CHAPTER TEN

Other than the fact that Knud Christensen had not drunk the doctored liquor in his presence, and the fact that he would never know exactly when the clod did drink it since the deaths of unimportant people were not reported in the Copenhagen newspapers—and he certainly had no intention of returning to Gedser to verify the death—one might have thought Associate Professor Arne Nordberg would have been a happy man. Not only was he in possession of the Schliemann treasure, but in the week since he had brought the treasure back from Gedser and deposited the pieces trip-after-trip into two large safe-deposit boxes in his bank, he had lost ten pounds of weight. He had also saved at least a hundred kroner, since the girls in the Istedgade, for the first time since he could afford them, did not interest him in the least. His hairline, however, seemed to have receded even farther, and he wondered if worry alone could account for the fact.

What to do! What to do!

A fortune in his hands, a veritable king’s ransom, and all it apparently was going to mean were the added expenses of two large safe-deposit boxes, a complete loss of appetite, as well as the very possible loss of his job if he didn’t get his mind back onto the subject of Danish history and away from thoughts of the treasure sitting idle and for all purposes worthless in a box in a bank. He knew his lectures were suffering, but how was he supposed to be able to concentrate on the eighteenth century and the failure of Christian V in the Skåne War, or rejoice with his class over Frederick IV’s victory over the dukes of Holstein-Gottorp? The chances were if he didn’t find a solution to his problem soon, he would be forced by mere economic considerations to turn the treasure over to the authorities and attempt to glean what few tidbits of recognition he might from the whole affair. The thought was sickening. One morning he stared at his class without seeing them and then wordlessly left the rostrum and walked unsteadily into his office. He passed his secretary without a glance or a word, closed the door of his tiny sanctum sanctorum, fell into a chair, and pressed his head into his shaking hands.

What to do! What to do!

It was evident he was slowly going to pieces, or not even slowly. A solution had to be found and found quickly or he was going to suffer a complete nervous breakdown. Why had that fiendish fisherman come to him with the blasted treasure? Why couldn’t he have enticed someone else with its potential wealth? Or, better yet, left it at the bottom of the sea? Or had the fisherman been sent? Had someone—his colleagues, possibly Becker—arranged the whole thing, knowing it would drive him mad? But this thought in itself was madness, and he still had enough control to know it. He reached into a drawer and brought out a bottle of aquavit, bringing it unsteadily to his lips, upending it, aware as he did so that any sign of drunkenness, or smell of liquor on his breath during lecture hours, could mean instant dismissal. But he was past caring. He took another drink and could feel the alcohol begin to intoxicate him. Still, it was relaxing …

There had to be a solution. If only he had money! That was the answer, of course. Money begets money. With money he was sure any number of possible solutions would press themselves upon him. All that anything ever required was money. What was it Rousseau said? Money is the seed of money. Or Emerson, the American—sometimes they said something wise—The world is his who has money. Or Pulilius Syrus, who said the same thing earlier, before the birth of Christ: Money alone sets the world in motion. But Diogenes Laertius, three hundred years later, had put it the most elegantly. When a man asked him the right time for supper, Diogenes said: If you are a rich man you eat whenever you please; if you are a poor man, whenever you can. And he, Arne Nordberg, was a poor man, and he hadn’t even been eating at all lately, as a matter of fact. A classical education is fine, he told himself, feeling tears of self-pity welling behind his eyes, but what good is knowing what a lot of dead people said, or when they said it? It would never take the place of just plain, simple money.

He took another drink and yawned deeply, feeling the effects of the strong drink on his empty stomach. Then suddenly sat erect, his eyes widening dramatically, his mind snapping for a moment from its aquavit-induced torpor. He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, trying to force away the cobwebs, and instantly regretted it. He gripped the edge of his desk tightly, trying not to be sick, wondering what thought had come to bring on that ridiculous reaction, and then he remembered. Of course. Of course! The answer was simplicity itself. It was true that he, himself, had no money, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others in the world with money. Many, many, many! Hundreds! Thousands! Millions, probably! Undoubtedly! And sharing the great fortune that could be realized from the treasure with someone else was certainly better than having it sit in a bank idle and worthless—not to say a drain on his finances—and driving him half-insane in the bargain.

