It was six o'clock when he turned on the lights again. For three throbbing hours he'd been lying there. He knew if he stayed any longer these tormenting thoughts would get the better of him. But he was in no mood for the wardroom. It would be better to go ashore—he thought of Margrethe. Do ask me again, she had said. You're my favorite submarine captain. He would go ashore right away and telephone.
At the first telephone booth Shadde put a call through to the Embassy and soon had the number of Margrethe's flat. She sounded delighted. No, she was not doing anything. Yes, she would love to meet him. Where should they dine, he asked.
"At Langelinie," she said enthusiastically. "The pavilion is very good, and I like very much to look out over the harbor."
"So do I," agreed Shadde. "When will we meet and where?"
"We can dine at half past eight or nine."
"That's two hours off. Can't I meet you now?" He heard her laugh, that tinkling refreshing laugh he liked so much.
"I must change," she said. "That will be quite a business. I don't often dine with British submarine captains."
That made him laugh, too. "Seven fifteen, then. But where?"
"Come here. We will go in my car for a little drive before dinner. The country is beautiful outside Copenhagen."
"That sounds magnificent," Shadde said.
Margrethe had done it again. Just by hearing her voice and laughter, that inward excitement, that feeling of exhilaration, had come back.
The band was playing and from their table they could see the harbor framed in lilac trees. Across the water the gantries stood like sentinels over the unpainted steel hulls of two partially built ships. Opposite where they sat, Retaliate lay at her buoy.
"Like a huge whale with a sail on its back," said Margrethe.
Shadde smiled—a sad smile, she thought. "And I'm its Jonah."
"Never. You are not Jonah. But you are something strange."
"Strange?"
"You look so fierce, but you are not really fierce. You are kind. I think you are lonely."
Shadde laughed. "I doubt if my officers would agree."
He was enjoying himself. The drive had been a success; Margrethe was first-rate company; they liked the same things to eat and drink. Shadde had taken trouble in choosing the wines, and for once he had an appetite. They had cold salmon with a white C6tes-du-Rhone Hermitage, and a filet mignon with Grand Vin Clos de Vougeot. Then she'd suggested schaum torte.
"What's a schaum torte?" he had said.
"Ah! A Danish delicacy. Meringues that taste of almonds."
"I'm game. Let's wash it down with Chateau d'Yquem. That'll insure its success."
As they sipped their Yquems the band played something very smooth and romantic which exactly fitted Shadde's mood. Margrethe seemed to glow with charm and eagerness.
"What'll we do now?" he said.
"Do you like to dance?"
"My launch will pick me up at eleven thirty. Doesn't leave much time. It's a glorious night. Couldn't we go for a drive?"
There was a ghost of a smile in her eyes. "Yes, of course."
When they got to the car he said, "Can I drive?"
She looked at him doubtfully. "Do you know the little Morris?"
"Had one for years."
"Very well. We can go to Bellevue. I will show you the way."
He found, as he always did on the Continent, that it was strange at first having to keep to the right, but he soon got used to it. His exhilaration persisted and he chatted gaily while he drove. They had to swerve once to avoid a cyclist and Margrethe said anxiously, "Be watchful. You will be in trouble if you hit a cyclist."
"That, madam, will be the day," he said, and he began to sing the chorus from the "Toreador Song." At that moment they reached the busy traffic circle at Trianglen and he began to turn left.
"No! No!" she cried in sudden alarm. "Keep right!"
Instantly he turned the wheel to the right but it was too late. The screeching of tires was followed by a jarring crash as something hit the back of the Morris.
Shadde stopped at once and they got out. The driver of the other car was already in the street—a small, angry, excited man. Margrethe spoke to him in Danish but he brushed her aside and shrilled at Shadde in English. "Why did you turn to the left? It is not permitted. Then you swing right. No signals. Nothing."
Shadde towered over the small man. "I am not deaf," he said coldly. "Why didn't you look where you were going?"
A small crowd had gathered, and a policeman appeared. The little man spat a torrent of words and the policeman listened patiently. Then he took out his notebook and questioned Shadde and Margrethe. Yes, it was her car. Yes, he was the driver. Yes, he had a license, an international one. No, it was not with him. Where was it? On board his ship in the harbor. What ship? Retaliate. The policeman looked up with new interest. The big British submarine? There was a murmur from the crowd.
"Did you try to turn left?" asked the policeman.
"Yes, I did," said Shadde.
"You see. It was his fault," the little man shouted.
"Kindly stop shouting," Shadde said with contempt.
The policeman looked at Shadde inquiringly. "Did you have anything to drink tonight?"
Shadde turned to Margrethe. "Can't you do something about this? It's most humiliating being quizzed in front of this crowd."
Margrethe spoke to the policeman in Danish. "He says we must go to the police station. Also, you must produce your driving license."
"How can I? We're sailing at eight thirty tomorrow morning."
"I told him. He says that makes no difference. The little man wishes to make trouble. He says you've been drinking."
"I have," said Shadde irritably. "But not the way he thinks. Anyway, let's go to the ruddy police station."
The damage to the cars was no more than crumpled bumpers and fenders. Margrethe took the wheel, and the policeman got in behind. The little man climbed into his car and followed them doggedly. Shadde's high spirits had gone.
At the police station a surgeon took a specimen of blood from Shadde's forearm for a blood-alcohol test. An inspector told him it would be in order if his driving license were sent by messenger between seven and eight next morning. No, he could not say if there would be a prosecution. It would depend on the blood-alcohol test. Yes, the other man had laid a charge. Commander Shadde might be required in court on the following day.
From the police station they trailed off to Margrethe's apartment, where, on her advice, they telephoned the First Secretary. He was concerned but helpful. "Wait there," he said, "until I ring you back." Twenty minutes later he reported that Shadde wouldn't be required in court the next day. But the Embassy had been forced to promise that he would return to stand trial if summoned.
"Does a minor collision justify all this fuss and bother?" asked Shadde icily.
"It's not that alone, unfortunately. Seems the blood-alcohol test wasn't too hot from your point of view."
Shadde protested that he was far from being tight, and explained exactly what he had had to drink all evening.
"I'm sure you weren't," said the First Secretary sympathetically. "But you evidently dined and wined pretty well, and the Danes take their blood-alcohol tests rather seriously. However, we'll do what we can tomorrow and I hope they'll drop it."
Gloomily Shadde thanked the First Secretary for his help.
"Don't mention it, my dear chap. Of course," he chuckled, "if you will go gadding with my pretty secretary you must expect this sort of thing."
Shadde was far from amused.
On that second afternoon in Copenhagen, the first lieutenant had gone to watch the soccer match between teams from the Danish naval base and the submarine. Cavan was a rugger man who found soccer boring, but he never missed a game in which Retaliate was playing. Early in his naval career he had learned that this was one of the things which the successful naval officer did, and so his tall figure on the sidelines and his booming "Come on, Retaliates!" had become an indispensable part of the team's effort.