The Copenhagen Connection Part 13

Christian slammed the car door with unnecessary force. "It's amazing how people crumple up and retreat when that magic word is mentioned. He was just trying to put us off."

He glanced out the side window, preparing to make a left turn. Suddenly he jerked the wheel around and brought the car screeching to a halt somewhere in the vicinity of the curb.

"There she is," he shouted, wrenching the door open. "Over there. Quick, don't let her get away!"

As Elizabeth stared, too surprised to move, he set off in hot pursuit of a bowed figure m.u.f.fled in a dark cloak and hood. His quarry turned a startled face in his direction and then began to run with an agility and speed that contrasted impressively with its former hobbling progress. The features had been shadowed by the hood, but the person pursued was undoubtedly the proud possessor of a fine upstanding Roman nose.

Elizabeth got out and joined the chase. Christian's long legs enabled him to catch up with the cloaked figure before it reached the next intersection. He swept it into a close and not very affectionate embrace, despite its frantic efforts to resist. It began to yell.

The pitch was somewhere between ba.s.s and baritone. Christian promptly released his captive. The hood had fallen back in their struggle, and Elizabeth was horrified to behold the bald head and unfamiliar features of an infuriated old man. He began to beat Christian over the head with the cane he was carrying.

Christian retreated as Elizabeth advanced. They met ten feet away from the former captive, who was jumping up and down and making threatening gestures. Instinctively they clung to one another.

"How could you have made such a mistake?" Elizabeth gasped. She was torn between laughter and consternation.

"I'm starting to see her everywhere," Christian answered hysterically. "Hey, look out." The elderly gentleman had gained courage from Christian's retreat. He advanced on them, brandishing his cane.

"I'm sorry," Christian shouted. "Excuse me . . . uh . . . undskyld. . . . d.a.m.n, I seem to have forgotten all my Danish. Er der nogen her, der taler engelsk-no, that's not what I meant to say . . . d.a.m.n!" He threw up his arms to protect his head.

The old man paused. Studying Christian contemptuously, he hurled a single word at him-obviously an epithet-and then turned and walked away. There was a distinct swagger in his step.

"What did he call you?" Elizabeth asked.

"I think the word means 'pervert,' " Christian said. "Let's get out of here."

Christian carried a souvenir of the encounter in a red welt across his cheek. He did not find this as amusing as Elizabeth did.

"But it's your only visible scar," she pointed out. "People trying to kill you all over the place, and all you have to show for it is a bruise made by an old man who thought you were-"

"I suppose you'd be happier if I had bleeding wounds all over my body," snarled Christian.

He was still sulking when they reached the hotel, and his discovery that there had been no messages while they were gone did not improve his evil mood. Elizabeth antic.i.p.ated another long, tedious evening.

There wasn't even a movie on television, only a doc.u.mentary that seemed to have something to do with the breeding habits of a species of small crab. And with crabs, Elizabeth reflected, it was hard to tell what they were actually doing.

She watched it anyway. She was too restless to read, and Christian was not inclined toward conversation. I wonder why I love him, she thought, finally admitting the truth she had tried to suppress until Grundtvig's amiable tactlessness had forced her to face it. It can't be because I yearn to be Margaret's daughter-in-law. I'm beginning to think that might be a rather onerous position. He can be nice when he wants to. Under his stiff manner there is humor and kindness and a becoming humility. . . . d.a.m.n Margaret. She's responsible for those hidden insecurities. But I guess it's not her fault that she's a superior human being.

In such depressing speculation the evening pa.s.sed with stupefying slowness. By midnight Elizabeth was exhausted by boredom and would have gone to bed; but she knew she would not be able to sleep until they heard from Grundtvig. The meeting had been set for midnight -Christian had grudgingly admitted that much-so they could not expect to hear anything before twelve thirty at the earliest, probably much later.

When the telephone rang, they both jumped for it. Christian got there first. His tense expression relaxed, and he handed the phone to Elizabeth.

"It's for you. Sounds like that dizzy-looking receptionist."

The nasal tones were indeed unmistakable. The girl apologized for calling so late. "But I'm going home now, miss, and I just noticed there was a letter come for you. It must of got in the wrong box. It's from New York, so maybe it's important."

"Does the envelope say 'Frenchton and Monk'?" Elizabeth asked. The deduction was not difficult; her employers were the only persons in New York who knew her present address.

"Yes, that's the name."

"I'll come down and get it." Elizabeth explained the situation to Christian, adding wryly, "I suppose it's a series of admonitions to be kind to Margaret. If they only knew!"

"Why not leave it till morning?"