He leaned back, smiling, pleased with his brilliant solution, and not at all perturbed by the fact that at the moment he had no particular wealthy man in mind. That would be a matter of selection, careful selection. He would require someone, obviously, who would not be disturbed by the fact that the Schliemann gold had apparently been stolen from the Russians and somehow lost at sea, but Nordberg was sure that this in itself would present no problem. Rich men seldom accumulated their wealth by practicing excessive moral scruples. He would also have to find a man who would believe his story of how he had come into possession of the treasure, for he certainly had no intention of introducing the name of Knud Christensen into the narrative. This also seemed to be no great problem. He had all of history to select in fabricating a story of stolen material, and whatever else he was, he was definitely a scholar, not only of history, but of the classics. He would invent a story so logical that it would make the delivery of the Golden Fleece from the kingdom of Colchis seem like the normal arrival of the afternoon post; the stealing of Helen of Troy by Paris appear like picking up a girl in the Istedgade.

He realized that to a large extent it was the aquavit that was speaking in his boastful and swollen thoughts, and resolved to be sober when he did make up his story, and then to make it as simple and uncomplicated as possible. But basically, he knew his solution to the problem was right. He needed a partner; someone with money as well as contacts. And, of course, brains. Someone with nerve as well as a touch of the gambler in him. Someone, he told himself in the slowly evaporating stupor brought on by the alcohol, like himself. He smiled broadly at the idea. Not exactly like himself; someone with money. Someone who could complement his qualities, as well as duplicate them. Someone like Count Lindgren, for example.

Even as the thought came, he knew it had been a burst of pure genius. He had found the solution! Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was a trustee of the university, a man Nordberg had not only seen from a distance, but had even met on several occasions. Rich as Croesus, they said. Certainly Lindgren Castle on the outskirts of Ringsted seemed to bear that out. Nordberg had seen the castle several times. When the count was traveling he permitted the castle to be used for conducted tours with the monies, of course, going to charity. Set in two hundred rich acres, with its tessellated towers and its more than a hundred rooms filled with untold wealth in the form of paintings and statuary, the castle represented all that Nordberg had ever considered the finest in life. Just as the castle’s owner and tenant represented all that Nordberg had ever hoped for in himself.

Count Lindgren’s family held a revered place in Danish history. His father’s ancestors had fought with Harald Blaatand, the son of King Gorm, in the completion of Denmark’s unification and in the conquest of Norway. It was said another ancestor on his mother’s side had been the right-hand man of Sweyn I, Harald’s son, when he conquered England in 1013. No fisherman cousins in his line! No distant cousins living in little cottages in places like Gedser! And to make the man more attractive as a partner was the fact that Count Lindgren was a known gambler. The Copenhagen newspapers often mentioned his presence at Monte Carlo or Mar de Plata; at Las Vegas or Punta del Este. And the pictures in the society pages always showed the count visiting the casinos with a lovely lady on his arm, and always a different one. In fact, it was rumored that the reason Axel Lindgren had left the consular service was because he had been asked to. A matter, it was said, of an affair with the wife of a diplomat, a man so obsolete in his thinking as to act quite undiplomatically when he discovered the facts. So Count Lindgren had this love of the fleshly pleasures in common with Arne Nordberg, as well. Kindred souls, Nordberg thought—except, of course, for money. Yes, Count Lindgren was exactly the man to help him solve his problem. In fact, the count probably wouldn’t even want money for his help. With his wealth he didn’t need it. He’d probably do it just for the sport of it. Rumor had it he was just that kind of man. And according to the papers, Axel Lindgren was at home in Ringsted, which in itself could be considered a sort of favorable omen, since the count was known to travel widely.

Nordberg started to come to his feet, staggered, and sat down again. Better sober up, he told himself sternly. When you can walk a straight line, then go home, take a hot bath, get some rest, and tomorrow, when you have all your wits about you, go down to Lindgren Castle and start the ball rolling. It was such an attractive thought that he decided to have one more drink on it …

RINGSTED—April

The following day, Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was, indeed, home. He was in conference with his lawyer, and while the two men could not be said to be arguing—Axel Lindgren had learned early in his diplomatic career that arguing was counterproductive—it could be said they were having a serious discussion. The lawyer, Erik Trosborg, considered himself an old friend and felt he could speak freely.

