The Copenhagen Connection Part 4

"I know all I want to know." He added, with a disgusted survey of the scene, "Is this your idea of picturesque? Unkempt youths sprawled on the sidewalk, Wimpy's and soft ice cream stands, loudmouthed tourists making fools of themselves. ... It reminds me of some parts of Sixth Avenue, only these people are wearing weirder clothes."

Elizabeth sighed. "Where are we going to eat?"

"I don't know and I don't care."

"I'm hungry."

"Hmph." Christian stopped and stared vaguely around, as if trying to orient himself. They found themselves on the fringes of a group of people who had gathered to listen to a young man strumming a guitar and singing in a high-pitched nasal voice.

"Summertime sickness, pains in the gut," he howled.

A guitar case, open on the ground in front of him, invited contributions. Elizabeth reached in her purse.

"You aren't going to give money to that degenerate, are you?" Christian demanded in outraged tones.

"He sounds like an American," Elizabeth murmured. "A wandering student, singing his way across Europe."

"Anybody who sings like that deserves to starve to death."

The singer's voice rose to a shriek. "Puking all over the streets of the world," he cried.

Elizabeth allowed herself to be drawn away.

There were other performers, some playing accordions, some mouth organs. Guitars were the most popular instrument, but they saw one combo consisting solely of percussion instruments, which made an unholy din but did at least drown out the voices of the singers. Christian finally settled on an open-air cafe in a small square, midway between two musical ensembles, where the conflicting beats more or less canceled one another out. He ordered without giving Elizabeth a chance to consult the menu.

"You spoke Danish," she said, too surprised to object to his high-handed manner.

"Did I?" Turned half away from her, his eyes scanned the faces of pa.s.sersby.

"Will you stop that? The chance of her pa.s.sing this place at this particular moment are about a million to one."

"We aren't far from the university. She likes sections of that sort; weird, far-out, crazy people. She'd have given money to that howling maniac."

"Christian . . ." It was the first time she had addressed him by his given name; again, as she had done the previous night at Tivoli, she sensed the hurt and worry concealed by his manner.

"I'm going about this the wrong way," Christian muttered. He turned his chair around to face hers. "I've been yelling and cursing and losing my temper. I can't blame you for thinking I am acting unreasonably. May I explain to you why I am concerned?"

"Certainly."

"I'll have to give you some background first."

"I've got all day."

"It may take all day. You know what I do for a living, don't you? You must; those d.a.m.ned publicity releases mention me. I'm a broker. A dull, money-grubbing, materialistic manipulator of other people's money. I like it. I'm good at it, too-or I would be, if I didn't have to spend so much time managing Margaret. You think I bully her, don't you? You think I enjoy it? h.e.l.l, I have a life of my own to lead! If I had my way, I wouldn't go near her or her d.a.m.ned money. But if I didn't handle it she'd be broke and bankrupt. Sure, she makes a bundle. She also spends it as fast as it comes in. Handouts to every loser who comes whining to her with a pathetic story, contributions to causes like 'Save the Oysters,' impulse buying on a level you can't begin to imagine. Do you know what she wanted to buy last year? A carousel."

"A what? You mean a music box in the shape of-"

"A carousel! A whole, real, full-sized, antique merry-go-round. She's crazy about them."

"Well! That is rather . . . But antiques are a good investment. I've seen carousel horses in museums."

"So have I. I know more about investments, including American antiques, than you do. She wasn't interested in its potential value. She wanted to set it up in the barn- she bought the barn three years ago and had it moved to her property-so she could ride on it whenever she was in the mood."

"I see."

"I'm telling you this, which is none of your business- and if I ever see any of it in your publicity releases, I'll sue-because you have to understand what sort of woman Margaret is. Oh, she's brilliant, I don't deny that. When she sits down at her desk with pen in hand, she is a master of her craft. n.o.body does it better. When she is anywhere else she is a demented child with an imagination wilder than any drug addict's."

