What to do! What to do!
A fortune in his hands, a veritable king’s ransom, and all it apparently was going to mean were the added expenses of two large safe-deposit boxes, a complete loss of appetite, as well as the very possible loss of his job if he didn’t get his mind back onto the subject of Danish history and away from thoughts of the treasure sitting idle and for all purposes worthless in a box in a bank. He knew his lectures were suffering, but how was he supposed to be able to concentrate on the eighteenth century and the failure of Christian V in the Skåne War, or rejoice with his class over Frederick IV’s victory over the dukes of Holstein-Gottorp? The chances were if he didn’t find a solution to his problem soon, he would be forced by mere economic considerations to turn the treasure over to the authorities and attempt to glean what few tidbits of recognition he might from the whole affair. The thought was sickening. One morning he stared at his class without seeing them and then wordlessly left the rostrum and walked unsteadily into his office. He passed his secretary without a glance or a word, closed the door of his tiny sanctum sanctorum, fell into a chair, and pressed his head into his shaking hands.
What to do! What to do!
It was evident he was slowly going to pieces, or not even slowly. A solution had to be found and found quickly or he was going to suffer a complete nervous breakdown. Why had that fiendish fisherman come to him with the blasted treasure? Why couldn’t he have enticed someone else with its potential wealth? Or, better yet, left it at the bottom of the sea? Or had the fisherman been sent? Had someone—his colleagues, possibly Becker—arranged the whole thing, knowing it would drive him mad? But this thought in itself was madness, and he still had enough control to know it. He reached into a drawer and brought out a bottle of aquavit, bringing it unsteadily to his lips, upending it, aware as he did so that any sign of drunkenness, or smell of liquor on his breath during lecture hours, could mean instant dismissal. But he was past caring. He took another drink and could feel the alcohol begin to intoxicate him. Still, it was relaxing …
There had to be a solution. If only he had money! That was the answer, of course. Money begets money. With money he was sure any number of possible solutions would press themselves upon him. All that anything ever required was money. What was it Rousseau said? Money is the seed of money. Or Emerson, the American—sometimes they said something wise—The world is his who has money. Or Pulilius Syrus, who said the same thing earlier, before the birth of Christ: Money alone sets the world in motion. But Diogenes Laertius, three hundred years later, had put it the most elegantly. When a man asked him the right time for supper, Diogenes said: If you are a rich man you eat whenever you please; if you are a poor man, whenever you can. And he, Arne Nordberg, was a poor man, and he hadn’t even been eating at all lately, as a matter of fact. A classical education is fine, he told himself, feeling tears of self-pity welling behind his eyes, but what good is knowing what a lot of dead people said, or when they said it? It would never take the place of just plain, simple money.
He took another drink and yawned deeply, feeling the effects of the strong drink on his empty stomach. Then suddenly sat erect, his eyes widening dramatically, his mind snapping for a moment from its aquavit-induced torpor. He closed his eyes and shook his head violently, trying to force away the cobwebs, and instantly regretted it. He gripped the edge of his desk tightly, trying not to be sick, wondering what thought had come to bring on that ridiculous reaction, and then he remembered. Of course. Of course! The answer was simplicity itself. It was true that he, himself, had no money, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others in the world with money. Many, many, many! Hundreds! Thousands! Millions, probably! Undoubtedly! And sharing the great fortune that could be realized from the treasure with someone else was certainly better than having it sit in a bank idle and worthless—not to say a drain on his finances—and driving him half-insane in the bargain.
He leaned back, smiling, pleased with his brilliant solution, and not at all perturbed by the fact that at the moment he had no particular wealthy man in mind. That would be a matter of selection, careful selection. He would require someone, obviously, who would not be disturbed by the fact that the Schliemann gold had apparently been stolen from the Russians and somehow lost at sea, but Nordberg was sure that this in itself would present no problem. Rich men seldom accumulated their wealth by practicing excessive moral scruples. He would also have to find a man who would believe his story of how he had come into possession of the treasure, for he certainly had no intention of introducing the name of Knud Christensen into the narrative. This also seemed to be no great problem. He had all of history to select in fabricating a story of stolen material, and whatever else he was, he was definitely a scholar, not only of history, but of the classics. He would invent a story so logical that it would make the delivery of the Golden Fleece from the kingdom of Colchis seem like the normal arrival of the afternoon post; the stealing of Helen of Troy by Paris appear like picking up a girl in the Istedgade.