“Axel,” he was saying, his voice pleading, “why can’t you seem to realize that the estate is entailed? It is not yours to dispose of when and as you wish! You know that as well as I do. You simply cannot go around selling off pictures, or statuary, or anything else. Why do you continually put me in the embarrassing position of rounding up these things and getting them back? I’m supposed to be a lawyer, not someone on a perpetual sort of scavenger hunt. When are you going to stop these stupidities?”

Count Lindgren shrugged. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with the build of an athlete, sharp clean features, a cleft chin, icy blue eyes, and a white streak down one side of his light brown hair that women found most attractive. He flicked ash from his thin cigar and smiled at his friend. It was a cold smile, but most things about Axel Lindgren were cold.

“I needed the money,” he said simply. “Blame it on inflation. Everyone else does.”

“Or gambling. Or women.”

“Now there you are being unfair,” Lindgren said a bit reprovingly. “My women do not cost me a krone.”

“Not in hard cash. Only a Mercedes for this one, a dress shop for that one! I wish,” Trosborg said fervently, “you would be smart enough to buy your women as you buy anything else. Or not to buy anything at all for a while. Axel, you simply cannot keep this up!”

“My dear Erik,” Lindgren said with no attempt at apology, “I honestly have no idea where the money goes. It just goes.” He glanced about a moment before returning his gaze to Trosborg’s face. “Erik, do you have any idea of how much it costs just to run this place? On the veriest shoestring, I assure you. A valet who also does duty when needed as chauffeur, or even butler, a cook and an assistant, five maids and a housekeeper?”

“I have a perfect idea,” Trosborg said dryly, “since I handle the bills.”

“Oh. Of course.” Lindgren was not in the least nonplussed. “Well, then, do you have any idea of what, say, a few new suits of clothes cost? Just the trip to London, alone, to visit the tailor—”

Trosborg shook his head in almost amused resignation.

“Axel, Axel! You have an income from this estate that would enable the most extravagant man in the world—no, since that’s you let’s make it the second-most extravagant man in the world—to live in absolute and total comfort. You simply must learn to live within that income. To begin with, legally you have no right to touch any part of the estate. It’s entailed and you could get into serious trouble by doing so. And secondly, if you had your way, in ten years there would be no estate at all, and then, my spendthrift friend, you would really have something to complain about!”

“All right, all right.” Lindgren smiled with amusement at the lawyer. “Don’t spank. I’ll try to be a good boy in the future. Now, how about lunch with me?”

“No, I have to get back to town. Handling the affairs of Count Axel Lindgren is a full-time job, believe me.” Trosborg came to his feet and shook his head as he looked down at his friend. All the lectures in the world would not change Axel, he knew. He only hoped the excesses could be kept within reasonable limits. “You know, Axel,” he added thoughtfully, “you might even consider working …”

Lindgren looked up, honestly surprised. “I beg your pardon?”

Trosborg laughed. “It’s not a crime, you know.”

“Well, it should be,” Lindgren said, and smiled.

Trosborg became serious. “I mean it, Axel. Not that you need it—you’d have ample money if you didn’t throw it around the way you do. But I’m serious. You’re considered an expert on art, aren’t you? I’m sure you could get quite a few very well-paying commissions, purchasing commissions, if you were to let people know you were interested—”

“And have all my friends realize the depths of my degradation?” Lindgren laughed. “Have everyone from Cannes to Hollywood know I was reduced to—to—labor?” He shook his head mockingly, but there was a touch of seriousness in the gesture as well. “François would begin serving me leftovers for lunch; Wilten would let my shoes go unpolished for a month. The maids would be afraid they wouldn’t be paid next week.”

Trosborg laughed. “What you mean, of course, is that honest labor might interfere with your traveling or with your spending time on the yachts of your poorer, but more practical, friends.” He held out his hand. “I don’t agree with your philosophy, but it’s your life. Take care.”

