Murder at the Savoy

Maj Sjöwall, 1935-

Book - 2009

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MYSTERY/Sjowall, Maj
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Subjects
Published
New York : Vintage Books 2009.
Language
English
Swedish
Main Author
Maj Sjöwall, 1935- (-)
Other Authors
Per Wahlöö, 1926-1975 (-)
Edition
2nd Vintage crime/Black Lizard ed
Item Description
Translation of: Polis, polis, patatismos!
Reprint. This translation originally published by Pantheon Books, New York, 1971.
Physical Description
xiii, 216 p. ; 21 cm
ISBN
9780307390912
Contents unavailable.

1 The day was hot and stifling, without a breath of air. There had been a haze quivering in the atmosphere, but now the sky was high and clear, its colors shifting from rose to dusky blue. The sun's red disk would soon disappear beyond the island of Ven. The evening breeze, which was already rippling the smooth mirror of the Sound, brought weak puffs of agreeable freshness to the streets of Malmo. With the gentle wind came fumes of the rotting garbage and seaweed that had been washed up on Ribersborg Beach and in through the mouth of the harbor into the canals. The city doesn't resemble the rest of Sweden to a very great degree, largely because of its location. Malmo is closer to Rome than to the midnight sun, and the lights of the Danish coast twinkle along the horizon. And even if many winters are slushy and windblown, summers are just as often long and warm, filled with the song of the nightingale and scents from the lush vegetation of the expansive parks. Which is exactly the way it was that fair summer evening early in July 1969. It was also quiet, calm and quite deserted. The tourists weren't noticeable to any extent--they hardly ever are. As for the roaming, unwashed hash-smokers, only the first bands had arrived, and not so many more would show up either, since most of them never get past Copenhagen. It was rather quiet even in the big hotel across from the railroad station near the harbor. A few foreign businessmen were deliberating over their reservations at the reception desk. The checkroom attendant was reading one of the classics undisturbed in the depths of the cloakroom. The dimly lit bar contained only a couple of regular customers speaking in low voices and a bartender in a snow-white jacket. In the large eighteenth-century dining room to the right of the lobby there wasn't much going on either, even if it was somewhat livelier. A few tables were occupied, mostly by people who were sitting alone. The pianist was taking a break. In front of the swinging doors leading to the kitchen stood a waiter, hands behind his back, looking contemplatively out of the big open windows, probably lost in thoughts of the sand beaches not too far away. A dinner party of seven, a well dressed and solemn gathering of varying sexes and ages, was sitting in the back of the dining room. Their table was cluttered with glasses and fancy dishes, surrounded by champagne coolers. The restaurant personnel had discreetly withdrawn, for the host had just risen to speak. He was a tall man in late middle age, with a dark-blue shantung suit, iron gray hair and a deep suntan. He spoke calmly and skillfully, modulating his voice in subtly humorous phrases. The other six at the table sat watching him quietly; only one of them was smoking. Through the open windows came the sounds of passing cars, trains switching tracks at the station across the canal, a switchyard that is the largest in northern Europe, the abrupt hoarse tooting of a boat from Copenhagen, and somewhere on the bank of the canal a girl giggling. This was the scene that soft warm Wednesday in July, at approximately eight-thirty in the evening. It's essential to use the expression "approximately," for no one ever managed to pin down the exact time when it happened. On the other hand, what did happen is quite easy to describe. A man came in through the main entrance, cast a glance at the reception desk with the foreign businessmen and the uniformed attendant, passed the checkroom and the long narrow lobby outside of the bar, and walked into the dining room calmly and resolutely, with steps that weren't notably rapid. There was nothing remarkable about this man so far. No one looked at him; he did not bother to look around either. He passed the Hammond organ, the grand piano and the buffet with its array of glistening delicacies and continued past the two large pillars supporting the ceiling. Excerpted from Murder at the Savoy by Per Wahloo, Sjowall All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.