The Little Old Lady Who Struck Lucky Again! (31 page)

‘Tiddelipom, tiddelipom,’ Martha hummed.

Anna-Greta was singing to herself, a song about gold, and Christina something by Ernst Rolf. Indeed, the mood was good inside the pictorial stones and, thanks to the lowered wheels, the three
inside could move very quickly. They emptied the display cases in the Gold Room in seven minutes exactly.

‘To the lift!’ Martha directed them in a panting voice from inside her stone, upon which the ladies rolled their stones back, closely followed by Brains and Rake. This time the
ladies carelessly took a short cut across a slight threshold which resulted in the bags of gold shaking. This was too much for the PVC construction which cracked all over with a crash so that the
stones collapsed.

‘Oops, they don’t seem to have hardened properly,’ said Brains, surrounded by a heap of plastic.

‘And I had such faith in you,’ Rake grumbled.

‘Oh my goodness, this really isn’t going according to plan!’ Anna-Greta complained in horror and she picked some bits of plastic out of her hair.

‘Now listen to me, hurry up! We must pick up the bits. It’s a good job we’ve got the cleaning trolleys,’ said Martha, spurring them on. ‘Don’t forget the
gold!’

Rake and Brains joined in immediately and with amazing agility managed to fill the cleaning trolleys with the remains of the pictorial stones. Finally, Christina rushed up to the nearest fire
extinguisher, loosened the catch and started to spray everything around her.

‘Christina, dear, we don’t need to hide fingerprints. We’re taking all the bits with us,’ Anna-Greta coughed. But Christina didn’t have time to answer, because just
as they were putting the last of the bits of plastic in the cleaning trolleys they heard the police sirens.

‘The alarm was turned off!’ Brains shouted aghast.

‘Pah, there must have been a special alarm on the display cases that was connected directly to the police. Run!’ Martha spurred them on and with the cleaning trolleys full of gold
and plastic they hastened towards the lift. But just as they had managed to squeeze in with the loot, Martha caught sight of something that Rake was holding under his arm.

‘Oh my God! The magnificent helmet from Vendel, you can’t take that. That is priceless and more than fourteen hundred years old!’

‘But it’s so incredibly stylish!’ Rake protested.

‘It makes no difference. Give me that. It’s part of our cultural heritage and is absolutely irreplaceable!’ Martha insisted, taking the helmet from him. ‘Run to the bus,
you lot. I’ll soon join you,’ she went on breathlessly and turned back.

‘Just leave it outside the lift,’ said Brains, but Martha had already hurried away. He hesitated and was just about to press the button for the ground floor, when he realized they
were already there. They must quickly get the cleaning trolleys out, and move towards the door instead. He trusted that Martha would come after them. They rushed towards the door but just as they
were about to open it, they heard the sirens which were now very close. Outside, two cars screeched to a halt. Brains peeped out carefully and saw that the police and the men from the Securitas van
were already on their way up the steps. When they had disappeared, he nodded to the others and silently and discreetly the four went out with the cleaning trolleys along to their bus which was
parked further down the street.

‘Uff, that was a close one,’ said Rake when they loaded in the cleaning trolleys and closed the back doors. ‘But where on earth is Martha?’

With the invaluable helmet under her arm, Martha ran into the Gold Room again in a boiling rage. Rake’s folly was endangering the entire robbery. They had agreed about
the gold, but this was a helmet made of iron and bronze and, besides, it was unique – there was nothing like it anywhere else in the world. She must put it back in the display case again so
that it didn’t get damaged. The first case on the left, there it was; she went in from the rear and put the helmet back. Weird, she thought, why were men always so fascinated by guns, swords
and helmets? Was it because of having done military service, or was it in their genes and in the way they were brought up? Men must have a warrior gene, she concluded, and she rushed back to the
lift where she had her big bag with the floral pattern. Then she realized that she was already on the ground floor and rushed towards the main door. She wrenched it open, hurried out and ran
straight into the arms of two policemen.

