CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Count Lindgren was in a foul mood, and the staff was well aware of it. Wilten had somehow gotten himself in the count’s poor graces, and everyone suffered under those circumstances. François, cooking and serving the count’s late breakfast on the terrace of Lindgren Castle, recognized that this was no time to scamp on his skills for any reason, or to make any untoward remarks on any subject. François had outdone himself on the blueberry crêpe. The count was chewing on it as if it were a mere pancake, and the chef was waiting until the precise moment to put the finishing touches on the next dish, an omelette flambé a fine herbes Marseilles. But as he delicately slid the omelette to a warmed plate and carried it proudly toward the table, he saw with dismay that Wilten, a subdued Wilten this morning, was approaching with a telephone, trailing cord behind him. Any delay in eating the omelette, François knew, and the dish would be ruined, and le bon Dieu alone knew what the count’s mood would be then! A difficult man, Frangois thought, and then saw to his dismay that the count was putting down his knife and fork and looking up at Wilten. To the chef it was evident that whatever rift had developed between the master and Wilten had still not been mended. Lindgren was considering Wilten as if the other man were a stranger.

“There is a person at the other end of the line this time, I hope?”

Wilten swallowed. “Yes, sir. It’s—it’s that McVeigh woman …”

Lindgren stared at him a moment and then took the telephone from him, cupping the receiver while he wondered just what Ruth McVeigh might have to say. Would it be about the accident? But she had called the day before, explaining how it had not been Wilten’s fault. Not Wilten’s fault! Lindgren put down the taste of bile that had come to his throat at the thought, and tried to imagine what Ruth could be calling about, and just what he might say in return. Count Lindgren had spent a sleepless night alternately cursing Wilten and his failure and wondering if there was now any way in which to avoid disaster. Certainly two accidents in a row could be as bad as none. He was not dealing with complete idiots. There was, of course, the faint possiblity that they had not traced the treasure to Nordberg; or that if they had, the brainless professor might have had enough of a spurt of intelligence to keep his big mouth shut! Well, there was only one way to find out …

He forced a smile into his voice. “Hello, Ruth! How good to hear from you! How are you?” His voice dropped. “I’m so sorry about yesterday—!”

“No, forget that. Axel, I’m worried!”

“My dear girl, what about?”

“It’s Gregor,” Ruth said. She sounded desperate. “I don’t know where he is. We were at this man’s apartment—”

Axel Lindgren felt a sudden chill. “Whose apartment?”

Ruth might not have heard him; her mind was on her story, “—and Gregor said he wanted to talk to him alone for a few minutes and would I go back to the hotel and wait for him, so I did, but Gregor never came back. I waited almost an hour and then I went back to the apartment, only this time nobody even answered the bell, and I’m afraid Gregor might have used force, and—”

“Ruth!”

“—if he did, I wonder—”

“Ruth!”

“I’m sorry, Axel. What is it?”

“I asked, whose apartment?”

“You wouldn’t know him. His name is Arne Nordberg. He’s a professor at the university. It’s a long story—”

“Ruth, hold on a moment.” Count Lindgren cupped the receiver in one damp palm and thought furiously. Panic at this point could be fatal. Damn Wilten for failing to handle the two of them the day before, and double damn that fool Nordberg! First for lying about where he had gotten the treasure; secondly because he had undoubtedly done exactly what Kovpak had calculated the idiot would do when threatened, and that was to run to his protector, his savior, his friend, Axel Lindgren! And with Kovpak undoubtedly right behind him! There was no time to lose. He went back to the telephone. “Ruth—”

“Yes?”

“Stay in your room at the hotel and wait to hear from me. I’ll be back to you as soon as I can.”

“All right, Axel. But, hurry—!”

“I’ll hurry,” Lindgren said with grim sincerity, and hung up abruptly. He would have to find some excuse for having suddenly left the country without calling Ruth back, but at the moment that was the least of his worries. Escape came first. He came to his feet swiftly. “Wilten!”

“Sir?”

