The Copenhagen Connection, page 13
Grundtvig’s house was in the northern suburbs of the city. Small and unpretentious, like all the other houses on the block, it appeared to be a product of the state building program. In contrast to the beautifully tended gardens and grass of neighboring houses, Grundtvig’s lawn was weedy and neglected.
He was at the door before Christian could knock. His round, rosy face bore a look of comical distress.
“My daughter is here,” he said, in a hoarse, confidential whisper. “Don’t say anything in front of—”
A voice called out from the room beyond the tiny entrance hall. Grundtvig turned. “It is my friends, come to visit,” he answered.
A tall, heavy-set woman appeared in the doorway. Blond hair was tucked firmly into a bun at the back of her neck, and her face bore a striking resemblance to her father’s, in contour, if not in expression. Her lips were pressed firmly together, her eyes were curious.
“My daughter, Mrs. Brandes,” Grundtvig said. “Er—my dear, may I introduce Mr. Umblum and Miss Erglub.”
“How do you do.” Mrs. Brandes seized first Elizabeth’s hand and then Christian’s in a manly grip. “You are American?”
“Er—yes,” Christian said. “We happened to be passing…. That is, we happened to be in Denmark….”
“And you came to call on Papa. That was kind.”
“Our pleasure,” Christian mumbled.
“Are you perhaps professional associates of—”
“My dear,” Grundtvig interrupted. “Did you not say you were meeting Karl? You will be late.”
Mrs. Brandes shot out a muscular arm and consulted her wristwatch. “No, I will be precisely on time. I am never late, Papa; you know that. You will forgive me if I run away now. I am sorry I cannot stay.”
“Nice to have met you,” Christian said.
“And I am pleased to meet you. Papa, you will not forget your medicine? I will call later to make sure you—”
“I promise, I will not forget. Run along now, my dear.”
When she had gone Grundtvig shook his head and laughed. Elizabeth thought the laugh sounded a trifle strained.
“Forgive me that I did not give your names. Had she known you were Margaret’s son, she would gossip to her husband and everyone else she met.”
“She seems devoted to you,” Elizabeth said.
“She is, she is.” Grundtvig’s face took on a look of profound gloom. “She does this often—dropping in, is that the English phrase? It is very nice, I am sure. But come in, come in, we do not have to stand in the hall.”
The small living room was stuffed with furniture, photographs, and bric-a-brac. Everything was old-fashioned and a trifle shabby, but impeccably neat. Elizabeth commented on the neatness, thinking to please. Grundtvig looked depressed.
“My daughter has cleaned it. I did not expect her tonight, you understand. I told her I was awaiting visitors, in the hope of getting rid…of reminding her she need not stay. Instead, she cleaned the house.” He sighed.
Elizabeth was beginning to understand why Grundtvig had seemed envious of Margaret’s free and giddy lifestyle. He was firmly under his daughter’s efficient thumb, subject to her cleaning fits and her fussing over his health. No wonder he sympathized with Margaret’s rebellion against her son.
But when they were seated, the capable police officer replaced the harassed father. “Tell me,” he said simply.
Christian proceeded to do so. He omitted nothing, not even his ignominious encounters with the very large man in the knitted cap. Grundtvig listened with absorbed attention. The only time he betrayed emotion was when Christian mentioned the bullet that had so narrowly missed him.
“But that is—that is frightful!” he exclaimed, anger crimsoning his face. “When I get my hands on those rascals…Go on, Christian, go on.”
Elizabeth found this demonstration of paternal distress rather touching. Christian did not particularly care for it. There was a frosty tone in his voice when he resumed his narrative, which concluded on a high note, with the arrival of the severed finger. Dramatically he presented Grundtvig with the box.
“Good God,” Grundtvig muttered, peering into the container. “Is it…?”
“I don’t think so.” Christian summarized his reasoning on that subject. Grundtvig nodded respectfully.
“Very good, very good. I agree. It resembles an anatomical specimen. From a cadaver at a hospital, perhaps.”
“Then one of the gang must be a medical student or a doctor,” Elizabeth exclaimed.