"It's something to do." Elizabeth added, "I have not found the evening's entertainment all that exciting."

Christian refused to be provoked. "Don't go out of the hotel."

"Why would I do that? Anyhow, Grundtvig meant that warning for you. n.o.body wants me."

She hadn't intended to express it quite that way. She left the room before Christian could reply.

The residents of the hotel were not given to late hours or raucous parties. The lobby was dim and quiet when she emerged from the lift. She went to the office and opened the door.

And that was all she knew, until she woke up to find herself lying on a hard mattress in a strange room with a headache that seemed about to split her skull.

Dazedly Elizabeth contemplated the ceiling. It was the only thing she dared contemplate; her first attempt to move had brought on a wave of intense dizziness and nausea. The ceiling had very little of interest. It was plain white plaster, neatly patched and repaired in several places. From it dangled a bra.s.s chain supporting a bare light bulb.

When the dizziness had subsided, Elizabeth cautiously tried to move her arms. They responded, but not well; they kept flopping back onto the bed, or onto her chest, every time she lifted them. At any rate, they were there. That was something.

Next she tried her feet. One worked all right. When she shifted the other, a jangling sound and a feeling of constriction followed. Unwarily she raised her head to look. There was an iron band around one ankle, and a chain attached to the band. Where the other end of the chain went she did not know. Nausea swept over her again and she let her head fall back. There seemed to be no point in staying awake, so she lost consciousness.

The second time she awoke matters had improved somewhat. She was still lying on the hard mattress, but the sick feeling was gone. Slowly she raised herself to a sitting position and subjected her surroundings to a careful scrutiny.

The room was small, painfully clean and painfully bare. The only object in it was the bed. No rugs, no ornaments, no pictures on the wall. There had been pictures; squares of slightly lighter paint showed where they had hung.

The ceiling sloped steeply down on one side of the room. There was a single window in that sloping wall. It was covered by heavy planks. The only light came from the bulb, which glared in her eyes.

Elizabeth turned her attention to the chain. Its far end, the one that was not attached to her ankle, disappeared over the foot of the bed, which was constructed, apparently for eternity, of heavy dark wood. Slowly Elizabeth got to her feet. She felt better. Lightheaded and dizzy and very empty, but better.

She expected that the chain would be secured to the bedpost, and that she might eventually hope to free herself by lifting or breaking said post. This expedient, she soon learned, was ruled out by the fact that the chain had been wound in and around the posts and footboard and secured by a heavy padlock.

Hearing a sound at the door, Elizabeth hopped back onto the bed and huddled against the headboard. When the door opened she was neither surprised nor pleased to see the familiar visage of Mr. Schmidt.

He gave her a casual disinterested glance and then spoke to someone behind him. "She's awake."

He stepped back-the door was too narrow to admit more than a single person-and another man appeared. Elizabeth had never seen him before. On the whole she preferred his face to Schmidt's. It was a flat, rather bovine countenance, with heavy lines dragging the mouth into a reverse curve; but the resulting expression was sad rather than vicious. If she had seen him in other surroundings she would have taken him for a carpenter or bricklayer, worried about his finances and his children's escapades, but essentially harmless. He wore working clothes-a heavy cotton shirt and khaki pants-hence her instinctive identification with manual labor rather than office work. His hands bore out the idea, being large and calloused. He had to stoop to enter the room.

While Schmidt leaned against the door, watching, the other man plodded toward the bed. He avoided Elizabeth's eyes. One hand reached for her ankle.

She pulled it away. His roughened skin and torn nails, the sheer size of his fingers, filled her with terror. As he leaned toward her she became aware of a strange sour smell, faint but repugnant.

Instead of making a grab for her, as Schmidt probably would have done, he stepped back and held up a key.

"You come," he said. "Wash, eat. Not-not . . ."

His English gave out at that intriguing point, but the mildness of his voice and the inducements he had offered relieved Elizabeth's fear. Schmidt let out a nasty laugh. "If you prefer my company to Eric's, just say so, honey."

"I don't," Elizabeth said. It was the first time she had tried to speak. Her voice was rusty and weak, but she was pleased to note that it showed no trace of fear. She offered her ankle to Eric, who was holding the key high, like a talisman. His big chapped hands were surprisingly gentle. He unlocked the iron band and made an awkward gesture toward the door. "Come. Wash. Eat."

Elizabeth followed him. Schmidt stood aside just enough to let her pa.s.s. The door was narrow, but she thought he purposely placed himself so she had to brush by him. However, he made no attempt to touch her.