“Call Kastrup Airport. I want the first flight out on any line, to Rome, Amsterdam, London, Paris, Madrid—anyplace not in the eastern zone. Understand? I’ll check the lines for the one you arrange when I get there.” His tone also indicated that Wilten had better not foul up on this assignment if he knew what was good for him.

Wilten got the message. “Right away, sir.”

“If anyone calls or drops in, tell them I’ve just gone for a short drive and should be returning shortly. Tell them they can wait if they wish.” That should give him extra time.

“Yes, sir.”

“And take care of things while I’m gone. I’ll be in touch when I can.” Count Lindgren dropped his napkin, until now held in rigid fingers, and hurried into the castle. The steps to his study were taken two at a time; a suitcase taken from a shelf over the wardrobe. The cabinet containing the treasure was opened and the treasure hastily stuffed into the suitcase. With the suitcase held rigidly in one hand, the count trotted down the steps, going at a fast walk to the stables, four of whose stalls had been requisitioned for his cars. He selected the fastest, a Ferrari open-topped two-seater, tossed the suitcase in the narrow space behind the driver’s seat, and climbed in. He started the motor, allowing it to warm up for maximum performance later. Damn that bloody fool, Nordberg! Damn Wilten! Damn them all!

With a curse, Count Lindgren brought his mind back to his newly and instantly formed plan. He would go south a few miles and then cut over on a secondary road to the Vordingborg-Copenhagen road, and across to Amager and Kastrup Airport from the south; Nordberg and Kovpak undoubtedly would be taking the Copenhagen-Roskilde-Ringsted route, and this way he would avoid passing them. He took one final glance at the suitcase wedged behind him, as if to reassure himself he actually had the treasure, then he gunned the motor and roared from the stable down the curved road that twisted its way through the park-lands of Lindgren Castle.

Despite his hurry, Kovpak had to stop twice to ask directions. Both times Newkirk had parked on the shoulder of the highway a few yards behind him, his engine pulsing gently, waiting patiently with a smile on his face as he noted the care with which neither man in the car ahead paid him the slightest attention. As Kovpak pulled away from the gasoline station where he had made his final inquiry, Newkirk started up as well, bringing his car up to speed to keep up with the man ahead. Kovpak jammed the gas pedal down and glared at Ulanov.

“Are we going to let that whatever-his-name-is stay ten feet behind us all the way to the front door of the castle? And listen in to everything I’ve got to say to that bastard, Count Lindgren, which will be plenty?”

Ulanov shrugged. He could not imagine exactly why Gregor Kovpak was so irked with this unknown count, but at least it promised for an interesting interview. And as for the car behind them—“His name is Newkirk,” Ulanov said. “And I told you before, don’t worry about him.”

“Don’t worry about him? That’s ridiculous!”

“Possibly,” Ulanov said equably. “What would you suggest I do? Go back and politely ask him to go home?”

“I don’t know, but there must be something you can do!”

“When it occurs to me, I’ll do it,” Ulanov promised. “Better slow down. That must be the castle gate there.” He started to lean back as Gregor braked to swing into the castle grounds, and then suddenly shot forward, pointing. “Look out!”

A maniac in a small roadster had come shooting around the final curve of the wooded parkland drive and was heading directly for them. Gregor swung the wheel of his car as hard as he could, stepping down on the accelerator in the hope that he might clear the roadway before the small open-topped car crashed into them. The driver of the roadster saw their car at the same time and tried desperately to avoid a collision by hitting his brakes to attempt to swing around the other car, which was still not clear of the Ferrari’s projectilelike path. The roadster skidded wildly under the sudden application of the brakes at that speed. It bounced off the side of a tree; one wheel struck a rock and blew, completing the disaster. Now completely out of control, the small roadster shot erratically back across the road and crashed head-on into one of the huge stone piers that anchored the open gate. It bounced back several feet and remained there, leaning to one side like a weary animal at the end of its strength, steam spouting from its crushed radiator, dust swirling up from the torn gravel. The driver of the small Ferrari had been thrown violently forward by the impact, crushing the steering wheel, and now lay as if sleeping peacefully, his head to one side against the shattered dashboard, the column of the splintered steering wheel protruding bloodily from his back.

