The Copenhagen Connection Part 9

"I'll give you another twenty kroner if you tell me where you saw the lady and what she said," Christian offered, waving the money under the boy's nose.

"You will? That is very generous, sir; for I would have told you anyway, since you are a policeman. It is proper to help the police."

"Quite right," Christian said. "Where-"

"But," the boy continued serenely, "I must deliver this other letter. I do not know who should have it. The lady said the gentleman would be standing near the bus. She said he would be tall and fair, with a great frown on his face. That sounds like you, sir. But would she not have told me that you are a policeman?"

"She just forgot to mention it." Christian s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter and ripped it open.

"I must be sure," the boy insisted. "She was a generous lady, and I do not want to cheat her."

"It's all right," Elizabeth said. She indicated Christian. "Look at that frown. n.o.body else frowns like that. Where did you see the lady?"

"At the foot of the hill that goes to the Domkirke." The boy glanced at his watch and added, devastatingly, "It was more than fifteen minutes ago, miss. Can I tell you anything else?"

"No, thank you." Elizabeth twitched the money from Christian's hand and gave it to the boy. "You have done well, young man. Tak. "

The parking lot was emptying rapidly. Elizabeth took Christian by the arm. He appeared to be rooted to the spot.

"You've done very well up till now," she said kindly. "Don't relapse. Come to the car and sit down. You'll feel better in a minute."

Christian got behind the wheel. "Would you care to see this note?" he inquired distantly.

"Yes, I would. Why do you let her get to you?"

"It's the way she antic.i.p.ates my every move. And that was a d.a.m.ned insulting description!"

"What, the frowning part? You should see your face right now." Elizabeth took the note.

The writing straggled even more than the famous carousel letter. Elizabeth wondered what Margaret had been doing when she wrote it; swinging across the apse of the Cathedral on a rope?

It began abruptly, without salutation. "This is turning out to be more complicated than I expected. Christian, you must leave Denmark immediately. I don't care where you go, just go, and stand not upon the order. . . ." The quotation ran out into unintelligibility; Margaret apparently a.s.sumed that her point had been made. She resumed, "I cannot tell you what this is all about just yet. Your total ignorance [the phrase was underlined, or perhaps crossed out-the line wove a drunken path partly across the words] of what is going on is your best guarantee of safety. For once in your life do as I ask. Get out of the country. Love, Margaret. P.S. Do not under any circ.u.mstances go to the police."

Another inebriated line wavered through the final sentence.

"Cheery, encouraging little epistle, isn't it?" Christian remarked.

"It's straightforward, anyhow. She wants you to clear out."

"Yes, I would say she had made that plain. You should see your face," Christian added maliciously. "Why the scowl?"

"She didn't say anything about me."

"I noticed that. Feelings hurt?"

"Of course not," Elizabeth said in a hurt voice. "Why should she care what happens to me?"

"She would care. She's usually pa.s.sionately concerned about everybody, even total strangers."

"Then why didn't she even mention me?"

"I refuse to conjecture. We've done too much of that already."

"Are you going to leave?"

"Certainly not." Christian turned on the engine. "How would you like to see a quaint village, or perhaps a thatched cottage?" he inquired kindly.

"Are you kidding? From now on we stick to main roads, and avoid lonely spots and dark alleys."

"I just thought you might like to do a little sightseeing."

"Forget it."

Christian didn't pursue the subject, but as they drove out of the parking lot Elizabeth thought she understood why he had raised it. He wouldn't leave the country, but he intended to see that she did so. The suggestion of sightseeing had been an attempt to appease her frustrated tourist instincts before he evicted her.

They drove around Roskilde for a while, peering out the windows. Elizabeth dutifully peered, but was forced to raise the obvious objection.

"We'd never recognize her even if she's still here.

She'll be disguised as a nun, or a Masai warrior, or a Highlander in a kilt."

They stopped for lunch at an inn outside the city.