“I have you for that,” Lindgren said with a wry smile, and shook hands. He watched his friend leave the room and leaned back, his smile gone, his cigar smoldering forgotten in the ashtray at his side. This money thing, or the lack of it, was the very devil! He supposed in a way Erik was right. The income from the estate was a fair sum, and he could imagine there were people who could live on it. But not the way he liked to live; not and travel to the places he enjoyed visiting, or dress the way he liked to dress, or be with the type women he liked being with. And the saddest part of the whole business was that when at last he died, as even he, Axel Lindgren, had to eventually, the lovely Lindgren estates that Trosborg was so intent upon keeping intact, would not go to another Lindgren as entailed estates were supposed to go, handed down in their entirety in the blood line from father to son, but would undoubtedly end up with the government. A government, incidentally, who had fired him most unjustly for the small matter of sleeping with a lady. Who was he supposed to sleep with, for heaven’s sake? His first secretary? The military attaché? The only reason he had ever gone into the consular service had been for the women he could meet …

But the sad fact was that two marriages had not only failed to provide Axel Lindgren with any particular satisfaction, they also had not provided him with any progeny. And Lindgren had no intention of risking a third marriage simply to furnish an heir to inherit Lindgren Castle and all it contained, or its estates, or anything else. It would be a dirty trick, he thought with a rather sour smile, to place the burden of landed poverty onto another, as it had been placed upon him.

He crushed out his cigar and was about to go in to lunch, when his butler appeared, standing discreetly at the door. He was a large man, with cold unexpressive eyes. Lindgren looked at him inquiringly. “Yes, Wilten?”

“A—a person to see you, sir.”

“A person? Does he or she have a name? Or a card?”

“He has no card, sir. But he said he was an acquaintance. A Professor Nordberg. Of the Copenhagen University, sir.”

Lindgren frowned. He seemed to remember Nordberg; they had met at a few university functions when the professor—assistant professor, wasn’t it, or even associate?—had managed to introduce himself. A rather disgusting example of the human animal, as the count recalled. Most unattractive. Fat, short, going bald, verbose and stupid, constantly ogling the women and scratching himself while talking. What on earth was he doing here? And coming at this most inconvenient time, when lunch was about to be served. François, the cook, would be most perturbed should his carefully prepared meal be delayed, and Count Lindgren could understand that perfectly. What he could not understand was why someone as obnoxious as Nordberg should be bothering him when he had sufficient problems without additional ones from assistant—or more likely, associate—professors.

Still, Count Lindgren prided himself on always being polite, particularly with his inferiors, and it would be impolite not to see a man who had, after all, traveled the whole forty miles from Copenhagen to Ringsted, and who undoubtedly considered he had gone to the ends of the earth to see him. To the professor, at least, the reason for his hegira from the capital probably seemed important; a request to take one of his classes through the castle without paying the usual fee? And if Erik Trosborg had any idea of how little of the collected fees ever found their way to charity …! The count put that thought aside and shrugged.

“Ask him in. And tell François that lunch will be delayed. But not very long. I don’t imagine this will take much time.”

“Sir,” said the butler and retired, rather surprised that the count would see a scruffy specimen like Nordberg at all.

Count Lindgren seated himself and brought out another small cigar, lighting it, inhaling deeply, waiting for his visitor. When Nordberg appeared, looking about in wonder, obviously impressed by the luxurious appointments of the room in which he found himself—he had never seen Count Lindgren’s private sitting room, which was off-limits on the guided tours—the count came to his feet smiling, as if he had lacked suitable company all morning and was pleased to find that of all people, Arne Nordberg had appeared to resolve that want. Count Lindgren had not spent years in the diplomatic service for nothing. Such dissembling had often proved profitable in the past, although the count, in all truth, could see little possibility of gain in the present circumstance.

“Ah, Professor. It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you! Thank you!” Nordberg was positive now that he had been completely correct in choosing Count Lindgren to help him. What a fine gentleman! He gratefully accepted the chair the count waved him to and stared about him in awe. What beauty! What exquisite taste in everything in the room! He was brought back to earth by a polite cough from the other man. He turned to look at his host. Count Lindgren had also seated himself and was smiling at him.

“You wished to see me about—?”

For the first time a touch of doubt came to Arne Nordberg. He wondered if possibly it had been the aquavit he had drunk the previous day that had made him think Count Lindgren would help him. With all the money the count had, was it not possible—in fact, likely—that the man would not be interested in helping him dispose of the collection? What could he offer Count Lindgren that Count Lindgren did not already possess? Or could not buy if he so wanted? Still, he was here, and after so many days of terrifying indecision, there was nothing for it but to tell the whole story, or at least the concocted story, and see where it led. One thing was reassuring, and that was the gentle, friendly smile on the count’s face. Nordberg wet his lips, took a deep breath, and began.

“You know, I’m sure, of the Schliemann treasure, sir—?”

