The Copenhagen Connection Part 7

The plum that burst on Christian's brow had contained a note. The paper was extremely sticky. By the time Christian untangled the folds and creases, only a part of the message was legible: "Radhus . . . Eight (8)." The writing straggled too wildly to be identifiable as Margaret's, but it certainly resembled the penmanship of someone who had written it while riding on a giraffe.

So they would be at Radhuspladsen at eight o'clock. And where that would lead them, only G.o.d and Margaret knew.

Elizabeth was not anxious to get up. Christian had been in a grisly mood the previous night, and there was no reason to suppose he would be any more affable this morning. With a sigh she flung back the covers and prepared to face a dismal and confusing day.

She brushed her teeth with punctilious attention to each and every molar and applied her makeup with as much care as if she were preparing for an audience at the palace. Then, as she realized why she was dawdling, she stamped her foot and swore. d.a.m.n Christian Rosenberg anyway. She was not going to be intimidated by his rotten moods, and she was sick and tired of chasing his crazy mother. She wanted to see the Little Mermaid.

In this belligerent mood she burst into the sitting room to find that Christian was up, dressed, and talking on the telephone. When she appeared he gestured toward the table and went on talking.

Elizabeth poured coffee and listened to the conversation. It was short and not very sweet. "You haven't? Well, if she gets in touch with you, please let me know."

Christian hung up. He consulted a small leather-bound book and dialed again.

"How many people have you called?" Elizabeth asked.

"Eight. Six of them were . . . h.e.l.lo? Is this the residence of Madame Brunner?" A pained expression crossed his face and he listened for a while in silence. "Well, I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't-h.e.l.lo? h.e.l.lo?"

"Six of them were still asleep?" Elizabeth said. "Not to mention Madame Brunner. Christian, it's only seven A.M. You can't call people at this hour."

"She's out of town," Christian muttered. "Madame. That was her butler. What a foul mouth that man has!"

"So you're calling Margaret's friends."

"Yes."

"Isn't that rather futile?"

"Probably."

"Christian-what would happen if we didn't go to Radhuspladsen this morning?"

Christian shrugged wearily. "d.a.m.ned if I know."

"The ransom note was a fake," Elizabeth argued. "Margaret isn't a prisoner; she's alive and well and free as a cuckoo bird. I mean, really, Christian, if this is a mystery story, it's the most insipid one I've ever run into. No bodies, no blood, no murderous attacks-"

"You seem to have forgotten that unfortunate girl in the hospital," Christian snapped. He added petulantly, "I never can remember her name."

The reminder silenced Elizabeth. Christian hammered the point home. "I admit this is a singularly bloodless little caper so far; but that doesn't mean the element of danger is lacking. Efficient crooks don't slaughter people indiscriminately. Evidently they have not needed to damage anyone except-er-"

"Marian."

"Yeah."

"I'm tired of chasing aimlessly around town," Elizabeth complained. "If I knew why-"

"What would you rather be doing? No, don't tell me -going to see the Little Mermaid."

"This was supposed to be my vacation."

"All right, have your d.a.m.ned vacation! Go sightseeing, visit museums, take tours. See if I care."

"I can't."

"Why the h.e.l.l not?"

Elizabeth slammed her fist down on the table. "Ouch," she said. "Because, much as I hate to admit it, you have a point. One possible explanation for all this-this insanity -is that Margaret has something, or knows something, that certain other people want. The attack on-er- Marian at the airport was designed to give them-the gang, I guess we have to call them-access to Margaret. I don't know what the bathrobe has to do with it, and I can't imagine why she is running aimlessly around Copenhagen instead of going to the police-"

"Oh, I know why she's doing that," Christian said. "She loves playing detective. The police wouldn't let her play."

"She wouldn't. . . . Yes, I guess she would. Has it occurred to you that maybe she has done something illegal?"

"Yes, it has. It has also occurred to me that she may be running away from someone who means her harm. Why do you think I'm so anxious to corral her?"

"All right." Elizabeth picked up her purse. "Let's go."

"Radhuspladsen?"

"Radhuspladsen."

The town square of Copenhagen covers an area of several blocks. It is not the most specific of all meeting places. Standing somewhere near the center of the vast paved expanse, Elizabeth scanned the faces that pa.s.sed in a never-ending procession.

"This is hopeless. How are we supposed to find her here?"

"Keep looking." Christian turned slowly on his axis.

The view was distracting. On the west corner of the square was a dramatic fountain whose sculptures depicted a bull and a dragon in furious combat. A column nearby supported two giant statues of green (formerly copper) men blowing giant horns. The clock on the tower of the Town Hall said eight thirty. They had been wandering aimlessly around the square for forty minutes.

Elizabeth nudged Christian and indicated a group of tables cl.u.s.tered around a kiosk on the east side of the area.

"I want a cup of coffee. If you're too stubborn to admit this is a lost cause, let's at least sit down."

Christian a.s.sented unenthusiastically. "We can see, and be seen, just as well from there, I guess."