Gregor had braked his car with all his force once he had cleared the roadway, bringing his car to a shuddering halt, swaying, its front bumper only inches from one of the huge parkland trees. For a moment he sat there, his hands shaking at the nearness of their escape. Then he and Ulanov were out of the car, running over to see if there was anything that could be done for the driver of the roadster, but they stopped at the side of the car. It was evident the count had died almost instantly. Despite his hatred of the man, and the fact that Count Lindgren had tried to have Ruth and him killed the day before, the horrifying death the count had suffered seemed to more than pay for his crimes. He looked at Ulanov. “That’s Count Lindgren.”

“Who was going somewhere in a very great hurry,” Ulanov said dryly. He had seen death too many times, in far more horrifying guises, to be greatly affected by the other man’s death. He moved closer to the car, studying the interior, and then reached down, dragging the suitcase from its wedged position back of the twisted seat. He laid it on the ground and opened it, unwrapping the top bundle, looking up. “Would this be the treasure you’ve been talking so much about?”

Kovpak crouched beside him, trying to forget the gruesome sight of the count impaled on the steering wheel shaft. “Yes …” Behind them Newkirk came hurrying up. He stared with wide eyes first at the dead man in the car and then down at the open suitcase. Ulanov paid him no heed, but closed the suitcase and came to his feet. He handed the suitcase to Kovpak who had also risen.

“You’d better get in the car and get going,” Ulanov said evenly. “It just occurred to me what can be done about that Newkirk person you worry so much about.”

Newkirk smiled coldly. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “I don’t know what you think you can do about that Newkirk person,” he said, “but this isn’t East Berlin. I owe you for that, Ulanov!”

“You owe me for lots of things,” Ulanov said, and glared at Kovpak. “I said, get moving!”

Kovpak hesitated. He could scarcely leave a smaller Ulanov to take a beating from Newkirk, but the fact was he had the Schliemann treasure in his hand, and in a very few minutes the place would be swarming with both curiosity seekers as well as police, all drawn by the spectacular accident. And anyone around—especially with one of Count Lindgren’s initialed suitcases in his hand—would have a great many questions to answer. The faint sound of a distant siren convinced him. Without another word he ran for his car. Newkirk made a move after him, but Ulanov threw himself around the taller man’s legs, bringing him down, holding him tightly by the ankles as Kovpak jumped into the car and started back toward Copenhagen.

Newkirk kicked himself loose and started for his own car, but again Ulanov brought him down with a tackle. Newkirk stared at the other car, disappearing up the road, and knew he could never catch it. Still, there was something he could do that he had wanted to do for a long time. He came to his feet, his face white, and reached up, taking off his glasses and putting them away. “I’m going to beat you to a pulp, Ulanov,” he said heavily. “For East Berlin—”

“Wait a minute,” Ulanov said hastily, holding up a conciliatory hand. “If I’m not mistaken, your assignment was to discover who had the Schliemann treasure, and why they were auctioning it off, wasn’t it? I can tell you quite frankly that that was my assignment.”

Newkirk paused, his fist drawn back, uncertain as to the other man’s motives in telling him all this. “What are you driving at?”

“Just this,” Ulanov said, wasting time until Kovpak was well on his way and until the police could arrive and prevent him from being battered to bits, “I know that you people have always thought that we Russians had the Schliemann treasure. Well, we were always sure that you had stolen it from us. We wanted to know if you were auctioning off the treasure, why you were doing so; if someone else was auctioning it off, how they had breached your security to get their hands on it. I can only assume, since you thought we had it, that your assignment was the same. Now that we both know and can prove that neither one of us had it”—he shrugged—“well, we’ve completed our assignments successfully, haven’t we?”

Newkirk frowned as he considered this in detail. Then his fist slowly opened, his arm dropped. The little old Russian major of the KGB was quite correct. He, Newkirk, was now in a position to demonstrate that Russian security had not been breached, and that therefore the KGB would not go about changing their systems which the CIA was on the verge of solving. Not bad for a lowly stringer! That credit alone could bring him advancement, even possibly a change to the New York Times. Paris was not the same since they started to put up all those skyscrapers. Looking at it in that light, this Ulanov deserved a pat on the back, not a beating, for pointing out the possible advantages of his position. Newkirk smiled at Ulanov sheepishly and held out his hand.

