Stranger in the Dark

by Nielsen, Helen

  Valdemar looked very happy. All eyes were upon him, startled, apprehensive eyes. The eyes of Otto Carlsberg were like bright blue beads, and the light of an elaborate crystal chandelier played down on the gleaming dome of his pink and gray-fringed head. Sheldon Garth had a fine head of black hair and more muscles than Larry had ever seen on a secretary. But even he seemed to be feeling a heat that wasn’t registered in centigrade.

  “An impostor!” he sputtered. “I warned you, Mr. Carlsberg! I told you from the beginning not to trust McDonald!”

  Otto Carlsberg didn’t seem the type to trust anyone. “Shut up!” he roared, never taking his eyes off Valdemar. “I want to hear what these people have to say. What’s on your mind, Brix, or whoever you are? What are you after?”

  “McDonald,” Valdemar said.

  “Why?”

  “He owes me one hundred American dollars for the impersonation I gave at your miserable party.”

  “Impersonation!” Garth cried. “There, you see—”

  “Shut up!” Carlsberg roared again. “Now then, you there. What do you want?”

  A couple of difficult seconds ticked away before Larry realized that “you there” referred to himself. Carlsberg had the overpowering personality of a self-made man, and Larry had been overpowered by a few, but not while he was exercising with murder and international intrigue. The shortest distance between two points was still a straight line.

  “I’m looking for a murderer,” he said.

  The silence after his words was like the silence after the tinkling of broken window glass when a baseball lands in a living room. Larry felt proud of himself. Valdemar Brix wasn’t the only one who could hold an audience.

  “The murderer of Holger Hansen,” he added. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of him, Mr. Carlsberg.”

  Carlsberg’s ruddy face looked dirty when it paled. “Of course not!” he said.

  “I didn’t think you had. Hansen was a fisherman who also rented his boat. As nearly as we’ve been able to find out, he rented it to Ira McDonald sometime Tuesday. Now Hansen’s dead, and there’s a pair of military boots in the cabin of his boat.”

  Larry paused to watch two faces. When neither Carlsberg nor Garth commented, he decided to take a little liberty.

  “Russian military boots,” he said. “That’s why we’ve come to you, Mr. Carlsberg. Where’s McDonald hiding the general?”

  The trouble with putting all of the cards on the table was that it left no stack to draw on. For a moment after he spoke, Larry was frightened. At least he had company.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Carlsberg sputtered.

  He was lying, of course. He had to be lying. He’d already committed himself by recognizing Valdemar’s characterization.

  “If you’re worried about betraying the big secret, forget it,” Larry said. “Haven’t you seen the papers? The whole world knows that General Yukov escaped!”

  “That has nothing to do with me!”

  Carlsberg was as convincing as a politician explaining what he’s done with the taxpayer’s money. “It must have something to do with you,” Larry protested. “Bribing guards and setting up the escape of a man that important is expensive business. Somebody has to foot the bill, and this one seems to have been paid with American dollars. Here—” The long gray envelope came out of his coat pocket again, and the crisp bank notes rustled under Carlsberg’s nose. “Three hundred dollars!” he shouted. “This is what Hansen had on him the night he was killed!”

  “Larry, be careful what you say!”

  Maren’s cry was like a tug at his sleeve, but it took Sheldon Garth to drive home her point with a sledge hammer.

  “Yes, be very careful, Mr. Willis,” he said quietly. “If a man was killed with that money in his possession, as you say, someone might be curious as to why you have it now.”

  Overenthusiasm had lost many a sale. Larry glanced at Valdemar. He would have been glad to give back the audience now, but it was his story and it had to be finished.

  “He dropped it,” Larry said.

  Garth smiled. “At your feet, I suppose.”

  “Yes, at my feet!”

  That wasn’t enough of the story. Two suspicious people were getting more suspicious by the moment, and there was nothing to do but spell out the rest of it, incident by incident, even if it was a terrible waste of time. Somewhere in this troubled afternoon Ira McDonald might be in much greater need of that time than Carlsberg or his inquisitive secretary.

