The Copenhagen Connection Part 11

She had hoped that Leinsdorf's eminent position and look of quiet integrity might move Christian to be more candid about the situation than he had been with others; but Christian was still playing it cool.

"Margaret is off on another of her wild adventures," he said casually. "You are one of her oldest friends, so you know how she is; but it's been several days now, and I'm a little concerned. I thought perhaps you had heard from her."

"No, I have not." Leinsdorf folded his hands and looked pensive. Then his face broke into a broad, amused smile. "Of course I might be lying."

"Are you?" Christian asked bluntly.

"No." Leinsdorf's smile faded. "I knew Margaret was in Denmark. I had a telephone call from a man named Grundtvig, who is-"

"I know who he is," Christian interrupted. "Are you a friend of his?"

"Not a personal friend, no. I know of him, naturally. He is prominent in his own field. Like you, he asked if I had heard from Margaret."

So Grundtvig had taken their inquiries more seriously than he had pretended, and had begun to make inquiries of his own. Elizabeth found this encouraging; Christian's frown indicated that he was not pleased.

"Is there any reason why he would call you in particular?" he asked suspiciously.

"He may have called others; I did not inquire." Leinsdorf looked at Christian quizzically. "May I ask if there is any reason why you called on me-in particular?"

Christian hesitated. "This is going to sound fantastic."

"Naturally, if Margaret is involved in it." Leinsdorf's attractive smile warmed his austere face. "Go on."

"I have a suspicion that Margaret's current activities may involve Queen Margaret. The medieval one, not the present queen."

Leinsdorf's expression did not change, but his long, graceful hands tightened till the tendons stood out like cords. "In what way?" he asked quietly.

"I wish I knew. Margaret was thinking of writing a biography of the queen-or so she said. The last few days . . . Well, I'd rather not go into detail, but Queen Margaret's name keeps cropping up, as it were. You're a historian and a medievalist. I thought maybe . . ."

He gestured helplessly. Leinsdorf lowered his eyes and appeared to be intent on a pile of papers on the desk. Elizabeth had the feeling that he was not so much avoiding their gaze as trying to veil his own.

"If you could be more specific, perhaps I could help you," he said finally.

"I can't. That's all I know."

"Margaret did not confide in you?"

"No." Christian hated to admit it. His voice was sour. "The question is, did she confide in you?"

"No." The reply was prompt, and apparently sincere. Leinsdorf seemed to come to a decision. "I can give you no information, Christian. But I will see what I can find out, and I promise that if I learn anything you ought to know, I will inform you at once. Where are you staying?"

His tone made it clear that the interview was over. Christian gave him the address of the hotel, and after the usual compliments and thanks, they took their leave.

Once outside the office, Christian's smile vanished. He hit his fist against the wall. "What a crafty liar that man is! Did you notice how carefully he phrased his statements? If he learns anything I ought to know . . . And he'll be the one who decides whether I ought to know it."

"He said flat out that he hadn't heard from Margaret."

"He also said he could be lying."

"I don't believe he was. As you said, he was careful about committing himself. He didn't say he had no information, he said he was unable to give it to you. He knows something we don't know; but I believe he was telling the truth when he denied having heard from Margaret."

"We didn't get much out of that interview, did we?" Christian took her arm as they started down the stairs.

"One thing. Queen Margaret is involved, somehow. The mention of her name really jolted him."

"That only makes matters worse," Christian grumbled. "I had hoped we could eliminate Queen Margaret; she's the chief source of confusion in this d.a.m.ned affair."

"No, she's not."

"Then what is?"

"The bathrobe."

"What bathrobe? Oh. . . ."

"You mean whose bathrobe. And why the bathrobe."

"You would have to bring that up. Forget the d.a.m.ned bathrobe. I have."

"I wish I could. It keeps nibbling away at the base of my subconscious mind."

"Forget it," Christian repeated, with such vehemence that Elizabeth suspected the bathrobe was bugging him as much as it nagged at her.

"Let's call Grundtvig. Please, Christian. You see, he did take you seriously. He's looking for Margaret too. Maybe he's found out something."

"Then why hasn't he condescended to inform me? No. I said tomorrow morning, and I meant tomorrow morning." Christian stopped. "I wonder ... Does the museum have a medieval section?"

Conflicting emotions warred in Elizabeth's breast. "I don't think we should linger here. There are too many people around."

"We can't afford to overlook a possible clue. I'll bet you have that handy little guidebook with you."

