The Copenhagen Connection Part 19

"I think he's trying to tell us where it is," Cheryl said uncertainly.

"That is very good news. What is he saying?"

"I can't understand!" Cheryl's voice also rose. "He talks funny. He always did talk funny, and now he's so scared he's not making any sense. Don't you yell at me, Radsky!"

Elizabeth opened her eyes. Radsky had risen to his feet. Wolf continued to talk, but whether he was confessing, begging for mercy, or simply making conversation none of them ever knew. Radsky walked up and down the room a few times. The exercise seemed to calm him; his angry color subsided, and after another turn or two he said, "We must get Eric to talk to him."

"First sensible suggestion you've made," Schmidt growled. "I'll go get him."

He vanished into the hall. A door opened. The keening rose intolerably and then stopped, with a croak.

"Get out of there," Radsky shouted. "I told you to leave her alone."

"All right, all right," Schmidt yelled back. "She was driving me crazy."

He slammed the door, and for a few seconds there was blessed silence. Elizabeth realized that for the past five minutes everyone had been screaming.

Schmidt returned with Eric. The farmer's face was as wooden as ever, but when he saw the roped bundle on the floor, agonized life flooded into it. Ignoring Schmidt's gun, he dropped to his knees beside Wolf. The latter's enormous face opened in a pleased smile. He said something to Eric, who looked at Schmidt.

"Please-don't hurt. He will tell. Please."

"Well, thank G.o.d," Schmidt said. "Talk to him, Eric."

The sight of his brother had restored Wolfs confidence. He chatted cheerfully in a sweet, high-pitched voice that sounded odd coming from his huge throat. But his eyes kept wandering uneasily to Radsky, who held the knife in plain view.

"He tells," Eric said finally. "It is in the tomb, the . . . What is the word-I do not know the English. ..."

Radsky's face darkened. "I do not allow jokes," he snapped, flouris.h.i.+ng the knife. Wolf let out a howl.

"You are cruel men," Eric said gravely. "I did not know. Now, too late. I tell. I try to tell. In the tomb, the very old tomb. Where the Viking chief was long ago."

"What the h.e.l.l is he talking about?" Cheryl demanded. "He's stalling, Radsky. Show him-"

"No." Radsky stroked his chin. "I think I know what he means. Eric-draw a map."

"Yes." Eric got to his feet. "Then you go. Not hurt . . ." His gesture included Elizabeth and Christian, a kindly thought that she appreciated.

"Yes, yes. I give you my word."

A strange expression that might have been irony crossed Eric's face. "You lie," he said carefully, "I kill."

"You lie, / kill," Radsky retorted. "Make the map. We go to see. If you lie-we come back."

The farmer nodded. He and Radsky went to the table on the far side of the room and bent over a sheet of paper. From time to time Eric spoke briefly in Danish, referring to the map he was drawing. Radsky seemed to understand. Finally he picked up the paper. "Done," he said.

"I can't believe it," Cheryl exclaimed. "Wow, will it be great to get out of this hole!"

"Get your things," Radsky ordered. "Schmidt-"

"Yeah, I know." Schmidt gestured to Eric. "Back in the cellar, pal."

Eric turned to Radsky. "You not come back?"

"If we find it where Wolf says it is."

"It is there." Eric spoke gently to his brother. Wolf nodded agreeably, and Schmidt escorted Eric out of the room.

Radsky studied his knife with the disappointed look of a violinist who has expected to perform but has not been asked. Carefully he sheathed it. Then he looked at Christian.

"You are an impetuous young man," he said. "Do not yield to that weakness now. Only hope that the imbecile remembered correctly and that his brother interpreted accurately. If we find what we seek, we will not see you again."

"You'll find it." Elizabeth spoke with more confidence than she had reason to feel. "But you can't leave us here like this!"

"The farmer will get out of the cellar eventually," was the disinterested reply. "The door is stout and will resist for a time; but he will get out. That is why I advise you to save your strength. You will be here for a while."

Schmidt came back with Cheryl. Each carried a suitcase. "Let's go," Schmidt said.

"Start the car. I will get my bag and meet you at the front door." Radsky went out without looking at the captives. Schmidt gave them one of his vulpine smiles.

"See you around, sweetheart," he said. "You too, bright boy." He took a step toward Christian, who glared at him speechlessly.

"You leave him alone," Elizabeth shouted. Apparently the invisible crooner in the room down the hall heard her; the shrill wailing started up again. Schmidt swore, Elizabeth laughed, and Cheryl stamped her foot like a pettish schoolgirl. "For G.o.d's sake, Joe, let's get out of here!"

Like Cheryl-and it was the first time she had shared an emotion with that unpleasant young woman-Elizabeth could hardly believe it was over. She strained her ears to hear the sounds that meant deliverance-doors slamming, a car's engine starting up and growing softer as the vehicle moved away.

