The Copenhagen Connection Part 8

"I thought we were going-"

"There it is!" Christian swung the wheel and turned into a parking lot. "That's the one, isn't it?"

"I guess so." There were a dozen buses in the lot, but only one of them was red. "It looks like the same one."

"Then the group must be at the Cathedral right now." Christian chuckled fiendishly.

A gentle drizzling rain began to fall as they ascended the sloping walk leading up to the hill from which the Cathedral commanded the city. The wet sidewalks and the crowds of visitors made walking difficult. When Elizabeth paused to tie a transparent rain hat over her hair, Christian forged ahead. She caught up with him at the entrance. He frowned at her.

"No stopping to look at the view. This is serious business."

He did not wait for her angry reb.u.t.tal, but darted into the vestry, where a counter displaying postcards and guidebooks caught Elizabeth's attention. She decided she had better not try it; but an indignant guard caught Christian at the inner door, demanding tickets, and while he was buying them Elizabeth acquired a guidebook with lovely color photographs. She was not given time to peruse it. Christian handed over the tickets and went in, herding her ahead of him.

The interior was a pleasing mixture of Romanesque and early Gothic. The tall piers were adorned, for the most part, only by sections of white paint that contrasted handsomely with the rich red brick of the unpainted portions. The main aisle was relatively deserted. A single glance told them that their quarry was not in sight.

This left them with something of a problem, however, since the church was vast, and its chief attraction seemed to be the series of chapels containing the royal tombs, on both sides of the central structure. Elizabeth pointed this out, referring ostentatiously to her guidebook.

"You go right, I'll go left," Christian said. "We'll meet by the high altar. And no sightseeing!"

This was tantamount to ushering an alcoholic into a well-stocked bar and ordering him not to sample the wares; but Elizabeth summoned up all her willpower and succeeded fairly well. The charming faded frescoes on the white vault of the first chapel she entered tested her strength to the uttermost, but after an anguished glance at twining vines and flowers and graceful portraits of bishops, saints, and martyrs, she turned her attention to the much less attractive forms of the tourists who were examining the Renaissance marble monuments to two early monarchs-presumably a Christian and a Frederick, since all Danish kings since 1425 have borne one name or the other. Several of the female tourists were oddly dressed; one overweight woman had forced her curves into an ensemble of black leather tunic, pants, and boots. But none of them was Margaret.

The next chapel was exquisitely, whitely neocla.s.sical. Elizabeth let out a m.u.f.fled bleat of anguish, but doggedly stuck to her mission. In and out among the tombs, peering behind columns and into alcoves, constantly wheeling and whirling to make sure her quarry had not slipped past her, she finally reached the end of the nave. Christian was waiting, rolling his eyes from side to side and rotating slowly, like a figure atop a music box.

"No luck?" he asked, continuing to revolve. "The choir is the only place left, then."

"Queen Margaret's tomb is behind the altar," said Elizabeth, who had s.n.a.t.c.hed a look at the guidebook.

"Oh? We'll converge on it. Pincer movement. You go-"

"Right."

As she proceeded, Elizabeth's interest in the living Margaret was momentarily eclipsed by curiosity about her long-dead namesake. This was her first chance to see what the legendary lady had looked like. The guidebook contained a photograph of the marble effigy atop the tomb. It was a lovely profile-idealized, almost certainly, for Margaret had died nastily of plague at the age of almost sixty. Yet the carving had captured the royal lady's indomitable spirit.

Many of the older monuments were in this part of the church, and a majority of the sightseers had gathered there. Margaret's tomb, a high marble platform with sculptured figures along the sides, was virtually hidden by the bodies of the curious. The voices of half a dozen guides, lecturing in as many languages, blended in a distracting mumble.

Elizabeth edged toward the tomb. Yes, by heaven, there it was-a flash of pink cabbage leaves. Only a flash; Margaret was short, and it was easy for her to conceal herself among taller bodies.

On the far side of the choir stood Christian, his eyes moving over the crowd. Apparently he hadn't seen his mother. There were a number of people between them, including one very large man in a shabby navy-blue coat, with a knitted cap pulled down over . . .

Elizabeth rose to her tiptoes and waved frantically. Christian saw her. So did a number of other people, including the very large man in the knitted cap.

His face was as deeply tanned as an Indian's, but his features and a pair of blue eyes so pale they resembled faded marbles suggested that he was a native of the northern peninsula, if not Denmark itself. When the milky-blue eyes focused on Elizabeth they bulged alarmingly. His mouth opened. Over the discreet murmurs of the lecturing guides sounded a high tenor howl of alarm or fury. This sound was joined by a swelling chorus of shrieks and shouts as he turned and forced his way through the throng, sweeping people aside with flailing movements of his arms.