Oh, this is nice! Martha looked around her in the beautifully furnished room at the police station where the fittings and colours were well thought out down to the tiniest
detail. This sort of nicely designed interior was something you usually only saw on the morning TV programmes; indeed, all that was lacking was a few candles. A pity that she had been taken here on
account of decidedly compromising circumstances – it would have been more pleasant to sit here and enjoy it all in peace and quiet. She fluffed up her hair and pulled her floral cloth bag
closer. It made her feel safer. The police hadn’t wanted to give it to her, but then she had said that she must have it with her or else she might die from a sudden heart attack. You
shouldn’t upset an old lady, she explained, and waved her finger at them. Nobody dared say she was wrong.

The constable had interrogated her for a whole hour but she hadn’t revealed anything. She had just talked about the weather and the lovely furnishings in the room and praised Blomberg for
his excellent taste. She had commented upon the nice colours in the room and, time after time, pointed to the cosy footstool beside the armchair. Most beautiful of all was the aquarium; she
exclaimed now and then with increasingly eager gestures – such nice little stones and plants and what lovely goldfish! In between she pretended to be confused and she had done this for such a
long time that she was absolutely exhausted. Blomberg thumbed through his papers.

‘What a lovely aquarium, Constable!’ Martha repeated yet again and smiled. She noticed how the gravel in the bottom of the tank glimmered quite incredibly. Just like diamonds.

‘Now, listen to me. The aquarium is not mine, it belongs to Carlsson, my colleague. We are talking about gold, not goldfish. Somebody has stolen gold from the Historical Museum.’

‘Oh, that’s naughty!’

‘What were you doing at the Historical Museum in the middle of the night?’ Blomberg looked rather grim.

‘I was looking for my husband. The alarm went off so I rushed inside to see if he was there.’

‘In the middle of the night?’

‘That’s when women look for their husbands.’

‘What?’

‘Escort girls! That’s all I’m saying. You do know about that, constable?’

Blomberg found himself blushing but he couldn’t prevent it.

‘Somebody has broken into the display cases in the Gold Room. How do you explain that?’

‘Oh good, did you find my husband there?’

‘We’re dealing with a crime investigation. This is serious.’

‘Love is serious. Always. You have such beautiful eyes, Constable.’

To his great annoyance, Blomberg blushed again.

‘That isn’t what we were talking about.’

‘Don’t try to worm your way out. Are you married?’

‘You are under suspicion of stealing gold from the display cases in the Gold Room.’

‘You don’t say, Constable. I’m so pleased, are we going to live there together?’

Chief Inspector Blomberg groaned, wiped the perspiration off his brow and didn’t know what he should do. Then Martha got up without warning and went across to the aquarium.

‘Well I never, this is really nice. Can I take some fish with me?’

‘What are you talking about, woman!’

‘But just look – goldfish! Are these the ones that were stolen?’

Martha’s ensuing laugh was so shrill that Blomberg simply couldn’t take any more. Not another second with this confused old lady. He put his file to one side.

‘I think we shall have to do this interview another day.’

‘Well, that would be nice indeed. Are we going to meet again? Then I can bring some food for the fish.’

Blomberg smothered a sigh, and went across to Martha to help her up. Then she bounced up like a spring and hugged him so suddenly that he fell backwards.

‘What a lovely time we’ve had together.’

‘I think it would be best if I phoned for a taxi,’ said Blomberg.

‘Yes, do that, Constable, but I want to be driven in a racing car,’ Martha teased him. Blomberg pretended not to hear, and called a colleague who guided Martha out of the room. Next
to the lift she bumped into a plump, middle-aged policeman with a modern haircut.

‘Now who was that?’ Martha asked, because she thought she had seen him before somewhere.

‘It’s that Carlsson,’ said the young police officer who now escorted Martha into the lift. They went down to the ground floor, and then the officer helped her to go out to the
taxi that had already been booked by the police.

‘Sture Spa in the city centre,’ Martha said to the driver. She wasn’t going to let a taxi arranged by the police take her home. No, most certainly not. Christina had taught her
a lesson or two about leaving a false trail.

Up in his room, Blomberg sighed as he sank down in his chair again. He looked out of the window and wondered what he should do now. He hadn’t managed to get a single sensible word out of
the old girl. But she was a kind old dear and he couldn’t find it in himself to get really angry with her. It couldn’t be easy growing old, and she hadn’t grumbled and complained.
No, she was just happy and confused.

