World War II Thriller Collection (126 page)

The police came out of the club after a few minutes. Peter Flemming talked to Luther. Harald could hear the voices, for they both spoke angrily, but he was too far away to make out the words. However, it seemed that Peter was reprimanding Luther, who kept throwing his hands in the air in a gesture of helpless frustration.

After a while the two policemen drove away, and Luther went inside.

Harald walked quickly away, shaken by his narrow escape. He found his motorcycle and drove off in the last of the twilight. He would spend the night in the ruined monastery at Kirstenslot.

Then what would he do?

Harald told Karen the whole story the following evening.

They sat on the floor in the disused church, while evening darkened outside and the draped shapes and boxes around them turned to ghosts in the twilight. She sat with her legs crossed, like a schoolgirl, and hiked the skirt of her silk evening gown above her knees, for comfort. Harald lit her cigarettes, and felt he was becoming intimate with her.

He told her about getting into the base on Sande, then pretending to be asleep while the soldier searched his parents' house. “You've got such
nerve!” she exclaimed. He was pleased by her admiration, and glad she could not see the dampness in his eyes as he told how his father had told a lie to save him.

He explained Heis's deduction that there would be a major air raid at the next full moon, and his reasons for thinking the film had to get to London before then.

When he related how a police sergeant had answered the door of Jens Toksvig's house, she interrupted him. “I got a warning,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“A stranger came up to me at the railway station and told me the police knew where Arne was. This man was a cop himself, in the traffic department, but he happened to have overheard something, and he wanted to let us know because he was sympathetic.”

“Didn't you warn Arne?”

“Yes, I did! I knew he was with Jens, so I looked Jens up in the phone book then went to his house. I saw Arne and told him what had happened.”

It sounded a bit odd to Harald. “What did Arne say?”

“He told me to leave first, and said he was going to get out immediately after me—but obviously he left it too late.”

“Or your warning was a ruse,” Harald mused.

“What do you mean?” she said sharply.

“Maybe your policeman was lying. Suppose he wasn't sympathetic at all. He might have followed you to Jens's place and arrested Arne the minute you left.”

“That's ridiculous—policemen don't do things like that!”

Harald realized that once again he had run up against Karen's faith in the integrity and goodwill of those around her. Either she was credulous or he was unduly cynical—he was not sure which. It reminded him of her father's belief that the Nazis would not harm Danish Jews. He wished he thought they were right. “What did the man look like?”

“Tall, handsome, heavy, red hair, nice suit.”

“A kind of oatmeal tweed?”

“Yes.”

That settled it. “He's Peter Flemming.” Harald did not feel bitter toward Karen: she had thought she was saving Arne. She was the victim of
a clever ruse. “Peter is more of a spy than a policeman. I know his family, back on Sande.”

“I don't believe you!” she said hotly. “You've got too much imagination.”

He did not want to argue with her. It pierced his heart to know that his brother was in custody. Arne should never have got involved in deception. There was no slyness in his nature. Harald wondered grievingly if he would ever see his brother again.

But there were more lives at stake. “Arne won't be able to get this film to England.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“I don't know. I'd like to take it myself, but I can't figure out how.” He told her about the jazz club and Betsy and Luther. “And perhaps it's just as well that I can't get to Sweden. I'd probably be jailed for not having the right papers.” It was part of the Swedish government's neutrality agreement with Hitler's Germany that Danes who traveled illegally to Sweden would be arrested. “I don't mind taking a risk, but I need a better-than-even chance of success.”

“There must be a way—how was Arne going to do it?”

“I don't know, he didn't tell me.”

“That was silly.”

“In retrospect, perhaps, but he probably thought the fewer people who knew, the safer he would be.”

“Someone must know.”

“Well, Poul must have had a means of communication with the British—but it's in the nature of these things that they're kept secret.”

They were silent for a while. Harald felt depressed. Had he risked his life for nothing?

“Have you heard any news?” he asked her. He missed his radio.

“Finland declared war on the Soviet Union. So did Hungary.”

“Vultures scenting death,” Harald said bitterly.

“It's so maddening to be sitting here helpless while the filthy Nazis are conquering the world. I just wish there was something we could do.”

Harald touched the film canister in his trousers pocket. “This would
make a difference, if I could get it to London in the next ten days. A big difference.”

Karen glanced at the Hornet Moth. “It's a pity that thing won't fly.”

Harald looked at the damaged undercarriage and the torn fabric. “I might be able to repair it. But I've only had one lesson, I couldn't pilot it.”

Karen looked thoughtful. “No,” she said slowly. “But I could.”

Arne Olufsen proved surprisingly resistant to interrogation.

Peter Flemming questioned him on the day of his arrest, and again on the following day, but he pretended to be innocent and revealed no secrets. Peter was disappointed. He had expected the fun-loving Arne to break as easily as a champagne glass.

