“You’d go to that much trouble?” Christensen asked anxiously. Nordberg shrugged modestly. “Could you come back with me? I live in Gedser, on Falster. It’s only a few hours by train.”
Don’t rush, Nordberg told himself sternly. No show of the slightest anxiety over this freak accident. Some of these country types are shrewder than they look. And you may have fallen into something just because you were smart enough to see this yokel. Others, like Carl Becker, for example, wouldn’t have wasted a minute on him.
“Today? I’m afraid not. In any event, I don’t believe it’s all that important,” Nordberg said, and forced himself to bite back a yawn. He reached over and flipped the pages of his appointment calendar, being careful that his visitor could not see the blank pages. “Ah! How about a week from Sunday?” Even as he said it he wondered if perhaps he was being just a bit too reckless; if given too much time the man might go to someone else for an opinion.
“Not before?” Christensen could not keep the disappointment from his voice.
Nordberg flipped the pages again, and then reached for a pencil. He crossed out something on a page. “I’ll postpone that,” he said, half to himself, and looked up. “Saturday next, then,” he said, making a great concession. “I’ll drive down to your place on Saturday.” He nudged the pieces on his desk. “If you wish you can leave these here with me. I can try to find out what alloy they’re made of. Or you can take them back with you, whichever you prefer.”
Christensen shrugged helplessly and came to his feet.
“You might as well keep them,” he said, and sighed. “Until Saturday, then. Anyone in Gedser can tell you where Knud Christensen lives.” He walked to the door and then paused, twisting the empty cloth bag in his hands. “And thank you,” he said sincerely, remembering his manners. “Thank you for your time.”
Nordberg waved the thanks away gracefully.
It came to Nordberg at three o’clock in the morning. He left his bed and padded to the front room of his small apartment, lighting a lamp, and then searching the bookshelves for the reference copy he wanted. He drew it down, the excitement in him growing, and flipped the pages until he reached the section he wanted. He found the part that had teased his memory, found the reference it made to another book, and hastily searched for the second book without bothering to replace the first. He almost tore the pages in his anxiety to find what he wanted. He thrust the page under the lamp. There it was! There it was! A picture of the very mask that was now locked in his desk at the university. And there! Look there! That diadem, with the owl’s head at the end of each of the hanging chains; the owl’s head of Athena! My God! Was it possible? He felt himself begin to tremble. The Schliemann treasure in the hands of a stupid fisherman from Gedser, when the entire world was convinced it was in Russia someplace, most probably at the Hermitage Museum in Leningrad? Was it possible?
He fell into a chair, eagerly reading a description of the treasure, and then fell back, his mind churning. He had suspected the pieces had value, but nothing like this! He forced himself to try and think clearly. Saturday was four long days away. Could he take the chance and wait that long to go to Gedser and verify that the treasure was, indeed, the Schliemann collection? Suppose the fisherman went to someone else for advice, or an opinion, in the meanwhile? Or suppose he had listened to his words and went and disposed of it for scrap to some metal dealer who, in all probability in that part of the country, wouldn’t know the difference and would bale it together with other scrap and sell it to some factory where it would all go into the furnace together, iron, steel, tin — and the Schliemann gold! The thought was too horrifying to contemplate. Or the metal dealer would recognize the material as gold, which was even worse!
But on the other hand, if he went down to Gedser any sooner than the following Saturday, wouldn’t the peasant wonder at his early arrival? Would the clod begin to suspect that possibly the pieces he had found were of greater value than mere scrap? What excuse could he give for hurrying down to Gedser that would not arouse suspicions on the part of this Knud Christensen?
It was a most difficult problem, and one that prevented him from sleeping the rest of the night. He sat and gnawed his nails, staring at nothing, trying to find a suitable answer. And then an even greater problem formed itself in his mind, relegating the one of a reason for an early appearance at Gedser to a very minor position. He sat a bit erect as he contemplated this new, and far more frightening, possibility. Eventually, no matter what he did with the treasure, word would get out! The world would know that the Schliemann treasure had been found! And Knud Christensen was part of that world! There would be newspaper articles. It would be marveled at in the magazines and on the radio! Pictures would be shown. Would it be possible that with all the attendant publicity, the clod would not hear of it? And if — or, rather, when — he did hear of it, what would his reaction be?
A cold, eerie feeling gripped Nordberg. There was only one solution...
He came to his feet, now moving almost marionettelike, as if his actions were being controlled by an Arne Nordberg he had never known. He went to his bookshelf again, but this time to bring down his pharmacopoeia, carrying it back to the lamp. He sat and pulled the heavy volume into his lap, leafing through its pages. He would require a poison that could be introduced in liquor, for he was sure that a man like Knud Christensen drank. The poison would have to be slow-acting, for Nordberg had no intention of watching the giant die, or be caught in those frightening hands should the oaf suspect what was happening to him. And then Nordberg paused, thinking, again as if his thoughts were those of a stranger, as if he were standing to one side watching Arne Nordberg think, and being able to read those thoughts. There were certain pills, drugs of some sort, which could not — or, rather, should not — be taken with alcohol. A strong dose of one of those drugs in a bottle of liquor... And if, for some reason, an autopsy should be ordered, the cause of the suicide, or accidental death, would be all too evident.
He sat and coldly made his plans for the following day, but one small part of his mind kept praising him for his courage, for his ability to recognize a situation and take the necessary steps to handle it. Another portion of his mind, though, kept hoping his nerve would not fail at the proper moment.
The pharmacist who furnished him with the sleeping tablets was careful to caution him not to drink anything alcoholic while using the pills, and Arne Nordberg assured him that he was quite aware of the consequences of doing so. He next stopped by his office, which was in the next block, to advise his secretary that he had been taken ill on the way to school and would not be able to take any classes that day — which was easily believed with his high color, his feverish eyes, and his shaking hands. He then drove to the bank and withdrew two thousand kroner, which left his balance woefully thin. But there was nothing to be done about it; this was no time to be niggardly.
His next stop was at a liquor store. Again he decided not to be cheap, and purchased a quite expensive bottle of whiskey. His coldly calculating brain, now directing him almost without his volition, told him that the drugs he had purchased might well cloud the otherwise water-clear aquavit, but they would be invisible in the amber color of scotch whiskey. Besides, scotch whiskey, at those prices, made a more prestigious present.
He then got into his car and started for Gedser. At a rest area he pulled from the road, and in a secluded area he carefully opened the bottle of whiskey and inserted the pills. He recapped the bottle and shook it to dissolve the pills, and then held it to the light; there was no sediment visible. He put the bottle into his handbag and pulled back onto the highway for Gedser, forcing himself not to think of the bottle by his side, concentrating instead on what he would do when he had his hands on the treasure.