If he had shouted or snapped at her she might have persisted. His cool reasonableness, and his attractive and infrequent smile, had a peculiarly weakening effect on her will. Besides, what he had suggested made sense. Leinsdorf's reaction to the mention of Queen Margaret lent credence to the idea that the lady, if not her bathrobe, was an integral part of the affair. It was a far-out chance that the museum might contain any pertinent material, but they were in no position to neglect any possibility.

Conquering her vague forebodings of danger, she reached in her purse and produced the guidebook. "They do have some objects from Margaret's time. 'Historical Period; 1000 to 1750 A.D. Rooms 23 to 29.' That's on the first floor-second floor to us."

When they reached the second-floor landing, a closed door and a printed sign barred entrance. " 'Closed for rebuilding,' " Christian read. "d.a.m.n."

"Maybe it's just as well." Elizabeth glanced uneasily over her shoulder. In contrast to the crowded halls below, this part of the museum seemed deserted. Either it was not as popular as Viking treasures, or else potential seekers of wisdom possessed a more up-to-date guidebook.

An unpopulated museum can seem emptier and more uncanny than any other building. The vast, high-ceilinged rooms hum with sounds just beyond the range of hearing-probably the products of air conditioning and security systems, but oddly suggestive of surrept.i.tious movements within the cases, as though invisible hands were fumbling to repossess tools and weapons and ornaments.

"Come on," Elizabeth said nervously.

"Wait a minute. It says some articles are on special exhibit in rooms 34 and 35. We'll have to go around the other way."

In so doing they followed the exhibits in reverse order of time-from furniture of the early baroque to rooms furnished in the style of 1625, to Lutheran church regalia of a century before that. The rooms were not entirely empty of human life. A bored elderly guard watched them suspiciously as they pa.s.sed a cabinet containing silver plate, and a young woman, presumably an art-history student, was sketching a carved altarpiece. Their presence did nothing to relieve the general atmosphere of echoing emptiness, and twice, when they paused for a moment, Elizabeth thought she heard footsteps behind them-soft, sly steps that paused just outside the door of the room in which they were. Well, and why not? she rea.s.sured herself. There are other people interested in medieval Denmark.

Still, she was relieved when they had left the later centuries behind and saw objects dating to the fifteenth. They moved slowly here, reading every label, but it soon became depressingly apparent that there was nothing in the exhibit pertaining to Margaret the First. The majority of the exhibits were religious in nature-chalices and copes and chasubles, altarpieces and sculptures of saints. In the final room a temporary door blocked further progress.

"I guess that's all," Christian said. "It was a forlorn hope at best. We'll have to go back the way we came in."

He strode toward the door. Elizabeth was right on his heels. Those soft, surrept.i.tious footsteps still worried her. She was beside him when they pa.s.sed into the next room, but he was the one who saw the flicker of movement as a figure darted into concealment behind a painted communion table.

"Hey, you," Christian shouted. He moved so quickly that the hand Elizabeth flung out, in a vain attempt to stop him, missed its grasp by a good six inches.

Realizing he had been seen, the man came out of hiding. Elizabeth let out a shriek that shattered the sacred silence and made the gla.s.s in the cases rattle. It was rather like screaming in church, but she didn't care; the more people who heard her, the better, as far as she was concerned. For the figure was one she had seen before -the meager, shabby man who had dropped his trunk on Margaret's secretary.

The room was one of the larger exhibition halls, a good sixty feet long, but Christian was covering the distance in great uninhibited bounds. The shabby little man cast a quick measuring look at the exit and another at Christian, closing in on him, and decided against flight. His hand moved toward his pocket. As Christian reached out for him he ducked back behind the communion table. Following, Christian slipped and lost his balance. He grabbed the edge of the table and managed to remain upright, until the little man, reappearing, hit him smartly over the head with a short blunt instrument. Christian fell down, Elizabeth ran toward him, and the little man departed at a sedate trot.

By the time Elizabeth reached him Christian was sitting up, rubbing his head. With her aid, and that of the communion table, he got to his feet, but he was still leaning dizzily on the table when the guard came puffing in. Instead of offering sympathy or a.s.sistance, the guard let out an indignant cry and burst into pa.s.sionate speech. From his gestures Elizabeth gathered that he was scolding Christian for touching one of the antiques.

Christian had to calm not only the guard but an indignant Elizabeth. As he dragged her bodily from the scene, he hissed, "For G.o.d's sake, he was only doing his job! He didn't know I had been hit on the head, he didn't know what the h.e.l.l you were bellowing about, and even if he had, he's too old and fat and underpaid to risk his neck chasing muggers."