Outside was a small landing, with another door opposite the one through which she had come. A steep staircase led down. Eric preceded her, indicating with a gesture that she should hold the handrail. The steps were narrow and the slope was extreme, more like a ladder than a staircase.

The primitiveness and poverty of the room she had seen thus far had led her to expect little in the way of sanitary conveniences. She was pleased to find that the bathroom had modern plumbing. It did not have a lock on the door. Elizabeth turned her attention to her immediate necessities.

Cool water splashed on her face and arms restored her to near normalcy. Leaving the water running in the basin, she turned to the window, which was covered by a cheap plastic curtain. She had no intention of trying to escape; Schmidt would be in the room instantly if there was a sound of gla.s.s breaking or the window being raised, but it would be advantageous to learn as much as she could about the place where she was imprisoned.

When she raised a corner of the curtain her hopes plummeted. The window was thick, opaque gla.s.s and the frame had been screwed shut. The screws shone brightly, obviously new.

"Come out or I'll come in," Schmidt called.

Elizabeth obeyed at once. There was no sense in being belligerent or defiant; in fact, she regretted her first sharp reply to Schmidt. If they thought she was terrified, they would be more inclined to relax their guard. It wasn't much of a plan, but it was the best she could do at the moment.

She had hoped to see more of the lower floor of the house, but the other doors leading from the hall were closed, and instead of taking her to the kitchen Eric indicated that she should go back upstairs. He followed her with a tray, which he had procured while she was in the bathroom. After glancing around the room as if in search of a piece of furniture that was no longer there, he shrugged and put the tray on the bed.

Schmidt made a sweeping gesture, in mocking imitation of a headwaiter. "Enjoy your lunch, lady."

"I ... I'd rather wait till I'm alone," Elizabeth murmured.

"No dice, sweetheart. Eat, or Papa will take it away. Makes no difference to me."

The tray had been covered with a white cloth, an incongruously housewifely touch. Elizabeth removed it. Underneath was a thick white china bowl filled with a soupy concoction that was probably meant to be stew; she could see chunks of meat and some scorched potatoes. There was also a bottle of beer and a few ragged slices of heavy dark bread.

The beer struck a questionable note, but Elizabeth was still extremely thirsty. There had been no gla.s.s or cup in the bathroom, and the amount of water that can be carried to the lips in cupped hands is limited. She drank some of the beer and then turned her attention to the stew, using the only implement on the tray, a large spoon. She had not expected gourmet food, but the first mouthful made her grimace. Not only was the seasoning vile-too little salt, too much of another spice she could not identify-but the potatoes had definitely been burned.

"Lousy, isn't it?" Schmidt said, genuine emotion coloring his voice. "As a cook Eric stinks."

Eric shot a mildly resentful glance at his cohort, and Elizabeth wondered how much English he understood. More than he spoke, perhaps. Not that it made any difference to her; Eric was obviously part of the gang, and perhaps his disposition was fully as unpleasant as Schmidt's. A mild face and quiet manner do not guarantee virtue.

She ate the bread and forced down a few more bites of stew, thinking she might need her strength-though at the moment she could not imagine what for. Then she smiled apologetically at Eric.

"It's very good, but I'm not hungry. Thank you."

Eric made no response whatever to this ingratiating remark. He stood like a statue, staring at the floor, until Schmidt said impatiently, "Lock her up again and take the tray, you moron."

Eric obeyed. He understood English; he simply chose not to understand Elizabeth. She did not regret her attempt to be conciliatory. A prisoner is bound to test all possible weaknesses in the opposition. The chance of persuading him to help her seemed exceedingly remote -for one thing, Schmidt had been careful never to leave them alone-but it couldn't do any harm to try.

"See you later, sweetheart," Schmidt said.

"Wait-please." Elizabeth's resolution failed at the idea of being locked in for an indeterminate period, alone and ignorant of what was happening. "What are you going to do with me?"

"Nothing at all, sweetheart. Not that I wouldn't like to do something with you."

His expression reminded her of the n.a.z.i officer's leer. She thought of encouraging that interest, but the idea was too repellent. Not even to escape would she submit to Schmidt's touch. And it probably wouldn't do any good. Schmidt was not the type to wax sentimental over any woman.

He was watching her expectantly, so she gave him what she a.s.sumed he wanted-a whimpering voice and quivering lower lip.

"Where am I? What do you want? How long do I have to stay here?"

"Until we get what we want. If you don't know what that is, there's no point in telling you."

He started to close the door.

"Can't I at least have something to read?" Elizabeth moaned. "I'll go crazy if I have to sit here hour after hour with nothing to do."

