Stranger in the Dark Read online

  It would have made a touching farewell except for one thing. Maren’s face had softened, too. She drew back and looked at the older woman, puzzled, troubled, and finally willing to confide.

  “Tante Gerda,” she said, “Chris told me that a stranger was here yesterday. Did you see him?”

  “A stranger?” The woman’s eyes darkened for just a moment. “Why, no, but then I went in to Roskilde yesterday.”

  “Then you wouldn’t know … but you would know about the bicycle. Is it true that another bicycle was taken night before last?”

  “I believe Chris did mention something—”

  “Then it is true. When Chris told me about Valdemar taking the bicycle, he complained that it was the second one taken this week. The first was night before last, he said. The night before a stranger came to ask questions about a wreck on the highway.”

  The fear in Maren’s face was beginning to have a name. When she pronounced it, the words were all for Larry.

  “A fat man, he said, with gold fillings in his teeth and no hair on his head.”

  The fat man again. He made a nice conversation piece all the way back to Copenhagen. Like the joker in a deck, this boy turned up at all the wrong places at all the wrong times. The hotel dining room could have been just a mistake; the American bar could have been a coincidence; but the farm! As soon as they were alone on the highway again, Larry loosed a barrage of questions. The answers were no help at all. No, the fat man hadn’t given old Chris his name. No, he hadn’t stated his business, merely asked if he’d seen or heard of anyone who might have been driving that wrecked sedan. What it all added up to was that Fatso had arrived at the farm more than twenty-four hours ahead of them, and this meant that Maren and Valdemar weren’t the only ones who could find significance in a wreck registered in the name of Ira McDonald and a farm near Roskilde.

  “They must have complete dossiers on all of us by this time…. Isn’t that the way they operate?”

  The memory of Valdemar’s words returned like a bad check, but now they seemed more ominous than sarcastic. Had he remembered them when the old man told his story? Old men love to tell their troubles to any willing ear, and if Valdemar heard the story of the fat man’s visit, he had reason enough to give up the search. But reason enough to cycle all the way back to Copenhagen?

  “It doesn’t seem far to us,” Maren explained. “We’re used to cycling.”

  “Just the same, I don’t like it,” Larry said. “How long has Valdemar known McDonald anyway?”

  “About as long as I have, about a year. I met Mac when I came into the city to look for work. Tante Gerda’s right about one thing—the farm does hold too many memories. I stuck it out about six months, and then I had to get away. Mac found a job for me. You might say that he’s my agent.”

  “Is he Valdemar’s?”

  “Larry, please forget about Valdemar! He just does this sort of thing; he needs no reason. Right now he’s probably losing the whole day in a bottle of cognac. He has his own private grief.”

  “I have a grief, too,” Larry muttered, “but it’s not so private any more.”

  All the way back to Copenhagen they talked this way, talked about Valdemar, talked about the fat man; but in the end they were right back where they had started, and Larry was still unconvinced. Valdemar had been much too moody this afternoon, and too silent between those provocative statements.

  But the highway led to a busy city street, and the street led to a hotel with a Basin Street piano in the bar and a no-parking zone at the curb. It wasn’t where Larry wanted to go, but Maren was determined.

  “After I’m off work we’ll look for Valdemar together,” she promised, “even if we have to hit every bar in the city.”

  “Why don’t we start looking now?” Larry suggested. “Suppose you missed a night in there. Would all of the customers stop eating?”

  “No, but I might.”

  She wouldn’t listen. She was laughing as she stepped to the curb, and Larry had to spell it out for her.

  “But it isn’t safe for you to go in there,” he protested. “Last night our fat shadow was watching us at the bar. I thought then that it was me he was following, but now I’m not so sure. He’s been to the farm. That means he knows about you and McDonald, and there’s no limit to what these people may do. They may plan to take you as hostage until Yukov is returned.”

  Larry was going to scare himself to death with that kind of talk, but it didn’t impress Maren at all.