He had no more luck with Jens Toksvig.

He considered arresting Karen Duchwitz, but he felt sure she was peripheral to the case. Besides, she was more use to him roaming around freely. She had already led him to two spies.

Arne was the prime suspect. He had all the connections: he knew Poul Kirke, he was familiar with the island of Sande, he had an English fiancée, he had gone to Bornholm which was so close to Sweden, and he had shaken off his police tail.

The arrest of Arne and Jens had restored Peter in General Braun's favor. But now Braun wanted to know more: how the spy ring worked, who else was in it, what means they used to communicate with England. Peter had arrested a total of six spies, but none of them had talked. The case
would not be wound up until one of them cracked and revealed all. Peter had to break Arne.

He planned the third interrogation carefully.

At four o'clock on Sunday morning he burst into Arne's cell with two uniformed policemen. They woke Arne by shining a flashlight in his eyes and yelling, then pulled him out of bed and marched him along the corridor to the interrogation room.

Peter sat on the only chair, behind a cheap table, and lit a cigarette. Arne looked pale and frightened in his prison pajamas. His left leg was bandaged and strapped from mid-thigh to shin, but he could stand upright—Peter's two bullets had damaged muscles but had not broken any bones.

Peter said, “Your friend Poul Kirke was a spy.”

“I didn't know that,” Arne replied.

“Why did you go to Bornholm?”

“For a little holiday.”

“Why would an innocent man on holiday evade police surveillance?”

“He might dislike being followed around by a lot of nosy flatfoots.” Arne had more spirit than Peter had expected, despite the early hour and the rude awakening. “But, as it happens, I didn't notice them. If, as you say, I evaded surveillance, I did it unintentionally. Perhaps your people are just bad at their job.”

“Rubbish. You deliberately shook off your tail. I know, I was part of the surveillance team.”

Arne shrugged. “That doesn't surprise me, Peter. You were never very bright as a kid. We were at school together, remember? In fact we were best friends.”

“Until they sent you off to Jansborg, where you learned to disrespect the law.”

“No. We were friends until our families quarreled.”

“Because of your father's malice.”

“I thought it was over your father's tax fiddle.”

This was not going the way Peter planned it. He switched his line. “Whom did you meet on Bornholm?”

“No one.”

“You walked around for days and never spoke to anyone?”

“I picked up a girl.”

Arne had not mentioned this in previous interrogations. Peter felt sure it was untrue. Maybe he could catch Arne out. “What was her name?”

“Annika.”

“Surname?”

“I didn't ask.”

“When you came back to Copenhagen, you went into hiding.”

“Hiding? I was staying with a friend.”

“Jens Toksvig—another spy.”

“He didn't tell me that.” He added sarcastically, “These spies are a bit secretive.”

Peter was dismayed that Arne had not been more weakened by his time in the cells. He was sticking to his story, which was unlikely but not impossible. Peter began to fear that Arne might never talk. He told himself this was just a preliminary skirmish. He pressed on. “So you had no idea the police were searching for you?”

“No.”

“Not even when a policeman chased you in the Tivoli Garden?”

“That must have been someone else. I've never been chased by a policeman.”

Peter let the sarcasm sound in his voice. “You didn't happen to see any of the one thousand posters of your face that have been put up around the city?”

“I must have missed them.”

“Then why did you change your appearance?”

“Did I change my appearance?”

“You shaved off your moustache.”

“Someone told me I looked like Hitler.”

“Who?”

“The girl I met on Bornholm, Anne.”

“You said her name was Annika.”

“I called her Anne for short.”

Tilde Jespersen came in with a tray. The smell of hot toast made Peter's mouth water. He trusted it was having the same effect on Arne. Tilde poured tea. She smiled at Arne and said, “Would you like some?”

He nodded.

Peter said, “No.”

Tilde shrugged.

This little exchange was an act. Tilde was pretending to be nice in the hope that Arne would warm to her.

Tilde brought in another chair and sat down to drink her tea. Peter ate some buttered toast, taking his time. Arne had to stand and watch them.

When Peter had finished eating, he resumed the questioning. “In Poul Kirke's office, I found a sketch of a military installation on the island of Sande.”

“I'm shocked,” Arne said.

“If he had not been killed, he would have sent those sketches to the British.”

“He might have had an innocent explanation for them, had he not been shot by a trigger-happy fool.”

“Did you make those drawings?”

“Certainly not.”

“Sande is your home. Your father is pastor of a church there.”

“It's your home, too. Your father runs a hotel where off-duty Nazis get drunk on aquavit.”

Peter ignored that. “When I met you in St. Paul's Gade, you ran away. Why?”

“You had a gun. If not for that, I would have punched your ugly head, the way I did behind the post office twelve years ago.”

“I knocked you down behind the post office.”