"Well . . . That's true. I wasn't really mad at him. "

"I a.s.sume you are not unreasonable enough to be mad at me. It wasn't my fault. I didn't ask to be hit on the head."

"You might as well have."

"Thanks for the sympathy! Whatever happened to the ministering-angel routine?"

"Are you hurt?" Elizabeth inquired, somewhat belatedly.

"No."

"You aren't going to get any sympathy playing stoic." But her voice was unsteady, and when Christian glanced down at her he saw something in her face that improved his temper.

"I'm fine. He didn't hit hard. Either he missed, being in something of a hurry, or . . ."

"Or what?"

"Or he didn't intend to hit hard."

Elizabeth had no intention of taking his word for it. His nonchalance about danger worried her almost as much as did her suspicion that deep down underneath he was beginning to enjoy the excitement. There was more of his mother in him than any of them, including Christian, had realized.

As soon as they got in the car she put her hands on his head and inspected his skull for damage. He gave her a startled look, but submitted without comment; and she was soon able to satisfy herself that he had not been playing hero. The rising b.u.mp was trivial and the skin had not been broken.

"It doesn't make sense," she said, as they drove through the thickening traffic of late afternoon. "Yesterday they tried to shoot you. Today-he could have picked you off a dozen times, do you realize that?"

"He didn't have a gun." Christian slammed on the brakes and swore as a Saab cut in front of him. "At least, the thing he hit me with wasn't a gun. It is confusing. Maybe there are two gangs after us."

Elizabeth did not find this idea comforting. "I don't suppose this little encounter has convinced you that we ought to go to the police?"

"You are correct. It hasn't."

"You're impossible," Elizabeth said angrily. "Once you make up your mind, you never change it."

But she was mistaken. He changed his mind an hour or so later, when they got the package containing the severed human finger.

AFTER Elizabeth was through being sick, she returned to the sitting room. The box, a small cardboard container some six inches square, rested on the coffee table. Knees on his elbows, face faintly green, Christian was staring into it.

Elizabeth carefully selected a chair far enough from the table so that she was unable to see into the depths of the box. She remembered, only too well, what the grisly object was like. Nestled cozily in a bed of cotton wool, it had been covered by another layer of the same material. When Christian lifted this off, Elizabeth's eyes had refused to believe what they saw. Pallidly, loathsomely white and bloodless, the object had resembled a marble or plaster imitation of the real thing, carved with a consummate skill that reproduced every line, every hair, every pore.

She had made it to the bathroom just in time. Now, shaken and ashamed of her weakness, she said resolutely, "Is it Margaret's?"

"It could be. Would you recognize an isolated finger if you saw it separated from its owner?"

His tone contrasted painfully with the calm precision of his words. "My dear," she began.

Christian appeared not to hear the endearment. "It's possible that this is just another trick to alarm us. But I can't take that chance. Naturally, I'll go."

"Go where?"

"There is a note." The greenish tint on Christian's face deepened. "It was under the finger."

He had had to touch it-lift it, perhaps. Unpleasant enough if it had been some anonymous digit, owner unknown. Recalling the countless times he had held his mother's hand, twined his childish fingers around hers. . . . Enough of that, Elizabeth told herself.

"What does the note say?" she asked.

"It gives a time and a place. Presumably I'm to be there."

"Where?"

"It says, 'Come alone.' " Christian's lips twisted in a sardonic smile. "Apparently they are getting tired of you hanging around all the time."

"I will be, though."

"You will not." Christian picked up the piece of paper, holding it with his fingertips, almost as fastidiously as he would have held the amputated finger. " 'If you are accompanied, you will not be contacted, and tomorrow you will receive the mate to this.' "

She could put forth no argument to annul the brutality of the threat. Desperation showed her her only weapon.

"If you go without me, I'll call Grundtvig and tell him everything."

His stiff face came to life. "You wouldn't."

"Christian, think! You made fun of the hero of that movie last night because he risked his life uselessly. That's exactly what you are proposing to do. They won't release Margaret-if they have her-in exchange for you. They want something you don't have-you don't even know what it is! You'll only succeed in getting yourself captured or killed, and she'll be in as much trouble as she is already. More; because I suspect she's rather fond of you."

She put every ounce of persuasion she could summon into her voice and her expression, and died a dozen deaths while Christian thought it over.

"I suppose you're right," he said, after an eon.

Elizabeth breathed. "Then . . ." she began.

"Yes, d.a.m.n it, all right! The time has come to talk to Papa Grundtvig. I may be stubborn, but I'm not stupid."