  “That’s silly,” she said. “If the fat man wants to kidnap me he’ll have a much better chance of succeeding when I’m alone in my apartment than he would here in front of a crowd.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of leaving you alone,” Larry said.

  She smiled. It was only a ghost of a smile, but there was nothing unfriendly about it. “I’m sure you weren’t,” she said. “And it’s sweet of you to be so concerned, Larry, but there’s one thing you’ve failed to consider. If I’m being watched, it’s probably because they think Mac may try to contact me … and he may. That’s why I have to go on tonight. I have to be where he expects me to be.”

  “Even if it means risking your lovely neck?”

  “Even if,” she said.

  That was life. Travel halfway around the world to find that kind of a girl … only to have her belong to somebody else! Larry would have gone in with her, but the sign still indicated no parking and a policeman on the corner was eying him in a way that needed no translation. It was a fine situation when the law could keep an eagle eye out for traffic violations, but a girl like Maren Lund couldn’t even have protection from a band of international killers!

  But whose fault is that, Larry Orin Willis? Who’s been so careful to keep everything from the police?

  Larry’s conscience kept him company while he drove around the block, and he kept much better company as a rule. What was it that had made him resent Valdemar’s back-seat questioning so much? Why did he go out of his way to belittle a law officer whose only offense was an afterhours schnapps and an evening’s entertainment?

  Think hard about that convention, Larry. Remember what it will cost you if you get fouled up with a foreign police force and let old H.J. down!

  But what was the future of Larry Willis compared to the safety of Ira McDonald’s girl?

  Larry never knew how long he drove around the unfamiliar streets of Copenhagen getting himself as lost geographically as he was mentally. When the canopy of that cozy little hotel where he was registered came into view, it was like seeing a light in the window on the way home. He pulled over to the curb and let the uniformed attendant worry about what to do with the car. He had to worry about making a phone call before he lost his nerve….

  He didn’t stop at the desk to ask for his mail. Who would be writing to Larry Willis? Who would have noticed that he’d gone away? He didn’t exchange small talk with Viggo, or wait for the elevator to come down. He took the stairs two at a time and let himself into a room he hadn’t seen since morning. It looked awfully empty with the light on. The cowhide bag with the gold initials under the handle … Larry Orin Willis, big man. Spell them out and he was just L.O.W., which seemed appropriate…. The brief case on the desk with the same initials. Funny how everything had to be initialed, as if he had to keep reminding himself that he really existed.

  Maybe he didn’t. Maybe this was just an automaton reaching for the telephone. He didn’t even need to look up the number. He’d learned how to say, “Politigaarden.”

  But Larry never completed his call. He was distracted by the scratching of a key in the outer door. There was some kind of fire regulation about the doors—two of them with a narrow entrance hall between. He put down the phone and jerked open the inner door, intending to ask the maid to come back later, but he didn’t complete that task either. The maid was a huge shadow coming toward him through the hallway, and a skeleton key dangled from one hairy fist.

  12.

  ONCE INSIDE
THE ROOM, THE LIGHT GAVE THE SHADOW A FACE and a grin.

  “Good evening, Mr. Willis,” said Sheldon Garth. “You look a little pale. Shall we sit down?”

  Garth didn’t wait for an answer. He helped himself to the one and only armchair in the room and went right on smiling. All that poise made Larry feel as if he were the intruder.

  “Frankly,” Garth added, “I didn’t think you were in. I telephoned from a booth not five minutes ago. Guess I should have asked at the desk.”

  “It’s customary,” Larry muttered.

  “But not when you’re trying to keep your visit secret. However, now that you are here it may be all for the best. Instead of going through your luggage I can ask questions.”

  “Such as?”

  “Who are you, Mr. Willis?”

  Now that the shock was wearing off, Larry could begin to be angry. Sheldon Garth looked entirely too comfortable in that chair. Too smug, too certain, and much too big. No matter how angry he might be, this was no time to pick a quarrel.

  “I told you this afternoon,” Larry said. “I’m a businessman. I’m here for a convention.”

