“Professor?”
He brought his mind back to the matter at hand. “Who is it?”
“He says he’s a cousin of yours, Professor. Knud Christensen.”
Nordberg frowned at the telephone. Christensen? It seemed faintly familiar. A cousin? Some distant relative of his mother’s, as he recalled. Fishermen, weren’t they? From somewhere down in Nykøbing, or Korsør, or one of those other Godforsaken villages in the south. What on earth could a fisherman cousin — not even a real cousin, but one of those hundred-times removed cousins — want of him? The answer wasn’t even a problem. Money, of course. All these country yokels seemed to think if you lived in Copenhagen, you were rich. If you were a professor at the university, you were made of money. Well, little did they know! He stared at the intercom, seeing in his mind’s eye his middle-aged secretary at the other end of the line, leaning over to press the intercom buttons. He tried to picture the view down her gaping blouse, and then recalled that she was flat-chested, or so he had to suppose from the tight brassieres and buttoned-up blouses she wore. Why couldn’t he have had the luck to be assigned a good-looking secretary? Like Carl Becker—?
“Professor?”
He cleared his throat. “Tell him I can’t see him. I’m busy.”
“Yes, sir.” Nordberg’s hand went thankfully to push the intercom switch, but before he could do so his secretary’s voice came back. “Professor, Mr. Christensen says he’ll wait.”
Damn! Nordberg stared about the small office. There was no escape other than the one door leading past his secretary’s desk and the undoubtedly raw-boned and equally undoubtedly fish-smelling peasant outside. Nordberg thought a moment and then allowed himself a feeling of righteous anger. What did he owe this perfect stranger? Everyone was constantly trying to take advantage of him, and he wasn’t going to stand for it! Enough was enough! He would simply tell this oaf he was wasting his time, and that would be that. He didn’t have to explain the circumstances; he knew if he were the richest man in Denmark he would still refuse the man money. What did he owe the man, anyway? He steeled himself and glowered at the intercom.
“Tell him to come in.”
The door opened and Nordberg coldly considered the man who stood there. Christensen had dressed in his Sunday best, and did not appear particularly raw-boned, although he was certainly big. He also had a thick head of curly hair, and not for the first time Nordberg resented his father’s baldness that had apparently been transferred through genes to blight his son’s existence. Christensen also did not smell of fish, although this, Nordberg thought sourly, would not get him one penny. Christensen carried a small cloth bag with him and smiled with a bit of uncertainty at his distant cousin. Nor was any smile going to do the lout any good, Nordberg thought with an inner sneer, and did not even offer the man a chair.
“What can I do for you?”
“I thought—” Christensen paused and looked around, finally finding a chair and sitting in it. He edged it to the desk, his small bag held firmly in his lap. Here it comes, Nordberg thought, and waited, his face expressionless. Christensen studied the ranks of books on the shelves that enclosed the tiny office, and finally brought his attention back to his cousin. Rather than speak again, he opened his bag and brought out a piece of metal, placing it on the desk. “I thought you might be able to tell me if this had any value.”
Nordberg frowned. What was this? A new way to ask for money? Or an attempt to use the fiction of their relationship to peddle something? Or was it simply a case of thinking of him as one would of a pawnbroker, which was simply insulting? Or even simply asking his advice. Others on the faculty occasionally served as consultants, but they were paid for it. He picked the piece up and studied it without much interest, finally looking up at Christensen.
“Where did you get this? Do you have more?”
“I have a few more pieces with me. There’s lots more at home.” Christensen hastily brought out the rest of his samples and laid them on the desk. Nordberg looked at them, his interest at least piqued. They were undoubtedly old, very old. How had a mere fisherman come by them? He looked up again.
“Where did you say you found them?”
“You see—” Christensen began, and then paused. He was never very good with words. Maybe it would be better if he began at the beginning. “You see, my brothers were both drowned three months ago. There was a very bad storm—”
So he was going to ask for money after all! The pieces were just a lead-in; the sob-story was about to begin. Well, better to cut it off quickly.
“I’m afraid—” Nordberg began.
“I wanted to bring up the body of my youngest brother,” Christensen went on. He hadn’t heard the interruption; his mind was back in the icy water cutting Gustave’s body loose. “He was tangled in the shrouds. So I went down and found the wreckage of the boat, and brought up his body for decent burial.”
Despite himself, Nordberg was impressed. “You dove for his body — when?”
“Three months ago.”
“In January? Where was all this?”
“Off the Gedser lighthouse. Yes, it was January,” Christensen said simply. “It was cold, but it had to be done. But what I’m trying to say is that when I was down there I saw this box, this crate, made of steel. It must have come from the second boat I found, which must have been sunk a long time ago, because I never heard of the sinking, and it was less than a mile from my house. Anyway, when the weather got better — last night, in fact — I went out in my dory and I dove and brought the box up. And when I opened it I found these pieces. And a lot more.”
“How much more?”
Christensen shrugged. “Much, much more. Hundreds and hundreds of pieces. Oh, most of them were small, like beads and buttons and things like that. I didn’t count them. There were too many.” He looked down at his samples and then up to Nordberg’s face. “Do you think they have any value?”
Nordberg bent over the pieces once again, now studying them intently. There was something vaguely familiar with the piece he was looking at, a small slightly curved mask with open eyeholes, too small for an adult, probably for a child, or possibly a small woman. The material, he was sure, was gold, almost pure gold if he was not mistaken. He tried to recall where he had read about something like this. It seemed to him he had been reading or researching another matter, when he had run across something about some pieces... Still, he was sure it would come back to him in time. In the meantime, caution was clearly indicated in giving this peasant any information.
“Value?” He shook his head. “I doubt it. I would have to see the rest of the pieces you found to give you any idea at all. But if these pieces are representative—” He looked across the desk. “Are they representative?”
Christensen swallowed miserably. “The other pieces mostly are a lot smaller, but some are bigger. There’s a cup... I think it’s a cup... or maybe a bottle...”
“You see? No, I’m afraid you found something somebody probably threw away. You can see for yourself. They’re obviously made of some inferior alloy. See how easily it bends. And as for the workmanship — if you can call it workmanship — it’s simply childish. I doubt they would be worth more than their value as scrap. Still,” Nordberg added, as if trying to put the best face on the matter, “I won’t say they’re totally worthless. Or at least I won’t say it until I’ve had a chance to see the rest of what you found. Can you bring it to me?”
“I—”
“Or possibly it would be less trouble for you if I were to come over to your place?”