The Copenhagen Connection Part 10

Christian's fork stopped an inch from his mouth. He considered the suggestion.

"There are a number of Margarets in this affair," he conceded. "You are, I presume, aware of the fact that the present ruler of Denmark is Margaret the Second."

"That's right! That makes even better sense. A royal bathrobe would be worth-"

"Oh, for G.o.d's sake, Elizabeth, get a grip on yourself. You don't suppose the queen trails around her bedroom in ermine and gowns clanking with jewels? I am not familiar with the personal wardrobes of royalty, but I'd lay odds that even reigning monarchs wear comfortable woolly robes. Castles are drafty places."

"It was just a thought."

"And a d.a.m.ned stupid one. Eat your dinner."

It turned out to be a very dull evening, just as Elizabeth had expected. Christian pretended to read, but he turned an average of one page every five minutes. Elizabeth tried to absorb herself in Margaret's notes, but was unable to concentrate. Her eyes kept wandering to the telephone, willing it to ring. Finally she gave up. When she switched on the television set Christian said, "Everything will be in Danish, you know."

"I don't care. I just want to sit and stare stupidly at something that moves."

She had no trouble selecting a channel. There was only one. But to her pleased surprise the sounds that came from the speaker were in English.

"It's a movie," she exclaimed. "With Danish subt.i.tles."

"Must be as old as the hills," Christian said. "It's in black and white."

"Shush. I have to concentrate."

She had missed the first part of the film, but it did not take long to figure out the plot; the film techniques of the nineteen forties were straightforward and simple, and this film had no pretensions to artistic subtlety. It was a thriller, all about n.a.z.is and a pair of brave young Americans trying to rescue an imprisoned scientist. Elizabeth did not recognize any of the actors. The chief n.a.z.i villain looked vaguely familiar, and for some time she puzzled over where she had seen him before. Then the answer came: Mr. Schmidt. It wasn't Schmidt, of course, but the faces had the same characteristics-the predatory front teeth, the eyes just a little too close together.

The young couple, Bob and Mary, were winsome and young and witty. It was obvious by the middle of the film that they had fallen in love, but for some reason neither of them would admit it; they kept bickering and exchanging insults and pretending to be indifferent. At one point they had to share a hotel room, in order to maintain their cover as husband and wife. The convolutions this situation entailed would have dated the film to a bygone era even if the costumes and techniques had not. Elizabeth smiled patronizingly as the blus.h.i.+ng heroine lay with the covers pulled up to her nose, rolling her eyes at the hero, who was uncomfortably ensconced in a chair.

Christian affected great disdain for this unintellectual entertainment, but as the film went on he kept casting glances at the screen, and before long he was watching as intently as Elizabeth. The gallant young pair got the doddering old scientist away, but were themselves captured, right on the Swiss frontier, by the sneering n.a.z.i officer, who carried them off in triumph to his lair in an elegant mountain chateau.

It was the great scene for the actor who played the n.a.z.i, and he made the most of it, leering till his cheeks must have ached. Naturally the adventurers steadfastly refused to give away the whereabouts of the scientist. Cracking his whip against his polished boots, the officer advanced on the shrinking heroine.

"So, Fraulein, you will not speak, ja? But I think you will speak, ja, ja. Tell me what I wish to know, or that beautiful face will not be so beautiful in future, ja?"

He raised his whip. The girl shrieked. Disdaining the weapons trained on him, the hero leaped at the n.a.z.i and hit him on the jaw.

He was immediately knocked down by one of the guards. The girl rushed to his side.

"Bob," she sobbed, raising his unconscious head into her arms. "Oh, Bob, darling!"

"Oh, Christ," said Christian, disgustedly.

"Shush," said Elizabeth.

For reasons known only to the writer of the script- and perhaps not even to him-the villain, upon recovering, threw the young couple into the cellar instead of carrying on with his attempt to make them talk. The hero used his pocket knife-which the n.a.z.is had apparently overlooked when they searched him-to pry out one of the bars in the window. As he and the heroine departed he lit the fuse on a keg of dynamite which had been conveniently left in the cellar, and the escape of the lovers was marked by a magnificent explosion that annihilated the sneering officer, the guards, and the chateau.

"What a piece of trash," Christian said, as the credits rolled across the screen.

"Wasn't it, though," said Elizabeth. She laughed. "It's amazing how filmmaking has advanced since then."

"I'm not talking about film technique; I don't see many movies, I have better things to do with my time. But you would think the idiots could at least write a coherent story. The relations.h.i.+p between those two was so unrealistic-"

"s.e.xual mores were different then."