Some rapid steps could be heard from the corridor, and customs officer Carlsson entered the room. He looked excited.

‘Blomberg, you know what? That elderly lady – I’ve seen her before!’

The boss of Mad Angels, Olle Marling, went into the clubhouse for a beer. He took a can of Carlsberg from the bar counter, took a few gulps, then put it down on the nearest
table. Then he caught sight of the shop dummy. A nice trophy that, he thought, and took a closer look. Life-sized and with fancy leather gear. But, on closer inspection, he noticed the Bandangels
logo. He tried to rip it off, but it was very firmly sewn on. Then he tried to take the dummy’s clothes off, but he couldn’t manage that either – everything seemed to be glued on.
All the more irritated, he looked for something he could use to remove the logo and first he tried a knife, then a fork. It didn’t work, and he soon realized that if he kept on in that way he
would rip to shreds all of the dummy’s clothes. He went into the kitchen and saw that the cupboard under the sink was open. Perhaps he could find something there? His eye caught some rags,
cleaning liquid, a dustpan and an iron. The iron, of course, that would solve the problem. He went back to the bar, found the nearest socket, plugged in the iron and was soon ironing on top of the
logo with a little pressure, back and forth. The glue started to loosen its grip, and, rather pleased with himself, he put the dummy down on the floor so that he could finish the job. He could pull
the logo a little, but it wouldn’t come completely loose. He turned the iron on again, and lit a cigarette. Just as he was about to take his first puff, the dummy suddenly started to burn. He
looked around for a fire extiguisher, couldn’t find one, so instead he grabbed some bottles from the counter. Quickly he unscrewed the tops and poured Schweppes and some lemonade over the
fire. As a finishing touch he lifted the floor mat in front of the bar and put it on top of the dummy. When the fire was extinguished he picked up the dummy again. The leather jacket was
half-burnt, the trousers were damaged by smoke and the whole thing smelt of burnt cabbage. Accompanied by a cascade of expletives, he kicked the dummy and then threw it into a corner. The head was
knocked out of position and had ended up all crooked, but he couldn’t be bothered to straighten it. Instead he wiped up the mess on the floor, put the mat back in place and left the room. You
should never have a hangover, he thought; it gives you a headache and then you make a mess of things.

The League of Pensioners didn’t wait, as soon they’d got home with their loot they set to work. It was starting to get light, and they were all very tired but, once
you’d started, you had to finish. In a jolly mood, and very pleased with themselves and their own inventiveness, they put the gold inside black rubbish bags, filled them up with soil and then
planted a cute little flower on top. They had seen the garden experts do that on TV when they prepared things for the summer, and if the pros could do it, then so could they. Afterwards, they
allowed themselves a few hours’ sleep before the next job. Gunnar kept watch while the others, led by Rake, walked out into the garden to hide the booty. Unfortunately, they hadn’t
managed to lay their hands on all of the gold and some of the most valuable treasures were still in the museum, but you had to count on some losses. Or, as Martha said, you can never have
everything you want in life, and, anyway, thirty-five kilos of gold wasn’t anything to sniff at.

The sun stood high in the sky, and when Martha was safely returned to them, they all walked down to the lilac arbour, and while Martha set out the coffee cups and cakes, Rake and Brains started
to plant the gold. Anna-Greta and Christina had gone a bit further down the garden to fetch some manure, because Anna-Greta had what she called ‘a much better idea’ and Christina
happened to agree with her. After a while they came back with the wheelbarrow fully loaded with dung.

‘Now, boys,’ said Anna-Greta with a serious look on her face. ‘It would be better to put the gold in a dung heap. Nobody would ever think of looking there.’

‘What are you on about?’ Rake muttered, leaning against his spade.

‘If somebody has seen you shovelling soil here and is wondering what you’ve got in the garden, then we’re in a pickle. Nobody wants to stick their fingers into a dung
heap,’ Anna-Greta went on.

This was followed by complete silence. Rake looked confused and Brains stopped digging.

‘Haven’t you noticed how the Bandangels have been keeping an eye on us from up in their house?’ said Martha joining in the conversation. ‘I agree with Anna-Greta and vote
for the dung heap.’