“Not so good. The court appointed me a lawyer who says I ought to plead guilty to manslaughter and get off with a lesser sentence. I can’t see that. It’s not right.”
“I gather you have no money for a protracted contest.”
Huh? he thought. A woman like her, talkin’ like a stage professor? “No,” he said. “I been livin’ on a graduate fellowship. My mother swears she’ll mortgage her place to raise a stake, she bein’ widowed and none of my brothers rich. I hate for her to do that. Course, I’ll pay the debt off if I win. But if I don’t—”
“I think you may,” she said. “Am I correct in believing that William Ellsworth in Chicago is one of the nation’s best criminal lawyers?”
“What? Why—why—He’s hardly ever lost a case, they say.”
Stupefied, Lockridge gaped. He began to tremble.
Storm Darroway stroked her chin. “A good staff of private investigators could track down the members of this boy-gang,” she said thoughtfully. “Their whereabouts that night could be established in court, and skilled cross-examination break their lies. We could also find character witnesses for you. Your life has been blameless, has it not?”
“Well—” Lockridge clamped teeth together. He achieved a sort of smile. “Reasonably so. But look, this’d cost a fortune!”
“I have a fortune.” She brushed the question aside. Leaning forward, the luminous eyes searching out every detail about him: “Tell me of yourself. I shall need information. Where did you get this combat training you mentioned?”
“Marines. And I was stationed on Okinawa, got interested in karate and attended a dojo.” In his hammering daze he scarcely noticed how she drew his life from him: the boyhood of work, forests, hunting and fishing; restlessness that ended in his enlistment at seventeen; the enlightening shock of other lands, other peoples, a world more wide than he had imagined; the birth of a wish to learn. “I read quite a lot in the service. Afterward, back in the States, I went to college on my savin’s, decided to go in for anthropology. They have a good department in the university here, so I am—I was buckin’ for my master’s. Ph.D. later on. Could be a good life. I like primitive people. They’re nothin’ to get romantic about, they’ve got troubles as bad as ours or worse, but there’s somethin’ there that we’ve lost.”
“You have travelled, then?”
“Some field trips, to places like Yucatan. We were goin’ back this summer. I reckon that’s washed up for me, though. Even if I got off the hook in time, I’m probably not very welcome around here any more. Well, I’ll find another place.”
“Indeed you might.”
Storm Darroway glanced around, lynx careful. The guards, less bored than usual, were watching her, but they were out of earshot if she talked softly.
“Listen, Malcolm Lockridge,” she said. “Look at me.”
With pleasure, he thought. His spine tingled.
“I am going to engage Ellsworth to defend you,” she said. “He will be instructed not to consider expense. If you are convicted, he will appeal. But I do not think that will be necessary.”
Lockridge could only whisper, “Why?”
She tossed her head. The long locks flew back and he saw a tiny, transparent button in her left ear. Hearing aid? Somehow the thought that she was also troubled and imperfect warmed him. The walls between him and the world came down and he sat in spring sunlight.
“Let us say it is wrong to cage a lion,” she answered. There was no coquetry about her; the words rang.
Her mask clamped down. She sat utterly relaxed and went on, cool of tone: “Besides, I require assistance. The task is dangerous. You seem much better fitted than some slogg I might hire off the street. The payment will not be niggard’s.”
“Miss,” he stammered, “I don’t want any pay for—for anything at all.”
“You will need travel funds, at least,” she told him. “Immediately after the trial, Ellsworth will give you an envelope with a check and instructions. Meanwhile, you are not to speak a word about me. If asked who is financing your defence, say a wealthy distant relative. Is that clear?”
Only later, trying to make sense of the whole fantastic matter, did he wonder if she was some kind of criminal, and refuse to believe that she could be. In this moment, he knew a command when he heard one, and nodded dumbly.
She rose. He stumbled to his feet. “I will not return here,” she said. Her hand clasped his, a swift firm gesture. “We will meet again when you are free, in Denmark. Now good-bye and good heart to you.”
He stared after her until she was gone, and then down to the hand she had taken.
2
September 14, her letter had said, at nine in the morning. Lockridge woke early, couldn’t get back to sleep, and finally went for a long walk. He wanted to say farewell to Copenhagen anyhow. Whatever the job Storm Darroway had for him, it would scarcely be here—not when he was directed to buy backpacking equipment for two, a rifle, and a pistol—and he had fallen in love with the city.
Bicycles swarmed the streets, weaving in and out of auto traffic, the last workward rush. Their riders didn’t have the beaten look of American commuters: placid portly men, young fellows in business suits or student caps, girls with fresh faces and blowing blonde hair, all openly enjoyed life. The glitter of Tivoli was like champagne in the blood, but you needn’t go there to taste the Old Vienna spirit. Sufficient was to walk down Langelinje, sea winds in your nostrils, ships bound by for the outposts of the world; stop to pay your respects to the Little Mermaid and Gefjon of the Oxen; go past royal Amalienborg, left along the canal through Nyhavn where centuries-old seamen’s taverns sleepily recalled last night’s fun, across Kongens Nytorv with a pause for a quick beer at an outdoor café; and on among Renaissance churches, palaces, counting houses, whose slender copper-sheathed spires pierced the sky with loveliness.
I got so damn much to be grateful to that woman for, Lockridge reflected, and not least that she had me arrive here three weeks ahead of time.
He had wondered why. Her instructions were to get ordnance maps and familiarise himself with the Danish topography, spend many hours in the Old Nordic section of the National Museum, and read several books that thoroughly explained the exhibits. He obeyed conscientiously, puzzled but not questioning his luck. There were ample chances for recreation, and no lack of companionship. The Danes were friendly, delightfully so in the case of two young ladies he had met. Maybe that was Storm Darroway’s idea: for him to recover from the ordeal behind him, and work off enough biological steam that he wouldn’t be making passes at her—wherever they were bound.
The reminder was jolting. Today! He quickened his steps. The hotel she had ordered him to use hove into view. Trying to ease the tension that gathered in him, he took the stairs to his room rather than an elevator.
He had not long to pace and chain smoke. The phone rang. He yanked it off the hook. The clerk said, in excellent English, “Mr. Lockridge? You are asked to meet Miss Darroway outside in fifteen minutes, with your baggage.”
“Oh. Okay.” For a moment he bristled. She was treating him like a servant. No, he decided. I’ve been so long in the northern states I’ve forgotten what a real lady expects. No reason to get a bellhop. He slipped a pack onto his shoulders, took the other one and his suitcase in his hands, and went down to check out.
A gleaming-new Dauphine stopped by the curb. She was at the wheel. He had not forgotten her looks, that was impossible, but when her dark head leaned out the window, he drew a breath and the Danish girls fell from his awareness.
“How do you do,” he said lamely.
She smiled. “Welcome back to freedom, Malcolm Lockridge,” the husky voice greeted him. “Shall we start?”
He put the gear in the trunk and joined her. She was wearing slacks and sneakers, but looked no less imperial than before.