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tool.
    “A bayonet,” said Martin Beck.
    “Yes. Exactly. For a Mauser carbine.”
    The six-millimeter carbine had been a common military weapon, used mostly by the artillery and cavalry. Martin Beck had one himself when he did his national service. The weapon had probably gone out of use by now and been stricken from the quartermaster’s rolls.
    The blade was entirely covered with clotted blood.
    “Can you get fingerprints from that grooved handle?”
    Rönn shrugged his shoulders.
    Every word had to be dragged from him, if not by force then anyway by verbal pressure.
    “You’re letting it lie there until it gets light?”
    “Yes,” Rönn said. “Seems like a good idea.”
    “I’d very much like to talk to Nyman’s family as soon as possible. Do you think we could get his wife out of bed at this hour?”
    “Yes, I guess so,” said Rönn without conviction.
    “We have to start someplace. Are you coming along?”
    Rönn mumbled something.
    “What’d you say?” said Martin Beck and blew his nose.
    “Got to get a photographer out here,” Rönn said. “Yeah.”
    But he didn’t sound at all as if he cared.

    8    
    Rönn walked out to the car and got into the driver’s seat to wait for Martin Beck, who’d taken upon himself the unpleasant task of calling the widow.
    “How much did you tell her?” he asked when Martin Beck had climbed in beside him.
    “Only that he’s dead. He was apparently seriously ill, so maybe it didn’t come as such a surprise. But of course now she’s wondering what we’ve got to do with it.”
    “How did she sound? Shocked?”
    “Yes, of course. She was going to jump in a taxi and come straight over to the hospital. There’s a doctor talking to her now. I hope he manages to convince her to wait at home.”
    “Yes. If she saw him now she’d really get a shock. It’s bad enough having to tell her about it.”
    Rönn drove north on Dalagatan toward Odengatan. Outside the Eastman Institute stood a black Volkswagen. Rönn nodded toward it.
    “Not bad enough he parks in a no-parking zone, he’s halfway up on the sidewalk too. Lucky for him we’re not from Traffic.”
    “On top of which he must have been drunk to park like that,” said Martin Beck.
    “Or she,” Rönn said. “It must be a woman. Women and cars …”
    “Typical stereotyped thinking,” said Martin Beck. “If my daughter could hear you now you’d get a real lecture.”
    The car swung right on Odengatan and drove on past Gustav Vasa Church and Odenplan. At the taxi station there were two cabs with their FREE signs lit, and at the traffic signal outside the city library there was a yellow street-cleaning machine with a blinking orange light on its roof, waiting for the light to turn green.
    Martin Beck and Rönn drove on in silence. They turned on to Sveavägen and passed the street-sweeper as it rumbled around the corner. At the School of Economics they took a left on to Kungstensgatan.
    “Damn it to hell,” said Martin Beck suddenly with emphasis.
    “Yeah,” said Rönn.
    Then it was quiet again in the car. When they’d crossed Birger Jarlsgatan, Rönn slowed down and started hunting for the number. An apartment house door opened across from the Citizens School and a young man stuck out his head and looked in their direction. He held the door open while they parked the car and crossed the street.
    When they reached the doorway they saw that the boy was younger than he’d looked from a distance. He was almost as tall as Martin Beck, but looked to be fifteen years old at the most.
    “My name’s Stefan,” he said. “Mother’s waiting upstairs.”
    They followed him up the stairs to the second floor,where a door stood ajar. The boy showed them through the front hall and into the living room.
    “I’ll get Mother,” he mumbled and disappeared into the hall.
    Martin Beck and Rönn remained standing in the middle of the room and looked around. It was very neat. One side was taken up by