He realized that to a large extent it was the aquavit that was speaking in his boastful and swollen thoughts, and resolved to be sober when he did make up his story, and then to make it as simple and uncomplicated as possible. But basically, he knew his solution to the problem was right. He needed a partner; someone with money as well as contacts. And, of course, brains. Someone with nerve as well as a touch of the gambler in him. Someone, he told himself in the slowly evaporating stupor brought on by the alcohol, like himself. He smiled broadly at the idea. Not exactly like himself; someone with money. Someone who could complement his qualities, as well as duplicate them. Someone like Count Lindgren, for example.
Even as the thought came, he knew it had been a burst of pure genius. He had found the solution! Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was a trustee of the university, a man Nordberg had not only seen from a distance, but had even met on several occasions. Rich as Croesus, they said. Certainly Lindgren Castle on the outskirts of Ringsted seemed to bear that out. Nordberg had seen the castle several times. When the count was traveling he permitted the castle to be used for conducted tours with the monies, of course, going to charity. Set in two hundred rich acres, with its tessellated towers and its more than a hundred rooms filled with untold wealth in the form of paintings and statuary, the castle represented all that Nordberg had ever considered the finest in life. Just as the castle’s owner and tenant represented all that Nordberg had ever hoped for in himself.
Count Lindgren’s family held a revered place in Danish history. His father’s ancestors had fought with Harald Blaatand, the son of King Gorm, in the completion of Denmark’s unification and in the conquest of Norway. It was said another ancestor on his mother’s side had been the right-hand man of Sweyn I, Harald’s son, when he conquered England in 1013. No fisherman cousins in his line! No distant cousins living in little cottages in places like Gedser! And to make the man more attractive as a partner was the fact that Count Lindgren was a known gambler. The Copenhagen newspapers often mentioned his presence at Monte Carlo or Mar de Plata; at Las Vegas or Punta del Este. And the pictures in the society pages always showed the count visiting the casinos with a lovely lady on his arm, and always a different one. In fact, it was rumored that the reason Axel Lindgren had left the consular service was because he had been asked to. A matter, it was said, of an affair with the wife of a diplomat, a man so obsolete in his thinking as to act quite undiplomatically when he discovered the facts. So Count Lindgren had this love of the fleshly pleasures in common with Arne Nordberg, as well. Kindred souls, Nordberg thought—except, of course, for money. Yes, Count Lindgren was exactly the man to help him solve his problem. In fact, the count probably wouldn’t even want money for his help. With his wealth he didn’t need it. He’d probably do it just for the sport of it. Rumor had it he was just that kind of man. And according to the papers, Axel Lindgren was at home in Ringsted, which in itself could be considered a sort of favorable omen, since the count was known to travel
widely.
Nordberg started to come to his feet, staggered, and sat down again. Better sober up, he told himself sternly. When you can walk a straight line, then go home, take a hot bath, get some rest, and tomorrow, when you have all your wits about you, go down to Lindgren Castle and start the ball rolling. It was such an attractive thought that he decided to have one more drink on it …
RINGSTED—April
The following day, Count Axel Poul Hemming-Westberg Lindgren was, indeed, home. He was in conference with his lawyer, and while the two men could not be said to be arguing—Axel Lindgren had learned early in his diplomatic career that arguing was counterproductive—it could be said they were having a serious discussion. The lawyer, Erik Trosborg, considered himself an old friend and felt he could speak freely.