Christian could have avoided him. Instead he stepped forward and raised one hand in a magisterial gesture. Elizabeth saw his lips shape a few words-she thought they were, "Now, see here, you"-before a horizontal navy-blue object obscured his face and sent him reeling into a tomb. The very large man was now moving at a ponderous run, like an antique train engine getting up steam. Elizabeth caught a last fleeting glimpse of his face as he headed down the side aisle. Tears streamed from his eyes. Sobbing noisily, he moved into full throttle and disappeared behind a pier.

The pink cabbage had, of course, also disappeared. Its very conspicuousness had advantages; Margaret had only to remove it to blend with the crowd.

Elizabeth picked her way fastidiously through the fallen bodies to where Christian was squatting, head bowed, knuckles resting on the floor in orangutang fas.h.i.+on. He shook his head dizzily. A surrealist spatter of red drops speckled the marble.

"Put your head back," Elizabeth suggested, offering him a handful of tissues.

Christian disdained this gift in favor of his own handkerchief. He was the only man Elizabeth had ever known who always had a large, clean white handkerchief. She had to admit that on this occasion its usefulness was unquestionable. His nose was bleeding with copious abandon.

No one paid any attention to them. Christian was only one of a number of victims, and as attendants and fellow tourists ran to a.s.sist the fallen, they withdrew into a convenient alcove.

"Oofaher," Christian said, through the b.l.o.o.d.y wad of linen.

"What?"

"Look for her. I'll go left, you go-"

"Oh, don't be silly. She's long gone. That man over there seems to be a doctor; maybe he can help stop-"

"It's stopped."

"Then go wash your face. You look terrible."

"No time," Christian mumbled. "Got to hurry."

"Where?"

"Back to the bus."

"You don't think she would be stupid enough to go there, do you?"

"It's worth a try."

It had stopped raining, but the walks were slippery with water and Christian, still a trifle dazed, allowed Elizabeth to set a moderate pace.

"We know what one of the gang looks like now; that's one thing gained," she said brightly.

Christian growled.

"It was the same man who was at Tivoli last night," she went on. "That can't be coincidence. And he's certainly distinctive looking. I'd say he's at least six feet six inches tall."

"At least," Christian mumbled. "That's the second time he's knocked me down." He rubbed his arm and grimaced.

"Oh, I don't think he has anything personal against you," Elizabeth said consolingly. "He knocked a lot of other people down too. I must say it wasn't very bright of you to get in his way. If I saw a creature that size coming at me . . . What's the matter?"

Christian stopped walking. He put his hand inside his jacket, Napoleon style, and then Elizabeth was treated to the strange spectacle of a bare finger sticking out of his shoulder. The phenomenon was so unusual that it took her a few seconds to connect the effect with the obvious cause.

The finger was protruding through a hole in Christian's sleeve. It was a symmetrical round hole, so neat in shape that it could only have been made by a finically tidy moth-or by a bullet.

CHRISTIAN removed his finger from the hole and his arm from the sleeve of his jacket. A ragged tear, surrounded by a narrow rim of blood, marked his s.h.i.+rt sleeve just below the shoulder.

"Oh, my goodness," Elizabeth said feebly.

"Grazed me," Christian said. "Close, but no cigar. Yes, here's the exit hole. Lucky the sleeve is loose."

"Are you all right?" Elizabeth asked.

"Just a scratch," Christian said, with studied nonchalance. He squared his shoulders and attempted, with some success, to look as if being shot at was an everyday occurrence in his adventurous life. "I didn't hear a shot. A silencer, I suppose." He laughed lightly.

"Oh, my goodness," Elizabeth repeated, even more feebly. She swayed. But Christian was through playing hero. Instead of putting a protective arm around her and pressing her to his manly chest, he grinned malevolently.

"That'll learn you. A bloodless little plot, did you say? No violence, did you say? Ha! Who was right and who was wrong, Miss Know-it-all?"

"You were right and I was wrong," Elizabeth murmured.

"Now let's go to the bus."

Elizabeth followed at a respectful distance. She had a feeling that this new Christian was going to be even more trying to live with than the stodgy stockbroker.

People were pouring out of the Cathedral and along the walk. Elizabeth overheard a number of references to what had happened, some indignant and shocked, some amused and curious. The guides were hurrying their charges away as expeditiously as possible. This sort of thing wasn't good for tourism.

The pa.s.sengers who belonged to the red Vikingland bus were climbing on board when Elizabeth and Christian reached the parking lot. Christian started to get on, then changed his mind and engaged the driver in conversation. Turning to Elizabeth, he reported, "He remembers her."

"Who wouldn't?"

"He says she hasn't come back yet."

"If we are going to lurk in waiting, I suggest we get out of sight."

"Good idea," Christian said patronizingly. He withdrew behind the bus.