  “What kind of a convention?”

  “Farm-equipment manufacturers'. Look here, Mr. Garth, if Otto Carlsberg wants to check on me, why doesn’t he wire my company in Moline?”

  “Mr. Carlsberg,” Garth said slowly, “doesn’t even remember you by this time. He has other worries on his mind.”

  “Then why—?”

  “I have a worry too—Carlsberg.”

  The armchair stood beside the desk, and the brief case was within easy reach. Garth took it and began to run through the contents. He’d shoved his soft hat back on his forehead, and his eyebrows were like two black caterpillars in close conference.

  “Is there anything else you’d care to see?” Larry asked sourly. “My passport, my vaccination certificate?”

  Garth pushed the material back into the brief case and replaced it on the desk. “All right, so you’re a businessman.” he said. “Sorry to be so skeptical, but that’s my business. I’m not exactly Otto Carlsberg’s secretary.”

  Larry wasn’t surprised. Those shoulders hadn’t been developed taking shorthand.

  “His bodyguard?” he suggested.

  Garth grinned again. “His nursemaid would be more like it. You see, Mr. Carlsberg is a very rich man and a certain class of people can’t resist trying to take a little from every rich man they find. I try to look out for the old boy, but he has a very bad weakness. He’s grateful to the country that made him rich.”

  “I’d say that was a highly commendable trait,” Larry remarked.

  “Oh, highly! Also highly expensive. Being a superpatriot can run into a lot of money these days, Mr. Willis. There’s a special sucker list just for wealthy people with checkbooks who hate Communists. That’s why I was so sure McDonald was a con artist…. I guess anyone can make a mistake.”

  Larry was fast forgetting to be angry. He closed the inner door and walked over and sat down on the bed. Garth frowned at the faded pattern on the carpet. Then he sighed heavily.

  “I’ve been a busy man since you left us this afternoon,” he said. “As soon as the old man calmed down, I started making inquiries. From the police I learned that a black Porsche sedan had been found yesterday morning rammed head on into a tree about ten kilometers outside of Copenhagen on Highway One. It was registered to Ira McDonald, who was not found.”

  “That’s what I told you,” Larry said.

  “But I don’t believe what people tell me, Mr. Willis. I only believe what I find out for myself. For instance, I checked every booking agency in the city and nobody knew of an actor named Valdemar Brix. They did know of a singer, Maren Lund, and the landlady at her address told me she’s pretty friendly with an American answering McDonald’s description. She remembered Brix, too.”

  Garth pulled an expensive cigarette case from his pocket and helped himself. Then he offered the case to Larry.

  “No, thanks,” Larry said.

  “No bad habits?” Garth grinned at him over a light. “Yes you were the puzzler, Mr. Willis. Everything in your story checked out except the fact that it’s so damned incredible. But then, so is McDonald. And you do look a little like him—from a distance. You’re not like him though. Not at all like him. He’s an operator. Real smooth.”

  Larry could feel the hayseeds in his hair again, but he was too interested now to care. He sat on the edge of the bed, hanging on Garth’s every word. The story was just about the way he had it figured. Shortly after Carlsberg’s arrival in Denmark, McDonald had come up with this scheme to rescue a headline prisoner from a Red firing squad.

  “It sounded too easy,” Garth explained. “The details he kept to himself. All he wanted from Carlsberg was the cash.”

  “In dollars,” Larry added.

  “That’s right, in American dollars. And the old man carries plenty with him. He has it in a safe on board the yacht.”

  “He has a yacht?”

  “Down in the yacht harbor. The old man travels in style. He has that hotel suite just for entertaining and the convenience of Mrs. Carlsberg. She likes to go shopping.” Garth winked over his smoking cigarette. “Of course,” he added, “she was still visiting the kinfolk up in Aalborg when the old man had that particular dinner party.”

  Valdemar, then, had been right about the girls. Larry asked, and Garth made no denial.

  “They came with McDonald,” he said. “Decoration, I guess.”