Scarcely had it died into silence when a door opened, with such vehemence that it slammed into the wall. Footsteps pounded along the hall, and in the doorway appeared an apparition so bizarre that it took Elizabeth's breath away.

The word "eldritch" means weird, eerie, uncanny. It implies a wealth of richer images-the three witches on the desolate heath prophesying to Macbeth; the wicked queen in "Snow White," hideously transformed into a horrible old hag. The word and all its connotations were scarcely adequate to describe the old woman who stood before them. Tattered locks of gray hair, coa.r.s.e as hemp, half concealed her face. Steel-rimmed gla.s.ses, mended with tape at the temples, reflected the light like the multifaceted eyes of an enormous insect. Her nose was so long and her chin so protruding that the two almost met.

The gla.s.ses flashed as she surveyed the room, one hand stroking her chin. It came off in her hand. She threw it absently over her shoulder.

The nose stood out in all its Roman splendor, a crag jutting out of a field of uncut hay.

Wolf giggled and spoke in a high, amused voice. Margaret replied; but her attention was concentrated on her son, whose eyes threatened to pop out of his head.

"Oh, my poor darling! What have they done to you?"

She removed the gag and mopped his face with it, making the smeared mess even worse. "Darling, we haven't time to talk," she went on, cutting off Christian's attempt to speak. "We must hurry. Perhaps we can get there before they do. I think we can. My poor sweet boy, all that blood . . . Maybe you had better stay here. Elizabeth and I will go after Margaret's bathrobe. I'm sorry to trouble you, Elizabeth, but if you don't mind . . ."

Elizabeth had recovered her breath, but speech was still beyond her. She nodded dumbly.

"Mother," Christian said. "Will you please stop patting me and untie my hands?"

"A knife would be quicker," Margaret said. She reached for one of the knives that filled a rack above the sink. It had a twelve-inch blade, and at the sight of it Christian expostulated vehemently.

"Oh, no, you don't. I've seen you trying to carve a roast. I know you're going to cut me, but at least use a smaller knife."

"Perhaps you are right," Margaret said humbly. She selected a paring knife and disappeared behind Christian. A look of mingled apprehension and resignation settled on his face.

"Were you the one who put the key in the sandwiches?" he inquired, flinching.

"No, dear, that was Eric. I suggested it, though. Oh, I'm so sorry. Did I-?"

"Never mind, get on with it."

"The ropes are very tight," Margaret complained. "The key? Yes, I thought it might be useful. You dealt with the boarded-up window very nicely; Eric saw it immediately, but did not believe Mr. Schmidt noticed. He felt, however, that you might have some trouble with Elizabeth's-er-ankle cuff. Oh, I've cut you again. Forgive me, dear."

"Keep talking," Christian said between his teeth. "You expected us to escape tonight?"

"Well, I certainly hoped you would. And you'd have done it too, clever man, if it hadn't been for Wolf." Hearing his name, the big man chuckled and spoke. Margaret tossed back a quick, smiling sentence before continuing. "It wasn't his fault, poor thing. When he was unable to locate me, he couldn't think where else to go."

"I won't ask how you knew we were here," Christian said. "You had known Eric and Wolf before?"

"Of course, they are old friends. That is why Wolf got in touch with me. And I knew Eric must be involved, if Wolf was. Honestly, Christian, I couldn't tell you about it. Though Wolf's letter was somewhat incoherent, it was plain that they had committed . . . well, let us call it a slight legal indiscretion. I hoped I could persuade the authorities to drop the charges if the bathrobe was returned."

"What in heaven's name is-" Elizabeth began.

"Later, Elizabeth," Christian interrupted. "You have to keep her on the track or she rambles. Mother, will you hurry up?"

Margaret's face, pink with indignation and effort, popped into view around the back of Christian's chair. He let out a yelp. "Watch what you're doing!"

"Oh, dear." Margaret disappeared from view. "Christian, you must believe I would never have let you come to Denmark if I had known Eric had contacted professional criminals. It wasn't until that nasty little man dropped the trunk on Marian that I realized the affair could be dangerous. There, darling, that's done it."

Christian brought his bleeding hands out from behind the chair. Margaret crawled around and squatted at his feet.

"I'll do that." Christian s.n.a.t.c.hed the knife and began sawing at the ropes around his ankles. "Why did you run away?"

"Oh, that." Margaret glanced at Elizabeth and quickly glanced away. "We really must hurry, Christian. While you're doing that I'll just..." She sidled toward the knife rack.

"Oh, no, you don't," Christian shouted, so loudly that Margaret jumped and Wolfs lip began to quiver. "Don't touch Elizabeth. I'll cut her loose. You just go on talking."