"Come on, now. You're exaggerating."

"I have to watch over her. She needs me."

"I'm sure she does," Elizabeth said gently.

"All right. With that in mind, let me tell you what led up to this trip. Once you've heard the facts you'll agree that something is rotten in the state of. . . I didn't intend to say that."

"It's very good," Elizabeth said encouragingly.

"Hmph."

The waiter brought their food. Elizabeth had been hoping for some exotic delicacy, smothered in wine sauce or sour cream. What she got was steak and potatoes. Just like a man, she thought disgustedly.

Christian went on with his lecture. "Two weeks ago I went to visit her. She was hard at work on her new novel. It's about Boudicca-if that's how you p.r.o.nounce it-the ancient British queen who fought the Romans. Margaret had finished about a hundred fifty pages and was going strong. I don't know whether you are familiar with her working methods; she has a hard time starting each book, but once she gets rolling she stays at it night and day. She wasn't keen on my coming when I did, but I had some business matters that wouldn't wait.

"We spent the evening in the library. I was reading the ma.n.u.script while Margaret opened her mail-she always waits till after dinner to read it, says it distracts her if she stops work in the middle of the day. Anyhow, I was absorbed in the story-it is going to be one of her best -but before long I came across a pa.s.sage I thought needed amplification. I looked up.

"Margaret was sitting bolt upright in her chair staring at a letter. I've never seen such a look on her face. It was. ..." I can't describe it."

"Deadly white?" Elizabeth suggested. "Rigid with horror? A ghastly mask of consternation? No, that isn't-"

"No, it isn't. She was rigid, all right, but not with horror. Surprise, maybe. Incredulity. Astonished disbelief mingled with antic.i.p.ation. The face of someone who has seen her most incredible dream-"

"I get the point."

"So I said, 'What's the matter?' And she said, 'Nothing, darling, such a funny fan letter.' And I said, 'Let me read it, you know I enjoy your weird mail,' and she said ... I forget what she said, it was one of those loony nonsequiturs of hers. She bolted out of the room. When I followed I found she had locked herself in the john. She wouldn't come out, even when I banged on the door."

Elizabeth was unable to repress a smile. "That was not the smartest thing in the world to do."

"Maybe not. I lose my smarts around Margaret. She has a very peculiar effect on my brain. Anyhow, I decided not to pursue the matter. A week later, after I had returned to New York, I got a call from a friend of mine who works in the local travel agency, telling me Margaret had ordered a ticket to Copenhagen."

"A friend? Don't you mean a spy? Really, Christian, if you sink to such depths it's no wonder your mother tries to get away from you."

"I don't like to do it. I have to." Christian took a bite of his cooling food. "Anyway," he resumed, before Elizabeth could answer, "when I accused her, she admitted the truth. She said her book had gone stale, and she had a new idea she wanted to work on. The Margaret biography."

"Books do go stale."

"Not hers. Besides-you haven't had time to do any reading about this medieval queen, have you? Believe me, there is not enough material available for the kind of book Margaret writes-in-depth studies of personality and behavior."

"It could be a generalized medieval history, using Queen Margaret as a focal point. That sort of thing has been done, quite successfully."

"Maybe. That's a minor point. But when you add it to the other peculiar incidents ... I insisted on coming with her, of course. She argued for a while, and then gave in.

"Now think over what has happened since we arrived yesterday. The accident at the airport could have been a genuine accident; but doesn't it strike you as somewhat suspicious that Margaret's secretary was the one immobilized, and that some character should turn up to apply for the job only a few hours later? Now Margaret is gone, without a word of explanation."

"The telephone call-"

"I don't believe she was the one who called."

Elizabeth put her fork down, feeling the food she had eaten weigh heavily at the base of her stomach. "Are you suggesting that she has been kidnapped?"

"She's a wealthy woman. Thanks to me."

"She walked out of the hotel on her own two feet."