No muscle moved on Lindgren’s face. He remained the same smiling friendly man, but within his mind a slight wonder formed. Was he going to be forced to eat a delayed lunch just because this idiot wished to discuss art objects?

“Yes,” he said, anxious to terminate the pointless interview. “I’m quite familiar with the collection. Before the war I was fortunate enough to have seen it at the museum in Berlin. I was a child, but my father insisted upon my getting a very broad education. May I ask in what connection you asked about the treasure?”

Nordberg swallowed, and then to his own amazement heard the words come from his lips. He had meant to be far more circumspect in releasing the information.

“I—I have it …”

The smile disappeared from the count’s face, replaced by a slight frown. “I beg your pardon? You said—?”

“I said I have it. I have the Schliemann treasure. In my possession.” The very saying of the words seemed to bring renewed confidence to Nordberg. After all, he did have the treasure, and nobody else did, and that was a fact!

“Are you quite sure you know what you are saying?” Count Lindgren was now convinced he was dealing with a mentally unbalanced man. He promised himself to speak to Wilten about being more careful in whom he admitted. Wilten was usually excellent in this regard, having much experience, but—democracy was all right in its place, but letting insane people in to annoy him was quite another matter. He began to rise. “I’m sorry, but I’m afraid—”

“Please!” Nordberg’s tone was pleading. Then he seemed to read something in the other man’s expression. He leaned forward. The count was forced to sink back in his chair to avoid a collision. “Look, sir, please! I’m quite serious. I’m not lying, and I’m not crazy. I said I have the Schliemann treasure, and I have!” He reached into a pocket; the count’s frown deepened. Was the maniac going for a gun? But before he could ring for Wilten to come and eject his unwelcome visitor, Nordberg had brought out a tissue-wrapped packet and was opening it. He reached over, handing the count a diadem. He had selected the most ornate, the most individual, for his presentation. “Have you ever seen this before, sir?”

Count Lindgren took the diadem carefully, examining it in detail. It certainly looked genuine. Was it possible that a lout like Nordberg actually had the entire collection? It seemed impossible. In fact, it seemed utterly ridiculous. Still, there was the diadem. He looked up, his interest now fully aroused. “Where did you get this piece?”

Nordberg now felt surer of himself. “It’s not just that piece. I have the entire collection. Thousands of pieces,” he said with confidence. “And I have them in a very safe place—”

“I asked where you got it.”

“Well, I’m sure you know the treasure has been in Russia all these years since the war—”

“And I thought it was still there. You still haven’t answered my question.” Count Lindgren’s tone was insistent, the tone of a man accustomed to being answered when he asked a question.

“Well, sir, it was stolen.” Nordberg raised a hand hastily. “Oh, not by me! I’ve never been in Russia. It was stolen by a man who worked in the museum—it was the Hermitage, in Leningrad—and he stole the collection and defected. He got as far as Copenhagen and he needed money desperately to continue his escape. He came to me at the university and offered it to me for sale. At first I was sure it was a hoax—he wouldn’t tell me how he got it out of the museum, or even how he got it out of Russia. But when I examined the pieces, and compared them with the records of the collection, the pictures and the detailed sketches in Schliemann’s own book, I knew it was genuine. So I—I bought it.”

Lindgren tried to comprehend the startling fact, if it was a fact, that Arne Nordberg—Nordberg, of all people!—should be in possession of the Schliemann treasure. It just did not seem possible. In fact, the more he thought about it the less possible it seemed. Still, the diadem was there. He supposed the professor’s story might be true; stranger things had happened in the world. But not many. He frowned at Nordberg.

“I see. And may I ask just why you’re telling me all this?”

This was the part that Nordberg had rehearsed in his mind when he first planned to present the case to the count. He had been sure it would be one of the first questions. But it really wasn’t so hard. All he had to do was tell the truth.

“Well, sir,” he said earnestly, “the fact is, I’m like the man who stole the treasure from the museum. He had it, but he didn’t know what to do with it. That’s the position I’m in. I’ve got it, but I don’t know what to do with it. It cost me all the money I had in the world—”

“And how much was that?”

“I know it won’t sound like very much to you, sir, but it cleaned out my bank account—” Nordberg hesitated as if ashamed to be mentioning such a minute sum to a man as rich as Lindgren. The count waited. “It was fifty thousand kroner, sir. But I thought it was worth it.”