“But I got up again.” Arne turned to Tilde with a smile. “Peter's family and mine have been at loggerheads for years. That's the real reason he's arrested me.”

Peter ignored that. “Four nights ago, there was a security alert at the base. Something disturbed the guard dogs. The sentries saw someone running across the dunes in the direction of your father's church.” As Peter talked, he watched Arne's face. So far, Arne did not look surprised. “Was that you running across the dunes?”

“No.”

Arne was telling the truth, Peter felt. He continued, “Your parents'
home was searched.” Peter saw a flicker of fear in Arne's eyes: he had not known about this. “The guards were looking for a stranger. They found a young man asleep in bed, but the pastor said it was his son. Was that you?”

“No. I haven't been home since Whitsun.”

Once again, Peter thought he was telling the truth.

“Two nights ago, your brother Harald returned to Jansborg Skole.”

“From which he was expelled because of your malice.”

“He was expelled because he disgraced the school!”

“By daubing a joke on a wall?” Once again Arne turned to Tilde. “The police superintendent had decided to release my brother without charges—but Peter went to his school and insisted they expel him. You see how much he hates my family?”

Peter said, “He broke into the chemistry lab and used the darkroom to develop a film.”

Arne's eyes widened visibly. Clearly this was news to him. He was rattled, at last.

“Fortunately, he was discovered by another boy. I learned of this from the boy's father, who happens to be a loyal citizen and a believer in law and order.”

“A Nazi?”

“Was it your film, Arne?”

“No.”

“The head teacher says the film consisted of photographs of naked women, and claims he confiscated it and burned it. He's lying, isn't he?”

“I have no idea.”

“I believe the photographs were of the military installation on Sande.”

“Do you?”

“They were your pictures, weren't they?”

“No.”

Peter felt he was at last beginning to intimidate Arne, and he pressed his advantage. “Next morning, a young man called at Jens Toksvig's house. One of our officers answered the door—a middle-aged sergeant, not one of the force's intellectual giants. The boy pretended to have come to the wrong address, looking for a doctor, and our man was gullible enough to believe him. But it was a lie. The young man was your brother, wasn't he?”

“I'm quite sure he was not,” Arne said, but he looked frightened.

“Harald was bringing you the developed film.”

“No.”

“That evening, a woman in Bornholm, who called herself Hilde, telephoned Jens Toksvig's house. Didn't you say you had picked up a girl called Hilde?”

“No, Anne.”

“Who is Hilde?”

“Never heard of her.”

“Perhaps it was a false name. Could she have been your fiancée, Hermia Mount?”

“She's in England.”

“There you are mistaken. I have been talking to the Swedish immigration authorities.” It had been hard to force them to cooperate, but in the end Peter had got the information he wanted. “Hermia Mount flew in to Stockholm ten days ago, and has not yet departed.”

Arne feigned surprise, but the act was unconvincing. “I know nothing of that,” he said, too mildly. “I haven't heard from her for more than a year.”

If that had been true, he would have been astonished and shocked to learn that she had certainly been in Sweden and possibly in Denmark. He was definitely lying now. Peter continued, “The same night—this is the day before yesterday—a young man nicknamed Schoolboy went to a waterfront jazz club, met with a small-time criminal called Luther Gregor, and asked for help to escape to Sweden.”

Arne looked horrified.

Peter said, “It was Harald, wasn't it?”

Arne said nothing.

Peter sat back. Arne was badly shaken now, but overall he had put up an ingenious defense. He had explanations for everything Peter threw at him. Worse, he was cleverly turning the personal hostility between them to his advantage, claiming that his arrest had been motivated by malice. Frederik Juel might be gullible enough to believe that. Peter was worried.

Tilde poured tea into a mug and gave it to Arne without consulting Peter. Peter said nothing: this was all part of the prearranged scenario. Arne took the mug in a shaky hand and drank thirstily.

Tilde spoke in a kindly voice. “Arne, you're in over your head. This isn't just about you anymore. You've involved your parents, your fiancée, and your young brother. Harald is in deep trouble. If this goes on, he'll end up hanged as a spy—and it will be your fault.”

Arne held the mug in both hands, saying nothing, looking bewildered and scared. Peter thought he might be weakening.

“We can make a deal with you,” Tilde went on. “Tell us everything, and both you and Harald will escape the death penalty. You don't have to take my word for that—General Braun will be here in a few minutes, and he will guarantee that you'll live. But first you have to tell us where Harald is. If you don't, you'll die, and so will your brother.”

Doubt and fear crossed Arne's face. There was a long silence. At last Arne seemed to come to a resolution. He reached out and put the mug on the tray. He looked at Tilde, then turned his gaze to Peter. “Go to hell,” he said quietly.

Peter sprang to his feet, furious. “You're the one who's going to hell!” he shouted. He kicked his chair over backward. “Don't you understand what's happening to you?”