"They weren't different, they were just more hypocritical. The dumbest thing of all was at the end, when the villain was threatening the girl and that klutz jumped him. Why would he do a stupid thing like that?"

"He loved her," Elizabeth said, very gently.

"Yes, fine, but what was the point? He couldn't do her any good by getting himself killed or knocked unconscious. If he had been so smart as he was supposed to be-"

"I'm going to bed," Elizabeth said. "Good night."

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing."

She had not intended to slam the door; it more or less slammed itself. I don't know what's bugging me, Elizabeth thought, brus.h.i.+ng her teeth so violently that toothpaste flew all over the bathroom. He's right. It was a dumb, stupid movie.

BY MIDMORNING there had been no word from Margaret or anyone else, and Christian had given up all pretense at calm reason. After searching Margaret's belongings again, and leaving them in such a mess that it took Elizabeth half an hour to straighten them out, he flung himself at the telephone and began calling people. This proved to be worse than useless. Margaret's friends were thrilled to hear that she was in Denmark, and they plied Christian with invitations he was unable to accept and questions he was unable to answer. Still, he pressed doggedly on. As he prepared to dial for the sixth time, Elizabeth said, "How can she call us if you're on the phone all the time?"

"Hmph." Christian replaced the receiver. "I didn't really expect her to telephone. She hasn't since that first call."

"Don't you find that rather curious?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I think that when she first walked out of here she didn't expect to be gone long-maybe not even a whole day. In the note she wrote yesterday she admitted her business was more complicated than she had expected. She took the trouble to communicate with you, and warn you. Maybe your presence or your snooping is endangering her project, or maybe it's endangering you personally. In view of the fact that someone took a shot at you yesterday I'm inclined to think the second alternative is the more plausible. So why hasn't she called to reinforce her warning? Why does she write frantic notes instead of picking up the phone? She could call from a public telephone without giving away her whereabouts."

Christian followed this somewhat incoherent reasoning with a wrinkled brow. "She has never bothered to call before when she was off on some insane escapade."

"But they were all harmless escapades-harmless to you, at any rate."

"I think I see what you're getting at. But all you've done is raise another question we can't answer."

"I know. But I have a feeling there's a pattern in this somewhere, if we could only put it together."

Christian picked up the jacket he had worn the day before. The holes in the sleeve seemed to hold a morbid fascination for him. He put his finger through one of them and wriggled it.

"Don't do that," Elizabeth snapped.

"Why not?" But he tossed the jacket onto a chair. "Sitting around here is driving me demented," he growled. "I've got to do something."

"There's one obvious thing to do."

"All sorts of things seem obvious to you. What is it this time?"

"Go to the police, of course." He stared at her, his lip outthrust and mutinous. Elizabeth went on urgently, "You have enough evidence now to force Mr. Grundtvig to take you seriously. The bullet holes in your jacket, the break-in here . . ."

"I'm not going to go crawling to that opinionated old jacka.s.s."

"Just because he kept calling you 'young Christian.' "

"d.a.m.n it, he was patronizing me. I'm thirty-two years old-"

"Are you really? I'd have said you were older."

"Oh?" Christian looked pleased.

"He's the logical person to talk to," Elizabeth insisted.

"She told me not to go to the police."

"Everybody told us not to go to the police. So what? Grundtvig is highly placed, and he is an old buddy of Margaret's; he can function discreetly, without danger of publicity to her." Christian did not reply, and she added angrily, "I can't understand why you resist the idea. You're the type I would expect to go running to the authorities at the first sign of trouble."

This comment was meant as an insult and was taken as such. Christian's cheeks reddened. "Listen, I never claimed to be, or wanted to be, one of those fool adventurers you seem to admire. A sane, law-abiding person would naturally seek police a.s.sistance in case of trouble."

"Then why aren't you doing it?"

Having painted himself into a corner, logically speaking, Christian jumped up and began pacing, his back to her. "I don't have to explain my motives to you," he said over his shoulder. "I'll give her another twenty-four hours. If we haven't heard anything by then, I'll talk to Grundtvig."

Elizabeth knew that tone. The more she argued, the more stubborn he would get. "Oh, all right," she said.

"What do you mean, all right?" He spun around. "You have nothing to say about it. You're out of this. I'd have called and made a plane reservation for you before this if I hadn't been afraid Margaret would find out about it and think I was obeying her orders."

"Oh, let's not argue about that," Elizabeth said wearily. "It's a waste of time and energy. You think of her as omniscient, don't you? The last time we saw her she was miles from here, heading G.o.d knows where; she can't possibly know what you are doing every minute of the day."