"I'm glad to see that my near brush with death has not affected your appet.i.te," Christian remarked, when Elizabeth returned from the buffet with a heaped plate.

"I figure I'm going to need my strength. Mmmm-this is marvelous. What is it?"

"Herring, probably," Christian said, eyeing the object on Elizabeth's fork with disfavor. "They try to disguise it in various ways, but it's usually herring."

"I love it. I am going to need my strength," she repeated, "to fight you when you try to shove me onto an airplane."

After a moment Christian said, "I won't ask how you knew that was what I had in mind."

"It's only too obvious." Elizabeth impaled another chunk of herring. "You were being so macho back there at the Cathedral, flexing your muscles and shrugging your shoulders at bullets; the next step is to get the helpless little woman out of the path of peril."

"Elizabeth Jones."

Elizabeth looked up, startled by his tone. He was studying her with a bewildered look. "Two days ago I didn't know you from Adam," he said. "And here you are playing Girl Friday. ... All right, I take it back-playing faithful sidekick or Watson, or whatever equal and non-s.e.xist role you like. That was fine so long as our activities were confined to chasing Margaret around Copenhagen and responding to imbecile demands for objects we didn't want anyway. But there is no reason on G.o.d's earth why you should stick around after the bullets start flying."

"I don't blame your mother for running away from you," Elizabeth snapped. "She told me you were bossy; well, you're not going to boss me. You can't make me leave if I don't want to."

"Any woman in her right mind-if there is such a person-would want to. She'd be screaming to get out of this mess. Why are you so determined to risk your neck? Bullets don't always. .h.i.t the target they're aimed at, you know."

Somewhere in the back of her mind was an answer to that question, but Elizabeth wasn't ready to admit it even to herself. She sought refuge in frivolity.

"Frenchton and Monk would fire me if I let their favorite author get lost. I've made up my mind. I don't intend to discuss it any further."

She stood up. "Where are you going?" Christian asked.

"For more herring."

They went on arguing all the way back to Copenhagen, not only about whether or not Elizabeth should leave the country, but about what their next move should be.

"The only sensible thing is to stick around the hotel," Christian said finally. "She knows how to reach us-me -and I don't know how to reach her. When she sees we -I mean, I am not going to make plane reservations, maybe she'll get in touch with us-me, I meant to say."

It sounded, Elizabeth thought, as if she were in for a long, boring evening.

But no sooner had they entered the hotel than Marie ran to meet them. Her sleek gray hair was disheveled, and her smiling calm had given way to excitement.

"Thank heaven you are here! We have looked all over the city for you; Roger, poor Roger-"

"Now, Marie, be calm." Her husband appeared in the door of the office. He was as impeccably turned out as ever, but his extremely high forehead was embellished by a white bandage.

"Good Lord, Roger," Christian exclaimed.

"It is nothing," Roger said quickly. "I surprised a thief in Margaret's room, that is all. Our security system is intentionally un.o.btrusive; I suppose he did not observe the wire when he forced the door. I went up at once. He was very quick; or perhaps I am just getting old!"

"Nonsense." His wife turned to him with fond indignation. "You could have been killed, my dear."

"I can't tell you how sorry I am," Christian said.

"It is my duty, and my pleasure. But I am glad you are here. You will please look to see if anything was stolen."

"I will, of course, but that doesn't matter. Margaret would rather lose everything she owns than see you injured, Roger. Why don't you lie down? I'll check, and let you know."

"No, no, I am not hurt, it is only a b.u.mp. I wish to make sure all is well with Margaret. Do you know when she will be returning?"

"Uh-no. Not exactly. Well. Let's go up, then."

Roger had interrupted the thief before he really got to work. A single bureau drawer stood ajar. There was no other sign of disturbance.

"I'm sure it's all right," Christian said.

"Please do me the favor to see if any cash, traveler's checks, or jewelry is missing," Roger insisted.

"She kept cash and traveler's checks in her handbag," Christian said. "And she never carries much jewelry."