"Well, I'll see what I can find. Better take a nap. It helps pa.s.s the time."

He grinned unpleasantly and shut the door. She heard the rattle of the key in the lock.

It was such a relief to be rid of his jeering presence that the room seemed almost friendly. Elizabeth made herself as comfortable as she could, but she did not lie down. She didn't want to go to sleep. She had to think.

Go back to the beginning-to the previous night. Had it been the previous night, or longer? She had no way of knowing. She was not wearing a wrist.w.a.tch. But Schmidt had said something about lunch. That might have been deliberate misdirection, but there was no reason for him to care whether she knew what day it was.

a.s.sume, then, that something over twelve hours had pa.s.sed since she had fallen into the simple-minded but highly successful trap. It could hardly fail; not only was she unprepared for trouble within the hotel, but neither she nor Christian had believed there was any threat to her. She had always been the innocent bystander.

I might have known, she thought ruefully. It's usually the innocent bystander who gets axed.

No question but that the trap had been set for her; the receptionist had asked for her specifically. Was the girl a member of the gang, or had she been held at gunpoint and forced to make the call by the kidnapper? He must have been behind the door when I walked into the office, Elizabeth thought. She explored her head. Yes, she had a b.u.mp; not a very big one; it was about the same size and shape as the one Christian had acquired in the museum. The meager little man was indeed an expert at his trade. Only long practice could enable him to produce b.u.mps of the same size and shape on several different heads.

Then a drug of some kind? Most probably. A blow that light would not have kept her unconscious for long, or made her feel so sick and dizzy.

It all made sense, thus far, but it didn't contribute much. She had no idea where she was-or why.

A wave of despondency washed over her. Resolutely she fought it off. Speculation about motives and meanings was a waste of time. She and Christian had done too much of that already, and this latest development only added confusion to chaos. She must concentrate on a means of escape.

Her reading, and her exposure to the visual media, had been more varied than she cared to admit. Intellectuals were not supposed to revel in The Count of Monte Cristo and The Scarlet Pimpernel, or watch thrillers on television. During her college days Elizabeth had been enough of a sn.o.b to conceal her interest in lowbrow entertainment; many a lurid paperback had been thrust under a chair or sat upon when a friend dropped in unexpectedly. Now she was glad she had never abandoned her fictional heroes. It would be funny if the despised thrillers proved more useful than the literary cla.s.sics. She leaned against the headboard and tried to remember the stories she had read about prisons and escapes therefrom.

Basically, escape methods fell into two categories. The first was physical and direct-cutting one's way through the stone walls and iron bars that, despite the poet, do indeed a prison make. The second method was to overcome the jailer-by persuasion, bribery and corruption, seduction, or force.

She got off the bed and unreeled the chain to its full length. The slack was a good ten feet. Apparently they didn't mind if she walked around the room. Brisk exercise would not be feasible, however; the chain was quite heavy. Dragging it behind her, she went to the door.

It was the most obvious exit, but it was not the most practical; even if she could open it, she would have to get out of a house whose floor plan was unknown to her- without being caught by Schmidt and/or his ally. The idea of suddenly coming upon Schmidt as she crept down the stairs made her cringe. She was, therefore, not too distressed to find that the door appeared to be impregnable. The lock was a ma.s.sive old-fashioned mechanism of cast iron. The door itself was solid wood, not a flimsy modern construction of hollow panels.

Draping the chain artistically over one arm, she made a circuit of the room. It didn't take long. The door was in the center of one of the short sides, the bed in the center of the other. One of the long walls was a solid blank. When she thumped on the plastered surface, she heard only a dull thud.

The other wall sloped down almost to the floor. The single window was in this wall. Obviously her prison was in the attic or top floor of the house. That meant that even if she could open the window she would be high above the ground-two, possibly three stories up.

All the same, the window was better than the door. Elizabeth examined the boards that covered it.

There were three of them, each three-quarters of an inch thick. Heavy screws held them fixed to the window frame.

If only she had a piece of metal-a nail file, a knife, even the spoon that had been served with the terrible stew. Schmidt wasn't taking any chances. He had watched her every move. He had not even let her keep the beer bottle. Elizabeth admitted to herself that he need not have worried. A beer bottle could make a nasty weapon, but she wasn't the girl to use it-not even on Schmidt.

One glance at the floor eliminated that as a means of exit. The bare boards were old and warped, but the cracks had been neatly filled. If only the Danes weren't such neat people! If only they didn't build their houses so solidly! She felt sure she could have clawed her way out of any modern American domicile with her bare hands.