“I’m sorry. You’re quite right.”

“That’s all right,” Ulanov said magnanimously as he shook hands, and then, in the new spirit of friendship that had been aroused, he added, “By the way, you recall that small tape recorder you carried in that book in London? I don’t suppose you happen to have any spare tapes?”

Newkirk stared at the small man a moment, speechless, and then plowed in, swinging, just as the first police car came roaring up, siren screaming.

An hour had passed since Ruth’s call to Count Lindgren, and she was feeling more abandoned by the minute. She was also more worried. Her calls to Gregor’s room continued to go unanswered, there had been no message for her at the desk which she checked every five minutes, and her calls to Nordberg’s apartment were equally unproductive. She was about to telephone the Lindgren Castle for a second time, when there was a sharp rap on the door. She hurried over, her heart beating faster, hoping against hope it was Gregor, or at least Axel Lindgren, but when she opened the door the man facing her was a complete stranger. He was a large, heavily muscled man with a balding head, and despite the heat of the day he was dressed in a heavy tweed suit complete with vest. He was considering her politely.

“Dr. McVeigh?”

Ruth frowned. “Yes?”

“My name is Ib Rodhe. I am an inspector of police.” He brought out his identification and presented it, and then neatly put it away before continuing. “May I come in?”

“Of course.” Ruth led the way, closing the door after the man. Her heart was pounding; she had a premonition of disaster. She turned to face the large moon-faced man who was looking at the two chairs in the room in the manner of a person deciding which one he wished to buy. “Something’s happened to Gregor, hasn’t it?”

“Gregor?” The inspector finally made his selection and sank into it. It was obvious from the slight frown on his face that the name Gregor meant nothing to him. He put the matter aside to pursue the more important one that had brought him there. “Dr. McVeigh, I understand you placed a telephone call to Lindgren Castle a little over an hour ago. Is that correct?”

Ruth frowned. This was not what she had feared the police were here for. “Yes, I did. Why?”

“Count Lindgren was killed in an automobile accident only moments later. I was wondering—”

Ruth was staring at him in shock. “Axel Lindgren is dead?”

“Yes, ma’am. He died instantly, if that is any consolation. Now, about your call—”

“It’s my fault,” Ruth said miserably. “He was hurrying to get here …”

“No, ma’am. According to the butler, Wilten—the one who informed us of your call—Count Lindgren was on his way to the airport—”

“The airport! But that’s impossible!”

“I’m afraid not, ma’am. I have known men like this butler, Wilten, before. While his master was alive I have no doubt that Wilten would have lied for him. But with his master dead, there was no reason for him to do anything but give us as much of the truth as he knew. I have no doubt at all that Wilten’s statements are correct in every detail. Wilten said—” The inspector took a notebook from his pocket, flipped it to the page he wanted, and nodded in satisfaction. “Here we are. Wilten’s exact words, ma’am. He said, ‘Count Lindgren received a call from Dr. McVeigh, an American lady, at about ten-thirty o’clock. I do not know what the conversation consisted of, but when it was over Count Lindgren seemed unusually perturbed. He instructed me to call the airport and to arrange a ticket for him on the first flight out of the country to anyplace except Russia or the eastern countries. He mentioned Rome or Amsterdam or Paris or London—’”

“What?” Ruth was looking at him with unbelieving eyes.

The inspector returned her look apologetically. “I am only repeating Wilten’s words, ma’am. He then said, and I quote,” the inspector said, looking back at his notebook, “‘Count Lindgren then hurried upstairs to his study. When he came down he had a suitcase.’ The inspector’s eyes came up. “I asked Wilten if, which seemed logical, the suitcase contained clothing for the count’s trip. He said—” The inspector went back to his notebook. “He said, quite as if I’d insulted him, ‘Sir, I pack for Count Lindgren! When I saw him descend with a suitcase and leave the castle, I immediately checked his wardrobe. He had taken no clothes with him.’”

