World War II Thriller Collection (132 page)

They went to the house. Peter steered Tilde to the back. He tapped on the kitchen door and went in without waiting for an answer, as was usual on the island.

Lisbeth Olufsen was sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. Peter had never in his life seen her idle: she was always cooking or cleaning. Even in church she was busy, straightening rows of chairs, putting out hymn books or gathering them up, stoking the peat boiler that warmed the big room in winter. Now she sat looking at her hands. The skin was cracked and raw in places, like a fisherman's.

“Mrs. Olufsen?”

She turned her face to him. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were drawn. After a moment, she recognized him. “Hello, Peter,” she said expressionlessly.

He decided to take a softer approach with her. “I'm sorry about Arne.”

She nodded vaguely.

“This is my friend Tilde. We work together.”

“Pleased to meet you.”

He sat at the table and nodded to Tilde to do the same. Perhaps a simple, practical question would bring Mrs. Olufsen out of her daze. “When is the funeral?”

She thought for a moment, then answered, “Tomorrow.”

That was better.

“I've spoken to the pastor,” Peter said. “We saw him in the church.”

“His heart is broken. He doesn't show it to the world, though.”

“I understand. Harald must be dreadfully upset, too.”

She glanced at him and looked quickly down at her hands again. It was the briefest of looks, but Peter read fear and deceit in it. She muttered, “We haven't spoken to Harald.”

“Why is that?”

“We don't know where he is.”

Peter could not tell whether she was lying from moment to moment, but he felt sure of her intention to deceive. It angered him that the pastor and his wife, who pretended to be morally superior to others, should deliberately hide the truth from the police. He raised his voice. “You'd be well advised to cooperate with us!”

Tilde put a restraining hand on his arm and looked an inquiry at him. He nodded for her to go ahead. She said, “Mrs. Olufsen, I'm sorry to have
to tell you that Harald may have been involved in the same illegal activities as Arne.”

Mrs. Olufsen looked frightened.

Tilde continued, “The longer he goes on, the worse trouble he'll be in when finally we catch up with him.”

The old woman shook her head from side to side, looking distressed, but she said nothing.

“If you would help us find him, you'd be doing the best thing for him.”

“I don't know where he is,” she repeated, but less firmly.

Peter sensed weakness. He stood up and leaned across the kitchen table, pushing his face into hers. “I saw Arne die,” he said gratingly.

Mrs. Olufsen's eyes widened in horror.

“I saw your son put the gun to his own throat and pull the trigger,” he went on.

Tilde said, “Peter, no—”

He ignored her. “I saw his blood and brains spatter the wall behind him.”

Mrs. Olufsen cried out with shock and grief.

She was about to crack, Peter saw with satisfaction. He pressed his advantage. “Your elder son was a spy and a criminal, and he met a violent end. They that live by the sword shall die by the sword, that's what the Bible says. Do you want the same to happen to your other son?”

“No,” she whispered. “No.”

“Then tell me where he is!”

The kitchen door burst open and the pastor strode in. “You filth,” he said.

Peter straightened up, startled but defiant. “I'm entitled to question—”

“Get out of my house.”

Tilde said, “Let's go, Peter.”

“I still want to know—”

“Now!” the pastor roared. “Leave now!” He advanced around the table.

Peter backed away. He knew he should not allow himself to be shouted down. He was on legitimate police business and he had a right to ask questions. But the towering presence of the pastor scared him, despite the gun under his jacket, and he found himself reversing steadily to the door.

Tilde opened it and went out.

“I haven't finished with you two,” Peter said feebly as he backed through the doorway.

The pastor slammed the door in his face.

Peter turned away. “Damned hypocrites,” he said. “The pair of them.”

The buggy was waiting. “To my father's house,” Peter said, and they got in.

As they drove away, he tried to put the humiliating scene out of his mind and concentrate on his next steps. “Harald must be living somewhere,” he said.

“Obviously.” Tilde's tone was curt, and he guessed she was distressed by what she had just witnessed.

“He's not at school and he's not at home, and he has no relations except for some cousins in Hamburg.”

“We could circulate a picture of him.”

“We'll have trouble finding one. The pastor doesn't believe in photos—they're a sign of vanity. You didn't see any pictures in that kitchen, did you?”

