“Make double sure. Go there yourself.”
“I was planning to.”
He wanted to talk to her about what she had said yesterday. Did she really mean that she could not sleep with him again? But he could not think of a way to raise the subject, so he kept talking about the case. “I found Miss Ricks. She’s Hermia Mount, Arne Olufsen’s fiancee.”
“The English girl?”
“Yes.”
“Good news!”
“It is.” Peter was glad Tilde had not lost her enthusiasm for the case. “She’s on her way to Copenhagen now, and I’m following her.”
“Isn’t there a chance she’ll recognize you?”
“Yes.”
“In case she tries to give you the slip, why don’t I meet the train?”
“I’d rather you go to Kirstenslot.”
“Maybe I can do both. Where are you?”
“Nyborg.”
“You’re at least two hours away.”
“More. This train is torpid.”
“I can drive out to Kirstenslot, snoop around for an hour, and still meet you at the station.”
“Good,” he said. “Do it.”
29
When Harald cooled down, he saw that Karen’s decision to postpone their flight for a day was not completely mad. He put himself in her place by imagining that he had been offered the chance to perform an important experiment with the physicist Neils Bohr. He might have delayed the escape to England for the sake of such an opportunity. Perhaps he and Bohr together would change mankind’s understanding of how the universe worked. If he were going to die, he would like to know he had done something like that.
Nevertheless he spent a tense day. He checked everything on the Hornet Moth twice. He studied the instrument panel, familiarizing himself with the gauges so that he could help Karen. The panel was not illuminated, for the aircraft was not designed to be used at night, so they would have to shine the torch on the dials to read the instruments. He practiced folding and unfolding the wings, improving his time. He tried out his in-flight refueling system, pouring a little petrol through the hose that led from the cabin, through the smashed-out window, into the tank. He watched the weather, which was fine, with patchy cloud and a light breeze. A three-quarter moon rose late in the afternoon. He put on clean clothes.
He was lying on his ledge bed, stroking Pinetop the cat, when someone rattled the big church door.
Harald sat upright, putting Pinetop on the floor, and listened.
He heard the voice of Per Hansen. “I told you it was locked.”
A woman replied, “All the more reason to look inside.”
The voice was authoritative, Harald noted fearfully. He pictured a woman in her thirties, attractive but businesslike. Obviously she was with the police. Presumably she had sent Hansen to look for Harald at the castle yesterday. Clearly she had not been satisfied with Hansen’s inquiries and had come herself today.
Harald cursed. She would probably be more thorough than Hansen. It would not take her long to find a way into the church. There was nowhere for him to hide except the trunk of the Rolls-Royce, and any serious searcher was sure to open that.
Harald was afraid he might already be too late to exit by his usual window, which was just around the corner from the main door. But there were windows all around the curved chancel, and he quickly made his escape through one of those.
When he hit the ground, he looked around warily. This end of the church was only partly concealed by trees, and he might have been seen by a soldier; but he was in luck, and no one was nearby.
He hesitated. He wanted to get away, but he needed to know what happened next. He flattened himself against the wall of the church and listened. He heard Hansen’s voice say, “Mrs. Jespersen? If we stand on that log we could get through the window.”
“No doubt that’s why the log is there,” the woman replied crisply. She was obviously a lot smarter than Hansen. Harald had a dreadful feeling she was going to learn everything.
He heard the scrape of feet on the wall, a grunt from Hansen as, presumably, he squeezed himself through the window, then a thud as he hit the tiled floor of the church. A lighter thud followed a few seconds afterward.
Harald crept around the side of the church, stood on the log, and peeped through the window.
Mrs. Jespersen was a pretty woman of about thirty, not fat but well rounded, smartly dressed in practical clothes, a blouse and skirt with flat shoes and a sky blue beret over her blond curls. As she was not in uniform, she must be a detective, Harald deduced. She carried a shoulder bag which presumably had a gun in it.
Hansen was red-faced from the exertion of getting through the window, and he looked harassed. Harald guessed the village policeman was finding it a strain dealing with the quick-thinking detective.
She looked first at the bike. “Well, here’s the motorcycle you told me about. I see the steam engine. Ingenious.”
“He must have left it here,” Hansen said in a defensive tone. Obviously he had told the detective that Harald had gone away.
But she was not convinced. “Perhaps.” She moved to the car. “Very nice.”
“It belongs to the Jew.”
She ran a finger along the curve of a mudguard and looked at the dust. “He hasn’t been out in it for a while.”
“Of course not-its wheels are off.” Hansen thought he had caught her out, and looked pleased.
“That doesn’t mean much-wheels can be put on quickly. But it’s difficult to fake a layer of dust.”
She crossed the room and picked up Harald’s discarded shirt. He groaned inwardly. Why had he not put it away somewhere? She sniffed it.
Pinetop appeared from somewhere and rubbed his head against Mrs. Jespersen’s leg. She stooped to stroke him. “What are you after?” she said to the cat. “Has someone been feeding you?”
Nothing could be hidden from this woman, Harald saw with dismay. She was too thorough. She moved to the ledge where Harald slept. She picked up his neatly folded blanket, then put it down again. “Someone’s living here,” she said.
“Perhaps it’s a vagrant.”
“And perhaps it’s Harald fucking Olufsen.”
Hansen looked shocked.
She turned to the Hornet Moth. “What have we here?” Harald watched in despair as she pulled off the cover. “I do believe it’s an airplane.”
That’s the end, Harald thought. It’s all over now.
Hansen said: “Duchwitz used to have a plane, I remember now. He hasn’t flown it for years, though.”
“It’s not in bad condition.”
“It’s got no wings!”
“The wings are folded back-that’s how they got it through the door.” She opened the cabin door. Reaching inside, she moved the control stick, looking at the tailplane at the same time, seeing the elevator move. “The controls seem to work.” She peered at the fuel gauge. “The tank is full.” Looking around the little cabin, she added, “And there’s a four-gallon can behind the seat. And the locker contains two bottles of water and a packet of biscuits. Plus an axe, a ball of good strong cord, a flashlight, and an atlas-with no dust on any of them.”
She withdrew her head from the cabin and looked at Hansen. “Harald is planning to fly.”
“Well, I’m damned,” said Hansen.
The wild thought of killing them both occurred to Harald. He was not sure he could kill another human being in any circumstances, but he immediately realized he could not overpower two armed police officers with his bare hands, and he dismissed the thought.
Mrs. Jespersen became very brisk. “I have to go into Copenhagen. Inspector Flemming, who’s in charge of this case, is coming in by train. Given the way the railways are nowadays, he could arrive any time in the next twelve hours. When he does, we’ll come back. We’ll arrest Harald, if he’s here, and set a trap for him if he’s not.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Stay here. Find a vantage point in the woods, and watch the church. If Harald appears, don’t speak to him, just phone the Politigaarden.”