  And at the end of the story nothing was changed.

  “I still say this has nothing to do with me!” Carlsberg insisted.

  “That’s a Jutlander for you,” Valdemar muttered. “You’re wasting your time, Herre Willis.”

  “McDonald’s time, you mean,” Larry said darkly. “It’s ridiculous to deny your part in this plan, Mr. Carlsberg. The money had to come from somewhere, and bills of this denomination aren’t easy to come by on the foreign exchange. They must come from someone who brought the cash into this country.”

  “So—?” Carlsberg sputtered.

  “So, after meeting Valdemar Brix and hearing of his act at your party, the trail leads straight to you. I just can’t believe that anybody would go to all the trouble of arranging the escape of a man like General Yukov without also arranging for a place to hide him after he got here.”

  “That’s a logical assumption,” Garth observed.

  “You keep out of this!” Carlsberg muttered. “And I don’t care what you believe, Mr. Willis, because I think it’s time you and your friends cleared out of here.”

  “But why? Can’t you understand what I’m trying to do? I’m trying to find McDonald so I can warn him of that man in the black sedan. Have you seen him?”

  “I have not!”

  “There, you see. He must be in trouble. He’d surely have reported back by this time if something hadn’t gone wrong.”

  “That’s right,” Garth broke in. “He should have at least telephoned.”

  Carlsberg wasn’t pale any more. His face was beginning to resemble a large red balloon.

  “Why should Ira McDonald telephone me?” he sputtered. “Why should he report back? I know nothing of this, I tell you! If General Yukov has escaped, I’m happy to hear it. A man like that can tell a lot of tales. But I don’t have to tell you that, do I? That’s what you’re worried about.”

  “What I’m worried about?” Larry gasped.

  Carlsberg swung around and glared at his secretary.

  “Do you think I’m fool enough to fall for a trick like this?” he roared. “I was warned against something like this—”

  “Who warned you?” Larry demanded. “Was it McDonald? Have you heard from him?”

  “Tricks!” the old man muttered. “Termite tricks! That’s what you are, all of you. Communist termites trying to undermine everything. I’d like to see the lot of you shot!”

  “Even General Yukov?” Valdemar inquired dryly, but it wasn’t Valdemar’s show any more. He didn’t even get an answer.

  “You’re right about one thing,” Larry said. “There has been a trick somewhere. Somewhere along the line word of what McDonald was doing leaked out, not in time to spoil the escape, obviously, but in time to cause Hansen’s death and jeopardize completion of the plan. If McDonald’s taken the general to some hide-out—”

  “If he has, I know nothing about it!” Carlsberg snapped.

  Larry paused. Now that he was beginning to understand Carlsberg’s stubborn denials he could almost distinguish the truths from the lies. Very likely the man didn’t know McDonald’s plans. The less he knew, the less he could tell.

  “If you don’t know,” Larry continued, “our only hope is to locate one of the women who attended your party. I understand there was an attractive blonde—”

  “That’s a lie!” Carlsberg protested. “There were no women!”

  “But Valdemar Brix said—”

  “I don’t care what
he said! The man’s a liar! He’s just admitted being a liar!”

  “I am an actor!” Valdemar shouted.

  “The same thing! Nobody believes an actor!”

  Carlsberg was getting redder by the moment. The fury of this new denial had Larry groping for an explanation until the rising volume of the protest gave him a clue. He glanced in the direction Carlsberg was looking, and saw that a newcomer had arrived at the party. Across the room, standing in an open doorway, was a small elderly woman with blue-gray hair, snapping eyes, and a pair of clenched fists. When Larry noticed the wedding band on the left fist, he understood. He’d been to a few stag parties himself.

  “This is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard!” the old man insisted. “First, I’m accused of financing some wild scheme of which I’ve never heard, and now you try to insinuate that some woman was also involved! What is this, blackmail?”