“What about a school photo?”

“Not a Jansborg tradition. The only picture of Arne we could find was the one in his army record. I doubt there's a photo of Harald anywhere.”

“So what's our next move?”

“I think he's staying with friends—don't you?”

“Makes sense.”

She would not look at him. He sighed. She was in a bad mood with him. So be it. “This is what you do,” he said in a tone of command. “Call the Politigaarden. Send Conrad to Jansborg Skole. Get a list of the home addresses of all the boys in Harald's class. Then have someone call at each house, ask a few questions, snoop around a bit.”

“They must be all over Denmark. It would take a month to visit them all. How much time do we have?”

“Very little. I don't know how long it will take for Harald to figure out a way to get the film to London, but he's a cunning young villain. Use local police where necessary.”

“Very well.”

“If he's not staying with friends, he must be hiding out with another
member of the spy ring. We're going to stay for the funeral and see who shows up. We'll check out every mourner. One of them must know where Harald is.”

The buggy slowed as it approached the entrance to Axel Flemming's house. Tilde said, “Do you mind if I go back to the hotel?”

His parents were expecting them for lunch, but Peter could see that Tilde was not in the mood. “All right.” He tapped the driver on the shoulder. “Go to the ferry dock.”

They drove in silence for a while. As they approached the dock, Peter said, “What will you do at the hotel?”

“In fact I think I should return to Copenhagen.”

That made him angry. As the horse stopped at the quayside, he said, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I didn't like what just happened.”

“We had to do it!”

“I'm not sure.”

“It was our duty to try to make those people tell what they knew.”

“Duty isn't everything.”

She had said that during their argument about Jews, he recalled. “That's just playing with words. Duty is what you have to do. You can't make exceptions. That's what's wrong with the world.”

The ferry was in dock. Tilde got down from the buggy. “It's just life, Peter, that's all.”

“It's why we have crime! Wouldn't you rather live in a world where everyone did their duty? Just imagine it! Well-behaved people in smart uniforms getting things done, with no slacking, no lateness, no half-measures. If all crimes were punished and no excuses accepted there would be a lot less for the police to do!”

“Is that really what you want?”

“Yes—and if I ever get to be chief of police, and the Nazis are still running things, that's what it will be like! What's wrong with that?”

She nodded, but did not answer his question. “Goodbye, Peter,” she said.

As she walked away he shouted after her, “Well? What's wrong with it?” But she boarded the ferry without turning around.

Harald knew the police were looking for him.

His mother had phoned Kirstenslot again, ostensibly to tell Karen the date and time of Arne's funeral. During the conversation, she had said she had been questioned by the police about Harald's whereabouts. “But I don't know where he is, so I couldn't tell them,” she had said. It was a warning, and Harald admired his mother for having the courage to send it and the shrewdness to figure out that Karen could probably deliver it.

Despite the warning, he had to go to the flying school.

Karen purloined some of her father's old clothes, so that Harald would not have to wear his distinctive school blazer. He put on a marvelously lightweight sports jacket from America and a linen cap, and wore sunglasses. He looked more like a millionaire playboy than a fugitive spy as he got on the train at Kirstenslot. Nevertheless he was nervous. He felt trapped in the railway carriage. If a policeman accosted him he could not run away.

In Copenhagen he walked the short distance from the Vesterport suburban station to the main line station without seeing a single police uniform. A few minutes later he was on another train to Vodal.

On the way, he thought about his brother. Everyone had thought Arne unsuited to Resistance work: too playful, too careless, perhaps not brave enough. And in the end he had turned out to be the greatest hero of all. The thought brought tears to Harald's eyes behind the sunglasses.

Squadron Leader Renthe, commanding officer of the flying school, reminded him of his old headmaster, Heis. Both men were tall and thin and long-nosed. Because of the resemblance, Harald found it difficult to lie to Renthe. “I've come to, er, pick up my brother's effects,” he said. “Personal stuff. If that's all right.”

Renthe did not appear to notice his embarrassment. “Of course,” he said. “One of Arne's colleagues, Hendrik Janz, has packed everything up. There's just a suitcase and a duffel bag.”