“Quite possibly.” Grundtvig smiled at her. “But it isn’t much of a clue, is it? There are hundreds of doctors and medical students in Denmark, not to mention laboratory assistants and others who might have access to a dead body. However,” he went on, forestalling Christian’s attempt to speak, “that is not the immediate problem. We must persuade Margaret to return. She may be in serious trouble.”
“May be?” Christian repeated. “I’ve been candid with you, Grundtvig; how about doing the same for me? You know something about this business or you wouldn’t have reacted as you did when I called.”
Grundtvig leaned forward till his face was only a few inches from Christian’s. “My young friend, you must trust me. I know less than you think, and what little I know I cannot divulge. You understand; it is a question of…of…”
“National security,” Elizabeth said breathlessly.
“Precisely.” Grundtvig beamed at her.
“I don’t give a damn about national security,” Christian snapped. “I want to find Margaret.”
“So do I. Believe me, nothing is more important to me at this moment than locating my old friend. You have not the faintest idea where she might be? She has not been in touch with you?”
“Not since Roskilde,” Elizabeth said.
“And no way of reaching her? She would return if she thought you needed her.” He continued to look at Christian.
“What do you suggest I do?” asked the latter bitingly. “Get myself shot or hit by a car so it makes the headlines? I don’t know how to contact her.”
“That seems a trifle extreme,” Grundtvig said, his eyes twinkling. “You have no other ideas?”
“Only that I keep that appointment tonight.”
“That would be absolutely insane,” Elizabeth exclaimed. “You agree, don’t you, Mr. Grundtvig?”
Grundtvig was silent for a moment; his eyes moved from one of them to the other. Then he said, “Not insane—no. Someone should keep that appointment. But Christian ought not risk himself. Perhaps—you, Miss Jones.”
“What?” Christian jumped to his feet, his face crimson. “Why, you stupid old…Excuse me, but that is really the most idiotic idea I’ve ever heard. Absolutely out of the question. I won’t permit it.” And then, as Elizabeth’s heart began to flutter with tender emotion, he turned a malignant scowl on her and added, “She’d screw it up somehow.”
“Well, perhaps it was a stupid idea,” Grundtvig said mildly. “While you are on your feet, my boy, could I trouble you to fetch some beer? It is in the refrigerator.”
Christian looked as if he wanted to object, but good manners prevailed. He stamped out of the room, letting the kitchen door swing shut behind him.
Grundtvig turned to Elizabeth with a broad smile. “I was only joking, my dear. But you would have gone, wouldn’t you?”
“I guess so. I’m stupid enough to do it.”
“No, you are not stupid. You care about them. Not only Margaret, but Christian. You care very much.”
“He’s a rude, conceited, arrogant man,” Elizabeth said.
“Ah, but love is not logical. I think you love him. I don’t know why you do. I agree that he can be very exasperating. But you do. And,” Grundtvig added, “he cares for you.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Then why did he become so angry when I suggested you take the post of danger?” The door opened, admitting Christian with a fistful of beer bottles. Grundtvig went on, without a change of tone, “I think that neither of you should keep that appointment; for I can see that neither would allow the other to go alone. I will myself keep it.”
“You?” Christian exclaimed.
“Or I will send someone younger, not so fat,” Grundtvig amended, with a chuckle. “Leave it in my hands, young Christian. I will telephone you later to tell you what, if anything, transpires. May I offer you a beer?”
Elizabeth shook her head. Her dresses were getting tight around the waist in spite of all the running around she had been doing.
“No,” Christian said. “Not unless you have something more to tell us.”
“I thought we would talk pleasantly of life and love and art,” Grundtvig murmured.
“That sounds charming. But perhaps we had better get back to the hotel.”
“Very well.” Grundtvig abandoned his casual air. “That might be best. And if you will take an old idiot’s advice, you will stay in the hotel. Do not wander the dark streets, young Christian.”
“I TELL YOU he does it on purpose, to annoy me,” Christian muttered, as they walked toward the car.