As the hands of the clock moved to nine, and then to five minutes past the hour, Christian's shoulders sagged lower. Elizabeth was neither disappointed nor disheartened. She hadn't expected Margaret would show up. In fact, she rather doubted that the note in the plum had been meant for Christian. If Margaret had intended to throw it to him, she probably would have missed him by a mile. She had appeared to be looking for someone in the crowd. And if she knew Christian had intercepted a message intended for that person, she would be careful to stay away.

If, if, if! Elizabeth fully sympathized with Christian's exasperation with his mother. Margaret moved through life in a fog of hypotheses, creating one unlikely situation after another.

Brooding thus, her eyes absently watching the pa.s.sing traffic, she suddenly bounded to her feet with a shriek. Christian might reasonably have asked what the devil was wrong with her. Instead he stared in the direction indicated by her rigid, pointing forefinger, and he was in time to see what had prompted her cry.

A large red tourist bus moved past, slowed by the heavy morning traffic. Peering interestedly out of one of the windows was the face of a dear little old lady wearing granny gla.s.ses and a black dress with crocheted collar and cuffs. Her fluffy white hair was crowned by an object -one hesitated to call it a hat-like a giant pink cabbage, from which two hat pins protruded, crossing six inches above the hat in the manner of chopsticks.

Secure in this disguise, which was completed by a camera pressed against the window gla.s.s, the woman gazed serenely out until her wandering eye met Elizabeth's. She gave a violent start. The pink cabbage slid drunkenly to one side and the spectacles tobogganed toward the tip of her nose. Her lips shaped a silent word. It began with a d and ended with an n. Then the traffic began to move, and her look of alarm turned into a broad smile, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with teeth. Raising the camera, she took their picture. The bus roared off.

"Wait, wait," Elizabeth screamed, as Christian gathered himself for pursuit. "You can't chase a bus through the streets."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n that woman," Christian said pa.s.sionately. "She did that on purpose. We've got to find out where the bus is going."

"How?"

"It was red," Christian said. The inadequacy of this description struck him as soon as he uttered it; his fair cheeks darkened. "For G.o.d's sake, didn't you notice anything about it? License number, a name-anything?"

Elizabeth ignored the injustice of the demand. This was no time for petty personal exchanges. She tried to concentrate. Finally she said, "It was a tourist bus-not one of the regular city buses. And I think I saw the word 'Viking.' "

"Half the objects in this city, stationary and mobile, have the word 'Viking' on them," Christian grumbled. "Well, that's something. Let's look for tourist companies."

Elizabeth suspected that by the time they completed such an inquiry the bus would have become untraceable. But she did not demur; Christian's temper required action, however futile. If he had had to sit still he would have burst.

Frenzied interrogation of a policeman and a hotel porter produced the information that many bus tours started from Radhuspladsen, and that there was indeed a company named Viking. They proceeded to the office of this organization, which was not far away. Here Christian's increasingly fluent Danish, which seemed to flow from subconscious depths when necessity required it, won the sympathy of a pretty young woman, who told them the bus was probably their Vikingland tour, which had left the square at the specified time. Upon hearing this, Christian gritted his teeth.

"She boarded that bus not a hundred yards from where we were sitting. She must have seen us. When I get my hands on her . . ." He turned back to the helpful young woman. Elizabeth didn't understand what he said, but deduced, from the shocked pity on the girl's face, that he had invented a story as tragic as it was untrue. She produced a folder describing the tour and a map showing the route of the bus.

Thus far Christian's performance had been impressive. His next move left Elizabeth rapt with admiration.

"Let's pick up the car."

"What car?"

"I told you I planned to rent one."

"Yes, but . . ." Elizabeth's breath gave out. Holding her by the wrist, like a large reluctant dog by the leash, he was towing her along at a speed that made her legs ache.

"I asked Roger to take care of it for me this morning," Christian explained. "He knew of a place just off Radhuspladsen. They should have it ready for us."

He sounded extremely smug. For once Elizabeth didn't blame him.

The car was ready, and the formalities were concluded in a surprisingly short time. When Christian guided the vehicle into the teeming traffic, Elizabeth saw by the clock on the tower that barely an hour had pa.s.sed since they saw Margaret on the bus. She buckled her seat belt. Christian's lowering brow and white-knuckled grip on the wheel portended a rough ride.

She didn't venture to speak to him until they had left the drab western suburbs behind and were pelting along a wide superhighway.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

"Roskilde. Didn't you hear what that girl said?"

"I didn't understand a word. Besides," Elizabeth went on, promptly contradicting herself, "that bus stops at half a dozen places. We're an hour behind-"

"We're going directly to Roskilde. The bus winds all over the countryside, giving the tourists their money's worth of quaint villages and thatched cottages. Hopefully we'll catch up with Margaret at the Cathedral."

"But the bus goes to the Viking Ship museum and a farm and a couple of other places."

"How do you know that? I thought you didn't understand what the girl said."

"I have read every brochure put out by every travel agency in Denmark. I had my entire itinerary planned six weeks ago. After I had seen the Little Mermaid I was going to-"

"Will you kindly stick to the point, if you have one?"