“Thanks.” Harald did not want Arne's effects, but he had needed an excuse to come here. What he was really after was about fifty feet of steel cable to replace the missing control cables of the Hornet Moth. And this was the only place he could think of where he might get it.

Now that he was here, the task seemed more daunting than it had from a distance. He felt a wave of mild panic. Without the cable, the Hornet Moth could not fly. Then he thought again of the sacrifice his brother had made, and told himself to stay calm. If he kept a cool head, he might find a way.

“I was going to send the bags to your parents,” Renthe added.

“I'll do it.” Harald wondered whether he could confide in Renthe.

“I only hesitated because I thought perhaps they should go to his fiancée.”

“Hermia?” Harald said, surprised. “In England?”

“Is she in England? She was here three days ago.”

Harald was astonished. “What was she doing here?”

“I assumed she had taken Danish citizenship and was living here. Otherwise, her presence in Denmark would have been illegal, and I would have been obliged to report her visit to the police. But obviously she would not have come here if that had been the case. She would know, wouldn't she, that as an army officer I'm obliged to report anything illegal to the police.” He looked hard at Harald and added, “Do you see what I mean?”

“I think I do.” Harald realized he was being given a message. Renthe
suspected that he and Hermia were involved in espionage with Arne, and he was warning Harald not to say anything about it to him. He obviously sympathized, but was not willing to break any rules. He stood up. “You've made things very clear—thank you.”

“I'll get someone to show you to Arne's quarters.”

“No need—I can find my way.” He had seen Arne's room two weeks ago, when he was here for a flight in a Tiger Moth.

Renthe shook his hand. “My deepest condolences.”

“Thank you.”

Harald left the headquarters building and walked along the single road that connected all the low buildings that made up the base. He moved slowly, taking a good look inside the hangars. There was not much activity. What was there to do at an air base where the aircraft could not fly?

He felt frustrated. The cable he needed must be here, somewhere. All he had to do was find out where, and get hold of it. But it was not that simple.

In one hangar he saw a Tiger Moth completely dismantled. The wings were detached, the fuselage stood on trestles, the engine on a stand. His hopes rose. He walked in through the giant doorway. A mechanic in overalls was sitting on an oil can, drinking tea from a big mug. “Amazing,” Harald said to him. “I've never seen one taken to pieces like that.”

“Has to be done,” the man replied. “Parts wear out, and you can't have them failing in midair. On aircraft, everything has to be perfect. Otherwise you fall out of the sky.”

Harald found that a sobering thought. He was planning to cross the North Sea in an aircraft that had not been looked at by a mechanic for years. “So you replace everything?”

“Everything that moves, yes.”

Harald thought optimistically that this man might be able to give him what he wanted. “You must get through a lot of spares.”

“That's right.”

“There's what, a hundred feet of control cables in each aircraft?”

“A Tiger Moth requires one hundred and fifty-nine feet of ten-hundredweight cable.”

And that's what I need, Harald thought with mounting excitement.
But once again he hesitated to ask, for fear of giving himself away to someone unsympathetic. He looked around. He had vaguely imagined that airplane parts would be lying around for anyone to pick up. “So, where do you keep it all?”

“Stores, of course. This is the army. Everything in its place.”

Harald grunted with exasperation. If only he could have seen a length of cable and picked it up casually . . . but it was pointless to wish for easy solutions. “Where's the store?”

“Next building along.” The mechanic frowned. “Why all the questions?”

“Idle curiosity.” Harald guessed he had pushed this man far enough. He should move on before arousing serious suspicion. He gave a sketchy wave and turned away. “Nice talking to you.”

He walked to the next building and stepped inside. A sergeant sat behind a counter, smoking and reading a newspaper. Harald saw a photograph of Russian soldiers surrendering, and the headline “STALIN TAKES CONTROL OF SOVIET DEFENSE MINISTRY.”

Harald studied the rows of steel shelves that stretched out on the other side of the counter. He felt like a child in a sweet shop. Here was everything he could want, from washers to entire engines. He could build a whole aircraft out of these parts.

And one entire section was given over to miles of cable of different kinds, all neatly wound on wooden cylinders like cotton reels.

Harald was delighted. He had learned exactly where the cable was. Now he had to figure out how to get his hands on it.

After a moment, the sergeant looked up from the newspaper. “Yes?”