“Axel,” he was saying, his voice pleading, “why can’t you seem to realize that the estate is entailed? It is not yours to dispose of when and as you wish! You know that as well as I do. You simply cannot go around selling off pictures, or statuary, or anything else. Why do you continually put me in the embarrassing position of rounding up these things and getting them back? I’m supposed to be a lawyer, not someone on a perpetual sort of scavenger hunt. When are you going to stop these stupidities?”
Count Lindgren shrugged. He was a handsome man in his late forties, with the build of an athlete, sharp clean features, a cleft chin, icy blue eyes, and a white streak down one side of his light brown hair that women found most attractive. He flicked ash from his thin cigar and smiled at his friend. It was a cold smile, but most things about Axel Lindgren were cold.
“I needed the money,” he said simply. “Blame it on inflation. Everyone else does.”
“Or gambling. Or women.”
“Now there you are being unfair,” Lindgren said a bit reprovingly. “My women do not cost me a krone.”
“Not in hard cash. Only a Mercedes for this one, a dress shop for that one! I wish,” Trosborg said fervently, “you would be smart enough to buy your women as you buy anything else. Or not to buy anything at all for a while. Axel, you simply cannot keep this up!”
“My dear Erik,” Lindgren said with no attempt at apology, “I honestly have no idea where the money goes. It just goes.” He glanced about a moment before returning his gaze to Trosborg’s face. “Erik, do you have any idea of how much it costs just to run this place? On the veriest shoestring, I assure you. A valet who also does duty when needed as chauffeur, or even butler, a cook and an assistant, five maids and a housekeeper?”
“I have a perfect idea,” Trosborg said dryly, “since I handle the bills.”
“Oh. Of course.” Lindgren was not in the least nonplussed. “Well, then, do you have any idea of what, say, a few new suits of clothes cost? Just the trip to London, alone, to visit the tailor—”
Trosborg shook his head in almost amused resignation.
“Axel, Axel! You have an income from this estate that would enable the most extravagant man in the world—no, since that’s you let’s make it the second-most extravagant man in the world—to live in absolute and total comfort. You simply must learn to live within that income. To begin with, legally you have no right to touch any part of the estate. It’s entailed and you could get into serious trouble by doing so. And secondly, if you had your way, in ten years there would be no estate at all, and then, my spendthrift friend, you would really have something to complain about!”
“All right, all right.” Lindgren smiled with amusement at the lawyer. “Don’t spank. I’ll try to be a good boy in the future. Now, how about lunch with me?”
“No, I have to get back to town. Handling the affairs of Count Axel Lindgren is a full-time job, believe me.” Trosborg came to his feet and shook his head as he looked down at his friend. All the lectures in the world would not change Axel, he knew. He only hoped the excesses could be kept within reasonable limits. “You know, Axel,” he added thoughtfully, “you might even consider working …”
Lindgren looked up, honestly surprised. “I beg your pardon?”
Trosborg laughed. “It’s not a crime, you know.”
“Well, it should be,” Lindgren said, and smiled.
Trosborg became serious. “I mean it, Axel. Not that you need it—you’d have ample money if you didn’t throw it around the way you do. But I’m serious. You’re considered an expert on art, aren’t you? I’m sure you could get quite a few very well-paying commissions, purchasing commissions, if you were to let people know you were interested—”
“And have all my friends realize the depths of my degradation?” Lindgren laughed. “Have everyone from Cannes to Hollywood know I was reduced to—to—labor?” He shook his head mockingly, but there was a touch of seriousness in the gesture as well. “François would begin serving me leftovers for lunch; Wilten would let my shoes go unpolished for a month. The maids would be afraid they wouldn’t be paid next week.”
Trosborg laughed. “What you mean, of course, is that honest labor might interfere with your traveling or with your spending time on the yachts of your poorer, but more practical, friends.” He held out his hand. “I don’t agree with your philosophy, but it’s your life. Take care.”