"The point," Elizabeth said, through clenched teeth, "is that Margaret may be heading for one of the other places on the tour. Besides, she knows we saw her. If she has any sense she'll ditch the tour at the first opportunity."

"That's a chance we'll have to take. I don't know what she is doing on that bus, but presumably she is not simply pa.s.sing time. If there is any method in her madness -which I am not prepared to swear to-there may be something, at one of those stops, that will give us a clue. You're the professional tourist; haven't you any ideas?"

Elizabeth picked up the brochure and opened it.

" 'Two Country Rhapsody,' " she read aloud. " 'See the best of Denmark and Sweden. At Elsinore, the narrowest point between the two countries . . .' That was one of the things I wanted to see-a performance of Hamlet, at-"

"Stop drooling," Christian said vulgarly. "That's the wrong tour."

Reluctantly Elizabeth pa.s.sed over the Afternoon Hamlet Tour, the Royal Tour of Copenhagen, and the Castle Tour of North Zealand. "Here it is. The Vikingland Tour. 'This tour visits a four-thousand-year-old pa.s.sage grave at Om. Afterwards we proceed to the old city of Roskilde, in ancient times the capital of Denmark. In the great Roskilde Cathedral there are thirty-seven royal tombs. Lunch at a two-hundred-years old thatched inn (not included in the fare) . . .' They never include lunch. I think that's rotten. People may not want-"

Christian cut her off. "Any ideas?"

"No," Elizabeth admitted. "It's a little hard to reason logically when you haven't a clue to start with. Wait a minute. I have my guidebook."

"You would."

"I always carry it." Elizabeth saw no reason to add that she had decided to take in as many sights as possible while they continued their pointless pursuit. "Maybe it will suggest something."

She read Christian a long, interesting paragraph about pa.s.sage tombs, the burial places of the prehistoric inhabitants of Denmark. He refused to be interested.

"This is a waste of time."

"Shut up and listen. We're groping in the dark anyway." Elizabeth turned pages. "Roskilde. The eight-hundred-year-old Domkirke, or Cathedral, is the St. Denis of Denmark, containing the tombs of thirty-seven Danish monarchs, from Margaret the First to-"

"Hold it. What did you just say?"

"From Margaret the First to. ... You really are grasping at straws, Christian. I thought you had decided that the biography of Queen Margaret was a pretense."

"It's the first connection we've found."

"Christian, either your mother is fleeing in terror from an anonymous bunch of criminals, or she is doing research for her book. She can't be doing both. In the latter case there might conceivably be some reason for her to visit Margaret's tomb, but why would she take a tourist bus?"

"She's probably planning to dig up the body," Christian growled.

Elizabeth started to laugh. A glance at Christian's grim visage made her change her mind.

"She hates to drive," he went on seriously. "A sensible woman would have hired a car or taken the train, but that isn't Margaret's style. She probably thought this was a cute way of getting where she wanted to go."

"Then she'll leave the tour at Roskilde-not go back with the rest of them."

"No, I can't see her doing that. Those poor devils of tour guides have to account for every warm body at every stop. Margaret is crazy about tours; she's dragged me on several. I remember how indignant she was once, when we went to Kenilworth Castle or some such ruin, and two of the pa.s.sengers didn't get back to the bus at the designated time. The other pa.s.sengers were b.i.t.c.hing at the guide and the guide was having nervous palpitations. No, she wouldn't do that unless she was desperate. I'm inclined to think that if she is going to Roskilde for a specific purpose, it's something that can be accomplished in a very short time-maybe only a few minutes. They don't give you much time on these whirlwind tours."

"Then she can't be planning to dig up Margaret's remains," Elizabeth said, with a sidelong glance at her companion.

"That's right." Christian's dour expression lightened a trifle. "Those monuments are solid stone, aren't they? And in broad daylight, with people all around. . . . Are you laughing? What the h.e.l.l are you laughing about?"

Elizabeth was incapable of replying. Every time she tried to conquer her amus.e.m.e.nt, Christian's astonished and affronted face set her off again.

The rest of the drive pa.s.sed in silence. Elizabeth alternately read her guidebook-it would not be wise, she decided, to read aloud-and gazed out the window. She thought longingly of the bus tour, slowly wheezing along lovely country lanes, past quaint old villages and houses with thatched roofs. The highway was dull. The scenery was dull-gently rolling, green with summer crops, but dull. The weather was dull. Clouds hid the sun and an occasional spatter of rain spotted the windshield. Dullest of all was her companion.

Like most tourist towns, the quaint part of Roskilde is limited to a small section in the center-the old city. The suburbs looked like any other town in any country, except that the street and shop signs were in Danish. Then they rounded a curve and Roskilde Domkirke came into view, raising powerful importunate arms toward the threatening sky. It wasn't Chartres or Rheims, but it had a grave dignity of its own; and Elizabeth let out a yelp of disappointment when Christian turned away from it, onto a side street.