Margaret removed a knife from the rack and examined it regretfully. "Of course, dear, if you'd rather. But please be quick. Why did I run away? Why, because I thought Elizabeth was one of the gang."

Christian paused in midslash; both he and Elizabeth turned outraged stares on Margaret, who coughed and looked at the ceiling. "It was a logical deduction," she protested. "First the accident, then an unknown young woman turning up to fill the vacated position. What was I to think? Her credentials checked out, but that didn't prove anything; an impecunious, ambitious young person can be bribed. So I thought it better to-er-absent myself. I had to find Wolf, and I didn't dare try to get in touch with him while a member of the gang, as I believed, was watching every move I made."

She nodded benevolently as Christian finished cutting the ropes on his feet and went to perform the same service for Elizabeth. "Very nice, dear. You always were neat with your hands. Just like your father. Where was I? Oh-my suspicions of Elizabeth. You will forgive me, won't you, dear girl? I'll try to make it up to you."

"I guess I can't blame you," Elizabeth admitted. Her hands were free. She twisted them together, trying to restore the circulation. "When did you realize I was harmless?"

"I wasn't absolutely certain until I reached this house," Margaret admitted. "Your supposed kidnapping could have been a trick, to win Christian's and my confidence. But when I heard what Schmidt and Radsky said about you I realized I had been mistaken. They wouldn't bother to put on an act for a senile old woman."

"Does Eric really have a cook?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, dear, of course. He sent Gertrud away after the others moved in. He was afraid for her safety. She is rather an outspoken person and she did not care for Mr. Schmidt and his friends, as she was quick to tell me when I called on her a few days ago. I fancied that by now Eric would be regretting his involvement, and would be very worried about Wolf. I felt sure he would play along with me. Which he did."

The bonds on Elizabeth's feet fell away, but she did not move. She looked incredulously at Margaret.

"You mean you just walked up to the house and asked for your-for Gertrud's--job back? You were taking an awful chance!"

"Not really. One old woman looks very much like another to persons without imagination or compa.s.sion. And," Margaret added complacently, "I am a master of disguise. Are you through, dear? That's good. We really must be on our way. I'll just free Eric."

Still clutching the carving knife, she trotted into the hall.

"Are you all right?" Christian asked, lifting Elizabeth into his arms.

She clung to him, limp with relief and bewilderment. "I'm numb. What do you suppose she has in mind now?"

"You ought to know better than to ask me."

"Christian, if she doesn't tell me what Margaret's bathrobe is pretty soon, I am going to scream."

"Obviously it's a code word for some valuable."

"Obviously. But what?"

"We'll find out eventually," Christian said. His voice was mild and incurious. Elizabeth looked at him anxiously. He must be more seriously injured than she had realized. Perhaps Schmidt's repeated blows had bruised his brain.

They moved apart as Margaret came back, followed by Eric. She was spouting Danish at an alarming rate, waving her arms to emphasize her point. The carving knife was still in her hand; once or twice it narrowly missed Eric's nose, but he was apparently used to her rhetorical style, for he only ducked mechanically. Then Margaret s.h.i.+fted the knife to her left hand, took a pencil from a pocket in her ragged skirt, and scribbled on a piece of paper, which she handed to Eric. He nodded. From a drawer in the cupboard he took a set of keys and handed them to Margaret.

Elizabeth had no idea what they had said. Christian got part of it. He didn't seem to like what he heard.

"Who did you tell him to call?" he demanded.

"Whom, dear. Even at a moment like this-"

"Don't stall, Margaret. You don't realize-"

"I do, Christian." They faced one another squarely. Their profiles might have been mirror images, but now Elizabeth did not find the resemblance amusing. Margaret's face was taut with strain, and when she continued, her voice shook slightly. "Please trust me. Just this once -trust me."

"Okay."

"There isn't time to explain. . . . What?" Margaret's jaw dropped. "What did you say?"

"I said okay. What do we do now?"

"My dear!" Her lips parted, baring what appeared to be her entire supply of teeth. "We're going after them, of course. We'll take Eric's truck."

She was out the door before he could answer, running like a girl, her skirts raised to her knees.

The truck was an aged Ford pickup, battered and scarred by use. When they caught up with her, Margaret was trying to get into the driver's seat. Her short legs and long skirts made the process difficult.

"I'll drive," she said. "I know the way."

Christian's head jerked as if he had been slapped, but he made no objection, only a.s.sisted his mother into the truck with a brisk shove on the derriere. The engine sputtered into life as he got into the other seat and pulled Elizabeth onto his lap. He managed to close the door, although the truck was already moving backward at a good thirty miles an hour.

"The light switch is over there," he suggested, pointing.

"Oh. Yes, that is a good idea." Margaret changed gears noisily and sent the truck bucketing down the rutted lane.