  “It might be at that,” Sheldon Garth said. “Why don’t you let me handle this, Mr. Carlsberg? I’ll just take these people into my room for questioning—”

  “No, you won’t! They’re getting out of here right now! They’re getting out, or I’m calling the police!”

  This was one time when Carlsberg’s silencing of his secretary was welcome. Something about Garth’s manner left doubt in Larry’s mind as to how he interpreted that word “questioning”; but there was no doubt as to the interpretation of Otto Carlsberg’s manner. The man was frightened, and he’d been frightened even before that irate figure appeared in the doorway.

  But now Sheldon Garth’s shoulders were looming large, and all Larry realized was that his two-day search for Ira McDonald was coming to another dead end. There was a limit to how much a man could stand before his patience gave out.

  “Go ahead and call the police!” he yelled, making a vain attempt to resist expulsion. “They’ll be glad to hear the story I’ve just told you, because they’ve been looking for McDonald too! They’ve been looking for him since his wrecked car was found out on Highway One!”

  It was a nice try, but it came a little late. The visiting delegation was in the hall before he finished, and the door that slammed shut on three agitated faces didn’t have a “come again” sign hanging from the knob.

  “Brilliant!” Valdemar exclaimed, as soon as the hall stopped vibrating. “From the moment of our meeting, I’ve suspected Herre Willis of possessing a unique genius for bungling, but now he’s proved it!”

  Valdemar didn’t have to sound so pleased.

  “All right, so I struck out,” Larry muttered. “Is it my fault the man’s afraid of his wife? Anyone with half an eye could see that he’s lying!”

  “Anyone,” Valdemar agreed.

  “What’s more, I’ve a hunch it’s a lot more than Mrs. Carlsberg that has him frightened. I wonder if he’s had a run-in with that man in the black sedan.”

  Larry was talking to himself. Valdemar still eyed him as if he belonged on a strong leash, and Maren had a peculiar wonderment in her wide eyes. Suddenly, Larry realized what was wrong—the wreck on the highway! He’d been so intent on forcing the truth out of Otto Carlsberg that he’d completely forgotten neither of his companions knew about that wreck.

  The realization came with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He wanted to spare Maren this news until something more definite developed, but when he faced her, the girl’s eyes were shining.

  “Is it true?” she demanded. “Did the police really find Mac’s car on Highway One?”

  “It’s true,” Larry admitted.

  “How do you know?” Valdemar demanded.

  “I got it straight from Martinus Sorensen,” Larry said, “the man I talked to at headquarters. I ran into him at Tivoli last night right after I chased the prowler in McDonald’s apartment. I didn’t mention it because I was afraid Maren would worry.”

  “Brilliant!” Valdemar said again.

  “It didn’t seem too important. After all, they found no trace of McDonald.”

  “No trace,” Maren repeated thoughtfully. “If he’d been hurt there would have been bloodstains, at least. Valdemar, are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “I doubt it,” Valdemar said, “but I’m reconciled to the journey. Do we go by bus, taxi, or private car?”

  10.

  FOR A TIME, LARRY FELT THE NEED OF AN INTERPRETER. HE never quite understood how they reached the auto-rental agency so quickly, or just what all the fast chatter was about when Maren lapsed into her native tongue, but within an hour after their expulsion from Carlsberg’s suite he was sitting behind the wheel of a small sedan with two passengers to assist him in the double duty of finding the road markers and avoiding the bicycles. By that time he knew what all the excitement was about. Highway One led to a city named Roskilde, and near Roskilde was a certain farm managed by an elderly lady.

  “Tante Gerda is the last of the family,” Maren explained, “but all of us grew up on the farm, Valdemar, myself, my brother Arne.”

  A brief shadow crossed her face and then she continued.

  “Mac’s been there several times,” she said. “I should have thought of it myself. The farm’s an ideal hiding place.”

  “But his auto was wrecked,” Valdemar reminded.

  An enthused Maren had an answer for everything.