Could the man be bribed? Yet again, Harald hesitated. He had a pocketful of money, given to him for this purpose by Karen. But he did not know how to phrase an offer. Even a corrupt warehouseman might be offended by a crass proposal. He wished he had thought more about his approach. But he had to do it. “Can I ask you something?” he said. “All these spare parts—is there any way that someone, a civilian I mean, could buy, or—”

“No,” the sergeant said abruptly.

“Even if the price was, you know, not a major consideration—”

“Absolutely not.”

Harald did not know what else to say. “If I've given offense . . .”

“Forget it.”

At least the man had not called the police. Harald turned away.

The door was solid wood with three locks, he noted as he left. It would not be easy to break into this warehouse. Perhaps he was not the first civilian to realize that scarce components might be found in military stores.

Feeling defeated, he made his way to the officers' quarters and found Arne's room. As Renthe had promised, there were two bags neatly lined up at the foot of the bed. The room was otherwise bare.

It struck Harald as pathetic that his brother's life could be packed into two bags, and that his room should then bear no trace of his existence. The thought brought tears to his eyes again. But the important thing was what a man left behind in the minds of others, he told himself. Arne would always live in Harald's memory—teaching him to whistle, making their mother laugh like a schoolgirl, combing his glossy hair in a mirror. He thought of the last time he had seen his brother, sitting on the tiled floor of the disused church in Kirstenslot, weary and scared but determined to fulfill his mission. And, once again, he saw that the way to honor Arne's memory was to finish the job he had started.

A corporal looked in at the door and said, “Are you related to Arne Olufsen?”

“His brother. My name is Harald.”

“Benedikt Vessell, call me Ben.” He was a man in his thirties with a friendly grin that showed tobacco-stained teeth. “I was hoping to run into someone from the family.” He fished in his pocket and pulled out money. “I owe Arne forty crowns.”

“What for?”

The corporal looked sly. “Well, don't say a word, I run a little book on the horse races, and Arne picked a winner.”

Harald took the money, not knowing what else to do. “Thank you.”

“Is that all right, then?”

Harald did not really understand the question. “Of course.”

“Good.” Ben looked furtive.

It crossed Harald's mind that the sum owed might have been more than forty crowns. But he was not going to argue. “I'll give it to my mother,” he said.

“Deepest sympathy, son. He was a good sort, your brother.”

The corporal obviously was not a rule keeper. He seemed the type who would murmur “Don't say a word” quite frequently. His age suggested he was a career soldier, but his rank was lowly. Perhaps he put his energies into illegal activities. He probably sold pornographic books and stolen cigarettes. Maybe he could solve Harald's problem. “Ben,” he said. “Can I ask you something?”

“Anything at all.” Ben took a tobacco pouch from his pocket and began to hand-roll a cigarette.

“If a man wanted, for private purposes, to get hold of fifty feet of control cable for a Tiger Moth, do you know of any way it could be done?”

Ben looked at him through narrowed eyes. “No,” he said.

“Say, the person had a couple of hundred crowns to pay for it.”

Ben lit his cigarette. “This is to do with what Arne was arrested for, isn't it?”

“Yes.”

Ben shook his head. “No, lad, it can't be done. Sorry.”

“Never mind,” Harald said lightly, though he was bitterly disappointed. “Where can I find Hendrik Janz?”

“Two doors along. If he's not in his room, try the canteen.”

Harald found Hendrik seated at a small desk, studying a book on meteorology. Pilots had to understand the weather, to know when it was safe to fly and if there was a storm coming. “I'm Harald Olufsen.”

Hendrik shook his hand. “Damn shame about Arne.”

“Thank you for packing up his stuff.”

“Glad to be able to do something.”

Did Hendrik approve of what Arne had done? Harald needed some indication before sticking his neck out. He said, “Arne did what he thought was right for his country.”

Hendrik immediately looked wary. “I know nothing of that,” he said. “To me he was a reliable colleague and a good friend.”

Harald was dismayed. Hendrik obviously was not going to help him steal the cable. What was he going to do?

“Thanks again,” he said. “Goodbye.”

He returned to Arne's room and picked up the bags. He was at a loss to know what else to do. He could not leave without the cable he needed—but how could he take it? He had tried everything.