Elizabeth turned to wave at the rotund figure silhouetted in the open doorway. Grundtvig was making sure they reached the car safely.
“I think he’s sweet. You can’t blame him, Christian. He is a policeman, after all. If this is a security matter—”
Christian slammed the car door with unnecessary force. “It’s amazing how people crumple up and retreat when that magic word is mentioned. He was just trying to put us off.”
He glanced out the side window, preparing to make a left turn. Suddenly he jerked the wheel around and brought the car screeching to a halt somewhere in the vicinity of the curb.
“There she is,” he shouted, wrenching the door open. “Over there. Quick, don’t let her get away!”
As Elizabeth stared, too surprised to move, he set off in hot pursuit of a bowed figure muffled in a dark cloak and hood. His quarry turned a startled face in his direction and then began to run with an agility and speed that contrasted impressively with its former hobbling progress. The features had been shadowed by the hood, but the person pursued was undoubtedly the proud possessor of a fine upstanding Roman nose.
Elizabeth got out and joined the chase. Christian’s long legs enabled him to catch up with the cloaked figure before it reached the next intersection. He swept it into a close and not very affectionate embrace, despite its frantic efforts to resist. It began to yell.
The pitch was somewhere between bass and baritone. Christian promptly released his captive. The hood had fallen back in their struggle, and Elizabeth was horrified to behold the bald head and unfamiliar features of an infuriated old man. He began to beat Christian over the head with the cane he was carrying.
Christian retreated as Elizabeth advanced. They met ten feet away from the former captive, who was jumping up and down and making threatening gestures. Instinctively they clung to one another.
“How could you have made such a mistake?” Elizabeth gasped. She was torn between laughter and consternation.
“I’m starting to see her everywhere,” Christian answered hysterically. “Hey, look out.” The elderly gentleman had gained courage from Christian’s retreat. He advanced on them, brandishing his cane.
“I’m sorry,” Christian shouted. “Excuse me…uh…undskyld…. Damn, I seem to have forgotten all my Danish. Er der nogen her, der taler engelsk—no, that’s not what I meant to say…damn!” He threw up his arms to protect his head.
The old man paused. Studying Christian contemptuously, he hurled a single word at him—obviously an epithet—and then turned and walked away. There was a distinct swagger in his step.
“What did he call you?” Elizabeth asked.
“I think the word means ‘pervert,’” Christian said. “Let’s get out of here.”
Christian carried a souvenir of the encounter in a red welt across his cheek. He did not find this as amusing as Elizabeth did.
“But it’s your only visible scar,” she pointed out. “People trying to kill you all over the place, and all you have to show for it is a bruise made by an old man who thought you were—”
“I suppose you’d be happier if I had bleeding wounds all over my body,” snarled Christian.
He was still sulking when they reached the hotel, and his discovery that there had been no messages while they were gone did not improve his evil mood. Elizabeth anticipated another long, tedious evening.
There wasn’t even a movie on television, only a documentary that seemed to have something to do with the breeding habits of a species of small crab. And with crabs, Elizabeth reflected, it was hard to tell what they were actually doing.
She watched it anyway. She was too restless to read, and Christian was not inclined toward conversation. I wonder why I love him, she thought, finally admitting the truth she had tried to suppress until Grundtvig’s amiable tactlessness had forced her to face it. It can’t be because I yearn to be Margaret’s daughter-in-law. I’m beginning to think that might be a rather onerous position. He can be nice when he wants to. Under his stiff manner there is humor and kindness and a becoming humility…. Damn Margaret. She’s responsible for those hidden insecurities. But I guess it’s not her fault that she’s a superior human being.
In such depressing speculation the evening passed with stupefying slowness. By midnight Elizabeth was exhausted by boredom and would have gone to bed; but she knew she would not be able to sleep until they heard from Grundtvig. The meeting had been set for midnight—Christian had grudgingly admitted that much—so they could not expect to hear anything before twelve thirty at the earliest, probably much later.
When the telephone rang, they both jumped for it. Christian got there first. His tense expression relaxed, and he handed the phone to Elizabeth.