"She may have been s.n.a.t.c.hed on the street. Or lured to a lonely spot. Margaret can be lured almost anywhere, with the right kind of appeal."

"Kidnappers send ransom notes."

"Sooner or later they do," Christian agreed. He glanced at his watch. "It's after four o'clock. I'm going to call the hotel. If she hasn't turned up I am going to the police. Do you want to come with me, or would you rather sit here and stuff yourself on dessert?"

He indicated a heavily laden pastry cart which a waitress was pushing in their direction. Fresh red strawberries and yellow cream, meringues, tarts loaded with fruit.

Elizabeth swallowed. "Not very likely," she said bitterly.

Police headquarters was located, logically enough, on Polit.i.torvet. According to Christian, one of the top officials was an old friend of Margaret's. They could cut through a tangle of red tape by going directly to him. The building was a somber gray stucco block, featureless and forbidding-one of the few unattractive buildings in the city. The name of Chief Inspector Grundtvig won an immediate and respectful reaction from the young policeman at the information desk. A uniformed escort led them up stairs and along corridors to a large office overlooking the harbor. Actually, Elizabeth was never really sure what Grundtvig's t.i.tle was; the Danish equivalent sounded like a gargle and a grunt, and n.o.body bothered to translate it for her. But he looked like a chief inspector, or perhaps a jolly, jovial burgomaster in a German folk tale. His hair was snow white and so thick and shiny that it resembled an extremely expensive wig. His cheeks were round and pink, his chins extensive. Eyes of clear brilliant blue beamed from under bushy white eyebrows. They had barely entered the room before he came bounding to meet them. He wrung Christian's hand with genial ferocity.

"I would know you anywhere, my young friend! You are the image of your distinguished father! You don't remember old Grundtvig, I suppose-no, why the devil should you, you were only so high the last time I saw you." He measured an improbable height, scant inches off the floor, with one big hand. "But forgive me," he went on, turning his benevolent smile on Elizabeth. "In my pleasure to see you I am rude, and to such a beautiful young lady! Your fiancee, I suppose? You are a lucky fellow. What is your name, my dear lady?"

"Her name is Elizabeth Jones, and she is not my fiancee," Christian said.

"No? What a pity for you. Please sit down, Miss Jones, Christian-I may call you that, I hope, since we are old friends. And how is my dear Margaret? I look forward to seeing her so much; but I know she is always busy when she comes. So many friends, so many things to do."

"You don't seem surprised to see me," Christian said. "Did Margaret tell you she was coming?"

"Aha!" Grundtvig waved a plump finger at him. "You should never ask how a policeman gets his information."

"Oh," Christian nodded. "The accident at the airport, of course."

"Precisely. Normally such a minor matter would not come to my attention, but the name of your distinguished mother ... It was the first I had heard of her coming, so I a.s.sumed she wished to be private. I therefore made sure the matter was not reported in the press." Grundtvig shuffled through a stack of papers. "Yes, here is the report. You have come at Margaret's request, to inquire what progress we have made? Most unsatisfactory. I am ashamed. The criminal has vanished without a trace." He shook his head sadly.

Christian was silent, thrown off the track by the rapid flow of information he had not expected nor requested. Elizabeth said hesitantly, "Excuse me, but why do you call him a criminal? It was an accident."

"The man was obviously mad," Grundtvig said seriously. 'We opened his trunk, you see. It contained nothing but a lot of heavy stones wrapped in rags. He may be a member of some terrorist organization, hurling trunks at people in random rage. We would like very much to apprehend him. The descriptions of eyewitnesses were vague and conflicting, as they usually are. You have perhaps a better description?"

"There was nothing distinctive about him," Christian said. "He was a nondescript little man, with ordinary features."

"A pity. You will tell my dear Margaret that we will continue to search for him."

Christian hesitated. Elizabeth hoped he had thought better of his intention of reporting his mother missing, but she had underestimated his stubbornness.

"I would tell her if I could. As a matter of fact, that's why I came; it wasn't about the accident. Margaret has disappeared."