  “With McDonald!”

  Larry leaped to his feet and started pacing about the room. He was getting too excited to sit still.

  “Was one of them a blonde, a small blonde with a real good figure?”

  Sheldon Garth cocked his head on one side and squinted at Larry through a cloud of cigarette smoke. “You asked about a blonde this afternoon,” he reminded. “She must be important.”

  “She could be. She could be the whole show. I’m looking for the woman who posed as Hansen’s widow so she could pick up his things at police headquarters yesterday morning. I say posed, Mr. Garth, because Hansen doesn’t have a widow. He never married.”

  Larry stopped pacing and watched the import of his words sink in. Garth was listening with both ears.

  “Somewhere in this scheme of McDonald’s there had to be an informer,” he added; “otherwise Carlsberg would have his general and McDonald would be answering his doorbell. If it was at that dinner party that the plan was conceived, it could have been at the same dinner party that things started to go wrong.”

  “I follow you, Mr. Willis,” Garth said. “In fact, I’ve been thinking the same thing but with one difference.”

  The question in Larry’s eyes didn’t need any words.

  “Valdemar Brix,” Garth added.

  It seemed strange to hear somebody else talking like that about Valdemar. Larry could almost hear Maren’s howl of protest, but what did she really know of the man? She remembered him from her childhood, and had then met him again after her recent home-coming. There were a lot of long, hard years in between that could make big changes in any man.

  “Of course, that’s not saying that you’re wrong and I’m right … or that either of us is wrong, for that matter,” Garth reflected. “Come to think of it, I believe there was a blonde at that party. Maybe the blonde and Brix are both involved. There must be quite a crowd mixed up in this thing. Let’s see, you mentioned something this afternoon about a sinister-looking gent who drove that sedan—”

  “And the fat man,” Larry added.

  “The what man?”

  It didn’t seem possible that Garth hadn’t heard about the fat man. Larry brought him up to date, up to and including the afternoon’s trip to the farm. Up to and including Valdemar’s strange behavior. Through it all, Garth smoked in silence. Then he ground out his cigarette in the tray on the desk and stood up. His frown had those furry black eyebrows almost joined together.

  “I don’t like it,�
�� he muttered. “I don’t like it at all. I might as well confide in you, Mr. Willis. A man has to trust somebody.”

  The silence was for deciding. The silence was for two men eying one another like sentries in the dark.

  “I think Carlsberg has heard from McDonald,” Garth said at last.

  “You think?” Larry echoed.

  “Oh, he wouldn’t tell me! You heard him this afternoon. He’s suspicious of his own shadow. But he had a telephone call this morning that he was mighty anxious I shouldn’t hear, and tonight he’s gone back to his yacht.”

  “Maybe the general—”

  “Not a chance! That was the original plan, to put the general aboard the yacht directly from Hansen’s boat. Whatever went wrong must have started while that boat was still out, but that’s not what concerns me at the moment. It’s what the old man may be up to. I think he went back to the yacht for more money. Don’t you see? If the yacht can’t be used because the other side knows about it, McDonald has to smuggle the general out by some other means. That would take more money.”

  Larry brightened. “Then all you have to do is follow Carlsberg,” he suggested.

  It seemed like a good idea until he saw Garth’s face. That grim look would spoil anybody’s enthusiasm.

  “Follow him into what?” he challenged. “Into a trap, most likely. How many people do you suppose are following him already? No, Willis, it’s my job to look after the old man, and I intend to do it. I’m rather fond of him. He pays me well.”

  Garth’s brief smile was a mistake. He didn’t wear it long.

  “What we’ve got to do is find McDonald before the old man gets into real trouble. If what you’ve told me is the truth, we may have a chance. About this blonde, could you identify her if you saw her again?”

  Larry frowned over the thought. “Yes, I think I could,” he said at last. “And if she was at that dinner party so could Valdemar.”

  “If you can trust Valdemar. Why don’t we find out about that right now? Where does he live?”