“I’m sure,” Count Lindgren said dryly. Fifty thousand kroner for the Schliemann collection? The cost of a new Volvo for one of the greatest collections the world has ever seen? “And at the risk of being impolite and repeating myself, may I ask again, just why are you telling me this? Do you wish to resell it? I’d have to verify its authenticity—”

“No, no!” Nordberg said hastily, moving to the edge of his chair, wishing to correct this misunderstanding at once. “I had nothing like that in mind! I thought—” He hesitated. Lindgren waited. “I thought,” Nordberg said at last, in a subdued tone of voice, not looking at the count but staring at the thick rug instead, “that we could be sort of—of partners, sir. That you might be able to figure out how both of us could make some money from it …” There! It was out, it was said!

Lindgren contemplated the man before him with outer calm, but inwardly his mind was racing. So the man wasn’t as big a fool as he appeared. Nordberg was, however, still a lout, there was no doubt of that, but he was an educated lout, after a fashion, and he would scarcely have been foolish enough to pay whatever he paid—the count was positive it would not have been fifty thousand kroner or anywhere near it, but that was unimportant—for a hoax. Nor would he have been so foolish as to attempt to bring a hoax to Count Lindgren. It would have been far too dangerous to attempt anything like that with a trustee of the university where he worked. It would mean his job, if not worse. The count fully intended to verify the authenticity of the collection, but he was beginning to really believe that the miserable person facing him actually, through some weird accident of fate, had come into possession of the Schliemann treasure. The story of the Russian defector probably was the truth. It was the only way Lindgren could imagine Nordberg getting hold of it. Certainly not through his own weakling efforts.

And if Nordberg actually had the treasure, there was indeed a fortune to be made. Enough, in fact, to enable the count to return to the style of living he had unfortunately been forced to abandon for the time being. It was rather a good thing the man had not wanted to sell it; he might have been foolish enough to have given him something for it. Now, if it really existed, he was sure that somehow he could realize its value without sharing a bit of it. If, always if, it were real …

He became aware that Nordberg was speaking and looked up. “I’m sorry. I was thinking. You were saying—?”

Nordberg smiled nervously. “I was wondering what you were thinking, sir.”

Count Lindgren smiled genially. “If the collection is genuine,” he said, “and that, of course, I shall have to verify, then I think I might be interested.” He laughed. “Oh, not for the money, of course, but for the sport of it. I think it might be rather a lark, you know? Interesting, in a way.”

Nordberg was thrilled. He could feel the wave of emotion travel the length of his body, prickling him. He had been so right to contact Count Lindgren! So absolutely right! Not, of course, that the presence of the count automatically meant a solution to the problem, but he knew he felt better for just not being alone with the problem any longer.

“Do you have any idea, sir, of—of just how we—you—we might—?”

Lindgren waved the question away airily. “I’m sure there are many means of disposing of a collection that desirable,” he said absently, and smiled, the same intimate friendly smile that had greeted Nordberg when he first arrived, admitting the professor into the warm fraternity of the rich and privileged. The count swiveled his chair to face a cabinet and brought forth a bottle of rare brandy. He poured two glasses and held one out to the professor. Nordberg could hardly believe it; he was drinking cognac with Count Axel Lindgren! He tapped his glass against the one being held out by the count, raised it to correspond to Lindgren’s gesture of a toast, and sipped. My Lord, it was good! To think that with money one could drink this ambrosia of the Gods every day of the week! He finished his drink but refused a refill. It would not do to look greedy in front of his new partner. Besides, there was a more important matter to be discussed.

“How much money do you think—?”

“I shouldn’t worry about that, if I were you. The Schliemann treasure should bring in a fortune,” Lindgren said encouragingly, and offered Nordberg a cigar. Nordberg took it and put it to his lips; the count held a flame to it from a gold lighter. The professor did not smoke, but it would have been unthinkable to refuse an offering from the count. He smiled to hide a grimace at the unfamiliar acrid taste, and persisted.

“But, roughly, how much—?”

“Please don’t worry about that,” Lindgren said sincerely. “Whatever monies result from selling the treasure, I assure you will be yours. I have all the money I need. What I don’t have is some project to occupy my mind. And this sounds as if it might be good sport. But first, of course, I should not wish to even become involved unless the treasure is authentic. And when may I verify that?”