Grundtvig leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his round little stomach. "Disappeared? A strange word to use, my young friend. Tell me about it."

Elizabeth had to admit that Christian made a poor job of the telling. Grundtvig's faint smile and steady stare didn't make the task any easier. When Christian had stuttered to a stop, the police officer's smile broadened.

"So she has been missing since eight this morning. Nine hours."

"It isn't the length of time, it's the circ.u.mstances," Christian insisted. "The accident, the man who called himself Schmidt-"

"Yes, yes, very interesting. You have your mother's talent for fiction, young Christian. No"-for Christian, now flushed and angry, would have interrupted- "no, forgive my rudeness. I should not make light of your feelings. But don't you see that each of these facts has an innocent explanation? You know your mother as well as I. This is not the first time she has wandered off on some project of her own."

"It isn't?" Elizabeth exclaimed.

Grundtvig chuckled fatly. "We, her friends, try to keep her little tricks out of the newspapers, my dear. But yes, Margaret is given to running away. The last time, if I recall, she wished to learn how to jump with a parachute. How long was she 'missing' that time, young Christian?"

"A week." The sound of Christian's teeth gritting was distinctly audible. He added furiously, "The course took two weeks, but she broke her leg."

Grundtvig grinned. "She forgot to bend her knees and roll. Always you must roll when-"

"How did you find out about that?" Christian demanded. "It happened three years ago, in upper New York. I thought I had succeeded in keeping it quiet."

"Oh, she wrote me about it. She thought it very amusing. The time before that, she went with the rock-music group, do you remember? What was its name? Pinky Green, or Greenish Purple-"

"I have done my best to forget the name, and the incident." Christian clutched his brow. "You think it's funny. I don't. Do you know about the time before that? The meeting with Obi Franken?"

"The Black Panther, yes. So many colors," Grundtvig said musingly. "Pinks and greens and blacks ... It must be a weakness of Margaret's." Seeing that Christian was on the verge of exploding, he added hastily, "No, young Christian, I have not forgotten that, nor should you. The man was a fugitive; ten years or more he had eluded the law. He asked her to come to him, she was the only person he would speak to. For two days they sat in his cabin in New England, drinking beer and discussing Aristotle. Then he turned himself in. She did a good service then, to Mr. Obi and to her country. How do you know she is not on another such mission now, a mission where secrecy is vital?"

"That's what worries me." Christian continued to hold his head. "She's got this messianic complex, I tell you. She's appointed herself little mother of all the world. When I found out she had been with Obi I could have killed her. He could have killed her. She's going to try to save the world once too often, and she's going to wind up dead."

"My dear boy, your concern is proper and touching," Grundtvig said soothingly. Christian scowled at him. The constant references to his youth seemed to be getting on his nerves. "However," Grundtvig went on, "you have no reason to suppose any danger exists."

"Oh, sure." Christian's voice dripped sarcasm. "She's probably just climbing Mount Everest or looking for the ruins of the sunken continent of Atlantis."

"Possibly." Grundtvig tried to keep his face sober, out of deference to Christian's sensibilities, but the twinkle in his eye betrayed him.

All at once the twinkle faded and Grundtvig said with sudden pa.s.sion, "Leave her alone, Christian. You don't understand. You are too young. I, who also see the approach of the dying years, the time of failing strength and weakening senses-I understand, and I sometimes wish . . . But there, you will come to it in your turn. Until then take my advice and-"

"Let her kill herself?"

"Yes, if that is her wish! No one else, not even you, has the right to make such a choice for her. But," Grundtvig continued, in a lighter tone, "she won't kill herself, not just yet. She is too clever for that."

Christian rose. "You won't help me, then."

"I have helped. I have given you good advice."

Christian turned on his heel and strode out, without so much as a good-bye. Unperturbed, Grundtvig turned a paternal blue gaze on Elizabeth.

"You are even younger. But you understand, I think."