Ringsted — July
From the height of the small balcony that jutted from the wall of Lindgren Castle, Count Lindgren watched with no expression as Professor Nordberg’s car came rattling up the long drive. Five o’clock; the professor was on time for his appointment. The count watched the professor park the car and get out, immediately going to the trunk and taking from it a large bundle. Wilten appeared at once, offering help with the bulky package, but the professor could be seen shaking his head, and a moment later he had stumped from view into the castle, carrying the bundle protectively in his short arms.
Count Lindgren walked back into his den and sat down, coldly calculating. The sense of anticipation, the slight feeling of tenseness that always preceded a major act of violence on the part of the count, whether it might be the taking of a woman against her will, the facing of an adversary in a duel, rigged or not, the preparation for battle in war, was present. But Axel Lindgren knew from experience that the tenseness would disappear as soon as the deed was in motion.
There was a diffident rap on the door. Count Lindgren came to his feet and walked over, opening it. Nordberg stood there, puffing from his climb up the broad winding stairs with his burden, but smiling as always to know he was in the presence of his benefactor, his good friend, Count Axel Lindgren and that he knew he was welcome. The professor carefully placed the bundle down on a chair and took out a handkerchief, wiping his forehead and then his face.
“I truly appreciate this, Count Lindgren—”
“Axel,” Lindgren corrected him almost mechanically and placed an arm about the professor’s shoulders in seemingly friendly fashion, squeezing lightly. The thought came to him that it was somewhat like checking the body fat of an animal before slaughtering it. Still, under that fat the arms were thin, and there was not the slightest chance that the professor might struggle free of his fate. The count released the beaming professor and bent to the bundle. “Shall we see what we have here?”
“Oh, certainly.” Professor Nordberg hastened to help. The bundle was opened almost reverently, the full treasure exposed as a jumbled pile of dullish yellow. “It’s all there,” Nordberg said, staring down almost hypnotically. He wet his thick lips. Everything he had always wanted in life was represented by these rather unattractive bits and pieces of amateurishly fabricated metal, twisted and formed centuries and centuries ago, just to be able this day to make him rich, rich beyond anything he could ever have imagined. He watched the count check the material and then rewrap the bundle and stow it carefully in a large drawer of a cabinet against one wall. For the purpose of maintaining the general atmosphere of security, the count took a key from his pocket and locked the drawer. He tucked the key back into his pocket and patted it as if to demonstrate that everything was under control. Nordberg smiled a bit tremulously and then — as Count Lindgren had been sure he would — looked toward the balcony. “May I—?”
“Of course.”
Count Lindgren watched the professor move to the balcony, to expend some of his excessive emotion on the beauty of the view. How beautifully the professor has been choreographed, Count Lindgren thought dispassionately as he reached for the brandy and two balloon glasses. Had we rehearsed this scene a dozen times he could not have taken his part better. Well, let’s see if he can act out the rest of this poor comedy with equal artistry...
He carefully filled the balloon glasses far beyond the tiny line etched in the crystal to indicate what someone considered a proper portion, and came to his feet. The professor was staring across the trees toward the village of Ringsted, entranced, unmindful of anything but the beauty of the scene and his unbelievable relationship with the castle and with the count, a relationship that had been unthinkable such a short time before.
All feeling of tenseness, even of reality, had now left Count Lindgren, replaced with calm inexorability. He was the executioner approaching the victim with no personalities involved, an actor in a drama whose lines he could no more change than could the man he intended to kill. The count did not even feel his normal distaste for the professor at the moment. He stepped noiselessly to the balcony and raised both glasses, prepared to call out to the professor and to stumble at the same time, decanting the burning liquid into those wide inane eyes and then to quickly push the tortured disabled man over the low parapet.
He opened his mouth to call out, and then froze!
There was a loud bang on the door of his study, and then the door was rudely flung open. Lindgren swung about, the brandy in the two glasses swaying dangerously. François stood there, glowering, his assistant’s ear pinched painfully between two of the chef’s fingers.
“This cretin! This idiot!” the infuriated chef was saying, “He must go at once! Cumin in the vichyssoise! I shall not tolerate it! Yesterday it was paprika in the lobster bisque! Always experimenting!” He released the culprit and wiped his fingers on his mess jacket, as if to cleanse them. “You must send this one away at once, sir! Or I shall not be responsible for your meals!”
Lindgren fought down the wave of blind unreasoning fury that had swept him at the interruption. The damage was done. The professor had come back into the study as a result of the clamor and had taken one of the glasses from the count’s hand in passing. Count Lindgren walked to his desk as if in a trance and pressed a button. Wilten appeared in moments, his eyes taking in the tableau, understanding it. He took François’ arm gently.
“I’ll take care of the matter, sir,” he said to Lindgren and led the chef from the room. François, his anger expended, followed along docilely, followed at a safe distance by his assistant.
“And I’ll have to go, too, Axel,” Nordberg said, and emptied his glass, setting it down. “Tomorrow is graduation and tonight is rehearsal of the convocation procession.” He moved to the door, and then tilted his head in the direction of the cabinet containing the treasure. “I can’t thank you enough,” he said sincerely, and left, closing the door softly behind him.
Count Lindgren sank into a chair. He took a deep breath and swirled the brandy in his glass as he stared at the closed door. He felt let down, deprived. It had been so close! Still, there would be other opportunities as far as Professor Arne Nordberg was concerned. Where the opportunities might be far more limited was in the case of Ruth McVeigh and Gregor Kovpak. If they should appear to be even close to becoming a threat, any opportunities at all would have to be exploited, at any cost. It was something he would have to discuss in great detail with Wilten that very evening...
Chapter Twenty
Denmark — July
With the glass between them closed, and with Wilten sitting rigidly in the driver’s seat, Ruth and Gregor were being driven south from Copenhagen along the coast highway. They had skirted the Køge Bugt and had passed the small corner of the Fakse Bugt that permitted a view of the sea below through stands of trees; now they were approaching Vordingbord. Ruth, studying Gregor’s profile across the width of the back seat, frowned slightly. She loved the profile. In fact, she loved the entire face with its strong planes framed by that tangle of dark hair. What she did not care for was the expression at the moment.
“Darling,” she said quietly, “I honestly do not understand you. We predict a boat was sunk somewhere between Warnemünde and Denmark, and we find a boat that was sunk on the day we said it was sunk, at the place we said it was sunk. And instead of being happy about it, you look as if you were being driven to a funeral.”