“Right now, if you wish.” Nordberg puffed out smoke, wondering if one could become accustomed to rich cigars. “It’s in several safe-deposit boxes at my bank, the Handelsbanken in the Østergade in Copenhagen. The bank is open, and it’s only an hour from here—”

“Shall we say tomorrow, instead? Suppose I meet you at the bank at eleven,” Lindgren said, and came to his feet. He did it in a reluctant manner, as if he would have liked to continue the scintillating conversation with the brilliant professor for hours, but unfortunately other matters prevented him from this pleasure. The truth was he had a lot of thinking to do and he wanted his mind clear when he saw the treasure the following day. If it should turn out to be authentic, he did not want to be confused about what had to be done. He walked his guest to the door, one friendly arm about the other’s shoulders, saw him properly taken over by Wilten, and made his way toward the dining room.

Professor Nordberg walked to his ancient car as if on air. It was real! It had happened! He had neither imagined it, nor dreamed it! Everything had come about exactly as he had hoped and prayed for. And what a pleasure to be associated with a gentleman like Count Lindgren! He had the count’s word for it—his word!—that he would never need for anything again! The money was all to be his! Ah, to be rich. Oh, not to live in a grandiose place like Lindgren Castle, but to have a larger apartment, with a servant—a combination maid and cook … He could picture the maid he would hire when money was no problem. With a low-cut uniform that would show off her full figure to the best, short skirts for her wonderful, enticing legs. A maid who would understand the needs of a passionate man, and who would share that passion.

He climbed into his car in euphoria, started it, and listening to the engine promised himself that even before the new apartment, even before the maid, he would get himself a new car. One that would attract the attention of the girls who had refused to share his ten-year-old, battered, limping automobile …

In the dining room, for once Count Lindgren’s mind was not on the food. The overdone introductory omelette, François’ answer to tardy diners, barely was noticed. The soup, made a trifle bitter by unnecessary boiling, was consumed with equal lack of complaint. The chop, toughened by a purposeful long tenure in the pan, was merely dallied with. Count Lindgren had more important things on his mind.

Barely on the fringes of his mind, however, was the matter of Arne Nordberg, or any claim he might have to share in whatever the Schliemann collection would bring. Count Lindgren had killed in the Korean War. He had once killed in an unpublicized duel—a duel in which Wilten had acted as his second and had been in charge of seeing that the pistols were properly loaded, or at least one of them. In his youth Count Lindgren had volunteered as a mercenary in Africa just for the adventure. Count Lindgren would not have the slightest compunction about eliminating a person as distasteful as Arne Nordberg should the need arise, and Count Lindgren realized without the faintest regret that the need might very well arise. And even had Arne Nordberg not been distasteful, the count’s compunction would have been no less. Axel Lindgren and his desires came first; all else was secondary.

No, Nordberg would present no problem. Nor, for that matter, would disposing of the treasure. An auction, conducted between the top museums of the world, without, obviously, revealing his identity or anything else not necessary to the negotiations. With his contacts throughout the world, it should be no problem. It would take a bit of planning, of course, but it certainly could be done. Oh, the museums would all claim, as he would have done himself, that they couldn’t touch anything the slightest bit doubtful as to ownership, but they’d all manage to bid anyway, one way or another. And not only the ones brought in to bid, but others, advised of the auction by the undoubted publicity the affair would garner in the world press. Yes, it actually would be a lark, in addition, of course, to bringing his reduced finances from the pit in which they found themselves.

But all this was a bit premature. First, of course, there was the matter of getting the treasure transferred from the insecurity of bank safe-deposit boxes to the true security of Lindgren Castle’s vaults. After all, safe-deposit boxes could be opened with court orders. Robbers had been known to be able to open safe-deposit boxes not only in banks but in hotels, as well. No, the proper place for the treasure was at Lindgren Castle. After all, in the more than five hundred years since the castle had been built, its security had never been breached. And it carried in its halls and on its walls a fortune in art objects as great if not greater than the Schliemann gold, not to mention the plate and other valuables in its vaults. So what better place to insure the safety of the valuable collection? And he and the lout Nordberg were, after all, partners, were they not? With the mutual interest of seeing to the treasure’s safety until it could be properly and advantageously disposed of?

The count smiled coldly and reached for the trifle, heavily oversugared by an irked François …