Murder at the Savoy

During our stay in Copenhagen, Wally and I were invited by two other couples to join them for an evening in Sweden. How’s that? The two countries are separated by a narrow channel of sea water.

Water from the Baltic Sea flows into the Atlantic through what amounts to a wide river, reminding me of where Lake Superior water flows from Lake Huron through a similar channel between the U.S. and Canada into Lake Erie. When we lived in Michigan, I drove over the Ambassador Bridge from Detroit to take my children to Windsor in Canada. Wally’s secretary lived in Windsor and drove back and forth between the two countries every day,

One day in the public library in Birmingham, a Detroit suburb, while glancing through titles on a shelf of mysteries, I took down a book titled, “Murder at the Savoy.” I took it home, thinking the setting would be the Savoy Hotel in London. Instead, it was Malmo, Sweden. The authors were a husband and wife team who wrote a whole series of books whose hero was a Swedish detective they called Martin Beck.

I enjoyed all their books. It was serendipity, expecting one thing and finding something different – and much more enjoyable than anticipated. It happened again on our excursion with the other stamp collectors and their wives.

Since 2000 the Oresund toll bridge connects Copenhagen, Denmark, with Malmo, Sweden, but when we were there, we crossed the sound on a ferry. The leisurely crossing took over an hour. We had dinner on the boat, in a dining room with table cloths and waiters wearing starched white shirts with bow ties. Definitely more formal than the Staten Island ferry.

We disembarked in Malmo, showed our passports, and walked into the city. One of the wives said, “When we were here before, we found a charming bar. Shall we go there for a drink?”

The bar was in the Savoy Hotel. Here I was, in the only place I’d heard about in Malmo, the hotel which was the scene, admittedly fictional, of a murder. In a handsome room with dark wood paneling, six middle-aged and older people (Wally and I, in our mid-40's, were the youngest) sat on banquettes around a low, circular table and had a party.

On previous occasions the men talked about nothing but stamps, debating for hours on the number of perforations edging the stamps on particular printings. In the company of women the talk ranged over various other topics. Much more lively and interesting.

Someone ordered snacks. I nibbled on cashews and little rye crackers with cheese. I also drank two Scotch and waters.

We lingered for hours. I became tipsy. Wally was annoyed, as always when I talked to other people, but he kept up a congenial front in the company of people he wanted to impress.

I had a wonderful time that evening in Malmo, Sweden. The only hint of homicide at the Savoy was the murderous glances Wally gave me.