“It’s for you. Sounds like that dizzy-looking receptionist.”
The nasal tones were indeed unmistakable. The girl apologized for calling so late. “But I’m going home now, miss, and I just noticed there was a letter come for you. It must of got in the wrong box. It’s from New York, so maybe it’s important.”
“Does the envelope say ‘Frenchton and Monk’?” Elizabeth asked. The deduction was not difficult; her employers were the only persons in New York who knew her present address.
“Yes, that’s the name.”
“I’ll come down and get it.” Elizabeth explained the situation to Christian, adding wryly, “I suppose it’s a series of admonitions to be kind to Margaret. If they only knew!”
“Why not leave it till morning?”
“It’s something to do.” Elizabeth added, “I have not found the evening’s entertainment all that exciting.”
Christian refused to be provoked. “Don’t go out of the hotel.”
“Why would I do that? Anyhow, Grundtvig meant that warning for you. Nobody wants me.”
She hadn’t intended to express it quite that way. She left the room before Christian could reply.
The residents of the hotel were not given to late hours or raucous parties. The lobby was dim and quiet when she emerged from the lift. She went to the office and opened the door.
And that was all she knew, until she woke up to find herself lying on a hard mattress in a strange room with a headache that seemed about to split her skull.
Chapter 9
DAZEDLY ELIZABETH CONTEMPLATED the ceiling. It was the only thing she dared contemplate; her first attempt to move had brought on a wave of intense dizziness and nausea. The ceiling had very little of interest. It was plain white plaster, neatly patched and repaired in several places. From it dangled a brass chain supporting a bare light bulb.
When the dizziness had subsided, Elizabeth cautiously tried to move her arms. They responded, but not well; they kept flopping back onto the bed, or onto her chest, every time she lifted them. At any rate, they were there. That was something.
Next she tried her feet. One worked all right. When she shifted the other, a jangling sound and a feeling of constriction followed. Unwarily she raised her head to look. There was an iron band around one ankle, and a chain attached to the band. Where the other end of the chain went she did not know. Nausea swept over her again and she let her head fall back. There seemed to be no point in staying awake, so she lost consciousness.
The second time she awoke matters had improved somewhat. She was still lying on the hard mattress, but the sick feeling was gone. Slowly she raised herself to a sitting position and subjected her surroundings to a careful scrutiny.
The room was small, painfully clean and painfully bare. The only object in it was the bed. No rugs, no ornaments, no pictures on the wall. There had been pictures; squares of slightly lighter paint showed where they had hung.
The ceiling sloped steeply down on one side of the room. There was a single window in that sloping wall. It was covered by heavy planks. The only light came from the bulb, which glared in her eyes.
Elizabeth turned her attention to the chain. Its far end, the one that was not attached to her ankle, disappeared over the foot of the bed, which was constructed, apparently for eternity, of heavy dark wood. Slowly Elizabeth got to her feet. She felt better. Lightheaded and dizzy and very empty, but better.
She expected that the chain would be secured to the bedpost, and that she might eventually hope to free herself by lifting or breaking said post. This expedient, she soon learned, was ruled out by the fact that the chain had been wound in and around the posts and footboard and secured by a heavy padlock.
Hearing a sound at the door, Elizabeth hopped back onto the bed and huddled against the headboard. When the door opened she was neither surprised nor pleased to see the familiar visage of Mr. Schmidt.
He gave her a casual disinterested glance and then spoke to someone behind him. “She’s awake.”
He stepped back—the door was too narrow to admit more than a single person—and another man appeared. Elizabeth had never seen him before. On the whole she preferred his face to Schmidt’s. It was a flat, rather bovine countenance, with heavy lines dragging the mouth into a reverse curve; but the resulting expression was sad rather than vicious. If she had seen him in other surroundings she would have taken him for a carpenter or bricklayer, worried about his finances and his children’s escapades, but essentially harmless. He wore working clothes—a heavy cotton shirt and khaki pants—hence her instinctive identification with manual labor rather than office work. His hands bore out the idea, being large and calloused. He had to stoop to enter the room.
