`Very nice,' he agreed. 'I found her most charming.'
Èverybody does. Tell me, Mr Marasov, since Gothenburg's a long way from Stockholm, why're you there?'
He made a little gesture with his hands. 'She speaks no Russian. I speak English. I have instructions to help her in any way necessary. With additional information or material, translation. And so on.'
It was all plausible enough. Indeed it was more or less to be expected. Marasov would have been instructed to help, to keep a watching brief, and to try to make sure the official line wasn't transgressed.
`You have no idea where she is?'
`No.' Marasov shook his head. His regret seemed genuine. Òr why she might have disappeared?'
He said, with a slightly weary air, as though he'd said it a lot of times: 'I know what you think, Mr Sellers. You believe we have kidnapped her for some reason.'
Ì'm a reporter,' I said. 'It wouldn't be the first time I've come across the story.'
Ì assure you it is not so.' The glasses glinted indignantly. He looked at me with an intensity that was almost pleading. `We wish to see Miss Hay complete her work. We have regard for her. Also it is to our advantage. Please do not think otherwise.'
I shrugged. 'Okay. I'll try to believe it. One question, though. What time did you leave?'
`We had one drink. I left at five thirty o'clock.'
Àll right. And we keep in touch?'
`Please. I am at the Hotel Nord. And Mr Sellers' `What?'
'If you hear anything at all, please let me know. We will help in any way we can.'
I watched him go, and tried to decide whether to believe him or not. Marasov was an official of a country that had engaged for half a century in devious, determined and often horrific clandestine activities, a prime suspect if ever there was one. Yet he was apparently showing distress and wanting to help. One duckling missing from a pond; one ferocious pike in the pond, and the pike says, it wasn't me. I'm as anxious as you are. Who believes the pike? Why should I believe Marasov?
Oh, God, I thought despairingly, where was Alsa?
Schmid had used the don't-ring-us-we'll-ring-you routine, but it was difficult to imagine that Sweden's highly efficient police hadn't progressed a millimetre in more than sixty hours of investigation, so I telephoned the police from the pay-phone in the lobby. I'd assumed almost automatically that the bug in my bedroom was Russian. So it might be, but if Marasov wasn't lying, then it might be somebody else's bug and I preferred not to speak into a 'microphone without having some idea whose it was. But Schmid was out, or so they said, and so was Sergeant Gustaffson. The duty inspector said he was sorry there
was no news, and I'd. be told the moment anything new turned up, if I'd leave my name and number. I told him Schmid had both, but he made a note all the same, and said don't ring us, we'll ring you.
I took the lift to the top floor and found the door of six-two-eight, the room Alsa had used. I tried the door handle, just in case, but it was locked. However, the door of the next room, six-thirty, was open and I looked inside. The twin beds were freshly-made, and the room clean. There was no communicating door. I strolled along the corridor. A chamber-maid was at work making beds, and several doors stood open. She seemed to be working from one end of the corridor to the other and hadn't reached six-thirty yet, so it was a fair guess the room hadn't been occupied the previous night. I wondered who'd been in • it the night Alsa vanished. She must have been moved quickly, either out of the hotel or at least to another room, and presumably against her will. How had the trick been done?
I returned along the corridor, found the fire escape door, pushed it open and saw the stairs that could lead only to the roof. After that I took the lift back to the lobby and asked the reception clerk who had occupied the rooms on either side of Alsa's on the night she disappeared. He looked at me doubtfully at first and then gave me the information. Six-thirty had been occupied by two gentlemen.
`Frenchmen, sir. Mr Raoul Maisels and Mr Phillipe Cohen.' He pronounced them the French way and it was only because I could see the paper in his hand that something dawned on me. "Jewish?' I asked.
`Possibly. I do not know, sir.'
Òkay. What about six-two-six?' That was the room on the other side. Òne moment.' He worked down the list. 'An American couple, sir. Mr and Mrs Paul C. Scott from Philadelphia.' `When did they check out?'
`Next day, I think, sir. Yes, next day,
`Both lots?'
`,Yes, sir.'
I thanked him and walked away. Two people each side, and both pairs had packed and gone next morning. Coincidence or not? I wondered how rooms were allocated in the hotel; who drew up the lists?
Probably the reception clerk, unless VIPs were involved. At that point the manager would take over.
I turned to walk back to the lift and nearly fell over the feet of a workman. Two of them were doing repairs in the recesses of some kind of cupboard. I skirted them and pressed the lift button. When it came and the doors opened, I checked the inside buttons. They were numbered one to six, and the bottom one was for the garage beneath the hotel. I pressed it and went down a floor. It wasn't exactly difficult to see how Alsa could have been removed from the hotel. The door to six-two-eight upstairs wasn't ten yards from the lift; the garage had free and open access to the road. If Inspector Schmid hadn't worked that one out he must be pretty stupid, and he hadn't seemed stupid, so why hadn't he mentioned it, at least as a possibility? To hell with it, I'd go round to the police now, see Schmid if he was in, and start asking questions about Maisels, Cohen and Mr and Mrs Scott and their movements.
When I got there, Schmid was still out. I was asked if I was a relative of Alsa's and what my interest in the matter was anyway, then told to sit on the hard wooden bench they obviously kept for the people they wanted to discourage. When Inspector Schmid returned, he would perhaps see me. He would, at any rate, be informed. The decision was his.
I sat there for an hour and a half with corns developing rapidly on my rear end, but watching the comings and goings carefully. I was determined that when Schmid came m, he wasn't going to slip past and then refuse to see me:
At long last the desk sergeant, who'd been studiously ignoring me ever since I'd first sat on the bloody bench, beckoned with his finger. Schmid would see me now. He told me how to get to the second floor office and I went up in the lift, found it and knocked. The door was opened by somebody I hadn't seen before. `Mr Sellers?' he asked politely.
`Yes.'
`Please come in. This is Inspector Schmid.'
I glanced at the figure behind the desk, then turned to the man who'd opened the door. Àre you Sergeant Gustaffson?' `Yes.'
I'd never seen either of them before.
CHAPTER SEVEN
There could have been two Schmids, of course. But that possibility was disposed of quickly. This was the real Inspector Schmid, the only Inspector Schmid, the genuine article. And he was far from amused: impersonating a police officer was a very serious matter. Presumably impersonating two was doubly serious. Schmid demanded immediate descriptions of the impostors and sent Gustaffson off as soon as I'd given them, to make sure the descriptions were circulated at once to the whole Gothenburg force. When that was done, he looked at me grimly. 'I have here a note to telephone you, Mr Sellers. I would have done that.'
Ì had a feeling the other man wouldn't,' I replied. Ànd I was right.'
Òkay.'
We went over the whole business and Schmid was very far from happy. I got the impression he was accustomed to clearing his cases quickly and efficiently, and liked continuing mysteries no more than I did. When I told him about the rooms on either side of Alsa's and the lift direct to the garage, he said yes, he was aware of the possibilities and was pursuing inquiries with some vigour. Messieurs Maisels and Cohen were, it seemed, salesmen. He'd spoken to both