other side of the street.’
‘So what,’ said Kvant.
‘Shut up,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
Kvant made a violent movement and opened his mouth, but glanced at Martin Beck and shut it again.
‘He did not see that the windows had been shattered, which, by the way, these two wonderboys didn't notice either when they eventually managed to crawl along. But he did see that the front door was open. He thought there had been an accident and hurried to get help. Calculating, quite correctly, that it would be quicker for him to reach the last bus stop than to go back up the hill along Norrbackagatan, he started off along Norra Stationsgatan in a south-westerly direction.’
‘Why?’ said Martin Beck.
‘Because he thought there'd be another bus waiting at the end of the line. As it happened, there wasn't. Instead, unfortunately, he met a police patrol car.’
Gunvald Larsson cast an annihilating china-blue glance at Kristiansson and Kvant.
‘A patrol car from Solna that came creeping out of its district like something that comes out when you lift up a rock. Well, how long had you been skulking with the engine idling and the front wheels on the city limits?’
‘Three minutes,’ said Kvant.
‘Four or five, more like it,’ said Kristiansson.
Kvant gave him a withering look.
‘And did you see anyone coming that way?’
‘No,’ said Kristiansson. ‘Not until that man with the dog.’
‘Which proves that the murderer cannot have made off to the south-west along Norra Stationsgatan, nor south up Norrbackagatan. If we take it that he did not hop over into the freight depot, there's only one possibility left. Norra Stationsgatan in the opposite direction.’
‘How do … we know that he didn't head into the station yard?’ Kristiansson asked.
‘Because that was the only spot where you two hadn't trampled down everything in sight. You forgot to climb over the fence and mess around there, too.’
‘OK, Gunvald, you've made your point, now,’ Martin Beck said. ‘Good. But as usual it took a hell of a time to get down to brass tacks.’
This remark encouraged Kristiansson and Kvant to exchange a look of relief and secret understanding. But Gunvald Larsson cracked out, ‘If you two had had any sense in your thick skulls you would have got into the car, caught the murderer and nabbed him.’
‘Or have been butchered ourselves,’ Kristiansson retorted misanthropically.
‘When I grab that guy I'm damn well going to shove you two in front of me,’ Gunvald Larsson said savagely.
Kvant stole a glance at the wall clock and said, ‘Can we go now? My wife –’
‘Yes,’ said Gunvald Larsson. ‘You can go to hell!’
Avoiding Martin Beck's reproachful look, he said, ‘Why didn't they think?’
‘Some people need longer than others to develop their train of thought,’ Martin Beck said amiably. ‘Not only detectives.’
‘Now we must think,’ Gunvald Larsson said briskly, banging the door. ‘There's a briefing with Hammar at three o'clock sharp. In ten minutes.’
Martin Beck, sitting with the telephone receiver to his ear, threw him an irritated glance, and Kollberg looked up from his papers and muttered gloomily, ‘As if we didn't know. Try thinking yourself on an empty stomach and see how easy it is.’
Having to go without a meal was one of the few things that could put Kollberg in a bad mood. By this time he had gone without at least three meals and was therefore particularly glum. Moreover, he thought he could tell from Gunvald Larsson's satisfied expression that the latter had just been out and had something to eat, and the thought didn't make him any happier.
‘Where have you been?’ he asked suspiciously.
Gunvald Larsson didn't answer. Kollberg followed him with his eyes as he went over and sat down behind his desk.
Martin Beck put down the phone.
‘What's biting you?’ he said.
Then he got up, took his notes and went over to Kollberg.
‘It was from the lab,’ he said. ‘They've counted sixty-eight fired cartridges.’
‘What calibre?’ Kollberg asked.
‘As we thought. Nine millimetres. Nothing to say that sixty-seven of them didn't come from the same weapon.’
‘And the sixty-eighth?’
‘Walther 7.65.’
‘The shot fired at the roof by that Kristiansson,’ Kollberg declared.
‘Yes.’
‘It means there was probably only one madman after all,’ Gunvald Larsson said.
‘Yes,’ said Martin Beck.
Going over to the sketch, he drew an X inside the widest of the middle doors.
‘Yes,’ Kollberg said. ‘That's where he must have stood.’
‘Which would explain …’
‘What?’ Gunvald Larsson asked.
Martin Beck didn't answer.
‘What were you going to say?’ Kollberg asked. ‘Which would explain …?’
‘Why Stenström didn't have time to shoot,’ Martin Beck said.
The others looked at him wonderingly.
‘Hungh-h,’ said Gunvald Larsson.
‘Yes, yes, you're right, both of you,’ Martin Beck said doubtfully and massaged the root of his nose between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand.
Hammar flung open the door and entered the room, followed by Ek and a man from the office of the public prosecutor.
‘Reconstruction,’ he said abruptly. ‘Stop all telephone calls. Are you ready?’
Martin Beck looked at him mournfully. It had been Stenström's habit to enter the room in exactly the same way, unexpectedly and without knocking. Almost always. It had been extremely irritating.
‘What have you got there?’ Gunvald Larsson asked. ‘The evening papers?’
‘Yes,’ Hammar replied. ‘Very encouraging.’
He held the papers up and gave them a hostile glare. The headlines were big and black but the text contained very little information.
‘I quote,’ Hammar said. ‘“‘This is the crime of the century,' says tough CID man Gunvald Larsson of the Stockholm homicide squad, and goes on: ‘It was the most ghastly sight I've ever seen in my life’.”’ Two exclamation