Jacobsson was cued into feverish activity. He clapped his hands for attention. ‘Everyone, hear me! In your places-the trumpets-the King is entering-we will follow.’
In the gigantic auditorium of Concert Hall, like the building of a tidal wave, the 2,100 members of the audience, in the rear and side balconies above, in the rectangular first floor below, rose from their red-felt seats to honour the monarch of Sweden. The uniformed soldier and sailor were finishing their trumpet fanfare, and now they lowered their instruments and stood to attention.
The Royal March, and the pomp and pageantry, began.
One of the ten entry doors to the auditorium opened, and past a white pillar came the King from his private parlour, followed closely by the members of the royal family and palace household. The King took his place in the first orchestra row, off the centre aisle, facing the flower-bedecked stage with its lectern and microphones, its four rows of empty chairs, its flags bowed forward from poles between the four alcoves of classical statuary. The moment that the King sat, and his entourage settled into their seats, the 2,100 members of the audience also sat.
Immediately, the centre doors upstage swung wide, to the blast of trumpets, and through them, two by two, Nobel committee-men side by side with laureates paraded down to the platform. As the march swelled, committee-men taking chairs on one side, laureates on the other, the King rose to his feet-the rare occasion on which he stood first before his subjects and guests-because tonight he was greeting his equals, the royalty of intellect.
Jacobsson found his place on the stage nervously. Scanning the Concert Hall, there was much to please him. He did not even mind the four detestable television cameras, two on the podium and two in the balconies. Every seat in the assembly room was taken, and the formality of the attire was gratifying. In the loges above, reserved for relatives of the laureates, he could make out Mrs. Saralee Garrett next to Signora Margherita Farelli, and beside them Miss Leah Decker. One chair was empty, and then he remembered Miss Emily Stratman.
The stage itself glittered beneath fern plants and great arrangements of white chrysanthemums. Covertly, Jacobsson examined the rows of chairs. All were filled save two, and now he no longer needed to count noses. Across the long steps, covered by Oriental carpets, that led down from the rear stage door, among the stiff committee-men, one hole gaped at him. Dr. Carl Adolf Krantz, who was to introduce Professor Max Stratman, was missing. This was disagreeable, but not serious.
What was serious was the empty chair next to his own. This was to have been occupied by Mr. Andrew Craig. Never, in the long history of the awards, had a laureate who had come to Stockholm failed to appear at the Ceremony. If Craig did not appear, it would become a national insult and an international scandal. The empty laureate chair became Gargantuan. Jacobsson gave silent thanks that the programme was a long one, so that the chair might yet be filled.
Suddenly, Jacobsson realized that the opening moment of the Ceremony was upon them. He rose to his feet and walked to the lectern where his salutatory oration lay waiting. He made his reverence to his King, and then gazed out at the audience. Could one of them know what was really in his head? Krantz was in his head. And Andrew Craig.
Krantz led the way, and Craig followed, until they arrived at the prow of a rakish, V-bottom cabin cruiser. It rolled evenly in its canal berth, and Craig, inspecting the white oak hull and mahogany planking and raised pilothouse in the semi-darkness, judged it to be a forty-four-foot job with 110-horse-power-engines.
‘You go first,’ said Craig.
Gingerly, Krantz boarded the craft amidships, letting himself down the two steps to the white pine deck. Quickly, Craig was at his heels.
Before they could move farther, there were soft, hastening footsteps, and out of the night loomed a glowering, blond, athletic Swedish young man, attired in a navy-blue pea jacket and dungarees and white tennis shoes. His right hand was in his pocket. He recognized Krantz at once, and acknowledged him, and then glanced coldly at Craig.
Krantz spoke hastily, but with authority, in Swedish. The young man listened, then replied, also in Swedish, almost inaudibly.
Krantz turned. ‘It is all right,’ he said to Craig, ‘but he insists on searching you.’
Craig shrugged. ‘He’s wasting his time, but let him go ahead.’ Dutifully, he lifted his arms, and with expert speed the young Swede patted Craig’s chest, hips, his coat pockets, and the pockets of his trousers.
Craig lowered his arms with satisfaction, as young Swede addressed Krantz in Swedish.
Krantz said, ‘We can go ahead.’
As they went on, Craig noticed that the young Swede was watching them, and that behind him, indistinct in the darkness, a taller figure had appeared.
‘How many of them are there?’ Craig inquired in an undertone.
‘Two.’
Crossing the deck, Craig noticed that the superstructure of the cruiser was polished natural mahogany. He speculated on the ownership of the expensive vessel, but decided that it did not matter. They reached the companionway. As they went below deck, Craig was aware of the nautical smells; burnished brass fittings and glazed mahogany trim, scrubbed decks and fresh paint, gasoline and oil, and the stimulating fragrance of salt water from the Baltic.
The corridor below was claustrophobic.
‘Where are they?’ Craig wanted to know.
‘Walther Stratman is in the main stateroom. Miss Stratman is resting in the little bedroom adjoining it.’
‘Let me see her first.’
Krantz, scrambling to oblige after his complete surrender, guided Craig past a locker, past the galley with its four-burner stove, to the gleaming knob of the bedroom door. ‘In here,’ said Krantz.
‘How do you know she’s in there?’
‘They sedated her,’ said Krantz reluctantly. ‘The shock of seeing her father was so great, she fainted. They gave her something to quieten her down and let her rest.’
‘All right, let me see her.’
They went inside.
The bedroom gave the impression of an elongated, well-lit wardrobe, furnished with a chair, bed-stand, and single bed, and no more.
Emily lay curled on the bed, beneath a small oblong window that passed for a porthole, her back to the door. Because the heater was on, and the confined bedroom warm, she had pushed the thin white cotton sheet that covered her off her shoulders and down to her hips. She was attired in a light grey sweater and blue skirt, and the two pieces had separated, so that the curved ridge of her spine and a portion of her bare back and the elastic waistband of her pink panties showed. Her pumps were at the foot of the bed, and her heavy coat placed neatly on the chair.
Listening, Craig could hear her shallow breathing. Eckart’s promise was confirmed: she was alive and apparently unharmed.
‘You see,’ Krantz was saying eagerly, ‘nothing is wrong.’
‘No, not much,’ Craig said, ironically.
‘You wait a moment,’ Krantz said. ‘I must go to the next room and explain to Walther Stratman.’
There was a door to the left. Krantz went to it and disappeared.
Alone with Emily, Craig quickly joined her, kneeling beside the bed. She had turned on her back, and now her hands were folded across her bosom. He took one hand, loosening it from the other, and his fingers felt her pulse at the wrist. The count was normal. He released her wrist, and then, gently, he shook her shoulder. At first she did not respond, and then she stirred, and he caressed her shoulder, and then, at last, she awakened.
Her head came around on the pillow, eyes sleepy, features reflecting confusion.
She recognized him. ‘Andrew-’
‘Yes, darling, I’m here.’
Her gaze shifted to the ceiling of the bedroom, then took in the rest of her surroundings. When she found her voice, it was caught low in her throat and thick. ‘Where am I?’
‘Still in Stockholm. You were brought to your father.’
‘I remember-some of it-’