  “Mac always drives too fast,” she said, “and this time he had a good reason. Don’t you see? He received that wire from Berlin and then left the city immediately; we know that because of what the porter told Larry. He either had the general with him or was on the way to where Yukov is hidden. Why, he might even wrecked the car deliberately!”

  “Now that’s an interesting possibility,” Valdemar reflected. “McDonald was always an extravagant fellow. Perhaps he got a scratch on the paint and didn’t like it any more.”

  “Valdemar! Do be serious! Don’t you understand? By wrecking his car, Mac would confuse any pursuer.”

  “But not us,” Valdemar said.

  “Of course not! We know about the farm.”

  “And no one else does? Surely these ‘termites’ are more thorough than that, little Maren. They must have complete dossiers on all of us by this time, isn’t that so, Herre Willis? Isn’t that how they operate?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” Larry muttered.

  “But Herre Carlsberg knows…. Yes, I can see how a man like that would be very important to Ira McDonald.”

  While it was true that Maren’s optimism took no account of the grim possibility that the wreck might have been the result of an unsuccessful attempt to avoid a pursuer (bodies, dead or alive, could be removed), Larry did wish that Valdemar would stop arguing and let the girl hope. But Valdemar was lapsing into one of his moods. He sulked in the back seat, his long legs jackknifed against his chest and his brooding eyes reflected in the rear-view mirror. He seemed to be taking some kind of mental inventory that needed assistance here and there.

  “One thing I don’t understand, Herre Willis,” he said, after a thoughtful silence. “You say that you met this man Sorensen in Tivoli after chasing the prowler from McDonald’s apartment, and that it was then he told you of the wreck on the highway. But why? How does it happen that the police associate you with Ira McDonald?”

  Larry explained, and Valdemar listened, but the frown never left his face.

  “But then, when you knew the police were interested in McDonald,” he persisted, “why didn’t you tell him about the prowler?”

  “And about the fact that I’d been doing a bit of prowling, too?” Larry challenged. “Do you think I can afford to be mixed up in a police investigation? I’m a businessman. I’m here to represent my company at a convention.”

  “Ah, yes, the Prairie State Farm Tool and Equipment Company. At least, so it says on the little knife.”

  Valdemar was becoming more annoying than a back-seat driver. Larry glanced in the mirror again. Valdemar had the knife in his hands, studying the inscription. He might at least have returned the property, b
ut it went back into his own pocket.

  “So it says,” Larry echoed. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Nothing in particular,” Valdemar shrugged, “but if our friend Carlsberg is so suspicious, perhaps I should be suspicious too.”

  “Of me?”

  “Why not? Suspicion is like a grass fire; it changes direction with the wind. Only last night I heard Maren challenging you, Herre Willis—”

  “That was last night!” Maren interrupted.

  The frown in the rear-view mirror changed at once to a smile. “But of course it was! How stupid of me to forget! Still, we three should have no secrets from one another. No hard feelings, Herre Willis.”

  No hard feelings! Larry’s hands clenched white on the steering wheel. He glanced at Maren sitting beside him. Had she paled, or was it a trick of the sunlight? Valdemar was certainly doing a nice job of undermining his chances.

  “Speak for yourself when you talk about secrets,” Larry muttered. “I have none! As for telling Sorensen my troubles, how could I when all he was interested in was some fool ballet? No wonder that fellow in the black sedan dared to show up at police headquarters the day after Hansen was killed! You people live on top of a powder keg and never seem to give it a serious thought. Everybody acts as calm as if there was nothing wrong with the world!”

  Larry felt a little ashamed of his tirade, once it was over, but it did silence Valdemar for a while. He made only one more comment all the way to the farm.

  “A very inferior ballet,” he reflected. “What you should see, Herre Willis, is the Royal Danish.”

  Larry felt almost at home when they reached the farm. The buildings were different—the familiar square with its gleaming white structures boxing in the courtyard—but the shaggy dog that came to meet them barked a greeting that was the same in any language, and he needed no translation for the glad cry that emanated from one of the bright garden plots as Maren stepped out of the car. Home-comings were the same in any country … for those who had something to come home to.