“I have you for that,” Lindgren said with a wry smile, and shook hands. He watched his friend leave the room and leaned back, his smile gone, his cigar smoldering forgotten in the ashtray at his side. This money thing, or the lack of it, was the very devil! He supposed in a way Erik was right. The income from the estate was a fair sum, and he could imagine there were people who could live on it. But not the way he liked to live; not and travel to the places he enjoyed visiting, or dress the way he liked to dress, or be with the type women he liked being with. And the saddest part of the whole business was that when at last he died, as even he, Axel Lindgren, had to eventually, the lovely Lindgren estates that Trosborg was so intent upon keeping intact, would not go to another Lindgren as entailed estates were supposed to go, handed down in their entirety in the blood line from father to son, but would undoubtedly end up with the government. A government, incidentally, who had fired him most unjustly for the small matter of sleeping with a lady. Who was he supposed to sleep with, for heaven’s sake? His first secretary? The military attaché? The only reason he had ever gone into the consular service had been for the women he could meet …
But the sad fact was that two marriages had not only failed to provide Axel Lindgren with any particular satisfaction, they also had not provided him with any progeny. And Lindgren had no intention of risking a third marriage simply to furnish an heir to inherit Lindgren Castle and all it contained, or its estates, or anything else. It would be a dirty trick, he thought with a rather sour smile, to place the burden of landed poverty onto another, as it had been placed upon him.
He crushed out his cigar and was about to go in to lunch, when his butler appeared, standing discreetly at the door. He was a large man, with cold unexpressive eyes. Lindgren looked at him inquiringly. “Yes, Wilten?”
“A—a person to see you, sir.”
“A person? Does he or she have a name? Or a card?”
“He has no card, sir. But he said he was an acquaintance. A Professor Nordberg. Of the Copenhagen University, sir.”
Lindgren frowned. He seemed to remember Nordberg; they had met at a few university functions when the professor—assistant professor, wasn’t it, or even associate?—had managed to introduce himself. A rather disgusting example of the human animal, as the count recalled. Most unattractive. Fat, short, going bald, verbose and stupid, constantly ogling the women and scratching himself while talking. What on earth was he doing here? And coming at this most inconvenient time, when lunch was about to be served. François, the cook, would be most perturbed should his carefully prepared meal be delayed, and Count Lindgren could understand that perfectly. What he could not understand was why someone as obnoxious as Nordberg should be bothering him when he had sufficient problems without additional ones from assistant—or more likely, associa
te—professors.
Still, Count Lindgren prided himself on always being polite, particularly with his inferiors, and it would be impolite not to see a man who had, after all, traveled the whole forty miles from Copenhagen to Ringsted, and who undoubtedly considered he had gone to the ends of the earth to see him. To the professor, at least, the reason for his hegira from the capital probably seemed important; a request to take one of his classes through the castle without paying the usual fee? And if Erik Trosborg had any idea of how little of the collected fees ever found their way to charity …! The count put that thought aside and shrugged.
“Ask him in. And tell François that lunch will be delayed. But not very long. I don’t imagine this will take much time.”
“Sir,” said the butler and retired, rather surprised that the count would see a scruffy specimen like Nordberg at all.
Count Lindgren seated himself and brought out another small cigar, lighting it, inhaling deeply, waiting for his visitor. When Nordberg appeared, looking about in wonder, obviously impressed by the luxurious appointments of the room in which he found himself—he had never seen Count Lindgren’s private sitting room, which was off-limits on the guided tours—the count came to his feet smiling, as if he had lacked suitable company all morning and was pleased to find that of all people, Arne Nordberg had appeared to resolve that want. Count Lindgren had not spent years in the diplomatic service for nothing. Such dissembling had often proved profitable in the past, although the count, in all truth, could see little possibility of gain in the present circumstance.
“Ah, Professor. It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you! Thank you!” Nordberg was positive now that he had been completely correct in choosing Count Lindgren to help him. What a fine gentleman! He gratefully accepted the chair the count waved him to and stared about him in awe. What beauty! What exquisite taste in everything in the room! He was brought back to earth by a polite cough from the other man. He turned to look at his host. Count Lindgren had also seated himself and was smiling at him.
The Gold of Troy Page 14