Murder at the Savoy: A Martin Beck Police Mystery (6) (Vintage Crime/Black Lizard)
The shocking sixth novel in the Martin Beck mystery series by the internationally renowned crime writing duo by Maj Sjöwall and Per Wahlöö, finds Beck investigating a brutal assassination.When Viktor Palmgren, a powerful Swedish industrialist is shot during his after-dinner speech in the luxurious Hotel Savoy, it sends a shiver down the spine of the international money markets and terrifies the tiny town of Malmo. No one in the restaurant can identify the gunman, and local police are sheepishly baffled. That's when Beck takes over the scene and quickly picks through Palmgren's background. What he finds is a web of vice so despicable that it's hard for him to imagine who wouldn't want Palmgren dead, but that doesn't stop him and his team of dedicated detectives from tackling one of their most intriguing cases yet.
I’d crossed the street, people came out of the hotel entrance and stared, but by then he was already gone.” “Can you describe the man?” Skacke said with ill-concealed fervor and pulled over his note pad. “Uh, he was about thirty, maybe forty. More like forty. He was quite bald—no, not bald, but almost. He had dark hair. And he had a brown suit on, a yellowish shirt and a tie—I don’t know what color. Shoes black or brown, I think—must’ve been brown, since his suit was brown.” “What did he look
stood there for quite a while he heard someone tapping on the door. Very lightly. If he’d been sleeping or in the shower, he wouldn’t have heard it. “Come in,” he said, without turning his head. He heard the door open. Maybe it was the murderer, striding in with his revolver raised, ready for action. If he aimed for the back of the head this time, too, Martin Beck would fall forward out of the window and, if he were unlucky, he would be dead before he was smashed on the sidewalk far below. He
that maybe it doesn’t have to be so complicated as some people seem to think. Revenge. Pure and simple.” “Yes, I’ve thought about that, too.” She fell silent. When the cigarette was finished she lit another. She smoked Danish cigarettes—Cecil, in a green, white and red pack. Martin Beck turned his head and looked at her feet, which were thin and gracefully arched, with long, straight toes. Then he raised his eyes to her face. She looked preoccupied, and her eyes had a faraway look. He
across the street he could see the man take a can of beer out of the bag. Skacke took advantage of the moment, went into a phone booth and called the police station. Martin Beck answered. “Well?” “He’s back home. He went out just now to buy beer and sandwiches.” “Good. Stay there and call if he goes some place.” Skacke went back to his post on the bench. After half an hour he walked to a newsstand in the neighborhood, bought the other evening newspapers and a chocolate bar and returned to
abuses an officer, especially an officer in uniform. A policeman can’t be made a laughing stock.” “Is that so?” said Gunvald Larsson. The two patrolmen glared at him unsympathetically. He shrugged and went on: “Now I grant you that the potentate you mention is famous for his official statements, but I doubt that even he could have said anything so utterly stupid, for chrissake. Well, how did those insults go?” “ ‘Pig!’ ” Kvant said. “And you think you didn’t deserve that?” “Absolutely not,”