Roger continued to urge; Christian continued to rea.s.sure him. Convinced at last, the hotel manager's face brightened and he let out a sigh of relief. "Excellent. We are very fortunate. I will so inform the police."

"The police have been here?"

"I had to make a report. I promised to inform them if anything was missing." Seeing Christian's frown, he added rea.s.suringly, "I doubt they will wish to interview you, since you have lost nothing and did not see the thief."

"That's right, you saw him. What did he look like?"

"I did not get a good look. He was very quick to hit me on the head." Roger touched his bandage gingerly. "He was not young and not old; only a few lines around his eyes. They were dark, as was his hair, except for gray streaks at each temple. . . . What, do you know him?"

"No. No, I was just surprised . . . that he wasn't some kid, some young punk."

It was not a very convincing explanation for his stifled exclamation and start of surprise, but Roger seemed to accept it. After a further exchange of compliments the manager took his leave, and Christian and Elizabeth spoke at once.

"It was him!"

"Mr. Schmidt!"

"But what was he looking for?" Elizabeth asked.

"If we knew that, we'd have the answers to a lot of other questions." Christian peered into the open drawer.

"That's underwear," Elizabeth said. "I put it away myself. Schmidt didn't strike me as the type that steals women's lingerie."

"I am inclined to agree. Whatever he was after, we can a.s.sume he didn't have time to find it. Let's have a look -especially at Margaret's notes and papers."

The search took over an hour. Since they had no idea what they were looking for, they had to read every note and inspect every sc.r.a.p of paper. The only thing that emerged from their investigation was that Margaret did have a great deal of material about Queen Margaret the First of Denmark.

"It appears that you were wrong about the biography," Elizabeth said, thumbing through a Xeroxed copy of a Danish biography of the lady in question. "She has definitely started her research."

The telephone rang just then and they both jumped for it. But it was only Roger inquiring whether they planned to dine in that evening.

"The kitchen is back to normal, thank heaven. I cannot imagine what illness struck us; we have found nothing to account for it. So if you would care to order ..."

"Yes, fine, anything," Christian said. He added, politely, "I hope all the sufferers are healthy again."

"Yes, I thank you for asking; all but Froken Blixen, our receptionist and telephone operator. She has had a relapse, nothing serious, but she will not be able to return to work for a while. The new girl is not as efficient as I would like, but she will do until then. Would you like, perhaps, a blanquette of veal with new peas and potatoes? And for the wine ..."

The prospect of drinking something other than beer revived Christian's interest. While he and Roger engaged in an animated discussion about vintages, Elizabeth began another search of Margaret's papers. She had the feeling she had missed something, but could not think what it could be.

She was still reading when the food was delivered, and even the excellent rose did not distract her until Christian spoke.

"What are you looking for?"

"I wish I knew. All this material seems to bear on Queen Margaret; it's precisely the sort of thing I would expect to find if she were getting ready to write a biography. At least I think it is; I can't read Danish. What about this?"

She handed Christian a newspaper clipping. He shook his head over it. "As you have remarked, my own Danish isn't that fluent. This seems to be a story about damage to the abbey church at Sor0, wherever that is. An ancient Cistercian abbey with some royal tombs. I can't make out the rest."

"I thought all the Danish kings were buried at Roskilde," Elizabeth said.

"I thought so, too. But," Christian added, "I don't really care."

Among the items in the folders was the photograph of Queen Margaret's cloth-of-gold robe. "How I'd love to see it," Elizabeth murmured. "Where is Uppsala?"

"Sweden. But the thing isn't much to look at. I don't know why women are so fascinated by clothes. Especially worn out, moldy old clothes."

"Men have no imagination." Elizabeth spoke absently. She was thinking about something else-or rather, trying to catch an elusive idea that kept slipping through her mental grasp. "Christian?"

"I'm still here."

"About the bathrobe . . . You don't suppose they meant Queen Margaret's bathrobe?"