Ruth had been listening without a great deal of attention. Axel Lindgren dead! Gregor missing! But why was Axel going to the airport when he had told her to wait for him at the hotel? She became aware that the inspector was continuing to read from his notebook.

“So I asked him, if the suitcase hadn’t contained clothes, what it might have contained, and he said, ‘I surmise, sir, it was something that Professor Nordberg brought to the castle a few days ago. They were both quite protective, even secretive about it.’”

Ruth had been standing, looking down at the inspector incredulously. Now she sank to the bed, her knees suddenly weak, her mind trying to comprehend what she had heard. Professor Nordberg had brought something to Lindgren Castle, and after her call Axel Lindgren had taken something—undoubtedly the same something and equally undoubtedly the Schliemann treasure—and in attempting to leave the country with it, had been killed! In a way it had been her fault, not for asking him to come and help her, but in giving him the whole story, in threatening him—although she had not known it. Poor Axel! How like him to see in the treasure a means of getting a huge sum of money with which to continue his normal, extravagant, flirting ways! And now he was gone! It seemed odd to think of anyone as vibrant, as alive, as—well, as selfish—as Axel Lindgren being dead. She became aware that the inspector had been speaking to her.

“About your telephone call, ma’am—”

Something suddenly occurred to Ruth that was far more important than her telephone call. “Then the police have this suitcase?”

“No, ma’am. There was no suitcase in the car. There were two men there beginning to fight furiously when the police arrived,” he said, recalling the reports. “One of them was a Russian and the other an American. It was lucky for the Russian the police got there when they did—”

“Gregor!”

The inspector wondered a bit at this constant reference to the unknown Gregor. He also seemed sad to be constantly forced to contradict the lady. “No, ma’am,” he said, and referred to his notes once again. “One was named James Newkirk, who claims to be a reporter for a Paris newspaper. The other was named Serge Ulanov. He says he’s an assistant curator at the Hermitage Museum. They won’t talk, at least not yet, but we have them both in custody,” the inspector added in a tone of satisfaction, as if in his opinion any fighting done in his bailiwick should be done by natives. He came back to the subject that had brought him there. “Now, about your call, ma’am—”

“It’s a long story,” Ruth said wearily, and repeated the entire history of their locating the treasure and following it with their visit to Nordberg. “But it looks as if we were wrong,” she ended. “It appears that Professor Nordberg gave the treasure to Count Lindgren. They must have been working together.”

The inspector looked at her shrewdly. “And now the treasure is gone. And this Gregor is also gone. Is that the story, ma’am?”

Ruth glared. “I know what you’re thinking, and you’re wrong! Something has happened to Gregor, or he would have been here by now! I’m worried! I left him at this Professor Nordberg’s apartment, and now the apartment telephone doesn’t answer, and I’m sure Gregor must be hurt, or something—”

“This Gregor, I assume, is a good friend of yours, ma’am?”

“He is,” Ruth said a bit defiantly.

“Yes. Well, then, if you will permit me to make a telephone call on your phone, we can make a trip to this professor’s home and see if we can find out where your Gregor is.”

He crossed the room to the telephone, got an outside line, and dialed. He spoke into the telephone in a low tone, his back turned to Ruth. All she could distinguish was a murmur. When the inspector was done, he hung up, nodded his thanks for the use of the instrument, and led the way from the room.

An unmarked police car with a driver was waiting below. They climbed in and the inspector looked at Ruth inquiringly. She gave him the professor’s address and they rode through the city in silence, pulling up at last in the Israels Plad before the apartment house. A blond man leaning against the building considered them curiously. One good look at the inspector and he seemed to remember an appointment elsewhere, for he folded his newspaper, tucked it into his pocket, and began to stroll away. The inspector looked after him a moment, frowning, and then shrugged. One thing at a time. He led the way to the front door of the building and pressed the bell under the name “Nordberg.” There was no response. He nodded to his driver who came from the car, his hand reaching into his pocket for a bunch of keys. Moments later the door succumbed to the driver’s skill and they passed through, the inspector indicating he wished the driver to accompany them in case further locked doors were encountered.