"You haven't thought that one out, have you?" The idea that he was ahead of her in one area at least calmed Christian's temper. His face relaxed into an expression that was less forbidding, if not actually pleasant. "Why do you think I've been calling her friends? She has to be staying somewhere; she couldn't register at a hotel without showing her pa.s.sport, and she would be reluctant to do that. Her name is too well known. She would avoid cas.h.i.+ng traveler's checks for the same reason. Where is she getting money? And-think this one over-how did she know we were going to Tivoli the other night? Did you think it was pure coincidence that she was on the carousel at the precise time we were supposed to deliver the suitcase?"

"Naturally I wondered about that," Elizabeth said stoutly. "Maybe she was following us."

"Disguised as a skinhead on a motorcycle?" Christian thought that one over; his sneer faded. "Well, maybe . . . d.a.m.n it, no, she can't be everywhere. She has friends all over the place, and most of them would cheerfully spy for her if she asked them to, without asking for explanations. I'm not sure Roger and Marie aren't in touch with her."

"Surely not. They know how worried you are."

"Margaret hypnotizes people. She's as bad as. .h.i.tler."

Elizabeth did not feel this outrageous comment deserved a reply.

Christian returned to the telephone and his address book.

"Now who are you calling?"

"Someone I should have contacted before this. He's the director of the National Museum, and an old boyfriend of Margaret's."

For want of anything better to do, Elizabeth listened while he made the call and found that she was able to follow the action fairly well, thanks to the fact that the conversation consisted mostly of names. From the museum switchboard Christian was pa.s.sed to a secretary, who informed him that the director was busy. Could she take a message? Christian mentioned his name, then listened, said, "Ja, G.o.d; tak," and hung up.

"He'll see us this afternoon," he announced. "He was on his way to a meeting."

"You want to go to the museum? Why can't he call you back?"

"I'd just as soon get out of here for a while. I'm starting to suffer from claustrophobia."

"I think you ought to stay inside."

"n.o.body is going to shoot me in broad daylight on the streets of Copenhagen," Christian said firmly.

"They took a shot at you in broad daylight in Roskilde Cathedral. You can't get much more public than that."

"So we'll drive." He added nastily, "If you're afraid of being caught in the line of fire you can stay here."

"I wouldn't dream of it. Maybe I'll have a chance to see some of the museum before they shoot you."

After an excellent lunch, to which neither of them did justice, Christian called the desk and asked that the car be brought around. It was waiting at the curb when they came out of the hotel, and Roger himself was at the wheel. He handed over the keys. "Off to do a little sightseeing?" he inquired genially.

His bandage had been replaced by a square of white gauze. "That's encouraging," Elizabeth said. "I hope it means you are feeling better."

"Oh, yes, certainly; I told you it was nothing. Where are you going this afternoon?"

"Sightseeing." Elizabeth didn't share Christian's suspicions of the friendly manager, but his interest in their plans made her cautious about giving away more information than was necessary.

"Enjoy yourselves." He turned to Christian, who had gone to the front of the car and lifted the hood. "Is something the matter, Christian?" "I thought I heard a ping yesterday." Christian peered into the engine.

"It sounded fine when I drove it," Roger said. "Shall I send for a mechanic?"

"No, I guess it's okay." Christian lowered the hood. "Thanks, Roger."

As they pulled away from the curb, Elizabeth said, "What were you looking for? A bomb?"

"Just a precaution."

"Would you know a bomb if you saw one?"

Christian did not reply.

Elizabeth a.s.sumed they would be unable to find a parking place near the museum, and she was dreading the walk, however short; but Christian's concern for his skin inspired him to new heights of inventiveness. He drove straight into the lot reserved for museum officials, told the attendant he was the director's son-in-law, and tipped him profusely.

"Smart," Elizabeth admitted, as they entered the central courtyard. "Illegal, but smart."

"Why don't you look at the exhibits while I-"

"Why don't you shut up?"

The museum had been high on Elizabeth's list of "Things to See in Copenhagen." Costumes, folk art, golden treasures from Iron Age tombs, Viking weapons and jewelry . . . She did not even glance into the exhibition hall before they climbed the staircase toward the director's offices. She had no intention of admitting it to Christian, but she was determined to stick to him like a burr. No doubt it was naive to think she could protect him; a skilled marksman could pick him off before she realized that a gun was trained on him. But the marksman of the Cathedral had missed, and in certain situations the presence of a second person, constantly on the alert, might mean the difference between life and death.

Frederick Leinsdorf was the most beautiful old man she had ever seen. Gleaming silver hair framed a face of such delicate grace that it might have been carved from ivory by a medieval master. The hand he extended in greeting was as finely shaped as his features, with long, sensitive fingers. Even the outstanding veins and tendons of old age seemed part of a cla.s.sic structure of design.