and Company Limited?' Like AG in Switzerland and GmbH in Germany? That was the likeliest explanation, but who was Anderson, and why had she sent the damn' thing to Norway? To the best of my knowledge Alsa knew nobody in Norway. She might, of course; anybody can know anybody anywhere; Anderson could be an old schoolfriend, or a distant relative.
I looked at my watch. It was now close to midnight. If Sandnes was where the trail led, then I was going to Sandnes. But clearly, there'd be no transport that night. I ordered another cup of coffee and a sandwich; the sight of the café's menu had reminded me I'd eaten nothing for
hours and though I wasn't hungry I forced the sandwich down. Then I fished the bit of paper out of my pocket and stared at it until Anderson, Jarishof, Sandnes G.B., Norway, was so fixed in my mind I'd never forget it. After that I burned the scrap of paper in the ash tray, powdered the ashes and thought about the three things I had: that Norwegian address and the words myopic and Aggie Waggie. The clue to Alsa's disappearance lay in them somewhere, but for the life of me I couldn't see what the clue might be. Myopic means short-sighted. Shortsightedness was the reason Alsa wore glasses — or the contact lenses she'd disposed of so carefully in the one place she'd be fairly certain they'd be found and forwarded. But so what? The thing led round in a circle. And the address in Norway was no more helpful. She wouldn't normally have a Norwegian address on the lens case and her name wasn't Anderson. So why had she put that name and that address on the label? She'd obviously done it deliberately, and the whole business of the visit to the cinema, followed by the visit to the late-night chemist/ optician, where she'd left the case on the counter to be found after she'd gone, indicating that she knew she was being watched and followed. She'd done it because it was the only way to get rid of the thing!
All right. But it still didn't tie up. That fire in the mailbox at the Scanda Hotel was the odd item out. It suggested she'd posted something that must be destroyed and had in fact been destroyed. But that had been before she left the hotel; before she took the lens case to leave it in the shop!
I didn't want to go to Sandnes. All my instincts were screaming to me that Alsa was still in or near Gothenburg, and the idea of leaving Gothenburg to travel into another country felt badly wrong. Still, logically it was the only thing to do; I must follow the only lead I had.
In the meantime, what? It was now after midnight and I dared not return to the Scanda. I'
d pay my bill later, by sticking money in an envelope and sending it. All I'd left at the hotel was a few clothes. Everything that mattered
was on .my person, including the bulky wad of photocopies that had been forcing my suit out of shape since early morning.
I decided I'd take a cab to the airport and wait there for the first morning plane to Norway. That way, with luck, I'd stay out of everybody's clutches. Schmid was unlikely to know, until morning, that Alsa's room had been entered. Unlikely, anyway, unless Elliot told him, and considering the nature of Elliot's activities, I. felt I could rule out the possibility.
I paid for the coffee and sandwich and went out to look for a cab. There wouldn't be a lot of direct flights, if any, from Gothenburg to Stavanger, but there was a strong possibility of very early feeder links to Copenhagen, hub of the Scandinavian Airlines System. After that, well Copenhagen-Stavanger was probably well serviced. Or maybe I could go via Oslo; I didn't mind Which, as long as I could get to grips with Anderson, Jarlshof, Sandnes, G.B., Norway.
At the airport I paid off the cab and took a seat in a quiet corner of the lounge. The place was still quite busy. The Tannoy system was going on about a flight from New York that had been delayed and wasn't due in Copenhagen for another hour, and quite a number of people were pulling long faces about it because they were clearly destined to wait half the night for relatives and friends to arrive. It suited me fine; the last thing I wanted was to be the sole occupant of an otherwise deserted lounge, eyed by airport coppers wondering who and what I was, and, with time heavy on their hands, deciding to find out.
From where I sat I could see the departures board. There was a Copenhagen flight at 6 A. M. and after the next announcement I joined the angry crowd at the SAS Information desk and fought my way forward to speak to one of the two harassed girls who were trying to explain that they hadn't exactly delayed the transatlantic DC8 themselves .and everything possible was being done. The girl I spoke to seemed relieved to deal with a rational inquiry and I learned
that the six o'clock Copenhagen flight connected onward at seven-ten to Stavanger. I went and bought a ticket, then returned to my seat.
The New York people came in at four, to the accompaniment of sighs of relief, not least from the girls on the information desk, who departed promptly, still looking remarkably self-contained, for what was probably a relaxing cup of 'coffee but may have been a necessary schnapps.
In a few minutes I was alone. It would probably be an hour before the place became busy again, as passengers arrived for the Copenhagen and other early flights. A couple of cleaners mooched around in a desultory kind of way and one or two people in uniform crossed the lounge occasionally, but otherwise the place was too still and quiet for comfort. Sitting there I felt exposed. I'd committed felonies and Schmid would want me. And not only Schmid, either. As the minutes ticked by I became progressively more uncomfortable. To sit like a statue was to attract attention; to move was to attract attention. After a bit I decided I couldn't stand it any longer and headed for the door bearing the silhouette picture of a man. With all these women in trouser suits they're going to have to find a new international sign before long. I went into one of the cubicles sat down and began to watch my watch. Five-thirty was flight check-in time and I hoped that by five-twenty there'd be enough bright, early-morning faces around to lose myself among. At five-fifteen I rose, flushed the toilet for the benefit of nobody in particular, and had a wash and shave by courtesy of one of those coin-in-the-slot electric shavers that are labelled Hygienic but don't always look it, then straightened my tie, combed my hair and stepped out.
As I did so, a policeman not ten yards away glanced at me, did a swift double-take and marched purposefully towards me. I looked round for somewhere to run, but there were several other policemen about and they looked young and fit and I'd never have got away with it.
`Passport, please,' the policeman said. I sighed, reached into my pocket and handed it to him.
`Come with me, Mr Sellers.'
So I went with him. As I did so, the loudspeaker was reminding intending passengers for the first morning flight to Copenhagen to check in. I tried once. 'I'm booked on that flight,' I said, with what innocence I could muster. 'Will this take long?'
The young policeman didn't smile, didn't even reply. He took me to the airport police block and phoned. I could distinguish only two words of what he said. The words were: Inspector Schmid. When he put the phone down, I expected to be loaded into a car and taken to the main police station to see Schmid, but nothing happened. After a while I said, 'What now? My plane's still waiting.'
`You wait, too.'
The plane was long gone before anything more happened. I'd been given a cup of coffee and had twiddled my thumbs _extensively, but nobody spoke to me and all my conversational overtures were rejected. Then the door opened and Schmid came in. It was a quarter to seven and he looked morning grim. News of my capture must have dragged him from beneath his down quilt and he was angry about it.
`Come with me,' he said. Just that.
I rose and followed him out of the room. Outside a police Volvo stood, but he didn't walk towards it. Instead he headed for the departure gates. I walked along with him, puzzled. When we reached the gate he produced a ticket and handed it to the official who glanced at me and asked for my passport. A moment later I was through and walking with a stillsilent Schmid along the corridors. Finally we turned right at Gate Four and I stopped and stared. The board above the gate said SK 463 Gothenburg-London. And outside on the tarmac stood a nice, shiny DC9.