A few last stragglers got on. The bus appeared to be full, but the driver was still outside, smoking a leisurely cigarette.

"What are they waiting for?" Elizabeth asked.

"The guide, probably. He or she would be the last one on."

Finally they caught sight of her-a lean, gray-haired woman whose expression, a blend of anxious smile and worried frown, betokened her profession. Leaning heavily on her arm was another woman approximately twice her bulk and about her own age. The latter was obviously American. Her strident tones, redolent of the Midwestern heartland, floated to Elizabeth's ears.

"Outrageous . . . scandalous . . . sue the bus company . . . sue you . . . sue Denmark. . . ."

"But, madame," the guide gasped, staggering under the complainant's weight, "the doctor said there was no injury; you are not hurt; I regret the shock and inconvenience, but you cannot blame the company."

The pair came to a halt by the steps of the bus. The large irate female bared her arm. It was muscled like that of a boxer, and bore a number of bruises, most of them fading. She indicated one, about an inch in diameter.

"Not hurt? My arm is probably broken. I feel extreme mental anguish. The shock!" She clutched her expansive bosom. "Such a thing could never have happened in a well-regulated country. Back home we-"

"Have the highest crime rate in the civilized world," Christian said, stepping forward. "Why don't you get on the bus, lady, and stop slandering a really civilized nation?"

"How dare you! I'll report you, young man; what right have you-"

"I work for Interpol," Christian said. Elizabeth gasped. He scowled warningly at her and continued, "We got a tip from a snitch that a drug drop was going down at the Cathedral. You better come along with me, lady."

The woman's reply was essentially unintelligible. It consisted mainly of gasps and snorts and cries of protest. Christian finally let her get on the bus, which she was more than ready to do. Then he turned to the guide.

She shrank back. "Oh, sir, you do not suspect me! I am an honest woman; I work for my living."

Christian had the grace to look ashamed of himself. "No, ma'am, you're in the clear. Not a thing to worry about. The person I'm interested in is a woman who was on the bus when you left Copenhagen. She was wearing a funny hat-"

"Oh. Madame Orkin."

"No, her name is . . ." Christian paused. "Yes, I guess I mean Madame Orkin."

"But you do not suspect her of wrongdoing? Such a kind lady, so thoughtful and pleasant. Speak to her, she will tell you."

"She isn't back yet."

This news disturbed the guide much more than the possibility of being arrested for dealing in drugs.

"Not back! But she must be; we are already behind schedule, we cannot wait. Oh, what shall I do? Wait, I will look. She must be on the bus."

Elizabeth sidled up to Christian. "A tip from a snitch?"

"That is the jargon, I believe." He looked loftily at her down the full length of his nose.

"You are showing signs of a severe personality disturbance," Elizabeth said earnestly. "Quick now-what's your name? Who are you?"

"Don't be absurd. This is no time for facetiousness."

The guide returned. Her frown had intensified and her smile had quite vanished. "Everyone is here but Madame Orkin. I must go back and look for her. Perhaps she was injured. Oh, dear, this is terrible." She began to wring her hands.

At this tense moment deliverance arrived in a most unlikely form-that of a towheaded boy on a bicycle. He looked thoughtfully at the bus and at the unhappy guide; scratched his head; scratched his chin; then produced, from the pocket of his jacket, a letter which he handed to the guide, with a brief explanation in Danish.

The woman's face cleared as if by magic. She opened the letter and turned a beaming smile on Christian.

"It is all right. It is well. See how thoughtful is Madame Orkin; she writes to tell me she has decided to stay in Roskilde tonight. She absolves me of all blame, and thanks me. And even ..." A heavenly glow illumined her face as she took a small wad of Danish banknotes from the envelope. "And even she pays for the luncheon, which she will not eat. It was ordered in advance, you see; she knows that, she thinks of everything. What a good, kind woman is Madame Orkin! She cannot be your drug person, sir." - Quite rejuvenated, she bounded up the stairs onto the bus. Christian pounced on the messenger, who had watched the performance with the tolerant contempt felt by the young for the foibles of the middle-aged. "Where did you get that letter?" he shouted.

"You'll scare the poor child to death," Elizabeth exclaimed.

The boy did not appear at all alarmed. Like most Danes he understood English quite well. "You search for drugs?" he inquired interestedly. "You are a policeman, sir?"

"Er . . . well ... a kind of policeman. You can be of great help."

"But she did not say you were a policeman."

"She? Who?"

"The lady who gave me the letter, and twenty kroner to deliver it to the guide of the large red bus." He glanced calmly at the vehicle, which was making angry noises. "The bus wishes to depart, sir. Shall we move out of its way?"

They did so. The bus departed. Elizabeth hoped the guide enjoyed her lunch. Maybe she would eat two-hers and Margaret's. After all, it had been ordered in advance.