“No point in disturbing the neighbors,” the inspector said, almost as if speaking to himself, and led the way up the stairs. The inspector rapped loudly on the door to Nordberg’s apartment, waited a few minutes before repeating the knock, and nodded to the driver. A moment later he had opened the door and stepped back. Inspector Rodhe pushed the door wide and stood, looking inside. Ruth peered around his shoulder. Then she screamed. Professor Nordberg was sprawled on the sofa, his face almost black, suffused with blood, the marks of his strangling clearly visible on his neck.

For the first time in her life Ruth felt herself getting faint. “Gregor!”

The inspector looked at her sharply. “That’s Gregor?”

“No. That’s Professor Nordberg. I meant—” She shut her mouth resolutely.

“I see. I suggest you wait for me in the car,” the inspector said politely, and tilted his head the slightest bit for the benefit of the driver, who drew Ruth back and led her down the steps as the inspector entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Ruth sat in the police car stunned, damning herself for everything she had done from the very beginning. Why had she ever wanted to find the treasure in the first place? It had resulted in Axel Lindgren’s death, in Gregor killing Nordberg, and for what? A bunch of pieces of artifacts that were not worth anyone’s life. And worse, why had she mentioned Gregor’s name to the inspector, as much as telling him who had killed Nordberg? Oh, why hadn’t Gregor listened to her when she begged him not to use force? But she hadn’t begged him. There was no exculpation in that thought. She had actually promised to let him try his methods if hers failed, when she knew all along he meant to use force if nothing else worked. She wondered how long the dead man had held out before Gregor unwittingly—for nothing could make her believe he had killed the man purposely—found himself with a dead man on his hands. Had the professor begged for his life, telling the truth that Count Lindgren had the treasure, only to have Gregor continue his pressure, not believing the man?

Oh, Gregor, Gregor! she thought despondently. My darling, my love, a murderer! At this moment undoubtedly hiding someplace. And he had done it for her, for her greed for the treasure! It was all her fault, the death of Nordberg, the death of Axel Lindgren, the fact that her beloved Gregor was a murderer. He had done it for her, and the guilt would lie on her soul and her conscience for the rest of her days …

She looked up. Inspector Rodhe was coming from the apartment, pushing ahead of him a manacled figure. Knud Christensen was looking at her in complete non-recognition. The inspector ushered the manacled man into the front seat next to the driver and climbed in back beside Ruth.

“He was in the kitchen, drinking aquavit,” the inspector said cheerfully for the benefit of the driver. “Gave me no trouble at all. Kept saying he had been cheated, and that the dead man wouldn’t drink some whiskey he had brought with him, and the next thing he knew he was holding the man by the neck.” He looked at the silent figure beside the driver. There was a touch of compassion in his voice. “I don’t believe he’s all there …”

Ruth felt a wave of tremendous relief, followed by a flush of shame that she could have thought her Gregor capable of killing Nordberg, followed by an equal feeling of shame that she should be happy it was poor Knud Christensen who had committed the crime. Another thought came. If Gregor was not involved, where was he? Inspector Rodhe might have been reading her mind.

“This Gregor,” he said gently, almost sadly, “is his last name Kovpak?”

Ruth nodded dumbly, waiting for word of more terror. The inspector nodded to the driver. “First, the Plaza Hotel,” he said, and turned back to Ruth. “I made a call from your hotel room, you may remember. I just called again from the apartment upstairs to get the results. I am an old-fashioned policeman, perhaps, but when something very valuable connected with a case disappears, and when a person connected with the same case also disappears, I tend to believe they very well might be together.”

Ruth stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean,” the inspector said in his gentle voice, “that a man named Gregor Kovpak took a Scandinavian Airlines nonstop flight for Leningrad less than thirty minutes ago. He was carrying a very expensive suitcase; the young lady who checked him in remembered it particularly, because it was so similar to the luggage she had very often checked in for Count Lindgren on his many travels …”