The Copenhagen Affair - Oram John - Страница 3
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“Want to dance?” Mike suggested.
Norah shook her head. “No,” she said. “You were right. This place bores me, and I think I’m tired. Would you mind taking me home?”
“Of course. The only thing is, I don’t know where you live.”
“I’ve got an apartment in Marievej, out in Hellerup. A—a friend lent it to me.”
He said nothing, and she smiled. “That’s what I like about you, Mike,” she said. “You’re not the inquisitive type.”
Suddenly, in the taxi, she was in his arms. She kissed him almost desperately. “We have so little time,” she whispered.
He could feel wetness on his cheek and knew she was crying. He said awkwardly, trying to make light of it, “Oh, come on, now. We’ve got a couple of days together yet. There’s nothing to get upset about.”
She drew away. “You don’t understand. How could you?”
He said, “I’m beginning to understand that you’re in some kind of trouble. What is it? The law?”
“No.” She seemed to make up her mind. “Mike, I’ve got to trust you. Please keep this with you until you get back to London. I’ll contact you there—at your office.”
She opened her bag and brought out the small oblong package the doorman at The Linden Tree had given her. In the intermittent light of the street lights he could see that it was wrapped in white paper and that the ends were sealed with wax.
He grinned. “What is it? Purple hearts?”
Her voice was somber. “It’s dynamite.”
“As long as it doesn’t blow up on me, I’ll look after it,” he answered, stuffing the package in his pocket. Then he took her in his arms again.
CHAPTER TWO
A BUSINESS DEAL kept Mike occupied throughout the morning of the next day. It was past 1:00 P.M. when he returned to the hotel for lunch.
The desk clerk handed him a written message: “Please ring Trorod 53945.”
He looked at it, puzzled. Trorod was the exchange for Holte, a village some miles outside Copenhagen. He knew no one there. He went to his room and called the number.
A cultivated voice answered. It said, “Garbridge here.”
That rang no bell. Mike said, “Stanning. You want me?”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Stanning.” The voice was almost purring. “My name is Garbridge…Major Garbridge. We haven’t met, but I have a little proposition which I think would interest you. Could you come out here? I’m at the Rodehus, Gammel Holte, you know.”
“When?” Mike asked.
“At once, if you can spare the time. It would be worth your while.”
Mike looked at his watch. “I could be with you at about four o’clock. But I’m not sure of the way.”
Garbridge said, “Take the S-Train to Jaegersborg, and get the silver bus there. The driver will drop you off on the main road near the house, and I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Fine,” Mike said. “I’m on my way.”
The journey was shorter than he had anticipated. It was still broad daylight when the bus deposited him in what appeared to be a completely deserted stretch of countryside. The road was flanked by flat pastures where red cattle grazed amicably, and beyond, forests of beech. There was not a house in sight. It was with some relief that Mike saw a tall figure striding toward him.
Garbridge was a man of about fifty, maybe a little on the wrong side. He had a good jaw, a thickish nose, and eyes that did things to Mike’s spine. They were clear amber, cold as death and just as impersonal. The lashes that fringed them were snow white.
He wore nicely shabby gray tweeds and a regimental tie. The sandblasted brier looked like a permanent fixture in his mouth. His shoulders were wide and square. Given a tin hat and a pair of binoculars he would have been a natural for a trench coat ad. Mike wondered what he was doing in the wilds of Seeland.
His voice was curiously gentle.
“I had a feeling you had overestimated the time,” he greeted Mike cheerily. “Well, that’s all to the good. Gives us more time to chat, what?”
A few minutes’ walk brought them to a side road which led straight toward the beech forest. They strode along a path through the great trees and came suddenly to a pair of massive wrought-iron gates, beyond which a drive wound through banks of well-kept shrubs. The bushes gave Mike a hemmed-in feeling. The light had taken on a greenish tinge and there was a dank taste of rotting leaves in the air. After awhile they came out into the open again. Around and about them was a stretch of park land fringed with trees,. and right ahead was the Rodehus. The major stopped to let Mike catch his breath and admire the place.
It was a low, rambling house built in the traditional Danish L-shape but looking as if successive generations had kept adding a shingle here and there and tacking on another room for the unexpected guest. The walls were pink-washed and the windows were flanked by open shutters in a deeper red that matched the roof tiles. A Rolls Royce could have been driven through the main doors without scratching the paintwork. A velvet lawn swept down to meet the parkland.
They went in by the main entrance and found themselves in a large square hall with a black and white stone flagged floor like a checkerboard. Logs were burning in a fireplace large enough to roast an ox. The flames danced on suits of armor and the trophies of arms which decorated the walls. A broad staircase carpeted in purple led up to the first floor and at its head there was a life-size oil painting of a woman in Elizabethan dress. It was all more like an English castle than a Danish country manor.
“Here we are,” said the major. “And before we get down to business I think a drink is indicated. Come into the library.”
The library was darker than the hall. There was a nice smell of old leather and good tobacco. The main furnishings were easy chairs, a long chesterfield and a massive table-desk. Books covered most of the walls and the rest of the space was occupied by sporting prints.
“Make yourself comfortable,” said the major, indicating the chesterfield drawn up to the fire. He pressed the bell and a second or two later a thickset, surly man appeared in the doorway. He was dressed like a butler but he had ex-pug written all over his cauliflower ears and battered nose. His hands matched his face, with the knuckles pushed back halfway up his wrists.
“You rang, sir?”
“Whisky, Charles,” said the major.
“I don’t want to be awkward,” Mike said, “but if it’s all the same to you I’ll take beer. It’s a bit early for the hard stuff.”
“Very wise,” the major agreed. “Bring some lager, Charles.”
The butler brought the drinks, set them on a table and went out, closing the door carefully behind him.
The major poured himself almost half a tumbler of straight Scotch, said “Cheers!” and tossed it down without a blink. He refilled the glass and stood with his back to the fire, looking at Mike thoughtfully.
Suddenly he said, “And now—touching on Norah Bland…”
Mike was so surprised that he almost dropped his beer. To gain time he took a long drink.
Then he repeated slowly, “Bland? Norah Bland? Should I know her?”
“You should,” the major said. “She is a beautiful girl, and you spent a great deal of last night with her.” He was smiling coldly. The affable squire manner had dropped from him and his yellow eyes were like agates.
Mike sighed. “Nothing like that ever happens to me. You must be thinking of two other people…”
The major shook his head, still smiling thinly. it won’t do, Stanning. Let me refresh your memory. You met Miss Bland on the plane from London. You met her again yesterday afternoon and the two of you were together until early this morning. You took her to dinner at The Seven Nations and then for a drink at The Linden Tree—”
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