The Copenhagen Connection Part 12

He reached for the telephone. "Get on the extension in Margaret's room," he said.

Elizabeth was glad he had suggested it. She had every intention of listening anyway, but it was nice to have permission.

By the time she lifted the receiver he had been put through. The click of her entrance into the conversation did not go unnoticed; Grundtvig was trained in such matters.

"There is someone on the line," he said sharply.

"It's just me," Elizabeth said apologetically.

"Miss Jones? How nice to speak to you again."

"Never mind that," Christian said. He had been slow to make up his mind, but once it was made up he did not equivocate. "I must see you right away, Mr. Grundtvig. A number of alarming things have happened, and I have reason to believe Margaret is in serious-"

"Be quiet!" The tone was so sharp that Christian stopped in midsentence. Grundtvig went on, "Don't say any more. Don't come here. I will see you at my home, tonight. Do you have a pencil? I will give you the address."

"Yes, I'm ready. It has to be early, Mr. Grundtvig. There is something I may have to do later."

"Seven o'clock. The address is Horsensgade 37. Do not walk or take a taxi. Drive your own car."

He hung up.

Elizabeth went back to the sitting room. Christian was staring blankly at the telephone. "Well, what do you know about that?" he muttered.

"He knows something."

"Everybody knows something except us. I'm not sure I like this development."

"I don't like any of it."

"I mean the insistence on secrecy. Maybe Margaret is mixed up in something illegal."

"She wouldn't."

"Ha, ha."

Elizabeth decided to abandon the argument; she had a feeling that her defense of Margaret was the weaker side. "What was that you said about a late date?" she asked accusingly.

"Grundtvig may want me to keep that appointment. Properly protected-"

"He can't protect you from a shot out of the dark."

"Let's wait and see what he says. You were the one who insisted we put the matter into his hands."

Elizabeth bit her lip. She hadn't antic.i.p.ated this. A police official might well expect Christian to keep the appointment.

"You know," Christian went on, "I don't think this is Margaret's finger."

"No? That's good. Why not?"

"Look at it."

Elizabeth hastily retreated as he lifted the box. "Oh, all right, don't look at it," Christian said. "Did you notice that there's no blood? And unless my sense of smell has gone haywire, I detect a faint but perceptible odor of formaldehyde."

"I'll take your word for it," Elizabeth said, continuing to back away.

"If this thing had been chopped off a living person, it wouldn't be so neat," Christian continued, ignoring her nauseated expression. "In fact, they would want it to look as gruesome as possible, wouldn't they? Clotted with gore-"

"I see what you're driving at. You needn't elaborate."

"I thought you'd be pleased."

"I am. I'm delirious with joy. So you think this object was removed from someone already dead. . . . Christian! It couldn't be hers-the other Margaret's?"

Christian looked startled. Then he laughed. "Hardly. Five hundred and some years dead . . . There wouldn't be anything left but bones. If that." He picked up the box and studied the contents. There was no distress on his face now, only curiosity. "All the same-it looks like a woman's finger."

Rewrapped and tied with the original cord, the box was in Christian's pocket when they left the hotel. Grundtvig had not given them directions, and they had decided it would be best not to ask. A city map had provided the necessary information, and Christian appeared to have no doubt about where he was going.

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 gra.s.s 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 hoa.r.s.e, 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 pa.s.sing. . . . 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 a.s.sociates 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 wrist.w.a.tch. "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 hara.s.sed 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 G.o.d," 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 a.s.sistants 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 d.a.m.n 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-"